I Have A Thing For Older Men

That's right.
I have a thing for older men.

Older men like Mr. Hetman. He's my convienence store crony. I met him during the wee hour of the morning known as 6:55. When I used to drive my teenager to school, I would stop off for a small 64ozer of diet coke. You know, to get the day going.
And each and every morning I would see the old man there, getting his version of a morning pick-me-up.
After a week or so of polite smiles, he started teasing me about being thirsty and what not. Those quick quips turned into chats and before long I started leaving earlier so I would have more time to chat it up with my new friend.
I would sip my drink, he'd sip his. I would lean against the honey bun display, he'd use the water bottle display as a make-shift chair.
He was surprised to hear I had 5 kids. He and his beloved had had 7. With almost no prodding, he began to open up about his life. He was 85. He lost his wife 10 years ago and everytime he would mention her, he'd get emotional.
 Mr. Hetman told me she was a tiny, fiery Irish girl and he had been as tall, black haired Italian stallion. (He was still mighty tall and had some gray, but still had a full head of hair)
They fell madly in love and married. There first baby came along and when he presented the teeny, red-haired infant to his old fashioned mother, she hit him and told him that he was a "weak man." Had he been stronger, the baby would have black hair, like him. Instead he was weak and was letting "that woman" rule the household. Which, of course, was unacceptable. He tried to explain genetics to his mother. She thought that was non-sense and reaffirmed that he needed to set things strait.
He never did.
More red-headed babies followed. And so did decades of happiness.

Morning after morning I would get a bit here and there; details about the grandchildren and who was graduating and who was traveling. He did most of the talking. And I soaked it up. I even cried one day, as I got in my car. I cried from sheer delight, just spending a few minutes with him. He became so much a part of my day, I worried when I didn't see him. I worried because he doesn't sleep well. I worried because his legs had been swelling-badly- and the compression socks were uncomfortable.
I had fallen a little bit in love with this little (6'3") old man.
It didn't take long to graduate to the point where he brought me a phot of his family.
I practically knocked him off his perch when I looked at his seven adult children and recognized one! Quietly, standing in the background was Ed, a friend of my husband's. Ed was serving in Iraq off and on over the years and my husband and son painted his garage once while he was deployed. His wife had fallen ill and had surgery and Bryan and I stopped in to check on her.
And all this time when Mr. Hetman was telling me about his son Ed the Military Man, my husband was emailing back and forth with just that guy.
Isn't life crazy sometimes?

One franctic morning, I struggled out the door in Hello Kitty pj bottoms that someone had given me to donate to the homeless shelter (a story for another time) and rain boots and a very large, stained sweatshirt.
He met me at the door of the convience store and as I walked in he said, "You know, Halloween is still a few weeks away."
It's like he knew how to win my affection!

But then gas prices spiked and driving 30 minutes every morning, in a suburban, became too much. Especially considering the school bus stops at my driveway.
So I stopped driving my son. And I stopped going to the convienence store at 6:55am.
And I haven't seen Mr. Hetman in a couple months. I've asked the employees if they've seen him.
They have not.

I've driven past the car wash where he has a funny habit of emptying the trash bins and collecting the aluminum cans.

I can't find him there.
And now I'm moving and I have a bit of panic percolating inside me wondering if I will ever see him again. Part of me fears something has happened and for that reason alone, I don't go early to check on him.

I don't think I can bear it.
At least this way, in my head, I can lie to myself and even in 20 years I can say, "I bet Mr. Hetman is sitting on the Poland Spring stack, chewing on a toothpic."

And now there's a new guy; my real estate agent. He's got to be pushing 70. He came by today. We hadn't seen him in about a month...we were traveling before the big move. My husband had just come from the gym and was making himself a protien shake and my agent  got a heavy smile on his face and told us how the doctor had his wife drink this special drink to help her gain weight. We've only ever talked about real estate stuff and so I asked, "Was she sick?"
He looked very sad and told me she had passed away while I was out of town; just a week and a half ago.



My husband had heard none of this (noisy blender and all) and sat down next to me and the business conversation commensed. But of course I could do nothing but worry and wonder about what he was going thru and what I could do to help. Have they had a wake? Wakes need food.
Have they had the funeral?
Funerals need lots of food.
Does his house need cleaning?
Does he need groceries?

I think I put on a brave face, talking numbers and open houses and stuff. And even though I was heartbroken, I willed myself not to say anything or get emotional because that just seems obnoxious even though my concern is genuine.

So now here I am.
I have no clue how I can ask this sweet heart broken man to do things for me, when my impulse is to do for him.

And I still miss Mr. Hetman.