I stopped along the back roads I was taking home in a little ghost of a town named Prescott.

I let Biggie stretch her legs while I had a cigar and enjoyed the quiet of the neglected baseball Diamond on the edge of town.

As we sat there, I watched a young father giving his toddler a ride on his motorcycle. Around the block he went...then again...then again.

I knew his route, so on my way out I took the opposite direction, the gravel road that went along the backside of his place.

I waved him to stop as I approached.

“I’ve been watching you two go ride the whole time I was over relaxing with a cigar. Can I get your picture?” I asked.

His name is Wayne and his two-year-old son is Grayson. Nice guy.

I snapped a few with my iPhone in the low light as we chatted about his son, his cars, and such.”

I tried talking to Grayson to get him to smile. “He won’t talk to you,” Wayne replies. I didn’t pry.

As I was saying my goodbyes, his older son ran out of the house and hopped on behind, holding on to the back of his dad’s overalls for safety.