Bob is one of the genuine fixtures in my small town.

I like him very much and am happy to photograph him. He likes to be photographed, or at least, he could care less.

Bob, with his small business of selling hot dogs, is not just a fixture in the village but a living embodiment of its spirit. His presence, five days a week, at the same spot during Spring and Summer for decades, is a constant reminder of the beauty of community.

You might even spot his cart at a local championship football game at the high school, further cementing his role in our town’s life.

His stand is a gathering place for his many relatives (everywhere I go in town, I meet a child, cousin, or grandchild of Bob) and his friends, who love to sit around outdoor tables eating their hot dogs and talking. Every other person I meet is one of his grandchildren.

Today, a small army of family members had gathered to mark another of his annual returns to the same spot under a huge maple tree near the center of town. He usually comes on Memorial Day to begin his season.

I don’t know what he does for the rest of the year; I have yet to ask.

His business is smart for any town. He works alone, and all his equipment fits easily in the back of his truck. He buys the best hot dogs available, and at 2 p.m., he drives the whole business home. Talk about simplicity.

Bob is a warm, funny, and friendly man. He radiates small-town community, a chance to eat a hot dog with his four or five dressings, and his style of baking the rolls on a grill. He is a world-class bullshitter in the best sense of the world and draws other champion bullshitters to the stand. They never run out of things to say.

At first, his hot dogs seem like most hot dogs, but something about Bob’s makes them unique.

I don’t know what it is, but his hot dogs are delicious.

Bob had some medical issues this winter, but he looks great. He says growing older is much like having a used car—something is always broken. He always laughs when he talks about getting older.

I asked one of his children gathered around the stand how long Bob had been selling hot dogs there, and he laughed: “We think sometimes around the start of the Civil War,” he said.

I drive by the stand often, and when I pull in, Bob sees the car and starts cooking.  He knows I want two hot dogs: two for me and one for Maria with a special relish dressing. He usually has them ready before I get to the stand.

I’m not one of the trusted inner circle cronies – I’m not from here, but I always feel welcome and comfortable there. I’ve never heard anyone talk politics or argue there.  I love his hot dogs, and so does Maria. But he talks while he cooks, and if things are quiet, he sits down with the customers, who are often his buddies.

His grandkids are constantly popping up for lunch.

On days when we’re working hard and don’t feel like cooking, we jump in the car. Bob’s is on our road, just a few miles to the South. It’s pleasant there.

Bob is one of the things that makes small-town life in rural America unique. Hot dog vendors are all over New York City, but I have never met one like Bob.

When I come, I sit out in the shade, catching up with the old-timers who love him and come every day. I wonder what they are talking about. I love it.