At the curb sat a mattress, stained with things that go sick in the night. Beside it rested a desk, the old timey school-house kind with the seat bolted to the top. The metal part was rusted at the sides, the wood worn smooth from moves and rented residences. Old boxes and bedding were parked close by on the dirt, accumulated debris awaiting their landfill burial. Atop the heap, crowning the pile with both weight and relevance, was Mr. Ken’s old bicycle.

The one speed cruiser spoke a two wheeled lesson in salt air and oxidation. The silver basket had served its master well as the carrying station for milk and provisions ferried two miles from the Piggly Wiggly. The tires, still full of tread and strength, were decades younger than the frame that held them.

I drove past that heap and tears sprang to my eyes. “Siri, call hubby.”

“Hey, babe,” answered my Smokin Hot Love Biscuit.

“Hey Love, Mr. Ken’s bike is at the curb. I can’t let the garbage people take it. Will you go get it? I’ll make art from the frame, or we can make a tribute out of it for the backyard. His memory deserves that.”

“On it,” SHLB, already in motion.

The last time I saw Mr. Ken, he was backing that bike down a makeshift plywood ramp that ran from his porch to the sparse grass of his yard. His pace had slowed to turtle crawl, his remaining hair stuck from beneath his ball cap in turf-like patches.

“How are you today, Mr. Ken?” I called out.

“Fine and dandy,” he answered. “How’re you?”

“I am all right,” I responded. And then in the awkwardness of neighbor conversation, I went on walking my dog and he went on walking his bike.

Mr. Ken lived at the corner of Ann and Queen. His rectangular one-story rental didn’t hail a plaque of history, but rather sighed of neglect and the tiredness of being just plain old. He and I first met two years ago when we moved to Ann Street. My attempts to introduce myself and greet him were met with the grunts of a curmudgeon.

Most days, he sat in a folding chair on his little porch. When passing by, I looked the other way, having given up on being the sole person participating in the conversation.

On the occasion that our eyes met and I nodded or smiled, he looked straight ahead, his mouth pulling at the sides, stuck in a smirk.

A few months before those belongings rested beside the road, Smokin’ Hot Love Biscuit decided that Mr. Ken should be befriended. While SHLB is known to be a gregarious kind of guy, he was in project mode, trying for an A+ in a year-long, self-improvement program that we started back in January. MadeFor was created by a Navy Seal and the founder of TOMS. Monthly topics, complete with assignments and resources arrive at your doorstep. Think Bark Box without the dog treats.

The premise encourages a return to the foundations of good health and success. Hydration, Gratitude, Movement, Breath, Clarity, Time in Nature. While SHLB and I are aligned on most things, we are not the same type of student. I’m not one to tattle, but I don’t think he follows the lesson plans, then he outperforms me with some extra credit bullshit to even out the average. It’s maddening in a loveable sort of way.

The month of nutrition almost did us in with the overarching theme being about savoring and enjoying food for the purpose of fueling the body. The book suggested that we take time with our meals, tasting and appreciating the moment.

SHLB spent most of his career as an independent sales rep. That lifestyle meant that he often ate three meals behind the wheel of his Chevy. He uses hard-hitting, action words to describe a food experience.

“Baby, we nailed those nachos.”

“We slammed that pizza.”

“That bar-be-que didn’t stand a chance with us behind the fork!”

We are all works in progress. Trying to slow the food roll might require that we repeat a grade.

The best MadeFor was the month on Connection. SHLB and I are friend people. We like being neighbors and members of all sorts of communities. So, we got jiggy with it on the theme of Connection.

Our tasks involved greeting strangers, hosting a dinner party, complete with “get to know you” questions, and extending a helping hand to someone without asking ­­– which is what drew us to Mr. Ken.

SHLB decided that our grumpster of a neighbor warranted befriending. He walked up the steps of his porch one afternoon, stuck out his hand and we formally met Mr. Ken. SHLB’s intention was to roof his house because it’s rusty and needs repair, (checking the box of MadeFor helping hand,) but the house is owned by someone else. And, once we started talking, it was the greeting of a stranger and the formation of friendship that most mattered.

We learned that Mr. Ken had been renting that house for fifteen years. He had recently fallen on tough times with a cancer diagnosis. In the months that followed, we saw less of Mr. Ken and more of medical people in colorful smocks, Hospice stickers on their cars.

His porch days became infrequent, and I often stopped and stared at his door, hoping for a sign of activity, a light or shadow, to assure my mind that he hadn’t died alone.

On the days when the sun was right and the breeze nice, Mr. Ken and I spoke friendly greetings. He from his porch and I from the sidewalk, the aura around his home having transformed to gracious and welcoming.

At the French bakery, I waited an hour to score four chocolate croissants. I left one on his porch, an anonymous pastry act of kindness and affection. As I ate mine two doors down in the comfort of my historic, plaque house and companionship of Love Biscuit, I hoped that the flaky, cocoa goodness brought him pleasure and delight. I hoped that he felt boosted and that for a moment his load was lightened. That was before I realized that the chemo had taken most of his teeth.

The next week he was gone.

Perhaps Mr. Ken was a recovering addict or war veteran or escaped prison inmate. Perhaps he retired with a meager pension or had a gambling problem or was estranged from his children. Perhaps he worked with the circus or traveled as a seasonal farm hand or muled for the drug cartel. Perhaps he had six wives or shacked up with many lovers or never married. Perhaps he was a serial killer or Russian spy or an undercover CIA agent. Whatever his story, it rendered him alone.

Google searches include a dermatologist in Charleston and images of a man dressed as a sloppy Santa. Neither fit the description of our Mr. Ken. The truth is that for me, there is more unknown than known.

Here’s what I can testify to. Mr. Ken lived at the corner of Ann and Queen. I wrote him off as an ass and I was wrong. And for that I have his bike to remind me.