This spring a skinny, black, nose-ringed attendant at the Charleston gas station raced to the door, opened it and guided Frances’s wheelchair through.
Later, homeward bound, as Ray and Frances gassed up, two vaping, bearded Blue Ridge hillbillies bucked the unwieldy wheelchair into the trunk.
We all have limps, ailments, doors we can’t open. Why don’t we help, not hate, one another on the long and winding road?