It was an ordinary afternoon when I first noticed him—a young man, maybe in his mid-twenties, walking slowly along the side of the road with a bucket in one hand. At first glance, I assumed he was on his way somewhere. But as I drove past, I realized he wasn’t just walking—he was bending down, piece by piece, picking up trash.

I drove on, but only for half a mile before something tugged at me so strongly I had to turn my car around. Curiosity, respect, maybe even guilt—I couldn’t just leave without finding out why he was there.

Rolling down my window, I asked him, “What are you doing?”

He looked up, his eyes kind, his smile easy. “Picking up the trash,” he said, as though it needed no further explanation.

“Just because you want to?” I pressed, amazed by the simplicity of his act.

He nodded. “Well, I live right around the corner. I like to fish in this area, but there’s trash everywhere. There are no houses on this stretch of road, so nobody ever cleans it up.”

I was stunned. On a Saturday afternoon, while many people his age were busy with friends, errands, or hobbies, he had chosen to spend hours walking this forgotten strip of road, one piece of litter at a time. He wasn’t assigned to do it. He wasn’t working off community service. He wasn’t being paid. He was simply doing it because he cared.

I told him how incredible I thought it was—this quiet act of service, fueled only by his own compassion. I pointed out that he was even spending his own money on trash bags just to make the place a little better for everyone. I shared that I live about a mile away, and how grateful I was that someone cared enough to clean up the neighborhood. I told him I couldn’t wait to share his example with my Daisy Girl Scout troop, to show them what it means to take responsibility for the world around us.

Before leaving, I asked his name. He said his name was Scott Quimby, and that he lived in East Bridgewater. I asked if I could take his picture, not to put him on the spot, but because his quiet heroism deserved to be remembered.

Scott wasn’t trying to make headlines. He wasn’t seeking recognition. He just believed that if you care about a place, you should take care of it. And in that moment, I realized how rare and powerful that belief really is.

With Earth Day right around the corner, Scott’s example feels especially timely. His story is a reminder that protecting our planet doesn’t always require grand gestures. Sometimes it’s as simple as bending down to pick up what someone else threw away. Sometimes it’s about making sure the cigarette butt you tossed out the car window is truly your last. Sometimes it’s about recycling, even when it’s inconvenient, or urging your workplace to make the same choice.

Scott’s quiet walk along that road was more than just an afternoon chore—it was a statement. That caring matters. That small actions add up. That one person can make a difference without waiting to be asked.

May we carry his lesson with us: the world changes not just by big campaigns, but by countless Scotts, everywhere, who decide that “somebody should do something” means me.