Dedication

On my way to work some mornings, I drive past a man walking on the side of the road toward the little town I live near.

Now, when I say little town, I mean little town. There is one church, two bars, a post office, an automotive repair shop, a general store and a coffee house. All on one street.

The man is older, around 60, I'd guess. Gray hair, heavy-rimmed glasses, big gray mustache and overall disheveled look. When it's cold, he wears one of those pouffy parkas with a fur-trimmed hood.

He walks against traffic, heading into town, and always nods at me as I drive by. I always nod back.

The first few times I saw him, I was impressed with his gumption. He's really committed to this walking thing, I thought. Good for him.

And then I noticed ... he usually walks with a lit cigarette.

Now THAT'S dedication.

So now the story I've built for him goes like this: He has had some sort of heart trouble. His doctor has told him to get more exercise. So every morning, he gets his shoes on, shouts at his wife that he's going for his walk and heads out the door. She doesn't know he sneaks a cigarette on the way. He walks to the bar on the far end of town and stops in for the shake of the day and one light beer. (This is Wisconsin. Bars are open before 8 a.m. and he won't be the only guy in there debating whether it tastes great or is less filling.) When he's done, he pushes his empty can and glass toward the bartender, slowly gets up off his bar stool and mumbles a friendly, "See you tomorrow," before making the trip back home.

He's happy. She's happy. The doctor is happy.

I'm happy, too.