My father always chatted with the garbage men who serviced the street where he and my mother lived after retirement. He always had a friendly wave for ‘most everyone but especially for those whom others sometimes never even saw. He died of a heart attack early one morning. The garbage-truck crew saw the ambulance and police cars that attended the emergency and were the first to spread the word that “Mr. Harold” was in distress. I have always treasured that little anecdote.
