Jack Ford, 95 years old.

I spotted him across the grocery store. I was in the frozen foods; he in the bakery. He was the cutest thing I ever saw: not much over 5 foot, with white hair and a big overcoat. I noticed he was holding very tightly to a shelf of breads. I waited and watched. After I was certain he wasn't going to move on his own, I approached him and asked if he needed any help.
"Would love some," he said.
He said he was looking for some nice buns to go with his dinner. After helping him, he went on his was to the till (cash register).

I proceeded to finish my grocery shopping. Twenty minutes or so passed. After paying I headed down Kilburn High Road looking for the bus I would take home. As I prepared to cross the street I saw him again. This time he was clinging to the stoplight post and waiting, along with a large group of people, for the opportunity to cross the street. He looked up, saw me, and said, "My angel has returned." I gave him my arm and we crossed. Slowly but surely we made it to the other side. I have no idea how long he had been hugging that pole, and I'm quite certain he wouldn't have made it across that road alone.

I learned alot about Jack Ford on that bus ride home. He's 95 and getting knee replacements soon. Lived in Kilburn, London, nearly his entire life (93 years). Owns an apartment building, which is also where he resides. Alone. He has no family. He was in a war. I'm not sure which one, possibly multiple. Afterall, he was born in 1913. Can you imagine the stories he has?

Conveniently, Jack and I were getting off at the same bus stop. His apartment was in the opposite direction of mine. He said it was only two streets down. I asked if he would be alright. He said yes, but then he went on to curse himself for not bringing his cane. I said, "Only two streets away, you say? Why don't I just walk with you? I've never seen this part of Salusbury Road at night."

And once again, Jack gratefully held onto my arm as we walked down the road.... A road he has, no doubt, walked a million times in his 95 years, and one I had yet to experienced. He stopped walking and I asked if he was alright or if he needed to rest for a moment. He said he was fine, and added, "You're very good at this."
"What?" I enquired.
"Helping an old lad get from one point to the next."
I smiled. It was clear why he found me so helpful and experienced at this "job." I had, afterall, done it for Grandma Eloise a few hundred times or more. I then realized that I needed Jack on that evening of grocery shopping almost as much as he needed me. You see, the week following Grandma's passing was a whirlwind of funeral preparations and other sorting. Just two weeks after all that I was on a plane to London. I was sad through it all, but I never really mourned properly. And so that night after meeting Jack, in the comfort of my own apartment, I cried with my two Minnesota friends. I cried and I laughed. I told stories.
And I finally said goodbye.

Goodbyes of any kind give me an uneasy feeling. And yet I find comfort in the fact that I'm a Christian and a goodbye isn't forever. I also find comfort knowing that Grandma would have been proud of what I'm doing. Of course she was a little uncertain about her granddaughter moving to London by herself. (Honestly, who wouldn't be?) However, she also told me that when she was my age she was searching for adventure too. =)
We're a lot alike, Eloise and I.
I really miss her. Some days I even forget that she's gone. At Windsor Castle this weekend I viewed a huge collection of royal dishes. She always loved her dish collections. I thought to myself: I bet it wouldn't be a real big seller, but I wonder if they have a postcard of the royal dishes in the gift shop. Grandma would love it. And then yesterday a co-worker found out I was Methodist and he mentioned that there is a church where John Wesley (founder Methodism) preached and is buried. Instinctively I thought how excited Grandma would be when I would tell her that I went to a Sunday service at John Wesley's church.

I think she would definitely be proud of my adventure.