My Friend, King

Times were tough for my family that summer of 1928. My father was without work. But the morning sun was warm in our yard, and I pushed tin cans around in the dirt like trucks. What else could a nine-year-old do? Nothing that would make a difference, I figured. My mother watched me from the front porch. Suddenly I heard, “Corn! Butter beans! Tomatoes!”

I jumped up and ran to the fence. An elderly black man in a broad-brimmed hat drove a mule cart loaded with vegetables. “Two cents an ear for corn!” he called out. “Four cents each tomatoes!”

“I’ll take some corn and three tomatoes, please,” my mother said. “You ask a decent price.” The man got down off his cart and gathered up the vegetables. He walked stiffly to the porch.

“Could I have a ride?” I blurted out.

“Sure enough,” the man said. “If your mama doesn’t mind.”

“I’d be