Every morning the route to work takes me winding through
back-roads (mostly), rolling through the dense South Carolina landscape.
Inescapable changes to the woods and farmlands are becoming evident as groups
of somebodies with very deep pockets decided we’ve had enough of the trees and
meadows and are chewing up the landscape with grinding machines, making way for
hundreds and hundreds of new homes. People with nice cars will be moving into
nice houses where once the cows ruminated.
Years ago there once sat a house near what became to be a
bustling intersection and as we waited for the light to change, noticed the old
man sitting on the front porch of his peeling house, watching the cars go by.
Businesses and restaurants popped up around him but were not encroaching. He
lived his life quietly, I assume. Then one day, his house was gone. And the man
went with the house. To this day the lot remains empty while folks argue over
where to eat, impatiently waiting for the light to change, never giving thought to the fact that a house once stood there and somebody once lived.
 |
| "Wilfred Mott"--Doctor Who World |
Along the route I drive each morning there lives another old
man and I wonder what will become of him as the tree-chewers grind their way
along. Every morning he’s out there, walking against the traffic, waving to
each and every car as if it were the only one. Car approaches, right hand goes
up, wave, and keeps right on walking. Car after car. For some reason, that hand
look larger than life--perhaps from years and years of waving.
I’ve caught him walking up the drive toward the road. He
doesn’t wave then. But once he gets his stride going, walking along the road to
wherever he’s going, then it’s car, wave, car, wave, car, wave. The County
finally found their way to paving this road and as the traffic backed up and
the lines of cars formed, the man served each and every driver with his
signature wave, wave, wave.
There’s a friendliness there. A courtesy, perhaps. I don’t know him,
he doesn’t know me or the hundreds of others that pass him every day, but every day he
says to me, “hello” and “thank you” and “have a nice day” and maybe even an “I’m praying
for you” with each and every wave. Some of my jogging or hiking routes take me
through the winding back-roads and my wave means, “Hey. I’m here. Please don’t
hit me with your car.” But his wave doesn’t say that.
One wonders what will happen when the tree chewers finish their
job and the builders come? Hundreds of people will make their move into new fancy houses, living in was once the country. Will they
be greeted daily by the old waving man? Who will take his place with a smile, a
wave, a smile, a wave . . .
