This old man

In a brightly lit washroom at Underground Atlanta, there is one lonely attendant, an old man, somewhat hunched over with age. When I saw him he was holding a fresh towel with one hand — a small broom and a dust pan on the end of a stick in the other. With eyes fixed on the ground directly in front of his tattered shoes, in his mind he was someplace else. It was Father’s Day.

The attendant handed a towel to the gentleman who had just emerged from one of the three stalls in the upscale washroom. In return he gave the old man two dollars. Slowly he stuffed the bills into the right pocket of his worn gray suit coat with patches on the sleeves. The old man nodded in gratitude.

The gentleman left the washroom, not giving the attendant who stood in the corner another thought. Much like one would not give a second thought to a chair that had served its purpose or an emptied drink can tossed out the window of a fast moving car.

Rubbing his salt and pepper whiskers with his right hand, the attendant walked over and cleaned the stall vacated a moment earlier, then returned to his corner in the washroom. He stood just left of the sinks, next to the two-chair shoe shine stand. A smile cracked his face. It was a smile of weary acceptance.

It was Father’s Day once again, and again he was alone.

I wondered what sad turn of events had led to the old man ending up as an attendant in an upscale washroom at Underground Atlanta. Was it by necessity? Or was it by choice? Had the meek, quiet man in the corner hunched over by time and circumstance actually lived a full happy life and now this was his only contact with the outside world? Was it the best the world had to offer him? Was he to wind up like the drink can – tossed out the window when he had nothing else to offer?

It was Father’s Day, and he was alone. His children had forgotten again.

Your parents are the people that have been constant in your life as far back as you can remember. Married or divorced, they’ve guided you growing up, and gave you advice about the important stuff. Whether you wanted it or not.

In kindergarten Dad told me not to eat Play Dough. Good advice. At the start of the fifth grade, Dad taught me how to defend myself against bullies. Timely advice. Down the Street Bully Brad was in my classroom that year.

At the start of high school, Dad encouraged his four children to get involved with athletics. He said it would help to teach us lessons. Some lessons were harder to learn than others. Glad I wore a helmet.

In real life there are no helmets to protect you, but there’s always your dad. In the tenth grade Dad read my report card and said I could do better. I started to study, and two years later I was accepted to Auburn University. Dad’s advice paid off. It often has over the years.

Now, with his job done, your father has but one question still left unanswered. How did he do in raising you? This Father’s Day give your father what he really wants — an answer to that question. Sit down with him and tell him just how great a job he really did. And bring the grandkids. He can advise them not to eat Play Dough.

Back in that upscale washroom at Underground it was time to go home. The washroom attendant stored his unused towels, broom and dust pan on the end of a stick in a closet just outside the bathroom and locked the door. The old man shuffled through the crowded food court, past the hamburger stand, past the baseball memorabilia shop, and past the chocolate shop. He stopped at a bench in front of the arcade.

Slowly, he sat down. As the children came, he reached into his torn coat pocket and starts to give out dollar bills. The same routine he’s repeated every Father’s Day for the last 10 years.

This old man still had a lot of love to give out. So does your dad. Don’t call him on Father’s Day. Go see him.

Tell him you appreciate all of his advice over the years, and through it all you still love him. It will be the second best gift he ever got for Father’s Day. The first, of course, was you.