The Morning Men
Christmas Edition No.2
In many ways, I don’t fulfil the stereotypes of a writer. I go to the gym, spend time with friends and occasionally choose a piece of trash tv over a book. On the other hand, I fulfil the stereotypes rather well. I listen to classical music and rarely leave the house without a pen. When I look at the world, my first thoughts are, how can I convey this view, feeling, smell etc. in words? But perhaps the most stereotypical thing I do is write in a café. It was in this café that I found this story, one early morning.
This is the story of the morning men. Two old men left their lives behind for love, and after losing love, they found each other.
The oldest morning man moved to the city first. He had a large farm sprawling across the countryside, stretching for miles over the flat landscape. His sheep would graze so freely that sometimes he had trouble finding them. His wife was the same age as the morning man and, by all intents and purposes, was the morning woman. Without children and only a few locals to lend a hand, the couple were left to shoulder most of the work themselves. But they never minded, it kept them young and mobile, and the only thing that came close to the love they shared was the love they had for their work. Perhaps the only thing the morning man loved as much as his farm and wife was his wife's baking. Their love for their patch of land was so great that a rumour circulated between other farmers that a well of youth was somewhere on their swath of land. But of course, there was no such well.
One year, when the couple were sheering their herd, some of the most gruelling work for them physically, the morning man’s wife fell and broke her hip. It was the end of her mobility, and the morning man soon realised; it was the end of the farm too. Although he tried running the farm alone, it was too much for him. He could hire more hands to help, but that took away the magic of a life lived as a pair. They called it a day after the wife returned from the hospital.
The morning man had always despised the city, with its concrete roads, over-priced shops and modern people. This so-called civilisation ate away at him each time he considered the move.
“How can they call themselves civilised,” he ranted to his wife.
“They get their food from sealed boxes, wear clothes made of plastic and walk on streets covered in cigarette buts and chewing gum.”
But there was one thing that could make the morning man embark on the least desirable adventures. His wife. The farm was up for sale within a month, and soon enough, the morning man's wife was baking in the pokey ground-floor apartment. The morning man and his wife missed their farm, with its sprawling land and the neverending skies that always looked over them. But it wasn’t all that bad; there were others like them, escaping the hard labour of the countryside for the convenience of concrete and caffeine. And every few days, they would venture back into the country to walk along the dykes, catching glimpses of other farms and younger labourers. It was nice to remember and not be responsible. Five am had become an early morning to the husband and wife, not a lay-in. And the morning man's belly grew from all the extra baking he was forced to try.
The youngest morning man moved into the city a year or so later. He had a smaller farm, one specialising in Christmas trees; blue spruces were his forte. He spent more time in the city than the oldest morning man, because he made his living by selling at the markets each winter. His life was centred around Christmas; even in the height of summer, it never left his mind. His wife was a stickler for the details; they both were. A trait that, in their line of work, anchored you to Christmas through every season. Whatever way you look at it, all roads lead to Christmas. How will the trees stand? Are they symmetrical; are they blue enough? Will the needles hold once cut from the stump?
It was, at one of the Christmas markets, that the morning man met his wife. A lover of the season herself, she was taken by his passion first, then his piercing eyes, and finally by his scent of evergreen trees. Once the morning man asked her if she would move in with him, she only had one answer. Together they spent years growing trees for the festive season, and the morning man was taken aback by his wife’s love of the trees. She was, unlike him, someone who had chosen the slow country life, not born into it. However, the morning man’s wife soon slipped into the rhythms of the fresh air, green fields and enormous skies as if she had been raised by them too. Such was their passion for their craft that they soon became something of local celebrities, at least during the winter. Everyone wanted a tree from them; they even grew the tree which would be erected on the city square.
There was no accident responsible for their move to the city, but instead, family. It wasn’t that his wife’s family lived there, but living there made it easier to reach them; they were only a train ride away. But soon after they moved, the morning man’s wife was taken ill. Her decline was sudden, and before he knew it, the morning man was alone in his new city home, without his wife or trees. It took some time for the morning man to come to terms with his new life; he swung between despair and daydreaming, unable to centre himself in his world. For the first time in his life, he felt what it must have felt like to be one of his prize trees, chopped down at the height of their contentment. He thought about going back to them, but for what? In a few years, he'd be too old anyway.
The morning men didn’t meet right away. There were months spent alone, mourning their wives and the life they had enjoyed with them. Men like them weren’t supposed to live a life so happily. Their fathers and their father's fathers crawled through their life alone, aside from the brief, short-lived marriages that produced them. They were men of the land, and nothing else was supposed to take their hearts. But it hadn’t worked out like that, and now the morning men woke up each day battling their emptiness. In the winter, they stopped being regular men and became morning men. Without knowing it, they were going through the motions together, separated by a lack of introductions. Mornings were the worst time for them; waking up alone was like being spat on by fate, and separately they decided to overcome their early morning trap with a walk. Until recently, they were forced awake before dawn by their responsibilities and a return to what they knew only felt right. Sometimes you need to move forward, but there are times when moving backwards is the best thing to do. Knowing when to do what is the real test.
