On Friday afternoons, he would suddenly loom like a ghost at the top of the hill above our house in Birmingham, announcing his arrival with a long blast on the air horns, hovering there long enough to shift into his lowest gear, then grandly descending for a triumphal victory lap in the dusty red Dodge truck while we kids in the bottoms ceased our ball-playing to gawk as he eased the rig to a shuddering stop at the curb.