I helped an old man with a wobbly cane today carry a television with a built-in VCR out to his car. Funny how a 20-year-old, tubed, thirteen inch television with a VCR seemed older than he in this digital stream we swim in these days.

As I walked into the thrift store, I saw him struggling in the corner; cane in one hand shaking against gravity’s pull on old muscles. In the other was the corded plug trying to find its way into a wall socket, a test to see if a flood of electrons can bring the old set to life.

I don’t remember being too helpful just then, more judgemental…Jesus man, you’re gonna kill yourself. Picturing, visualizing the drop of the plug, the clutching of the chest, scrunching of the plaid Pendleton wool beneath clammy fingers. A look of breathless fear, wide-eyed, and then a clockwise collapse to the floor. The ABC’s of life support…airway, breathing, circulation…ten and two.

He got it plugged in and the static hiss of white noise was proof enough for him to heft the set and head for the register. Labored breaths sounded as if he was done before he started…while shuffled feet tempted disaster on the thin, brown carpet.

That’s where I stepped in to lend my back half his age, and that’s where I saw myself in those aged eyes… this old guy and I aren’t too different we. Too proud to ask for help, I can do it myself…I can do it myself. Too stubborn to ask for a hand, even if it kills me…even…if…it…kills me.