Walt told me how it started: his motorcycle broke down on a county road nearby. He walked to the closest house for help.
My mother was sitting on the porch shelling peas.
“Most folks would’ve locked the door,” he said. “I didn’t exactly look like a safe bet.”
But my mother offered him lemonade. Then lunch. Then a ride to the auto parts store—while insisting he take leftovers like he was family.
He came back the next week to fix the bike. Noticed her porch steps were rotting. He repaired them. She told him he didn’t have to. He said she didn’t have to feed him either.
And just like that, it became a routine.
One biker turned into two. Two turned into four. Soon, every Monday at noon, the crew showed up. My mother had food waiting—soup in winter, sandwiches in summer, and pie no matter what. After lunch, they tackled whatever needed fixing: gutters, yard work, plumbing, electrical, deck repairs.
