The Old Man in the Mist...

Escape was my thing as a child. Anywhere away from home was a good place to be. Away from that prone figure on the couch lit up by the glow of Oprah Winfrey's latest pseudo-drama episode. I wandered around the somewhat small town of Redwood Falls. Walked down to the stores where the owners knew me by name. Wandered over the bridge, closing my eyes to hear the rushing of the water in front of me, the tires on the road behind me. Eventually, I'd make my way to Alexander Ramsey Park where I'd violate the safety guidelines posted at most entrances to the park, wandering through woods and over rocks to that spot in the center of the waterfall where I could sit and imagine I was someone else for a bit.

On particularly cold autumn days, there were no visitors to the park. I'd wake-up around 6 a.m. finding a silent house to be my only greeting. I'd pour a mug of apple cider, microwave it for 60 seconds and be on my way, down the 16 city blocks to the park. I was 9 years old on the day of the "old man in the mist". Feeling particularly drab that morning, I'd finnished my mug of cider and dressed in a sweatshirt only to find once I was out the door the weather was bitterly cold. See your breath cold. Icicles in your nose cold. Deciding against venturing back indoors on the off chance the creature on the couch might awaken and question what I was doing, I continued on my way, rubbing my hands together and blowing on them for warmth, shrinking my ears down into the hood of the sweatshirt.

That early in the morning, there was little traffic in a town such as Redwood Falls. Those who had factory work were on the other end of town, and the area surrounding the park consisted mostly of senior citizens who would not rise at this early hour. At that time, police didn't bat an eyelash at a young child walking the streets alone. I made my way carefully over the slippery rocks near the falls. The morning freeze made them a slight bit glassy and the surface was smooth, defying my best efforts to find a grip. The trek took longer than usual, though the park was empty. Eventually arriving at my destination, I sat, bringing my knees up to my chin, wrapping my arms around my knees and closing the eyes in my uplifted face. In this position I could hear my surroundings, feel the light on my face as the sun rose, feel the cool mist from the water on my neck. The rush of the water going over the edge of the falls drowned out the sound of my shallow breathing.

Without hearing a sound I felt the sensation of the presence of another human being. I looked across to the "look-out" stand. Through the early morning mist I could see a man standing, looking back across at me. Neither of us moved; he stood, I sat looking at one another. I'd guess his age to be around 90. I wondered what he was doing there in the cold at such an early hour, staring out into the mist as he was. Even if I called out, he was too far, with the rush of water, to hear what I was saying. Through the mist I could barely make out his features, but it was enough to know he looked sad. I wondered what his story was. What was his name? Where was he from? What things had he seen in his lifetime? Did he fight in the war? Did he have children and grandchildren? Perhaps he even had great-granchildren. He stared back, his face unchanged. I wondered if he questioned what my purpose there was.

Some time later, with the rising of the sun, the fog began to grow thicker. Soon, I could see only the tip of his fur cap through it. The cap began to descend through the mist. I stood and started my retreat back to the other side. A little faster now. I wanted to see where the old man would go. Did he drive here?

I reached the other side and the old man was gone. I walked to the place where he had stood. There was a bench there, and on the bench was a book. "Emersons Short Poems & Essays". I sat - began reading the book. Certain he would come back for it. I waited until afternoon, making my way through the book, pausing occasionally to look about to watch for his return. He never did. Tucking the book into my sweatshirt I made my way home towards evening. The book gave no indication of the man's ownership of it; no name printed inside the cover. No library card attached.

I never did find out who he was or why he was there.

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