The Routine----by Ramblinging
Once there was a lonely old man who lived in a house high upon a hill. He had no wife, nor children, nor relatives living nearby or even in the same country. Neither did he have any relatives anywhere else. He was all by himself.
Because he worked with the Government a long time ago, he had a steady pension every month. Every day he woke up at the same time and ate almost the same breakfast- scrambled eggs and toast with marmalade, washed down with black coffee.
His daily was almost similar. He'd feed his two cats, Mittens and Chase, and then spend the morning reading two newspapers. In the afternoon he'd be at his study room furiously typing away on his typewriter. He was writing a novel.
He would cook his lunch at about noon. By 1pm, he'd be eating his lunch while Mittens and Chase swirled around his feet underneath the dining table. Once he finished lunch, he would feed the leftovers to his cats and clean up. He'd do some reading, preferably magazines or short stories, after lunch for a while before taking a short nap.
When he wakes up in the late afternoon, he continues his typing in the study. At 5pm everyday he puts on his boots and coat and descends the hill to stroll around the neighbourhood.
Of course being a lonely man, he never looks at anyone or says hello whenever he walks about the neighbourhood.
Neither the adults nor children at Estranger Lane (that's the name of the street) bother looking up when he walks by. Most of them have known the old man for many years, and they know all too well not to bother him whenever he went for his evening walks.
The old man's walking routine consisted of walking the whole length of Estranger Lane until the thick wood at the end, in which he's be gone amidts the bushes for several minutes before emerging again. The adults on the street say he visits his
wife's grave in the woods. Some say he was mad man and in fit of jealosy upon finding his wife going out with another man, stabbed her stomach with a knife.
Anyways, back to his routine. He would spend some time in the wood and emerge, walking steadily with his head down. He would walk straight past the whole street and then carries on up to the small hill on which his house sits.
Sometimes small children would tease him and call out funny names to the old man.
"Old fart," a freckled-cheeked boy once commented loudly.
"Queer old man," said another girl who lived at the end of the street
"He keeps a mummy in his closet. It's true, you know," one eager boy quipped as the old man walked by.
The old man seemed ignore the harsh words. He never once looked at the adults who often give him nasty glances. The adults were more silent in their teasing, but the old man knew they mocked him just as much as the children.
As I was saying, the old man's day was all about routine. So when he returned from his walks, he'd start cooking dinner. Afterwards, he'd sit down in front of the fireplace with his two cats and read some more.
But just about an hour before he goes to bed, the old man takes out a wooden chest placed against the wall in the study. He unlocks the chest with a key he always leaves at the keyhole on the chest. The inside is filled with open envelopes filled with old letters. Each night, the old man reads the letters and then takes out a writing pad and writes a letter. He often doesn't finish writing the letter until several days. When the letter is done, he would only post it during the weekends
when he goes grocery shopping in town.
That was the old man's daily routine.
One day, the old man was found dead in his study. The police believed he died suddenly from a heart attack while he was typing in his study room.
The body lay on the floor directly next to the desk where he sat to type on his novel. The old man had only finished half the page on the typewriter. Rumour has it that the last sentence he wrote was "Till death do us part was something I could never believe in. But when that love makes itself visible to me, I let myself go for I knew it was meant to be"
That was where the typing stopped. A neighbour took in Mittens and Chase, while most of the belongings were given to a nearby church.
Since the old man had no next of kin, the house was given to the town council. A year after the man died, an officer with the town council came to the vacant house to inspect its condition. Several town councillors wanted to know whether the house was suitable to be turned into a kindergarten.
The officer opened the hallway door with his key and found a letter at the entrance. It was addressed to the old man's name. Knowing fully well the letter's recipient had died without any next of kin, the officer decided to read the letter.
It read:
Dearest father,
I'm doing well now in my new home. School is not like what I expected it to be.
Everyone here is either from a rich family or pretends to be smart, which is ridiculous. Aunt Betsy says that she too had many snobbish schoolmates in her day,
but she chose not to be bothered with them. She encouraged me to take up clubs that interest me, such as swimming and drama. Unfortunately club activities do not begin until several weeks after orientation. Anyway, I'm sure I'll get by.
When am I ever going to see you again, father? I know you can't get away from your teaching job that easily. Uncle Charlie said that you would be busy until next fall. It's OK, I don't mind.
Since mother died I know it has been tough, but I'm sure we all can live each day with whatever we have left. My friends in Surrey have a wicked sense of humour when we talk about you. They say that you deserted your own son when you entered the asylum. They say you are a mad man who deserves to stay in that institution. No wonder I can barely keep friends. They always turn out to be insincere, they were never really my friends.
Father, I want to tell you that I plan to visit you
once I graduate. I know by the time I work and get my own car I ca do anything that I want. I'm sure eevn Aunt Betsy would approve of it. I don't know when I'll ever write to you again. It's really discouraging when your replies only come by once a month or so. But I want to say, for the record, that I love you. Whatever that happened to my life was never your fault. It never was your fault.
And how much I used to hate you, I must confess that it was easier for me to hate you, rather than let myself be disappointed with you. Disappointed in you for never being there.
But in the end you are still my father and I'm still your son. I love you.
Your son,
Harry...March 20, 1960.
