flowers for steve

He wakes before dawn. A retired mechanic and Vietnam Vet, he likes to stay busy. He fiddles with his two cars in the street most mornings. Sometimes I wonder if he fixes things even when they aren't broken. He's rarely idle. Going, going, gone.

Last winter, he shoveled snow off the sidewalks of my entire block. I don't know if I've ever seen him without a smile on his face and when he walks, his pace is more like a skip. He leaves me gifts on my doorstep at least once a month. During the summer he saw me "beautifying my yard," as he would say. Now he brings me pots, planters, decorations (pictured) and, today, plants.

Last week I sat in my car, talking on my cell phone before leaving for work. He walked by and filled my hands with coin-shaped chocolates, tons of them.

When my lawnmower wouldn't start, I took it to the shop. I paid for a diagnostic. The repair man said, "Junk it." I brought it home. He fixed it. All it needed was a new spark plug, he told me. A month later it wouldn't start again. I asked him to look at it as I left for work. When I came home during my lunch break, he was mowing my front lawn with my now-working mower.

He's never asked for anything in return. Well, once he did. He asked to borrow something like a dollar for a cup of coffee. I hesitantly gave it to him. I don't like to give money away like that. A few days later he paid me back, with interest.

What drives him? Life hasn't given to him in the way that he gives. A Black man in a White world. A Vietnam Vet in the era of another, bigger war. A recovering alcoholic in a spit polished world. What drives him? The beautiful man in an ugly world.