On the kids and my’s way to work/school, we drive through a couple of small towns in our travels of country roads back to “civilization.” One of the towns we go through has a small, corner market. Every morning, when we go past, three men are sitting by the window at a table drinking coffee.
There is a stop sign by the market, so we have had a chance to get to “know” them. We know they all wear hats and sit at a table tucked up against the front window. We know that they greet others who come into the market. They are all in their 70’s or so, and look like they have lived interesting lives. Lives of love and heartache, joys and pain.
They are there each weekday morning, and I am sure every weekend. They never miss a day. It’s about 7:30 when we go through the town, I imagine they sit around until 9:30 talking, and then mosey on home.
When old men get together, you know they talk about all sorts of things. Crops, weather, war, families, and who knows what else. Authentic and real conversations by people who have had hard, well-lived lives. Those are the conversations I like to listen to or be a part of.
Each day we drive by, I always peek in and make sure all three are there. Some days there is a fourth, but always the same three men.
Because of their ages, I know one morning we will drive through and there will only be two men.
Perhaps that day I will call into work, and join them for a cup of coffee. We could talk about crops, weather, war, and our families. Then, come 9:30, we could mosey on home,[php snippet=1]