I was walking with my Grandpa in his garden during a late summer afternoon. Night was trying it's best to creep in but the summer days refuse to retreat. The day's are long that time of year, and seem even longer when you spend them in the country, away from the street lights. Street lights always give a dull sensation of night, when they're not around you get a sense of evening that city life does not allow.

I remember the chirping of the crickets, the croaking of frogs, and the feel of fresh turned dirt under my bare feet as I walked behind him, stepping in his tracks, or trying to, his stride was too much for me to handle. The earth smelled as rich as I did after a hard day of running and playing.

I was baiting him to race me, I was getting older now almost seven or eight and he was an old man, I could beat him, there was no way I couldn't beat him. I knew he had a bad back but my child's mind did not understand that he had a bad back, I did not understand lingering pain. A child's body rarely rebels on them, they abuse their body, their body does not abuse them.

So I begged him for a race, my Dad could still beat me in a foot race, but surely my Grandpa couldn't. I am sure he stated several times that he couldn't run, he had a bad back. I am sure he had pains then that I myself am not familiar with now, and if I am lucky, will not be for a good many years. Pains, aches, and a little boy tagging along, chirping like one of the crickets to RACE... RACE...

I remember him saying "Go on run towards the house I'll give you a head start...” I turned for a moment, and then didn't go... I wanted it to be a fair race; I understood that a race with a head start was not really a race at all.

"Go on...” he said.

I ran, down through the edge of the garden, my legs moving at hyper-speed, to fast for anyone to catch. The soft broken dirt welcomed my barefeet.

I was winning!!! Already I had left the edge of the garden and was running through the cool wet grass, I was in the home stretch, half-way between the garden and the house.

I heard him then, the agile footfalls coming up behind me. I remember seeing him pass me; I am sure my jaw dropped, and he stopped just on the other side and let me catch up.

I do not know what that foot race cost him. I do not know the pain associated with running a quick sprint when your back aches and your body is in the later years of life. The price was higher than I can estimate being a young man. In thirty years, I may be able to tell how much it cost my Grandpa to race his young grandson on a clear summer night, but right now, I can only imagine.

I saw my Grandpa for the first time in a year this last month. His eyes are frosted, and shouts are whispers to his ears. His bad back makes movement painful; walking is a chore. His body rebels on him, denying him a moment’s comfort. He was once proud he was once strong.

Stories of his youth, stories of growing up during the Great Depression when everyday life was a struggle to survive let me know that he was once tougher, and made of much sterner stuff than I myself am.

Now he struggles to climb into the car. Now he sits at the dinner table in silence, unable to make out much of the conversation around him. He defers to his wife because she still sees, hears, and can drive a vehicle when the occasion requires.

In the parking lot of the restaurant, after dinner we pass a modified import. Some kid has spent a lot of time and money putting ground effects on his car. It's a Mitsubishi Eclipse; it has a racing stripe on the side, and a fin on the back.

My Grandpa stops to look at the vehicle. Where they live, you don't see cars like that. In the small town where they live pickups and Cadillac’s are the norm. He is fascinated with this tricked out import car. He makes his was around the car, taking it all in, or trying to.

"Get in the car...” my Grandma chimes. She is ready to go. He continues his inspection, asking us what kind of car it is. We tell him an Eclipse but he does not hear, we will shout it at him several times before he understands us. "Honey, come on get in the car...” she acts like she is talking to a child, and in some way I despise her for it.

My Grandpa lets himself be lead back to the van; he has had less than a minute to look at the car. My Grandma has very little patience. There is no fight in him; he is beyond that I believe. Years and pain have melted away the mettle he once had, the panache that every man with even an ounce of pride has.

Maybe we are punished for our arrogance later in life, maybe pride is swallowed a piece at a time as our bodies break down and our eye sight slips. Poetic justice can be cruel, and demeaning.

Later my Grandpa went out to feed some cats that show up around their house. By now it has grown from a few cats into an infestation. My Grandma complains about it, I am not sure whether it is really an annoyance; I do not know how serious she is when she talks of getting rid of them. I do know that as long as he feeds them, they will come, and they will bring friends, neighbors, and all their children. Already a good eight to ten camp out back waiting on their free meal, and my Grandpa gladly gives it to them, performing in his own way a kind of civil disobedience; it may be his last race, the only foot race he has left. With the number of cats camping in the backyard, I believe he has a good head start...