Mr. Cole hunched over the back oak pew every Sunday morning with a rigid walnut cane propped beside him like a quiet companion.  The church’s solid wood rafters and crimson light streaming over his knuckled hands mirrored a part of the time he came from. 

A glance at Mr. Cole’s Sunday outfit took you to the 1930’s when men wore full suits to church and silver plated watches resided in the pocket of waistcoats.  Mr. Cole’s suit – which he wore every Sunday morning – portrayed his love for the old times.   The gray waistcoat buttoned firmly in place with a thin chain leading to the top left pocket that housed his round silver watch.  His matching suit jacket and pleated pants stood straight and immaculate over his small bent frame.  Even his gray wool golfer’s cap flew directly to his head the moment he left the building.

            Mr. Cole’s skin was soft and the color of baby powder, but his hand turned to iron when you grasped it.  I can still hear his deep voice, “Grip harder like this,” he would urge me, “your hand feels like a fish.”  I would do my best, but never could overcome the eighty five year old man.   

            Mr. Cole’s eyes were calm blue pools that flickered quietly above his wrinkled cheeks.  Thick wire-rimmed glasses perched above his round cotton nose and curved back behind his sparse white hair.  His eyes would twinkle down like the sunlight when he shared the secret that his snowdrops were peeking out of the ground to herald the birth of spring.  Ramblings of the “old days” always brought a distant pause where I saw his gaze flash back to another world between my childish questions. Mr. Cole’s eyes never flustered with confusion or glared with anger but always stayed calm; unless he was talking about the treatment of books.

“I hope that you NEVER dog-ear your books, it ruins the pages and the edges will fall off like this one.”  Mr. Cole’s eyes flashed with quiet fury as his fingers brushed the cover of another old book from the church library that he was repairing.  My eight year old frame trembled with fear for the careless ones that dared to hurt the fragile pages. 

I lived in awe of his love for words. Mr. Cole wrote poetry and he could talk for hours about the beauty of reading and writing.  His iron grip softened into the caress of a mother when it touched the binding of a treasured book. Books were the “timeless words” that he had worked to help fashion. The timelessness of writing ticked as steadily to him as his silver pocket watch...

That's the start at least... but is it even interesting or does it show a picture of him at all?  It does to me - but I knew him!:-)  - Me