A Short Story

Old Man's Love

By Carroll Moth

He was seventy-five, a large hulking figure with arms that when wrapped around you gave great warmth, physically and emotionally. His heart was even larger. He sat in his shawl-covered chair which was worn from years of use, his Cocker Spaniel at his feet, while his wife watched the weather on TV for the fifth time in two hours, a pint in hand. Strange, he thought, a just punishment for all the years he had a problem with “the drink,” and she would run from me, as did the children, for fear of me after yet another night out. He didn’t know why it happened. He spent those years anesthetized. They didn’t. The house was reasonably clean from what he remembered. The kids were noisy as kids would be. The meal was always on the table or heated up, when, and if, he made it home. Well, that was then; this is now, he thought.

He made his cup of tea with two bags, so strong, you could stand on it. He took the tea in his glass and moved to the garden. His wife didn’t notice, or maybe she did.

He sat in the garden balancing on a paint-stained wood stool looking over his various plants. He didn’t exactly talk to them; that would be too balmy, but let’s say there was an understanding between plants and caretaker. After pruning and watering, he went back to the stool and drinking the now cool tea, he looked over the rich green garden. So many types of green, he thought. And then, he thought of Ireland, so many years ago, so many memories.

When he was a child, the family, made up of three boys and two girls, lived on a farm, a simple house with a parlor room with a turf fire, a large kitchen always filled with family and busy chatter. A small room was off the side where the priest would sit outside the small window and hear confession. The three bedrooms were shared, one for the girls and one for the boys, one for Mama and Da. The farm was modest and had seven gates to open and close to eventually get to the house, miles away, “unless it was a rainy night,” he’d joke, “and then everything moved.”

What times they had! In good times all was well. The kids helped with the farm, the boys working the hay, the girls feeding the chickens and milking the cow, Mama making the bread, ironing, acting as overseer to her brood, and the girls cleaning and cooking and then cleaning and cooking again. He remembered Mama getting up early to make the bread or frying boxty in the large iron pan. Halloween she’d bake Barmbrac, a bread with paper-wrapped surprises in the cake: a wedding ring for marriage, a coin for wealth. He couldn’t remember the other pieces hidden in the cake. He knew he never got the coin.

Christmas was special, church primarily and family with relatives visiting from far off. Not the gifts—they were small—but special foods, and there was always a candle burning in the window for family and travelers, and perhaps a stranger who would appear bringing good luck for the following year. Yes, those were good years, sparse but certainly worth remembering.

On Sundays they went to church and if the boys acted up, they were threatened with a switch. When company came they brought out the bread and the pot of tea and the music. The kids sang and the men drank and then the good times became the bad times—the drinking, the quarrelling of Mama and Da. Then he recalled the bruises on his Mama and the crying of his sisters, when Mama packed her bags, said goodbye to the children, and walked down the path. But she always turned back when she arrived at town. His father was years older than his mother, certainly not unusual for the times. So long ago, he thought, and he scowled when he thought of the saying, “Better to be an old man’s darling than a young man’s slave.” So much for that, he thought.

He bent over to dig a spot for the tomato plants and started to sing to himself:

“Oh, tell me Sean O’Farrell,
Why do you hurry so…”

His thoughts flew to himself at age sixteen, still in Ireland. He was digging a ditch, singing the same song and suddenly there was a Black & Tan holding a gun to his head. He couldn’t remember if he kept singing but another Brit soldier came along and said, “Leave him alone; he’s only a kid.”

Surprisingly he could still sing! He smiled as he remembered.

Life went on and eventually, looking toward the future, he and his sister and a friend worked and saved for a fare to America. His sister was not going to stay and be married off to some old man, as her mother was. Though she knew the proverbs, she didn’t buy into them. Saying goodbye to their mother, they took a six-week trip across the ocean.

The trip was worse than difficult—cramped quarters, simple and barely adequate food, waves that rocked the ship leaving passengers on deck heaving what they managed to eat earlier. But that didn’t stop him and his friend. They were creative in their pursuit of their dreams. Were they clever! Being short on drink, they went around to all the passengers and in hushed tones told them about the Captain’s rules: “No drinking for passengers” and they proceeded to relieve the passengers of the booze so they could throw it overboard to spare the passengers the embarrassment of being brought up on charges by the authorities. And it worked. Passengers turned over their hidden larder with mixed emotions. They couldn’t start off in a new country on the wrong foot. The passengers never found out; neither did the Captain, and the two were smiling like the proverbial cat that ate the canary. He chuckled remembering his youth but also thought, “What eegits we were!”

