Little,old men who dress well restore my faith in Humanity.(Not that I'm too close to losing it these days,but some people just make one question,you know.)
You know these men I speak of,you probably glance at them sideward while being very discreet,like the agility of young people allows them to be.Maybe you don't really notice them,they could be the background for all you care-the off-white undertones,all cream,beige,biscuit shades could probably been they're just camouflaging with the walls.
But there they stand,at that corner of the street,at the bend of the slope down your parking lot,very much there,but lost in the dreams of an old colour,in the ambling time of an old century.The Whitey Durhams from OTH,Cute old Carl from Upand the gold-rimmed bespectaled old gentleman from The Umbrella Man by Roald Dahl.
There they are,maybe looking at you discreetly,too-Maybe minding their own thought,taming them like old,faithful dogs.
They give you a whiff of old time charm-chivalry and gentler,mild mannered smiles and impeccable style of speech and letter-writing.Make you think of classic leather Moccasins ("You can always tell a gentleman from his shoes."~ Roald Dahl.) and leather bound journals,of a dozen fresh roses left on a lover's doorstep,on polished or cobbled front step with a letter,every Tuesday,of being told to always dress well to dinner,and to raise your hat and bow for courtesy's sakes for ladies and gentle people.Of dog yeared yellowing maps,adventures growing cold and polished walking stick clicking in rythm on the ground,like a wise king's spectre.
Something so neat,so crisp about these guys,so familiar and yet so fresh,like a childhood summer's first breath down one's neck.A cup of tea everyone always holds dear to their heart.
