Mr. Dennis Johnson lives alone on the streets of Detroit. He has a brother, "somewhere." His Grandmother's name was Daisy and he became homeless when she died a few years ago. He invited me to sit with him and then began to give me little tasks.  "The tape measure is for the six foot rule, but I ain't got no germs.  I can't get the batteries back in my radio 'cuz they are under my leg. Help me move my leg and get the batteries. Now, sit over there on the other side of the sidewalk because  that's my  blind spot and I need to be able to see to make sure a car ain't gonna run you over." He asked me to untwist his shirts and to button him up and I spent a good half hour with him. Mr. Johnson loved having his photo taken. I didn't say much, or ask many questions because he is quite the chatterbox, although it is difficult to understand him due to some dental issues. After high school, Mr. Johnson, who is 63 years old, attended electronics school and worked his entire adult life "fixing anything you can name" and was impressed that I knew how to put the batteries back into his radio without looking at the directions embedded in the plastic.  He instructed me to tie a shoelace around the radio in order to hold the broken battery cover on, and was thrilled when talk radio began blaring out its small but mighty speakers. As I was fussing with his clothing, he said the weather was going to turn and a storm was on its way. In fact, the Detroit weather went from 80 degrees down to 60 in about an hour, and a storm did come causing airport delays for my flights back to Tampa where I was headed when I left him. Mr. Johnson is one of the sweetest, unassuming souls I have ever met, and spending time with him affected me deeply. We waved to each other for two city blocks until I lost sight of him, but his images keep me awake every night since meeting him.

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