“That was my father, perpetually in motion. Focused on one thing: politics, politics, politics. That was just the way he was – always on the move. He talked fast, ate fast, and was the first out the door . . . He didn’t care about where he lived, or what he ate, or where he slept – he was oblivious to creature comforts.”

“In the fall of 1968, I was neither white nor black. The color of my skin was Wallace.”

“For the first time in his life, Daddy had no choice but to live with us rather than around us. Throughout his life, Daddy’s passion had been people, the kind that sat around the town square, gathered in small town restaurants, or worked in the fields . . . Daddy’s perpetual motion defined him, energized him, fed his overwhelming need to be present in the moment. Everyday worries could not catch up as long as he was moving. The legs that carried him were akin to an artist’s hands. Lose them and the magic was gone. He would have to learn another way.”