The man with the silver cane
Last week, it was Valborg. There we were, entranced by the fire: faces toasty hot; backs chilly in the cold of the evening.
He was standing next to us: an old man with a face whose map showed each mountain range climbed, each river sailed upon and each new path explored. The wrinkles spoke of adventure and spirit as did his twinkling eyes.
His child-like spirit shone through, diminishing his age as gnarled hands rested on the silver-topped cane. The spellbound kids listened as he told us wild tales of how – back in the 1960s – he had stood on this same spot in a snowstorm, and with snow higher than the tops of his boots, as they lit the bonfire and sung songs about spring.
“It was a crazy year!” he declared laughing.
When I asked him if his cane was magic, he said that yes, it was. Inside the mundane exterior, he kept his magic wand. He didn’t use it every day, but took it out to spread magic around on special occasions.
I came to think of how this old man was just like his cane: an ordinary old man on the outside, with a heart of gold and wondrous tales to tell on the inside.
That is, after all, the magic and beauty of life, don’t you think?