I have seen many sad things in my life. One was when an old man talked to me about his wife. He said they were married in nineteen forty, I never knew his real name everyone just called him Shorty.
Shorty told of the years they were married and that back home in Arkansas is where she is buried. She was his rock, the love of his life. It was easy to see he sure missed his wife.
After her death, Shorty just gave up he moved to the desert, and lived in an old Bread truck. He lost touch with his Daughter a few years ago. She moved away to where he don’t know.
Shorty was a very good friend to me. I met him at Slab City when I was ten years old in nineteen eighty three. Shorty was only about five feet tall, but by the size of his heart you would never believe he was that small. His hair was Grey, his face wrinkled with age. Driving an old ford Falcon he pulled into our camp one day.
When he got out of his car, I could see a hint of a tear in his eye, and he said Tater, I came to tell you good bye. "Shorty" where are you going to go? he said I got a letter from my Daughter, I'm going home.