OLD MAN BRISTOW
Hey, Mr. Bristow.
Hey, Matt.
Mr. Bristow is out walking Gretchen, his Golden Retriever, a little earlier than usual this morning. I reach out to pet her, and she licks my hand and wags her tail.
“Good luck on that geometry final today. Remember what I taught you.”
“I will. Thanks, Mr. Bristow.”
I continue on my way to school. Mr. Bristow has been helping me to prepare for this exam since the term began. He’s very good at all kinds of math; he says he took a lot of it in high school and college.
Funny how I still call him “Mr. Bristow” after all this time. His first name is Jack, and he wouldn’t mind if I called him that; but there’s something about him that just doesn’t make that seem right. Some of the other kids call him “Old Man Bristow” behind his back. He knows, but doesn’t seem to mind that either.
My dad died when I was six, and Mr. Bristow moved into the neighborhood a couple of years later. I should have thought that an American would find London, Ontario, awfully boring – I know I do – but he says he was born here and enjoys the peace and quiet. He lives alone except for Gretchen, but he has a lot of friends around here. He goes to the little United Church of Canada a few blocks from here and serves on the Finance Committee there. My mother and I go there too. For a while I thought maybe they would get together, but it never happened.
His daughter comes up from the States with her family to see him sometimes. She’s a teacher and her husband is a surgeon, I think. She’s pretty but kind of old – in her late thirties. They have two kids. The kids are a handful, but they don’t dare act up too much around their grandfather.
He says he worked for the American government, but he won’t say what he did. I don’t ask; that seems to be a touchy subject for some reason. I wonder if he was in the CIA or something. He always seems to notice everything going on around him, as if being alert was second nature for him. He’s pretty sharp for an old man. When he taught me to play chess, it took nearly two years before I could beat him for the first time. He was just as pleased as I was that day.
My mom is worried about me lately. She wants me to become an architect like my father, but that just doesn’t interest me. I’m in the Drama Club at school, and I want to be an actor. When I finish my college prep courses next year, I want to go to the University of Toronto and major in theatre. I talked to Mr. Bristow about it; he says I should go for it. After seeing me in “Godspell” last year, he says I have the talent to make it if I work hard enough and don’t give up. Don’t let anyone tell you what you should be, he told me – trust me, that never works. A funny look came over his face as he said that; I wonder why.
I enter the school and head toward my geometry class. Time to get that final over with.
Hey, Mr. Bristow.
Hey, Matt.
Mr. Bristow is out walking Gretchen, his Golden Retriever, a little earlier than usual this morning. I reach out to pet her, and she licks my hand and wags her tail.
“Good luck on that geometry final today. Remember what I taught you.”
“I will. Thanks, Mr. Bristow.”
I continue on my way to school. Mr. Bristow has been helping me to prepare for this exam since the term began. He’s very good at all kinds of math; he says he took a lot of it in high school and college.
Funny how I still call him “Mr. Bristow” after all this time. His first name is Jack, and he wouldn’t mind if I called him that; but there’s something about him that just doesn’t make that seem right. Some of the other kids call him “Old Man Bristow” behind his back. He knows, but doesn’t seem to mind that either.
My dad died when I was six, and Mr. Bristow moved into the neighborhood a couple of years later. I should have thought that an American would find London, Ontario, awfully boring – I know I do – but he says he was born here and enjoys the peace and quiet. He lives alone except for Gretchen, but he has a lot of friends around here. He goes to the little United Church of Canada a few blocks from here and serves on the Finance Committee there. My mother and I go there too. For a while I thought maybe they would get together, but it never happened.
His daughter comes up from the States with her family to see him sometimes. She’s a teacher and her husband is a surgeon, I think. She’s pretty but kind of old – in her late thirties. They have two kids. The kids are a handful, but they don’t dare act up too much around their grandfather.
He says he worked for the American government, but he won’t say what he did. I don’t ask; that seems to be a touchy subject for some reason. I wonder if he was in the CIA or something. He always seems to notice everything going on around him, as if being alert was second nature for him. He’s pretty sharp for an old man. When he taught me to play chess, it took nearly two years before I could beat him for the first time. He was just as pleased as I was that day.
My mom is worried about me lately. She wants me to become an architect like my father, but that just doesn’t interest me. I’m in the Drama Club at school, and I want to be an actor. When I finish my college prep courses next year, I want to go to the University of Toronto and major in theatre. I talked to Mr. Bristow about it; he says I should go for it. After seeing me in “Godspell” last year, he says I have the talent to make it if I work hard enough and don’t give up. Don’t let anyone tell you what you should be, he told me – trust me, that never works. A funny look came over his face as he said that; I wonder why.
I enter the school and head toward my geometry class. Time to get that final over with.
