Thread: The Old Man in the rain

THE OLD MAN IN THE RAIN
Category- Non Fiction
Approximate word count 970

I don't know what spurred me to follow him that day in 1977. I was 12 years old, knew who he was, so curiously I ventured out and began to move stealthly up Yale Road East as the old man trudged ahead of me. The sky was overcast, a callous mixture of depressing grey black clouds and the rain tapped away on the ground as we pushed up the street toward town.

I was wearing a blue jean jacket that day, made by GWG as I recall, and my shoulder length hair was a tangle of wet curls. The poor old man was wearing a suit and hat, as men from his era often did. I felt a pang of guilt in my heart for this unintended victim, but I could not abandon the pursuit. The rain came down a little harder on us, but we continued on, a few hundred feet separating us.

I had to keep my pace at a minimum as the old man moved slower than I and if I didn't I would no doubt pass him. He'd traveled a couple blocks now and I decided to cross to the other side of street to avoid being noticed. As I did this I took a glance at his house and wondered if his wife was in there alone.

It didn't matter. I had to make sure he didn't see me as I followed, and I cut my pace a bit more looking away, as though I were trying to find a house on this side of the road. What is he thinking, I wondered.

We had walked better than two miles now and were in the center of the town. The streets were not all that busy today and the bench he decided to sit down on was situated where five roads intersected in the little town of Chilliwack. This place was aptly called "Five Corners" and it was still the heart of the town's business district. I stopped and watched with guilty fascination as the old man stared off into the distance. He was broken, his eyes weary and tired, his heart battered and he could not see me or anyone else as the rain fell a little harder.

I leaned against a telephone pole, my jean jacket was spongy with water and the air smelled moist sending a cold shiver into my bones. Did he know I had followed him? I doubted that now and I wondered whether or not I should approach him. He was an extremely sad spectactle sitting there in the rain trying to make rhyme or reason of the madness. Perhaps I could sit down beside him, tell how sorry I was for his troubles, but no, I would never do that.

How long did I stand there watching the old man in the rain? Ten minutes? A half an hour? I don't know, for a 12 year old boy standing in the rain it felt like an eternity, but it was not.

He's dying, I thought. This is killing him.

And it was, but there was nothing I could do about it.

The night before I had been camping two doors down with a friend of mine, named Warren. We had decided to camp out in Warren's back yard. At first I raised alarm. "What about the killer?"

Warren laughed. "That guy is five hundred miles from here."

Not long before this night, a group of five young teens had ventured down to the Fraser River to party. On that night a gunman came out of the woods and ambushed them. Their names were Leola Gulliker, Evert Den Hertog, Egbert Menger and Jan Den Hertog. Of the five, the only survivor would be Ed Menger who ran after the first shot rang out. The only female victim Leola Gulliker's body was not recovered at the crime scene. The news media dubbed the killings: THE ROSEDALE SLAYINGS as they occurred in proximity to the farming community of Rosedale, British Columbia.

All of the kids were talking about the murders, my older brother went to school with the young victims. To us, the Rosedale killer was a monster, perhaps a guargantuan man without a soul and there was speculation that the missing Gulliker was still being held by this monster.

An hour after Warren and I had set up the pup tent the street was awash with red and blue police lights as the RCMP cordoned the street off. One of the neighbor kids came by the fence and said, "the cops are arresting someone."

"Who," I asked.

"Probably some drunk," Warren rolled over and went to sleep.

The next morning we found out different. They had arrested the Rosedale Killer and he was not anything like we had painted him. He was a teenager as well, an average looking young man, tall thin, glasses. He had gone to school with these people and for reasons only he could offer, he decided to ambush them on the river. When news broke I smacked Warren in the arm and said, "five hundred miles eh."

He was speechless.

Now, I was watching the Father of Walter Murray Madsen sitting in the rain staring into the abyss and trying to comprehend what his son had been arrested for. He was a sad figure sitting there in his suit, while the rain dripped down on him mercilessly. I truly felt for him, but there was little I could do and I eventually withdrew leaving him to his sadness.

