Edgar Lewis lives in a hollow out Elk River way in a trailer on three acres of land. I first met Edgar on a warm September day as he stacked pieces of wood in his yard. He wore work clothes—old roomy jeans, red suspenders holding them up and an underwear shirt missing half the buttons.
“That bridge you just drove over—I built that,” he says proudly. Years back he worked in the lumber mill until it closed down. Then he was a security guard. Now he is retired but cuts wood and sells it.
“I’m 76 and people say, ‘You oughta get help.’ I’ve hired some 20 year olds here but they don’t know how to work. They work slow, cut all different size pieces—they just don’t care.”
I am delivering a portrait to him as promised. Standing on his front porch, I knock repeatedly but no one answers. I know he’s inside. His living room is filled with bright flashes of light as a battle scene is blasting from the TV set. Suddenly he hears me calling out and appears in the doorway a tad embarrassed. He is pleased but also surprised to see me.
“You know, people say they’ll do this and they’ll do that. Most the time they don’t come through.” He gazes at the photo and smiles:
“My kids will say I look old in the photo. Of course I look old. I am old.”
We chat a bit touching on the periphery of politics. “I suppose you’ll be voting for Biden,” he says without malice. “I may vote Independent. I’m just afraid Biden won’t do anything for us in West Virginia.”
I ask him if anyone calls him Edgar besides me.
“Yep, that’s my name, Edgar, but most people call me Jim. Actually didn’t know my name was Edgar until I was 10 years old.”