The winter was bracing, even here in the city; the cold air bit their cheeks as sorrow had their hearts, but it felt like home. It was, to them, what a cup of tea is to a British housewife, soothing, a source of salvation. They walked while most of the city slept or rubbed their eyes clean, but to begin with, they walked on different sides of town. One circled it clockwise and the other anti-clockwise. A month went by, and the houses along their walk began decorating themselves with lights and wreaths, and most of them had a tree sitting in the heart of their living room. The youngest morning man found this, his first Christmas alone, harder than anything he had experienced before. Seeing neatly decorated trees at home in a loving house felt like leaving the farm all over again, only worse because he knew how that adventure ended. After the first day, he noticed the trees in the windows, and he stopped turning his head to see what they looked like. No matter how dazzling the lights seemed in his peripheral, he wouldn't turn his head.
One morning, at the start of December, the morning men met. It was a cold day, fog covered the city like a new white blanket, and people avoided the streets, trying to stay warm. Although they had been walking around the city for the last few weeks, the morning men hadn't crossed paths. In fact, only one street could say it had been visited by both - Koningstraat. It was an unsuspecting street with a delightful selection of overpriced shops and a cobbled road. Its defining feature was that it led to the main square. The same one where the youngest morning man had sold trees each year. At the end of the street, tucked away between two protruding buildings, was a café. It was the type filled with a cross-section of the city once the morning men had left, but until then, it was a place just for them. The oldest morning man arrived first, deciding to stop for the first time; the smell of freshly baked pastries had finally persuaded him in. It was a smell that reminded him of his wife. Although it was winter and only just warmer than freezing, the morning man sat outside; it was impossible to tell the steam from his coffee from his breath.
His coffee was all but finished, only the dregs left turning cold in the bottom of the mug when the youngest morning man passed by.
“Morning,” they said to each other, a habit from living in the countryside. The youngest morning man stopped, not for any other reason than he recognised something in the older man’s voice. Was it simply an old-fashioned courtesy, or was it something else? He decided to find out.
That morning the two-morning men became acquainted. Then, during their walk, friends. Neither had known it before, but they needed each other, just as their farms had once needed them. They agreed that they would meet at the same café the next day, and they did. Overnight it became their new routine; each morning, they would arrive at the café before heading out on their walk. The oldest morning man always came first; he took something close to pride from it. The youngest morning man most enjoyed his companion’s humour; in some ways, he was a relic, in others, an utterly fresh personality. But, most importantly, he made him forget his own misfortunes. Their walks together were never the same, it was a change of pace that they both wanted. They had spent their lives in a routine loop, hopping from one to the other as if it was the only way to organise a life. Now they had the freedom rewarded to those who have suffered enough restriction, and they were almost giddy with it.
As December crept on, leaving Sinterklaas in the past for another year, the morning men’s walk grew longer and longer. Before they knew it, they were no longer the morning men; their walks would stride on deep into the afternoon. They found themselves drawn to the sea, walking through the national park to get there. It was a different piece of the countryside than they had known. Here there were no squares of green and brown, no dykes, no canals, no hedgerows, no barns, no sheep and no blue spruces. In their place were rolling dunes, forest floors covered in dead wood, patches of snow and rotting leaves. There were deer, too and shaggy highland cows and towering evergreens.
“I wouldn’t want to sheer that thing.”
“I wouldn’t want to cut that thing either.”
By the end of the month, the morning men knew all there was to know about each other; the hours spent walking in the fog had made sure of it. The oldest morning man knew how to farm Christmas trees, while the youngest felt confident he could hold his own sheering even the most energetic sheep. They knew the words each other’s wife used to scold and make up. They had a comprehensive family history and knew how many generations had farmed before them. But there was one thing they hadn’t spoken about; Christmas day. In fact, the morning men could have been forgiven for forgetting it completely. After all, their walks took them away from civilisation, the lights and trees. When they were together, nothing else mattered.
On the morning of the twenty-fifth, the oldest morning man arrived at the café as usual and found it empty. He knew then that he had made a mistake. There was only one reason why it would be closed. Sure enough, there it was. A sign on the door read "Happy Christmas, see you tomorrow". He sat on the steps of a porch opposite the café, waiting, wondering if his friend would show. He was a man of Christmas, the oldest morning man thought; perhaps, this was his day to be alone. With that idea in his mind, he blew warmth into cupped hands, slid them into his pockets and began to walk. It was the first time he had been alone for Christmas since, well, ever. The thought brought a lump to his throat, and he swallowed it fast. His wife came to mind then; he remembered how she baked minced pies on Christmas morning so they would be perfect to have with their coffee. He remembered how, almost every year, a piece of raisin skin would stick to his tooth, and she would laugh at his new smile.
“Wait up, old man, you’ve forgotten something!” It was the young morning man; he was to catch up, looking unsure on his feet.
“You’re late,” said the oldest.
“You’re wrong. You just left the café early because it wasn’t open,” the youngest corrected him. “Besides, I was making these,” he continued, lifting a sweet-smelling brown paper bag in front of the elder's nose.
“Mince pies?”
“Yes. How’d you know?”
“Lucky guess.”
Every time someone shares one of my pieces it means a lot (and helps a lot too). If you’ve enjoyed this story or one of my others, please consider encouraging a friend to subscribe or read one of your favourites. Thank you.
Luke