With fists, with words, with kindness
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Edward Wahl was once “the world’s worst union organizer.” Later he went into sales, though he is now more or less retired. He writes, “I am probably one of the few people you will ever know who feels that there is scarcely a thing in my life I would have had differently.” He lives in Mountain Lakes, New Jersey.
At first John had gone with one of the search parties, walking across the open fields dense with dried stalks. The men marched in a great straggled line, an arm’s length separating them, setting each foot deliberately. It was still dark and it was usual to delay the search until first light, but the autumn had turned winter suddenly. They were afraid: she was such a frail child.
We lived in a walk-up apartment house. The three of us would anticipate his footsteps, listening for them up the tiled stairs and across the tiled floor. He had a variety of walks: a confident, sober stride; a penitential limp; a self-assured, rocking swagger.