We used to have a lot of Misters in our lives, years ago.  And it wasn’t just us children who referred to them as such, so did our parents.  There was Mr Welnetz, who repaired large appliances and Mr Garreau, who was the neighborhood general handyman.  Mr Martin was the milkman. Mr Spiess sold us shoes and Mr Risman, clothing. Mr Holperin, Mr Kaye or Mr Brandner supplied our groceries.  Somehow between my childhood and the next twenty years, everything switched to a first name basis — and I remember the man who delivered milk to our house when I was first married was Randy and not Mr Coffin.  These days my plumber, my accountant, my banker and my mechanic all go by first names — and while I love that, every now and then just a teensy bit, I miss Misters.

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