Mr. Dirt

When I was growing up there was a rather colorful figure going about my town, a social outcast who wore a poncho and had a big beard, and who appeared to sleep in the woods. He was known locally as "Mr. Dirt," and now and then one of my friends would ask me "Have you ever seen that guy, Mr. Dirt?"

Mr. Dirt was my cousin Billy. He was born when my mother, the youngest in her family, was only nine years old.

It's quite a testament to the enduring love of a little girl for her baby nephew that, although somewhere along the line things obviously went wrong and Billy fell out of step with society, he was always welcome at my house. Many times I saw him sitting at the kitchen table, talking with my mother. Her manner toward him was one of unselfconscious and sincere respect. She never made any suggestion that he should shape up, get his act together, or change in any way. She hadn't lost sight of the beloved little boy he had been, and she totally accepted him now as the big-bearded poncho guy who slept in the woods.