The kindest man I had ever known lived in a small blue house at the end of Maple Street, and for most of my life, I thought everyone in our family knew it too.
Grandpa Walter was the kind of man who answered the phone on the first ring, no matter the hour.
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He kept a notebook by his recliner with everyone’s birthdays, anniversaries, and the dates of every grandchild’s school recital.
He had worked 40 years at the same job, sometimes pulling double shifts so my cousins could have braces, so Aunt Linda could finish her degree, and so Uncle Greg could put a down payment on his first truck.
“Family takes care of family,” he used to say, sliding an envelope across the kitchen table to whoever needed it that month.