He was walking by the roadside
Half-filled sack in his hand
Back bent and eyes averted
As he searched for aluminum cans.
It was a small town in South Georgia
And I was running far behind
So I stopped to ask directions
Sir, could you tell he how to find…
He didn’t even bother to answer
Maybe, my question he did not hear
Instead he got into the seat beside me
Bag in one hand, in the other a beer.
I hid the surprise that I felt
As I did not intend to give him a ride
So I casually said, “This is a pretty town:
And he changed before my very eyes.
“It wasn’t always called Fitzgerald
It’s a colony town, you know
Used to be call Swan, Georgia”
And the history began to roll
He’d point to a house, mention a name
As a bit of trivia he would share
Pride was in his voice and eyes
Evidence of how much he cared.
Too soon we reached an intersection
Where he said, “Just let me off
Your call is down that road a ways”
As he departed with a limp and cough.
I know I’ll never see him again
Nor do I even know his name
But my thoughts of Fitzgerald, Georgia
Because of him, will never be the same.
For this old gentleman reminded me
Of pages right out of the old South
Where friendliness, honesty and openness
Were more than just words from the mouth.