An eighty-three-year-old man lost all of his family and was alone. He was weather-beaten, with droopy eyes and silver hair. His face looked like he had been through many experiences in life, including many wrinkles that appeared to demonstrate he had laughed many times throughout his life. He was a tall, thin man, with long legs and arms. His clothing was almost dapper for his age, including a corduroy blazer with suede elbow patches that looked like it was a second skin. For his age he did not appear to be as immobile as one might think, but instead still moved with a certain lilt to his walk.
The old man liked to enjoy his daily habit of pipe smoking. He had an ancient pipe that rumor had it once belonged to a Native American before it found its way into his possession. The old pipe was long-stemmed with an almost maroon hue to its stem. The bowl of the pipe was quite significant in size, looking like it was too big to belong to the long thing stem sprouting from it. The bowl was large enough that he packed it with quite a large amount of his favorite tobacco, a mixture of blends he had developed over the years that was his favorite. The pipe was large enough that he could smoke it for quite some time before having to repack it.
The old man loved to smoke his pipe, but his favorite time to do so was in the early morning. At this time of the day the world was just waking up and he loved the way the dew slowly began to evaporate from the fields. He would rise each morning, put on his favorite jacket, pack his pipe full, and head to his favorite place. He believed that at this hour of the day life was just beginning all around him, including the sounds of animals as they began their daily forage for food. He also felt at his best in the morning before the toil of the day would take its toll on him. It was at this hour of the day he felt most alive.
Each morning when the man had put on his jacket, packed
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