Bikers Were Painting My Dead Mother’s House Pink At 4AM And I Didn’t Know Any Of Them

Sandwiches in summer. Always pie. Always enough for everyone, no matter how many showed up.

After lunch, they’d work on whatever needed doing. Plumbing. Painting. Electrical. Yard work. One of them rebuilt her entire back deck.

“She never asked,” Walt said. “We just did it. And she never stopped feeding us.”

I stared at him. “Eleven years?”

“Every Monday.continue reading …