Nothing But Love :: golf blogger

Rehabbed

The dude has never asked me for money. We see each other every day as he patrols the southern end of West Ninth Street, cruising in his wheelchair. Our eyes have met from time to time, but nothing more than a nod or a smile has ever been exchanged during daylight hours. He disappears into the night, only to reappear in the morning light, a daily fixture of the neighborhood. His brown, shoulder-length hair is unkempt, but not dirty, and his beard scruffy, probably for want of a razor.

There is a story there ... too young to be a Viet Nam vet. Perhaps, he served in Desert Storm for the first President Bush, losing his lower legs to the Iraqi army, but more likely in the Crusade started by Bush the Lesser; or maybe he is the victim of an industrial accident, legs amputated, drawing disability pay allowing him to get some shelter and a shower at night.

Tonight, the story takes a different turn. I saw him riding a bicycle in the park down by the river.