Plumber time

DeWitt, the plumber honcho, came by today -- and he melted into a smile when he saw that I was spending time with Mr. Allen.

Mr. Allen is in his 80s (at least), rides around Old Town on his bicycle on nice days and stops to chat and check progress every so often. He's a delight to talk with, full of stories of old Key West.

I excused myself to talk with DeWitt -- who was on the clock; Mr. Allen wasn't, and understood entirely -- and learned that the plumber had known him since childhood. He said Mr. Allen owns a big stretch of property on Margaret or Elizabeth, I forget which, as well as elsewhere around Old Town, and a gentleness came into his voice and eyes every time he spoke about the old guy.

Then he looked around quickly and said he'd send a man out Wednesday to hand-dig the way for the pipe that has to go under the pad we have to pour.

I guess it's a friends-of-friends kind of thing.

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One other note, and I don't know whether to file this under "Pride of Place" or "Life on a Small Island": DeWitt said he was born in a house on our street -- and he thinks our house -- in the '50s.

His parents are both gone, so he can't check with them, but I told him I'd research it a bit.