Approximately week or two later the news would announce that the old man had died of natural causes, but I knew better. He died of a broken heart.

The following spring Leola Gulliker's body was recovered from the Fraser River.

Beautifully written with a sense of timing that is right on. This is marketable material, I suppose you know.

Thank you garza. The real life stuff is always free.
At least for me it is.

You make me hang my head. It's the real-life stuff I've written all my life to pay the rent and buy the groceries.

Again, great stuff. It's your nack of bringing experiences to such a palpable 'nearness' that grabs me. So many people have got these sort of memories, but few are able to bring them to life like this. I certainly can't at least!

I too, enjoyed the story, It caught me right away. But there was one problem I had with it and it was that you were writing in first person reporting what the child observed, felt and experienced. In these two spots you told us how the old man felt Even though the boy can only imagine how the man felt and what he might be thinking, he is only able to observe the man's action and appearance .

"I stopped and watched with guilty fascination as the old man stared off into the distance. He was broken, his eyes weary and tired, his heart battered and he could not see me or anyone else as the rain fell a little harder.

He was an extremely sad spectactle sitting there in the rain trying to make rhyme or reason of the madness. Perhaps I could sit down beside him, tell how sorry I was for his troubles, but no, I would never do that."

So saying something like he lookedbroken his heart looked battered or some other phrasing would keep it in first person reporting.
Other than that , I think you wrote a wonderful piece. You write very well, a feeling for character and with sensitivity.

my best, apple

Originally Posted by apple

I too, enjoyed the story, It caught me right away. But there was one problem I had with it and it was that you were writing in first person reporting what the child observed, felt and experienced. In these two spots you told us how the old man felt Even though the boy can only imagine how the man felt and what he might be thinking, he is only able to observe the man's action and appearance .

"I stopped and watched with guilty fascination as the old man stared off into the distance. He was broken, his eyes weary and tired, his heart battered and he could not see me or anyone else as the rain fell a little harder.

He was an extremely sad spectactle sitting there in the rain trying to make rhyme or reason of the madness. Perhaps I could sit down beside him, tell how sorry I was for his troubles, but no, I would never do that."

So saying something like he lookedbroken his heart looked battered or some other phrasing would keep it in first person reporting.
Other than that , I think you wrote a wonderful piece. You write very well, a feeling for character and with sensitivity.

my best, apple

Apple I was writing in first person because the story is non fiction. I can see where you would find the analysis of a boy unusual in drawing such conclusions, but I did just that. Perhaps it is the voyeur in me, like most writers, I drew conclusions even at a tender age. I never wrote about that day or even spoke to anyone about it until I posted it here. Perhaps my conclusions are tainted by 35 years of reflection. Either way, I thank you for your feedback.

Mark

Honestly MJ, I'm not trying to be argumenative, but maybe I wasn't clear with my point. I respect you as a writer very much but I think my point is valid when writing fiction or non-fiction.
I wasn't saying the analisis, conclusions or feelings of the boy was out of line. Quite astute for a young boy under the circumstances.
But , even though I might know all the facts and circumstances, I truly couldn't know that his heart was battered, I can say his eyes were weary, but I can't know he was broken. It might appear that way to me but I'm not privey to be inside the man's body or mind to know for a fact. That's why I suggested to say that it "looked as if"... his heart was battered, etc.
If I write from my own point of view. I can't assume that I know someone's elses point of view. example: I watched her eat the apple. I knew her favorite was the MacIntosh. When she finished , she licked her lips and thought how delicious it was. (how would I know what she was thinking.) Anyway, MJ, I'm giving it one more valiant try to splain myself. Just say "Nice try, Lucy." and I will skulk away and say Damn it! yours, Sondra

What he's trying to say was how the boy knew that he was... "trying to make rhyme or reason of the madness."

Good writing.

The only other issue I have is why a boy would think this...

"He's dying, I thought. This is killing him.

And it was, but there was nothing I could do about it."

