My dad, Lew Horton, always had a place to do woodworking. After he retired from Penneys he rented places in Lincoln, Illinois to store his stuff and work on projects. I helped him to move his shop twice-- a hard, dirty job. On one move an older fellow helped, probably because he had a pickup and Dad was using part of an old chicken shed on the guys property for his new work space. I didnt know the man, and when I asked Dad about him Dad explained, Hes just a guy, meaning, I suppose, that he was no one special and that Dad did not know him well.That phrase stuck in my mind for years, for some reason. Most of us are just guys, unworthy and unknown and forgotten in, at most, a generation. We are the common folk. But all of us guys really have some memories stored away that we dredge up for pleasure, contemplation, regret, analysis, and entertainment, and often they pop into my head as part of an unrelated chain of memories caused by something unknown. Some are triggered by events, others just come.I thought it would be nice to share them with someone else whether or not they wanted to know them. Perhaps this memoir will give some future historian or descendant a feel for how it was to be just a guy during my years on earth.