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An hour later,good soil was being spread by man in big machines,men were who were not used to working for free,I stood there and watched,By noon the cenment had been poured for a tennis court,before the sun went down,a basketball court was done,many people work all night,on staurday morning,a croud of several hundrand people came to work,black and white,old and young, they planted trees and grass and made path, and place to sit,by sunday afternoon,the park was finished. I went back to there more than twenty years later,in the shade of the trees which were now very tall,people were sitting and playing in the park,I thought back to the weekend the park was built ,I black man had looked around and said,this is the best thing happens since I had came to Reno,he did not mean the park itself,he meant building the park,in that first year on the road,I felt in love with my native land,I rode the cable cars up and down the hill of San Francisco. I spend time among Pennsylvania Dutch farmers in cuts down Pennsylvania and Greek’s bunch fisherman in top spring Florida. I met MC Pincy Steff, the roadside poet of Gouden Junction Illinois. At his door, he sold gasoline for thirty-nine cents a gallon and his poems for ten cents a piece. That first year, I produced forty-seven stories from twenty-three states, all of them my own discoveries. The biggest discovery of all was about my self. On the back roads of America, I felt at home at last. I knew I want to spend my the rest of life ou…