Here are some actual facts that I integrated into the story about the greeter.
I really do have a picture of a man who was born in the 1800s’.
My son really did take the picture off my wall because he thought it was “creepy.”
My son (unfortunately) really is a “III.”
There really is an antique store in what used to be the original county jail.
I really did buy the picture there and I really did find it behind a chair.
The jail really is supposedly “haunted” and some people refuse to go anywhere near it.
I really do live across the street from an old historic mansion.
There really is a plaque with a quilt design painted on the front.
The name of the house really is my grandmothers’ last name, although the name Morgan is fictitious.
I really do have chandeliers in every room in my house…even my bathrooms.
My friend of more than twenty-five years really does have dyed hair with a hot pink streak in it.
My youngest daughter really does have a tattoo of a Phoenix on her arm.
There really is an Ann Street one block from me.
There really was a greeter. He lived right in the center of the town where I grew up. Nobody knew who he was and he really had “been there for as long as anybody could remember.”
Instead of looking for imaginary pitching signs, he stepped over imaginary dead bodies and “took cover” when he heard a loud noise. He was a wounded Korean War veteran who was suffering from “shell shock” (now known as PTSD.)
He really did wear a baseball cap and a green flannel shirt.
He would never allow anybody to approach him and never made eye contact. People left food for him on the park benches but nobody ever saw him eat anything.
Nobody knew where he went at night.
Twenty years after I left my hometown, I returned. He was still there.