Eventually they saw the Statue of Liberty. They started a new life in the States and all worked hard. He eventually married a dark-haired Irish beauty and they had five children. Together they built a house, an addition being added with each child. There were good days as in Ireland and bad days made worse by his drinking.

His sister eventually married his friend and also had children. Times, though not problem free, were busy with family gatherings and music and too much drinking.

He wasn’t sure what it was exactly that made him stop drinking. He couldn’t even remember how he started. It was the times, the culture, the worry, the bills which added up, the feeling alone despite his large family, the lack of control over his own life. He knew he couldn’t go on the way he was going so he went for help, and today as he stood tending his plants, older and a wee bit wiser, he knew he made the right choice. His children loved him; he had grandchildren who thought he was perfect. It was ironic, though, that his wife had taken to her pint, but who was he to say anything to her?

It was about this time that “they” had met. She, about twenty-one, had married into his family on his sister’s side. They talked about everything—history, especially Irish history. “The Irish should stop the nonsense, get out of the pubs and do some serious talking about peace,” he’d say. They talked about customs, music and art and architecture. “When I went to Ireland, I saw a church that was built in 1492, and I thought, here we had this church built when Columbus was just discovering the New World,” he said. She finally visited Ireland, and when he asked her how she liked it, she gleefully told him she thought it was very “green” and he should have warned her about all those cow pies. That, he didn’t expect. Most of the time they were direct with each other; she told him her secrets and he told her his. She was the only one he talked to, as strictly speaking, she was an outsider. He also told her about his past drinking problems. “It’s always the first drink that gets you into trouble,” he said. She knew the stories about the gun and the Black and Tan soldier. She also had known how the drink was “saved” on the trip over from “the old country.” But she also knew that he helped out men who had drinking problems. His missions were often and done without fanfare. There was nothing judgmental about him.

Over the years he had learned from his mistakes and gaining a greater knowledge of himself and human frailty, he seemed to understand the need for compassion. His faith deepened.

The others didn’t know of their meetings. Sometimes he would go to her house and sometimes she would go to visit him and his wife. At those times they would disappear into the garden. Most of the time they drank tea, dark, with two bags. They would talk about traveling, someday, perhaps, together. They had fond feelings for each other and were good friends, despite the difference in age.

It happened one day when she went to visit him. He had heard that she was getting a divorce. He wasn’t too surprised. He really didn’t know what to say so he asked her to come into the garden. She then told him about the breakup, that she tried but her marriage would never change. Despite their closeness, he was at a loss for words. He talked about plants. He grew tomatoes. They were large, full, thriving. “Must be all the rain.” The potatoes were growing, too; they could stand some fertilizer. The Jumping Jacks came back, too. That was a surprise. They must’ve reseeded themselves. The Petunias came up in many colors. He became quiet for awhile and then reached over to a tall, feathery, sweet smelling plant.

“I smuggled this in from Ireland,” he said.

“What a surprise! You breaking a law,” she said.

He laughed and said, “I want you to have it; it’s called Old Man’s Love.”

He hugged her and she understood as he did; there were no words necessary.

* * * * * *

Time went by. She hadn’t been in touch with him. She became divorced and slowly pulled her life together. The next time she saw him was a few years later at the funeral of his wife.

“You look well,” he said.

“I remarried, and I’ve committed the sin of all sins. I married an Englishman,” she said.

“That’s okay,” he laughed, “you can still come to see me and bring him with you.” She fully intended to do so, but when she could, it was too late.

* * * * * *

She sat at the wake and greeted the family and they shared memories of him and even though she felt regret for losing touch with him, she realized how fortunate she was in having known him, at having shared thoughts that others were not privy to. She stayed a decent amount of time, making plans with some to keep in better touch.

Quietly, she left, driving the long ride home and entering the house, put down her coat, and sat in her kitchen. She made a pot of tea and poured a cup thinking of him and his cup of tea with two bags. She sat for a while remembering conversations they shared, feeling regret that there hadn’t been more time. Life seemed to always get in the way of plans. The curtains blew from the open window and in the stillness of her heart she could smell the faint aroma of Old Man’s Love fill her kitchen and she could feel his presence.