When I was a young girl growing up on a farm in upstate New York, my folks had a hired man named Shel Aikley. Given the custom in those days and the fact that he was probably 40 years older than I was, I always politely addressed him as “Mr. Aikley.” He gave me the feeling that he was fond of me, and, sure enough, years later at my wedding, he wept openly, as if he’d been my uncle.
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