Moral Compass - Finding Direction in Life.

The days of Christmas were over. In recent years I’d forgone the ritual of buying something special for those near and dear to me. My coffee mate Jimmy’s wife had said that my behavior was “all too sad.” 

At our first coffee of the New Year he handed over a book, How the Grinch Stole Christmas. “Kids book, I know,” Jimmy said. “But she well..’’

“It’s to change my holiday giving behavior,” I said, half smile. “Tell Alice thanks. At least it’s not a fruit cake.” 

The coffee shop,Three Glories, only had a scattering of patrons, the regulars still out for the holidays. Jimmy and I ate our pastry. We talked about varying world topics and the happenings of the town, which he was always apprised of. He was Jewish and had celebrated the holidays with glee, both Hanukkah and midnight Christmas mass with Alice, an Irish Catholic.

He relished the holidays with tree decoration and feasting on Alice’s cooking. Over the lead up to Saint Nick’s day he’d brought me a paper plate of her cinnamon cookies, layered with red and white icing.

Childless like me, Alice’s grown children had adopted him. They’d gifted him with a leather jacket embroidered with bold stitching saying Grandpa Jim. He proudly displayed it to me. “It fits you well,” I said.

We finished our chat and left to a light snow falling. 30 degrees. I was happy for Jimmy that he’d been adopted by Alice’s family. He seemed more whole since he’d married her. He's one of those rare friends who has always wanted the best for his friends and others. His inquiries about me were always sincere. 

I told him to tell Alice I’d read the Dr. Seuss book.

 “Next coffee topic. What lessons do we need to work on for this new year?” he called back to me.

I knew Jimmy’s next stop before he headed home to Alice would be to stop by his old friend Red, a shoe salesman who'd worked in Jimmy’s family retail store for decades. Red was married, but childless.  

At the corner of Ninth and Elm, ringing a makeshift bell, like Salvation Army ringers do, sitting on a planter box was one of the town’s homeless. An old dog lay next to him. A tin can was situated on the edge of the planter. I generously dropped a ten dollar bill in the can. “God Bless,” the man said, the snow catching his stubbled beard. 

The holidays had just concluded as had bell ringing season. I guessed the man had mental health problems and didn’t know the difference. I walked on, then turned wondering more about the old dog’s welfare, a cocker mix, than the man’s. “Got a place to, uh, where do you stay?” I asked. 

The man answered clearly. “The Shelter. Got to leave during the day, though, less it’s too cold. Then they let us stay.”

I made my way up the small hill to my jeep. I felt better that the homeless man and his dog had a place to sleep.

My wife, Cindy was at home, making a concoction from leftover dressing she made for the holidays. She’d accommodated my giftless holiday spirit, but still packaged-off surprises to her grand kids long-distance. I was happy she hadn’t let my holiday spirit of moroseness entirely overtake her. 

I let my old jeep chug along. I patted the steering wheel complimenting  her that she’d been a good girl to take me all over the country in the years between my divorce and marriage to Cindy. Forest green, now a bit rusted here and there, early on, she’d been the only constant in my then discombobulated life.

At the Frederick apartments, built 80 plus years ago, I pulled over and turned off the old girl. The town, sustained in part by the university, was still empty. It would be some weeks until the second semester began. I looked up at the window of the efficiency apartment where my grandmother had lived and died. She taught junior high science until her mid 70’s. 

“Mike, when you're feeling blue, do something nice for someone. You’ll feel better,” she admonished me years earlier. 

I studied the intricate designs on the trim of the brick building, acknowledging someone long gone had crafted that. An Asian student, coat pulled tightly around her, passed by on the sidewalk. She was thousands of miles from home. 

From somewhere there was, Go see Roy. 

The compass

The high dollar nursing home parking lot was full. I made my way in, stopping at the front desk to get Roy’s room number. The people who ran the show had decorated the lobby with festivities of the holidays, but a maintenance guy now was busily taking down the big artificial tree. A busybody woman stood nearby directing him.

Down the hall and to the right I walked into Roy’s room.  

He lay supine on his bed, eyes closed, spectacles lay atop a newspaper which was spread upon his torso. He had his own bathroom. Beyond it, snuggled into the wall was a coffee table arranged between two leather chairs. A TV, muted, sat on a shelf for viewing in front of his bed. 

I took a seat in a plastic chair next to his bed and looked him over. Once he was over 6 feet. Now in his mid 90’s he’d said he’d shrunk. A sheet covered his body, but leaving his large bare feet poking out from under the covers.  

After a minute, sensing me, he opened his eyes. He grasped for his eye glasses, fitted them on, and turned, immediately smiling. 

“Oh, Mike. It’s you.” Pause, a slight adjustment toward me. 

He extended his big hand. We shook. “Feeling better?” I said.

He’d wound up in this place due to a stroke. But now seemingly on the mend, the little I knew about such matters.

His wife of 60 plus years had died several years earlier. I knew, while he had a nice house, and no money troubles, the real issue was who’d care for him, if he was ever able to leave this place. I’d met him through Jimmy when I moved back to town decades ago. 

He was childless. A nephew lived across the country but hadn’t been that communicative.

“It’s been rocky,” he said. “But so far today, not too bad. Day help is better than night help.” He took a small bell off the night table, where some other items were scattered. “I ring this for help. But they don’t answer. I’m supposed to push this,” he said, about a tiny button hooked to his bed post. 

“How you been. And how’s the beautiful Cindy?”  

I chuckled. “Some days are rocky too. But mostly pretty good. Cindy is always fine.” 

“Ah, good. You two should travel. Eileen and I did. We never had children but sure got to see a lot of the world together.” 

We talked about the university football team and sat in shared silence for some minutes, until he raised a finger signaling hold on. He reached to the night table and grabbed what appeared to be a silver pocket watch, with a matching chain accessory. 

For a moment he stared at it, opening its case, then closed it and handed it to me. “For your rocky roads. So you don’t get lost. I’ve had that since Boy Scouts way back before the war.”

I opened the thick case. “It’s a compass,” I said. 

“The old fashion kind,” Roy said. “Simple.”

The magnetic needle was colored red on one end and green on the other. The cardinal and intercardinal directional points had bold black lettering. 

“The pocket chain is so you can always carry it with you,” he said. 

“Are you sure, you, uh..”

“It’s yours,” he said, taking a look at the object as if to say goodbye. “I’ve been thinking about what to do with it. Besides, it’ll keep you off the rocky roads as time goes by.”

Roy was a concrete thinking man. He’d had his own insurance adjusting business. Having a compass on his nightstand for some reason with only a few other objects signified its importance. 

This day he was speaking in metaphorical terms as it related to the bestowing his boyhood compass to me to negotiate life twists and turns. I knew having a compass, more like a code, would be especially important when family and friends leave. Experiences he’d had in his some 90 plus years and especially since his wife had died.

I was about to ask him to tell me more about the object but he fell asleep, with a slow snore. I waited some minutes to see if he’d awaken, then scratched out a note to him from the pad on his night table, saying, I’d treasure the compass and that I’d be back soon. 

I took a last look at him. He had a kind of Buddha smile between breaths.

In my jeep I laid the compass atop Alice’s Grinch book, studying for a moment the two together, certain there was some meaning there.