Street Talk

My dog loves snow. So, when the street turned white, he went to the door, looked at me and barked.

… Few people were walking around in the town center this Sunday noon. It was cold, a bit windy and the snow steady. We walked our usual path, met dogs we know and dogs we had not met before. Most of the stores were open but the ice cream parlor was closed. The street lights change faster on Sundays so we crossed the streets without much wait.

Contrary to his habit, my dog took a side street as if to break the monotony of the walk. As we passed next to a parked car, the driver, a lady with shiny silver hair, lowered her window and blew the horn. 

I walked toward her.

“Did Rose’s restaurant change its name?”

“Rose’s closed more than a year ago” I replied.

“Oh, we have not been here for longer than a year-- I wanted to get a gift certificate for a friend.”

As I came close to her window I saw that the older man in the passenger seat was looking straight in front of him, and that his left arm was continuously shaking. He did not look at me or did not realize that I was there.

“We live in the assisted living outside town, do you know where that is?”

I did know about that community, as it is the only one around.

“What is your dog’s name?”

“Rocky.”

She opened her door and Rocky gently extended his neck to get a rub behind the ears.

“We came from Massachusetts 30 years ago. We had big dogs then. Now one is only allowed small dogs in the assisted living community.”

As she opened her door I saw she was wearing impeccably shiny black high boots, a woolen skirt, and a jacket with a big broche.  “Very European” I thought.

“You live around here?” she asked.

“A few miles away. Rocky likes to walk the city center.”

“You still work?” she asked.

I smiled.

“No” I said. “I am experimenting with retirement.”

“You are too young for retirement!” she exclaimed. “My son is 70 years old and still working.”

By now Rocky was mostly covered in a thin white layer and sitting calmly next to her car.

She asked my name.

“Armenian? I had Armenian friends in Massachussetts. I am Sicillian. My father came to this country in the 1800s.”

She had the loveliest smile and a spark in her eyes. Her silver hair was perfectly cut and she was a true contrast with everyone else passing by wearing shapeless snow caps and Chinese-made ski jackets.

“You have a wife?” she asked.

Then smiled and said:

“You tell her that a 96 year old woman flirted with you this morning.”

Ninety-six!

“I will tell her it was a 50 year old lady” I replied.

Another smile and she put her car in reverse.

As I wished her a good day, she almost whispered:

“Stay away from harm’s way, young man.”

… I did not have my camera with me this morning, but the classy outfit and smile of the 96-year old Sicillian woman will remain with me.

January 10, 2016

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2016