Old Man Chris: a short story by Matt Otey
morning
THE DRUDGERY
His knees ached. The years passed and his knees ached. The cold deepened and his knees ached. The earth aged like a dehumidified buckeye, rubbed raw yet producing little luck, and his knees ached. He was young and now he is old. Old by year and by feel and even by name. His name had been lost to history because everyone tends to focus on the negative and rarely sees the beauty of a fallow field; they see empty, useless ugliness. Which is entirely unfair to the dirt and to Christof, but especially the dirt.
Swinging his legs out of the covers and into the crisp air that accompanied this fine day, Chris felt only a looming responsibility. Today marked something official and with that official-ness came the shortest day of the year and the night, obviously, the longest. No one that he had met liked this in the moment and therefore they disliked him. Or at the very least they preferred the company of others. And so his feet met the chilly hardwood floors with a lonely drudgery.
“A never-ending summer would only tire you out. Not to mention you’re all barking up the wrong tree.” He mumbled this on his way to the bathroom. He had this argument each year and with no one in particular. His beard was matted down from the sleep, the beard whiter and the sleep more restless with each passing solstice. Eternal so long as the earth remained like this, but still lacking the omnipotence that would fix his damn joints, Christof ached like any other man starting a long day of largely thankless work.
After relieving the night’s pressure, Chris showered. He might be Old Man Winter, but he refused to be Smelly Old Man Winter. He resented the other myths and powers that be that treated their bodies with less respect than that. Drying his beard was a chore but one that refreshed him. Chrisof then brushed his teeth and admired them. For an aging force of nature, he had nice teeth. Cracking his knuckles, he put on his favorite shirt and began to consider The Turning and his place in it.
Chris accepted the confusion that led to his Old Man Winter Moniker. Cold, short days and even colder, long nights would have any man wishing for the sweltering heat of a mid-July day. But he resented the misunderstanding all the same. He wasn’t the bringer of cold. He wasn’t the seasonal manifestation of depression. In fact, it was cruel irony that winter actually is his favorite time of year. Christof was a Turner of Seasons. And today was his last day.
noon
LETTERS
Christof enjoyed the Ozarks. The land and its people were mostly quiet, kind, and helpful. He moved here years and years ago to enjoy mild winters but not miss out on the seasons altogether. He knew better than most that even if you cannot feel the seasons, they are still there marking the passage of time, so you ought to enjoy them and live with their rhythms. Plus he liked bourbon. So, after finishing the morning chores, and having several hours before The Turning, Christof decided to pass the time by sitting down with a small glass of his favorite bourbon, and reading some of his favorite letters before writing his own.
His favorite ongoing correspondence was with Nick. He had always saved his favorite letters and, lately, emails. Reminiscing his way through them he saw the themes begin to crystallize as their worries came to fruition. They weren’t pessimists— well they surely didn’t start that way!— but the latest letters certainly contained less joy and more complaints. Maybe that’s why Christof’s joints ached more; the weight of the expected disappointment didn’t get lighter over the years and the unexpected joys no longer lightened the load as much.
What began as reminiscing, and maybe the outside hope of a changed mind, ended up cementing his resolve.
“These children don’t see the grace of it all; they only want more and more and more,” lamented Nick in a recent email.
“The greed you see isn’t new, friend. People have always felt unfulfilled even after a big meal. It just used to take longer, perhaps until morning. Or at the very least they were more likely to pause in gratitude before asking for more. Now they demand more before the first measure has even been finished,” was Christof’s reply and on the day of his duty, he felt this even stronger.
Old Man Winter was a misnomer because Christof’s words were those that brought longer days. He brought light to a darkening world. Yes, he waited until the dead of winter to do this, but he had to wait! “If there were no rest,” Chris reasoned at his computer screen, “no break in the action, then we might all drop dead from the unceasing activity!” He waited that men might also wait to begin the work of cultivation. He waited that men might diversify their efforts and perhaps focus different places for a season. So while Christof’s job was To Turn, to say the words that brought the longer days all men craved, the bulk of his work was to wait.
Folks called him Old Man Winter because they resented his resolve. After all, to be patient in an impatient world is to be seen as a terrorist wielding a weapon that stops civilization in its tracks. And so while they waited on his words, they hated the result. No one cursed Stephen in the summer when he said his piece and the days began their march toward Christof. They saved the complaints for Old Man Winter and his supposed cruelty.
With this disappointment and annoyance in mind, Christof readied his desk for a letter, a good old fashioned one at that. The crisp stationary reminded him of the small Norwegian town from which it was purchased and the fountain pen glided across the page as if on a track. He wrote for a good while, only having to start over twice. Christof wanted a clear letter, concise as he could manage, explaining to Nick why this would be his final Turning. Sealing the envelope with wax, he pressed down firmly with his signet and was sad.
evening
VICTORY
Christof ambled out of his back door and crossed his wood deck. The wood was splintered and showed its age. He really should work on it this spring. He winded his way around his rusting patio furniture and down the steps into what some would call his “backyard” but what was really a cliff overlooking the lake. Even “lake” wasn’t a proper word, as man’s unyielding progress cut off the flow of a river in order to make this lake. But Chris couldn’t deny the beauty of the view from his backyard over the lake.
The words had flown from his mouth over so many different views, he wouldn’t dare pick a favorite. But something about these hills made this feel right. Something about the reasonable pace that the sun took on its way to the horizon, almost matching the pace of the people on which it shone, made the solstice here feel proper.
There was no alarm. He didn’t have Alexa reminding him of an appointment. Even the sun dial that he stood next to served no real purpose for Christof. He knew it was time like he knew he was hungry, or tired, or any other base feeling. Good chefs didn’t wait for a chime, they were taking the roast out as the chime began to sound. Such was the case again today.
At just the right time, with the shadows growing their longest yet, Christof said the words that would turn the season from dark to light.
“O death, where is your victory?
O death, where is your sting?”
And just like that, the days would turn. Winter was death, after all, and the sting seems real enough at the time. But winter has never been an everlasting death and its sting temporary each year. And his words guaranteed this for one more season.
Christof stood there feeling the sealed envelope in his pocket until the chill reminded him that the sun had set. It was time to go in, build a fire, and consider the future.