When I stayed in the Washington Park neighborhood, I got to know some of the delivery men who took folks home from the grocery stores in the area. My favorite was Harry. He was an older fella who was a true gentleman. He told great stories about coming of age as a Black man during the turbulent 60s. Stories about serving in the Vietnam war and getting treated like shit when he got home by his own people and being beat by the police for nothing more than existing. But he managed to keep his head up, and started working for the steel mill. Got married and had some babies. Saw those children grow up and go to college. He was doing the delivery just to keep from sitting at home being bored. Four years ago this month, I learned that Harry had died and it broke my heart. So much that this is the first time I have been able to write about it. The hood is filled with stories like this. God bless your soul Mr. Harry. I know that the ancestors greeted you with love and honor for a job well done.