The old man was sitting on the front porch smoking his pipe when the boy came by.
Always feeling he could rely on his grandfather to listen to his troubles, he sat down and explained how he had been playing in the park, kicking his ball around with his mates. The boy got teary when he explained that he left it under one of the park seats while the three of them went off tree-climbing for a while. When they returned, it was gone!
“Probably pinched, but we didn’t see anybody,” the boy said, looking up at his grandfather with wet eyes.
“Ah! Well, sorry to hear that son,” he said, patting the boy on his knee.
“It was my favourite ball; cost heaps.”
The old man sighed. “Never mind; there’ll be others.” He sat puffing on his pipe for a while. “There are all kinds of losses, you know. Why! In this street alone, I could give you examples”. He fell silent while he knocked out his pipe. “Yes, four cases come to mind.”
The boy sat back ready to listen. He enjoyed the old man’s stories.
“It happened to that nice young woman up there at twenty-eight. She’d had a visit from her sister and her husband. After tea they said how much they enjoyed her casserole. She was flattered and said they were welcome to take what was left over and they could enjoy it all over again. When the time came for them to leave, the woman said that the dish had cooled and why not take it as it is and return the dish next time.” He shook his head. “It was a beautiful looking pot with a flower design on the sides and on the lid. It was a bit of an heirloom apparently, passed down a couple of generations. She knew how precious it was. Anyway, that’s what they did.” He shook his head again. “Sadly, on their way home they had an accident; a minor one at first. They ran into the back of another vehicle and when they got out he engine caught fire. They stood on the side of the road watching when the tank went up. In no time at all, the thing was a blazing inferno!”
“Wow! Said the boy.
“Wow indeed! You see how these things can happen? She lost her dish.”
After a brief pause, he went on. “Then there was the retired guy at number fourteen, who spent so much of his time writing short stories, then taking them to the local pub and reading them to his fans. It was just a small group of half-a-dozen people who drank there regularly. Once a week they’d sit in the corner while he read to them. Anyway, he’d been ill for a long time, then suddenly it got worse. He was told that he didn’t have long to live. Naturally, his fans said how sad they were when their meetings stopped. Then, right out of the blue, he got better! The funny thing was, after letting people know the good news of his recovery and how they could continue with their evenings, he turned up at the appointed time to find that none of them were there! They had all started drinking somewhere else. He couldn’t understand why.” He nodded at the boy. “There you are, you see. He lost his audience.”
He scratched his head and went on. “I don’t know whether you know this, but the man at number seventeen is a heavy drinker.
The boy shook his head.
“No, perhaps you wouldn’t. Anyway, he got so drunk that one evening he staggered into the local library. People that had been sitting quietly reading looked up with a start when he banged the door open. He went up to the girl at the enquiry desk and ordered a gin and tonic. When she refused to take his order he started yelling at her, demanding she get him a drink. She tried to explain where he was, but he obviously didn’t understand and became really aggressive. It took two of them, the manager and one of the men that had been browsing books, to throw him out!” The old man snorted. “I hear he went back a couple of days later to apologise, but they didn’t want to know. He lost his library membership.”
After shaking his head slowly, he looked up. “Probably the worst and most tragic was the case of the old lady over there, at number four. Sad case. With her husband gone, and her forty-something year old son, as mad as a March hare still living at home. This son of hers had been getting really frustrated with a neighbour’s dog. It kept coming into the front garden, braking plants and digging holes. It turns out that she was out late one afternoon when the nice little delivery boy came delivering the local paper. It was getting dark and he was half way up the garden path when the son grabbed the shotgun and opened the front window. The woman arrived home only minutes later to find her son standing over the body.”
The old man sniffed.
“She had lost her favourite delivery boy.”
The youngster wriggled around on the seat. He looked up wide eyed at the old storyteller.
“Is any of that true Grandpa?”
“Uh? Well, whether it is or it isn’t, make the most of it. They tell me I’m no longer able to look after myself. They’re putting me in a home.”
He sniffed again.
“They say I’m losing my marbles!”