He shuffled along slowly in front of me as he rounded the corner and turned into the coffee aisle. He was moving rather slowly, but I took a breath and slowed down too, finding the ability to be patient from somewhere within. His tan jacket reminded me of one my Dad used to wear, so it brought back memories and the knowledge that even walking is simply more difficult when you are in your eighties.
I encountered him again in the parking lot as he was putting his bags of groceries into the back of his car. Noticing his cane on the ground, I was about to stoop and pick it up for him, and then realized he had placed it there purposely. Strategically positioned behind the rear wheels of the shopping cart, the cane kept the cart from rolling away given the slight incline of the parking lot. Pretty clever man, I thought.
Continuing on to my car, I loaded my sacks, closed the hatch and walked toward the cart return shelter. There he was again, straightening the carts. I wanted to simply shove my cart haphazardly into the nearest slot, just like all the other customers had done that morning, too busy to take a few extra seconds to store it neatly. But I couldn’t allow an old man, thirty years my senior show me up. So, I began to help him rearrange the large and small carts and fit them into one another neatly, so that everything would be lined up and not spill into the parking lot.
“Every time I come here, I rearrange these carts,” he said, shaking his head, but smiling from underneath his tan, floppy fishing hat.
“Maybe you should ask them for a job,” I said jokingly and gave a smile and little laugh.
“Oh, I’m too old for that. I’m eighty-eight,” he replied.
“Well, you’re doing great!” I exclaimed. “Of course, you’re smart and use a cane to help you.” Just then I noticed the store employee in charge of collecting the carts heading toward us. I was about to say, “Oh, here’s the cart guy – he’ll take it from here,” but my friendly octogenarian kept going.
“Well, they wanted to take my leg twice already, but I got past that. I’m not complaining though. I’ve lived a good life. I’m happy,” he stated. “And do you know what’s the best thing I ever did?” he asked.
I looked at him. 
“I got married. Course she’s been gone a while now, but we had a good life together. She was one of seventeen children. They were a farm family of course.”
We finished our work – the cart guy long gone having recognized a good deal when he saw it. I wished the old gentleman the best and returned to my car. It was a brief encounter with a sweet, kind gentleman. He was the type of man who had stories to tell – I’m sure of it, and I’m glad he could look back over his life, be thankful and say that it had all been good. I’m glad he was happy. I hope at eighty-eight, I can say the same.