I’ve had a tough couple of weeks, so I’ve been stressed and feeling down, which set off specific food cravings that none of the restaurants here could satisfy. So, I checked supplies to see if I had the ingredients necessary to make the properly baked macaroni and cheese I needed. (Don’t be giving me your slimy mac with no crunchy, oven baked love! Take the time to do it right or call it something else, because it’s not real macaroni and cheese, even if it tastes good. Hmmph! ISWIS)

Didn’t have everything I needed, so I hopped in Flicka, and made the 15 mile drive to my nearest supermarket, where I’m always greeted with a hello and nod from the sushi guy, a hug from a dear young bakery worker, and waves and smiles from others in the bakery,  produce, fish, departments, and by Bakery Kid’s adorably dour cashier girlfriend.

Today, the line I chose was long and moving quite  slowly. I chose it so that I could say an  encouraging word to the new young woman who was being slammed at the register, hoping to give her a little lift on a busy day,  working a register that often seems not to actually  register well.

A small, grizzled man in my age group circled and stopped in front me, wondering aloud if it was Wednesday, the day for senior discounts. I don’t know if he realized that he’d spoken out loud, but I informed him that it was only Tuesday, and we both laughed, him explaining that he works nights and loses track of days when he’s off. Having worked nights, I nodded in understanding, noting that it gets worse with retirement. This led to him telling me that he was contemplating his third retirement but didn’t know if he could stand having nothing to do.

By this time he was behind me, and we were starting what would become a most amusing conversation between strangers sharing space for a few minutes.

He was exactly the type of character I gravitate towards: curmudgeonly, dry humored, quick witted, and obviously to me, a kind and gentle soul. I’ve had a soft spot for, and can recognize such old guys since childhood: the gnarled elders who brook no nonsense, talk tough, and will freely give the shirt off their backs, jump to protect the vulnerable, slip candy money to a kid, or something towards the rent for a struggling mother or widow. I know them instinctively and can quickly draw out the sweetness that hides behind the cranky exterior. I see it in their eyes and have been wrong maybe once.

This particular crank was almost bragging about being known by everyone in the store for being a pain in the ass, “Just ask them” he said, nodding towards the Customer Service booth. I saw right through him and laughed. Referring to me as “Young lady” in his working class English accent, I asked his age, countering his $500 bet that I was much younger than he. He’s three years older, so I won, but as expected, he didn’t pay up. Instead, he answered all my questions about him directly, honestly, and with a shared understanding for life experiences. He’d had a long career in the military, a couple of retirements, and was now working security at a local hotel.

He told me about being RAF attached to an American squadron during the Vietnam era, rising up the ranks, retiring as an officer. I told him about my lifelong desire to skydive, causing him to face me with a look of complete seriousness on his face.

“What do you think’s the hardest part of skydiving?”, he asked.

“Landing,” I answered, thinking of my recent knee surgery and back pain.

“No!” he scoffed, his eyes merry. “It’s being pushed out of the  plane!” I laughed along with him, and learned that his name is Phillip, H……or H……- he seemed unclear about which he wanted to go with at the  moment, perhaps realizing it might be imprudent to give his name to a random stranger in a store. We somehow discussed the US Marines he’d flown with, and a bit about my connections to the Corp, both of us being uncharacteristically careful in what we said, both respectful and appreciative as only people who’ve experienced multiple sides of something can be, knowing that critiques required contextualization impossible under the circumstances.

He told me about his anger at having to work with a racist, and his gleeful pleasure in being pivotal in having the man fired. We talked of many things on line and as we left the store together. A short, but unexpectedly intimate encounter between passing ships.

Before leaving, I  made the cashier smile and saw her spirit lift, and I waited for Phillip to check out his few items. We continued talking as we headed towards our cars, mostly about his lifelong hatred of racism and other bigotry, as well as the joy our grandchildren bring us, our antidotes to the poison spewed so freely these days. Our hopes to see a better world while we’re still in it.

Before we parted, I asked to hug him, a quick but heartfelt embrace of a kindred soul, doing his bit to make the world around him a tiny bit better, with no expectation of praise or reward. In fact, I’m sure he’d be mortified that I wrote this, and meet my scribblings with the sarcastic humor of a self effacing man. Any pleasure would be hidden well behind smart remarks and pity for a girl so silly as to take him seriously.

But that particular grizzled old Brit made my day a lot better, and I’m smiling on the inside now, thinking about how often angels have passed through my life cleverly disguised as crabby old gents and ladies.