The Little Things

I admit, I never read those old letters. It had all happened too fast so I turned them over to the town officials, in my quest to save the place. Eventually, they returned them to the house and. they ended up in the hands of Susan and Earl.

"You know, your friend may have been a little off in saying that this house was definitely used as a part of the Underground Railroad," Susan told me one day.

Her remark caught me a little off guard. I was working on installing new spindles on a staircase with a neat curve to it. I stopped what I was doing and sat on an upper step. "There was a lot of good historical information. But no direct mention of them helping in the cause."

"What! I can't believe it. He insisted it. I know he's seventy-nine, but his mind seemed pretty sharp still," I told her.

The news bothered me. Had he just not remembered right? Something seemed out of place.

It made me sleepless that night as I replayed the thoughts in my head. Did he lie just to save the house? Or did he have other reasons?

I read through the letters as soon as I could, and I agreed with Susan. There was no mention. Not even a clue.

I decided to visit him again, on my lunch break, just to make sure. I came unannounced, bringing on a little good-natured teasing from a little old guy in a wheelchair, who followed me from a nearby apartment, trying to wink at me. His attempts were funny enough to make me smile. "Why don't you come visit me?" he asked. "You're a cutie."

It's always flattering when people say nice things about you. And it warranted a smile. He flirted shamelessly, knowing he had nothing to lose.

And I smiled back, knowing he was harmless. And even if he wasn't, it was amusing to be chased after, even by an old codger. I figured I'd enjoy it while I could.

I don't know why they do it sometimes. The senior apartment complex was decorated as if someone was living in a shed. Well, at least this one was decorated that way. The walls were paneled with dark wood, and the floors had brown shag carpet. Time for some redecorating, I mused.

I found Bob watching a soap opera. He seemed fully engrossed. My mother insists that men don't watch soaps. I only nod my head and smile. I have met enough people to know the truth: some of the biggest fans are men. Hard to believe, but true. In fact, there was a "do not talk during soap opera" sign posted over the recreation room door, where he and a half dozen men and women were gathered.

When a commercial cut in, I said, "Hi Bob. Do you remember me?"