Why exactly would the boy want to do anything about it? What brought about this feeling? Simple empathy? Doesn't seem to jive from a boy following an old guy through the street.

This is posted in non-fiction. You use the personal pronoun. From these two things I assume this to be a true recollection by you the writer. This being so, how did you know the old guy sitting in the rain was trying to make rhyme or reason out of the madness?

Originally Posted by apple

Honestly MJ, I'm not trying to be argumenative, but maybe I wasn't clear with my point. I respect you as a writer very much but I think my point is valid when writing fiction or non-fiction.
I wasn't saying the analisis, conclusions or feelings of the boy was out of line. Quite astute for a young boy under the circumstances.
But , even though I might know all the facts and circumstances, I truly couldn't know that his heart was battered, I can say his eyes were weary, but I can't know he was broken. It might appear that way to me but I'm not privey to be inside the man's body or mind to know for a fact. That's why I suggested to say that it "looked as if"... his heart was battered, etc.
If I write from my own point of view. I can't assume that I know someone's elses point of view. example: I watched her eat the apple. I knew her favorite was the MacIntosh. When she finished , she licked her lips and thought how delicious it was. (how would I know what she was thinking.) Anyway, MJ, I'm giving it one more valiant try to splain myself. Just say "Nice try, Lucy." and I will skulk away and say Damn it! yours, Sondra

Sondra: I take no offense at what you are asking and might be inclined to agree somewhat. While I could not really get inside the old man's head and he did not tell me his heart was battered it is what I thought. What I think, and that is what I conveyed to you and the reader. We writers do this sort of thing all the time, whether in first or third person. We do it when we describe the sweet nectar inside a tulip, when in fact we might never have tasted it. No need to skulk away dear lady, I welcome the discussion.

Originally Posted by Draxia

What he's trying to say was how the boy knew that he was... "trying to make rhyme or reason of the madness."

Good writing.

The only other issue I have is why a boy would think this...

"He's dying, I thought. This is killing him.

And it was, but there was nothing I could do about it."

Why exactly would the boy want to do anything about it? What brought about this feeling? Simple empathy? Doesn't seem to jive from a boy following an old guy through the street.

Knowing the old man's circumstances I did feel a great deal of sympathy for him. My initial curiosity gave way to sadness.

Originally Posted by The Backward OX

This is posted in non-fiction. You use the personal pronoun. From these two things I assume this to be a true recollection by you the writer. This being so, how did you know the old guy sitting in the rain was trying to make rhyme or reason out of the madness?

Because I knew of the circumstances, I observed his distress and while he did not yell his thoughts at me, it wasn't that hard to put together.

Think about it this way. Yesterday your son was a normal high school student, today you learn he has been charged with mass murder. Would you not question the rhyme or reason for the sudden madness that is tearing your life and family apart. It is presumption on my part yes, but that is what we do as writers, we witness and we tell the world how we see it or saw it. Often we climb inside the heads of our characters both in fiction and non fiction. Granted, I did not write about it for better than thirty odd years, and add in that I am looking back at a boy who was only a part of who I am today, but I have revisited this moment in my life hundreds if not thousands of times.

Cheers
M

Originally Posted by MJ Preston

Often we climb inside the heads of our characters both in fiction and non fiction.

We’ll just have to agree to differ. I agree that in fiction the narrator can climb inside anyone’s head. But non-fiction, by definition, limits the writer to what he observed and nothing else. Only a narrator of fiction is allowed to read minds. In a case such as the one I have brought up, it is known as “changing point of view”; the writer ceases describing what the kid saw, starts a new paragraph, and begins telling the reader what’s happening from the perspective of the old man.

Fair enough Ox.

Backward Ox and Apple, I have had a chance to really think on what you were trying to convey to me regarding my perception of the old man's thoughts and emotions and I have come to the conclusion that you are absolutely right.

I know, big revelation eh, well duh MJ

I haven't had time to really reply over the last few days, but you are both quite right. If I am to write non fiction I have to convey that what he is thinking is purely my perception and I should make that clear when describing it.

Thanks
Mark