Once there was a lonely old man who lived in a house high upon a hill. He had no wife, nor children, nor relatives living nearby or even in the same country. Neither did he have any relatives anywhere else. He was all by himself.
Because he worked with the Government a long time ago, he had a steady pension every month. Every day he woke up at the same time and ate almost the same breakfast- scrambled eggs and toast with marmalade, washed down with black coffee.
His daily was almost similar. He'd feed his two cats, Mittens and Chase, and then spend the morning reading two newspapers. In the afternoon he'd be at his study room furiously typing away on his typewriter. He was writing a novel.
He would cook his lunch at about noon. By 1pm, he'd be eating his lunch while Mittens and Chase swirled around his feet underneath the dining table. Once he finished lunch, he would feed the leftovers to his cats and clean up. He'd do some reading, preferably magazines or short stories, after lunch for a while before taking a short nap.
When he wakes up in the late afternoon, he continues his typing in the study. At 5pm everyday he puts on his boots and coat and descends the hill to stroll around the neighbourhood.
Of course being a lonely man, he never looks at anyone or says hello whenever he walks about the neighbourhood.
Neither the adults nor children at Estranger Lane (that's the name of the street) bother looking up when he walks by. Most of them have known the old man for many years, and they know all too well not to bother him whenever he went for his evening walks.
The old man's walking routine consisted of walking the whole length of Estranger Lane until the thick wood at the end, in which he's be gone amidts the bushes for several minutes before emerging again. The adults on the street say he visits his
wife's grave in the woods. Some say he was mad man and in fit of jealosy upon finding his wife going out with another man, stabbed her stomach with a knife.
Anyways, back to his routine. He would spend some time in the wood and emerge, walking steadily with his head down. He would walk straight past the whole street and then carries on up to the small hill on which his house sits.
Sometimes small children would tease him and call out funny names to the old man.
"Old fart," a freckled-cheeked boy once commented loudly.
"Queer old man," said another girl who lived at the end of the street
"He keeps a mummy in his closet. It's true, you know," one eager boy quipped as the old man walked by.
The old man seemed ignore the harsh words. He never once looked at the adults who often give him nasty glances. The adults were more silent in their teasing, but the old man knew they mocked him just as much as the children.
As I was saying, the old man's day was all about routine. So when he returned from his walks, he'd start cooking dinner. Afterwards, he'd sit down in front of the fireplace with his two cats and read some more.
But just about an hour before he goes to bed, the old man takes out a wooden chest placed against the wall in the study. He unlocks the chest with a key he always leaves at the keyhole on the chest. The inside is filled with open envelopes filled with old letters. Each night, the old man reads the letters and then takes out a writing pad and writes a letter. He often doesn't finish writing the letter until several days. When the letter is done, he would only post it during the weekends
when he goes grocery shopping in town.
That was the old man's daily routine.
One day, the old man was found dead in his study. The police believed he died suddenly from a heart attack while he was typing in his study room.
The body lay on the floor directly next to the desk where he sat to type on his novel. The old man had only finished half the page on the typewriter. Rumour has it that the last sentence he wrote was "Till death do us part was something I could never believe in. But when that love makes itself visible to me, I let myself go for I knew it was meant to be"
That was where the typing stopped. A neighbour took in Mittens and Chase, while most of the belongings were given to a nearby church.
Since the old man had no next of kin, the house was given to the town council. A year after the man died, an officer with the town council came to the vacant house to inspect its condition. Several town councillors wanted to know whether the house was suitable to be turned into a kindergarten.
The officer opened the hallway door with his key and found a letter at the entrance. It was addressed to the old man's name. Knowing fully well the letter's recipient had died without any next of kin, the officer decided to read the letter.
It read:
Dearest father,
I'm doing well now in my new home. School is not like what I expected it to be.
Everyone here is either from a rich family or pretends to be smart, which is ridiculous. Aunt Betsy says that she too had many snobbish schoolmates in her day,
but she chose not to be bothered with them. She encouraged me to take up clubs that interest me, such as swimming and drama. Unfortunately club activities do not begin until several weeks after orientation. Anyway, I'm sure I'll get by.
When am I ever going to see you again, father? I know you can't get away from your teaching job that easily. Uncle Charlie said that you would be busy until next fall. It's OK, I don't mind.
Since mother died I know it has been tough, but I'm sure we all can live each day with whatever we have left. My friends in Surrey have a wicked sense of humour when we talk about you. They say that you deserted your own son when you entered the asylum. They say you are a mad man who deserves to stay in that institution. No wonder I can barely keep friends. They always turn out to be insincere, they were never really my friends.
Father, I want to tell you that I plan to visit you
once I graduate. I know by the time I work and get my own car I ca do anything that I want. I'm sure eevn Aunt Betsy would approve of it. I don't know when I'll ever write to you again. It's really discouraging when your replies only come by once a month or so. But I want to say, for the record, that I love you. Whatever that happened to my life was never your fault. It never was your fault.
And how much I used to hate you, I must confess that it was easier for me to hate you, rather than let myself be disappointed with you. Disappointed in you for never being there.
But in the end you are still my father and I'm still your son. I love you.
Your son,
Harry...March 20, 1960.
Comments