Remembering a gentleman named Cannonball

The only name I ever knew him by was, Cannonball. He must have been old, or so it seemed. He didn't hold a job. He rambled about the neighborhood looking for someone to talk to. He lived in a little shack trailer with a built-on lean-to. Nighttime showed a dim light in the greasy, grime coated windows. The trailer sat underneath ancient live oaks that had allowed a buildup of green moss growing in streaks down the sides. Resurrection fern grew on the roof. When the rains came it stood regal, tall, green and beautiful. Dry spells caused it to lay flat and brownish.

He owned an old rust-coated w...

 
 
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