June 30, 2002
He looked as though he had stepped straight out of an old Southern novel. His ebony skin glistened under the hot sun and he dabbed his forehead with a dingy handkerchief. His pants were too big and held up with suspenders (which were twisted, and I resisted the urge to fix them). His blue dress shirt was stained with grease and a utility belt around his waist told me why. He spoke softly, politely, not lifting his eyes from his shoes. Something about this man reached out and touched me. Some people can only tell stories… this man lives one.