I see the same old man in downtown Los Gatos almost every day.
I’m terribly curious about him, and I’m sure I’ll eventually give in to my temptation and ask him what brings him to town.
But this is what I know so far:
He drives himself to town.
He always wears a hat, which reminds me of my grandfather.
He is always alone.
He wears a wedding band.
And he walks with a cane. Walking might be overstating it.
He moves painstakingly slow, barely gaining six inches with every step.
Ironically, I’ve seen him leave a shoe store called the "Runner’s Factory” on more than one occasion.
What I admire about him is that as slow as he moves, he keeps on moving.
I can be so easily discouraged by lack of progress that I forget inching toward my destination will still get me to my destination.
Then I see this old man. He walks all over town, one snail step at a time.