I Watched Bikers Rebuild My Elderly Neighbors Porch After His Family Walked Away
I had lived next door to Harold Peterson for as long as I could remember. He had always been part of the background of my life, like the old oak tree in the yard—always there, quietly steady. When I first moved in, Harold was a tall, strong man with broad shoulders and hands that smelled faintly of wood and oil. He was a carpenter then, the kind who didn’t just build things but seemed to understand them. I would watch him talk to wood, running his fingers over a beam