Sometime in the early-mid 90s we vacationed on Edisto Island and toured Charleston. On one of the tours we went to the home and iron mill of Mr. Philip Simmons. A family member, maybe a great-nephew, was carrying on the art of forging iron he had learned from Mr. Simmons who happened to be there at the time the tour stopped (a rare occassion we were left to believe). He talked at great length to the group and spoke of his humble beginnings, life with his then deceased wife, and the opportunities that catapulted him into noted fame of his art. He spoke so movingly that it was the type of wisdom-story Peter and I dared not breath to fast or move in recognition of greatness speaking and the thankfulness of being in his presence. He left an indelible mark on both of us and we have since then often reflected on the chance to have met him. Most of the money he earned he donated to organizations that worked with children opting not to live a lavish lifestyle.
I've typed this while wiping away tears as I just learned this morning that he passed away.
