The old man’s mind was as good as it had always been. That was the important thing. His mind was what he had worked to develop all his life. His mind. So now he could hardly walk, arthritis—especially in his left hip left him to creep along the streets, almost sideways like a crab he thought. This made the dimensions, the physical geography as he would put it, of his world much smaller –confined to a few small blocks by Echo Park in west central Los Angeles—the area between the park and Sunset Blvd.

But there could be a whole world in this area, if properly appreciated by a mind, trained by a life of teaching at City College—thirty years of History and Literature—retired now these ten years lived well in large house in Sierra Madre, gone now, sold to pay depts, sickness of his dead wife, his several ailments. But not destitute. Alone yes, lonely yes, well enough within his new world. Enough money, didn’t need a car, everything close enough to walk to, even as slow as he walked—his world. With his mind it could be his world. That’s how he could enjoy it. That is what he had to offer it.

His humanity, his understanding would be a help to these people—that's what he could give them, himself. They were not as fortunate as he had been. Most had always been poor, or close to it. Little education, worked all their lives to stay even, but fell behind, That’s why they are here, never had a chance to be anything else. But he would give them what he had, his learning—and he would learn from them. Their lives must have taught them things he could never know. He could still learn, indeed!

Possibly to be continued...