“You’re not Glenn?s son, are you?”
“Yes, I am.” Smile. “Have been my whole life.”
“Oh! He’s the best, we love him around here. You have to let him know we’re all thinking about him!”
This was the conversation I had the other morning with the cashier at a local family restaurant that I rarely go to, and apparently to which my dad has not been to in some time, as she ran my credit card.
I had a similar conversation last week at a client’s Christmas party. I had one with the parking valet in my building soon after moving my office into my dad’s space. I’ve had versions of this conversations with my tailor, the office postal delivery guy, and the starter at the golf course in town. I’ve been given “friends and family” pricing at restaurants and stores, and I’ve been cut a deal on marble kitchen countertops. There are people, in Chicago, LA, Atlanta, and elsewhere who periodically ask me how I’m doing and what they can do for me. I’ve been stopped on the street, in restaurants and in stores, by folks who wanted nothing other than to let me know how lucky I am to have the parents I have.
Indeed.
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Before him, I’d never met anyone that was so well known yet not a national celebrity!