Two older gentlemen met this past Thursday morning; the acclaimed author Alexander McCall Smith and my father. One stood ramrod straight, fresh from the cold winds of Firth; sporting a Scottish demeanor and speaking with a kindly, erudite tone. The other gentleman stood quietly by, bent over like a shepherd’s crook, waiting to greet the man. They shook hands, acknowledging each other and both thanked the other for coming. And then they chortled graciously.
Dad said to Alexander McCall Smith, ‘I enjoy it when as you are speaking you laugh at your own jokes!’ Immediately the other polished man laughed heartily and replied, ‘I really should not do that!’ They both chuckled, shook hands again and parted ways; the one wearing the jacket and tie, the other with the thick woolen sweater vest and the crooked back.
And that was all. For an elegant moment, two men from a lifetime ago, born under separate skies, both lovers of literature and art; upon meeting, conversed and shared time, laughter and the appreciation for what life can be…
690 Saint Paul 