I believe that there are people that you meet throughout your life that affect the way you view the world.

Pete, the milkman, was one of those people.

When I was a kid, my Dad worked for Curtis Wright. They built airplane parts. My dad started there after WWII and stayed until he was forced to retire at 65. He often worked the second or third shift. My dad was one of those guys that never missed a day of work. It was the kind of job that, back then, allowed you to raise a family, own a small house, and have one car. We were what you might call middle class. About once a month, we would go out, as a family, and have dinner at the local diner. We didn't have a lot, but we had what we needed.

The only downside of that type of job was that every so often, you would get "laid off." The worst part of layoffs was that the workers didn't know how long they would be out of work without a paycheck. Most of the time, my dad would be called back in less than a month, but I am sure that it caused anxiety. My parents never let me know of any problem, and things just seemed to go on as normal. The heat might have been lowered in the house a little, and we didn't go to the diner, but from my point of view, I liked it because my dad was home during the week.

When I was probably about 8 or 9, "the plant" had an extended layoff. I remember because my dad found other part-time work as a substitute guard at the jail and did handyman jobs for our neighbors.

A lot of people probably don't remember milkmen. We had an aluminum insulated box on our back porch. Pete "the milkman" (which is how we referred to him) would come in his milk truck twice a week and put two glass quarts of milk in the box. He was a friendly guy. He would arrive early and if I hadn't gotten up by the time he came with his delivery, I would be awakened by the clanging of the glass bottles and the slamming of the screen door on the porch as he left.

At some point during my dad's extended layoff, my dad asked Pete to deliver only one quart of milk twice a week. Things had gotten to the point, by then, that even as a little kid, I could feel a little tension in the house. I didn't fully understand, but I did know things were different.  The next time Pete delivered, there were still two quarts of milk in the aluminum box. My dad approached Pete and inquired about it, wondering if Pete had forgotten. Pete knew about the layoff and told my dad that he was going to continue to deliver the same amount of milk as he always did and that my dad would not have to pay for it. My dad was a very, very honorable man and insisted that Pete only deliver what he could pay for. Pete agreed and then continued to deliver two quarts of milk twice a week.

After a while, my dad was finally called back to work. He had kept track of all the milk that Pete had delivered and paid him back every penny.

Some of this I write from memory, but some of it is because my parents told the story of "Pete the Milkman" often.

At some point, after I left home, Pete stopped delivering milk to my parents. It just became part of the past, but my parents would often talk about Pete and what a great guy he was.

Eventually, my dad got Alzheimer's and forgot lots of things, but every once in a while, when I visited him, he would tell me the story of "Pete the Milkman." He forgot many, many things, but he never forgot Pete, and neither have I.

Sometimes, it is the little things that mean the most.

I hope Pete's life ended up being a happy one. He deserved it.