In 2005 I met a delightful gentlemen, nameless at that time, whom I called the Broom Man. I usually encountered him in front of his bungalow with a broom, sweeping the debris off of his walks and out of his street gutters. I would wave, and he would hold out his broom and ask me to sweep for him.

The following summer I wrote Broom Man II. I had learned a little about him during our periodic chats on his sidewalk His name is Kenneth Abbott, a proud World War II vet, now in his early eighties. His wife died in 2004. And I learned to spell his name right.

And here he is. This afternoon, I ventured out on my daily 2-miler with camera in hand in case yesterday afternoon’s strong storm had created any photo ops along my way. It hadn’t, but Kenneth was out with his broom. I cut across the street and we lamented, as is our custom, the sorry state of our country and the younger generations – about what you would expect from two such superannuated geezers.

Then I remembered my camera, so I mentioned that my family now had a soft spot in their heart for him, and he posed for me in front of his back door, speaking of which I have an open invitation to enter and have a beer. After I was pretty well talked out (he never gets talked out) he unsteadily climbed his back steps into the house, and I unsteadily ambled on down the street.

Dave, hoping we have many more such encounters.