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Many years ago, I had a newspaper route, a morning one that forced me to get up early, deliver my papers, and then hurry off to school. I had the route just over four years, so I got to know many of my customers. I still remember the mother who, when I collected any cold evening, would invite me in and offer me hot cocoa. Another family always tipped me five dollars for the calendar I would deliver in mid-December, back in those days that was an awesome tip.

But my favorite customer, for years I never knew her name. When I first delivered the paper, her daughter was age four or five, and somehow—each time I would collect—and Cindy was home, I would ask, "Cindy, what is the capital of Iowa, West Virginia, etc, etc?". Cindy always knew the answer! One time, I asked her the capital of South Dakota, and she answered, "Pierre". She was correct, but she did not pronounce it "Pear". I said she was wrong, and she told me she wasn't—"It is P-I-E-R-R-E!"

Her mother, returning to the front door with coins to pay my bill, heard the conversation and said, "Cindy, you must respect older people, even if you are right and they are wrong."

Cindy's mom treated me like a fellow adult. Her family lived "second floor, back" and it wasn't always easy to throw the paper up the stairs and get it on the landing near their front door. Those times I didn't, I would quietly walk up the stairs, pick up the paper, and throw it by ...

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