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It was in the evening, under grey skies, rain clouds slowly lumbering in, that I saw this old guy sitting, downtown, by the bigtop tent. Did you see it? The art faire or something. But he was--had to be--90 years old or more--very wrinkled. Deep wrinkles--I'd say almost craggy. He stood hunched over, under those grey skies, and as I slowly walked the sidewalk toward where he stood, I could clearly see huge ears--I mean massive, seemingly taking up almost half the size of his face. I've seen that before: old old guys with big big ears. Scares me, it does, that maybe when I am old and grey and craggy skinned that I too will have big ears. I've heard the ears don't stop growing, but that might be untrue. The nose too--his was exceedingly long, seemed to droop. I worry about that too. He was sitting on a trunk, a steamer trunk, one of those big curved top wooden trunks that people used to use in the 1800s and early 1900s to travel. I remember seeing trunks like that in a film that was set in Africa, in the Republic of something or other, an old black and white film (shouldn't it be called gray?) where people were on safari and they had servants carrying this massive trunks from one campsite to the next. So there sat this old wrinkled guy on the trunk, and next to him was a little brown bag, open with the sides rolled down like a quitter sock, so that the bag stayed open and the peanuts inside were easily accessible. He would slowly reach his hand forward, uncurling like a vine and pluck one out of the bag. Now, most people would crack the shell and eat the peanuts from the inside, but he opened his mouth wide and put the peanut far into his mouth before closing his lips. He then would chew on the peanut like it was bubble gum.

Nearer now, I could see his face better, and I suddenly remembered who he was: Mr. Font. Elmer Font. His friends called him Ellie. He was not just known for being 93 years old but that he had a prodigious memory. He seemingly forgot nothing at all (though there's local fable for ya). But what he could remember was amazing. Only a few years ago he was able to use that amazing memory to recall exactly how downtown Titusville looked in 1941 (which he did to a large group from the historical society). They found photographs from that time (73 years ago), and he had described it perfectly.

I stopped near him. I didn't want to seem intrusive, but eventually he looked at me, cloudy eyes, nestled in a deeply wrinkled leathery hide, trailing slowly from my face to the cigarette in my hand then back to my face. He asked for a cigarette, and I gave him one. I asked if he was Mr. Font, and he nodded. I mentioned how a friend of mine had heard him speak at the Historical Society, and he nodded slowly again, those large ears seemingly wagging in the air. My friend had told me some of what Font had spoke of that night, and my friend had mentioned how Font had briefly mentioned the name of a local store, a name that didn't seem to intrigue Mr. Font, but certainly stuck in my friend's mind. It was the--something--Store. Some name of an animal.

I forget now. I asked Mr. Font, and he told me. Do you know which animal it was? Guess.