The Old Man sat at his computer. The screen was bright. He had not gone to the luncheon after the Butler reunion. A plumber appointment drew him away.

He had been listening to Simon and Garfunkel on the way back to FArmstrong after that reunion of many classes. He had looked around the room that day and realized he was old. Not that he felt old, well, maybe parts of his body felt that way, starting with the knees and the hip.

But his mind was still functioning on most days. Even though he wrote down lists now of things to do and the order in which to do them. Most older people do that. We are, after all, seasoned and well-marinated. We are entitled.

She was still pretty and shy. He said yes, of course. He would not have said yes to any of his brothers, the hard-ankles of the group. But he could never say no to a pretty girl. He smiled to himself. He would speak of good things and simpler times when he was still that kid from BETWEEN THE TRACKS—the kid who didn’t hang with any group but floated amongst them all. He would share stories of how he practiced making people feel good even at his own expense.

Yes, ma’am, he’d do it. And he’d make sure everybody left feeling happier—”*gooder than good*.

And, apparently, according to her sweet note of thanks, they did leave feeling good. What more could he ask for?