Dubuque Street

    Ray will be one hundred years old this September and the following is one of a series of portraits of the old Dubuquer:

    The old man banged the screen door and it rattled like a sieve full of coins. Sounding out from the living room into the kitchen the echo screeched with urgency as if a cop waited for a response to a service. He stood with onions that gleamed in white threads and green tops that hung over radishes and his garden bounty filled a white and blue cup he held in his cupped hands. He looked up.
     “Don’t worry about the cup,” he said, “It has a hole in it.”
     The age spots that dotted his forehead showed drops of sweat and in his stooped appearance he seemed an altar boy at a tabernacle. The old man had referred to the ethic of saving and loans, meaning the cup’s value didn’t concern him. The cup was an eight ounce container inscribed with a label that outlined contents of whipped topping.
     “Boy, the tomatoes,” he said, trailing off in his appraisal of the garden’s true commodity.
     The gravely voice stowed the years away and rumbled. His hearing weak, he spoke loudly, without understanding of  volume. The screen rattled. His appearance shy, tentative in his gift of food. He turned quickly as if a thank you would be unnecessary. The long, white whiskers on his neck set a curving line at his jaw.
     “The tomatoes grew more in the last two days than they have in two weeks.”
      His old hands twisted around the gift and he smiled. He reached for the door handle.
     “Tomatoes aren’t worth a damn. Weather’s been no good.”
     “Yeah, his neighbor said, “Skies have been dark. Cool temperatures.”
     “I’ve been at them but can’t do a thing with the weather.”
    When the cup passed the old man turned away. The gift a simple sharing. He stooped as he walked and turned when he reached the front walk. He waved.
     As he walked he turned and yelled. “Keep the cup, now.”
     He ambled up his drive and worked his way to the top of the hill that sloped down to the street. He found the soft seat of his canopied ottoman where he reached a gnarled hand to boost himself into a slow descent into the swinging chair. When he found a comfortable angle he drew his hand upward toward the screen door across the road and waved. The door closed. Later the old man fell into a peaceful sleep.  The black birds swung in over his seat and perched on the stakes in the garden.