Merry Christmas to white haired older men who favor suspenders and blue work pants

ong tired of the street corners and haunts of their youth, they loiter in the long aisles of QFC and Safeway, lingering over the apples, smoothing them with their knotted fingers, a faraway look in their eyes.

I must confess, I have a thing for such garrulous, geriatric men who talk about the weather and what is on sale this week as they dig for change, even as other people in line become frustrated and impatient. They are, after all, just hoping to eke out their interaction with the cashier for as long as possible before heading back home to their quiet apartments.

If they have them, they lean on their canes just so. By this time in their lives, clothes have become utilitarian, well-worn and comfortable, delightfully haphazard rather than chosen to make a statement or for any sense of style. GQ it is not: Blue work pants hemmed short (strategically), held up by suspenders; plaid or flannel shirts; old uniform jackets with names still proudly emblazoned though fading; soft, washable sweaters, their waistbands stretched out beyond all hope of recovery. Men of that generation can wear hats without irony or pretension, having worn them all their lives, perhaps a custom begun as a fresh-faced recruit for a far-flung war. And the shoes, their orthopedic shoes, expanding to contain bent and crippled joints . . .

Walking behind them as they fret over their purchases, watching them inspect cans for bulges and leaks, poking the produce, pausing to rest, sometimes I feel myself get weak-kneed.

It's been a year now since our family celebrated one final Christmas with my father. I was not among those who gathered around his bedside as he smiled his otherworldly smile, the world here barely constraining him. Instead, I flew to Rochester, New York to spend the holiday with my son, who otherwise would have spent Christmas alone in a hotel room.

I had just seen my father at Thanksgiving, but it was still not an easy decision to make, as it had become obvious that he would not see another Christmas.  But for my son, who can remember a year of holidays just outside of Baghdad, it would have meant yet another Thanksgiving and Christmas without family.

It is nearly a year later, and with the holidays approaching, I find myself running to the store frequently. Down the aisle I see a man perusing the dairy section. From the back, he is stooped just so, one hand gripping his four-point cane, the other tenderly lifting each egg to check for cracks. My heart stops.

So, to all the white haired older men who favor blue work pants and suspenders, who love to chat with store clerks and sometimes get cranky if the specials aren't what you remembered, a very Merry Christmas to you. And a Happy New Year.