Lehman B. Lyons Jr.

When I was ten, we had a bully named Billy in our neighborhood who threatened to beat up anybody who would cross his path the wrong way. Billy stood a foot taller than most of the other boys and was twice as bulky. Billy seemed to be in a bad attitude most of the time and was always seen pounding his fist into his other hand in the standard bully fashion. No one doubted his threats. Of course, it was his vague definition of “crossing him the wrong way” that created the fear that most of the kids in the neighborhood experienced.

When I was in my twenties, I would take the opportunity to visit my paternal grandmother on a Friday night. During these special visits, my grandmother would feed me a delicious meal as we talked sitting at her dining room table. Through some gentle prodding from me, she would recount her life, her upbringing, her family, and her life with my grandfather.

I had never had the chance to get to know my grandfather very well before he died. Yet, she was always eager to open the pages of time and reveal the man behind the yellowing photos of her worn photo album.