Rexburg, Idaho

He wore black 501 levis, his wallet in one back pocket and his tobacco in the other. He owned his own print shop in a small mormon town, when printers were galvanized hunks of metal with levers and weights, painted army green. He was abused as a child, adopted by two widows who married one another and wanted to raise another child. His adopted mother was Maxine, whose cookies I can still taste fresh out of the oven when we came running through her door. We rode our bikes everywhere in that little town. Grandma Maxine, who would greet us with all smiles and the warmth of the sun, and scold her son later on for not knowing where we were.