Changes . . .

I see him every morning as I drive my truck around the fairgrounds to our stand. In the mornings cool, he carries his wash bucket and towels from one Footsie Wootsie to another. His daily rock is to set themup bright and shiney for the new fair day. He looks up and grins as I motor past. His shoulders are slumped, his hair grey with years but his cheerful recognition is hard to ignore. Basil Rathbone face, like a street character in a Dicken's novel, Jim is his name.

Only, I see him in my mind's eye because this year as the fair opened we got the news that he'd passed away.