The leaves were just hinting at the change in
colors. He liked this time of the year almost as much as he liked
spring. The heat of the summer had a way of sapping a man's strength.
Fall was different; there was something about the cool air that made his
blood surge through his body. Food seemed to taste better, and the air
smelted especially clean. The women seemed to look prettier than ever.
Yes, sir! This was a good time of the year. His name was Clive, and he
was only twenty-seven years old. He had never really lived in the usual
sense of the word, but he was wise beyond his years. People always waved
and said "Hi" to him, but few approached him. They knew he was a
handicapped person because he was always in his wheelchair, and you
would think people would want to chat and be cheerful around him so he
would feel good, but few ever did. It was his face that bothered them.
It was deformed. This was a source of great pain to his mother, who
always carried a cloak of guilt about her. His eyes were set very far
apart and bulged. Many of the children on their way to school called him
"Frog." They'd shout, "Hey, Froggy-Froggy! Hey, Mr. Frog!" and make loud
croaking sounds. They never knew the pain it caused him. A few children,
however, were far more sensitive and loving and would wave and smile and
sometimes come right up to him and say, "Hi, Clive.
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