Years and years ago, my parents were moving to a larger house in the little town of Weddington, NC, just outside of Charlotte. The house was big and beautiful, and the perfect size for all six of us. The movers worked until the late hours of the evening, without stopping for food or water. Debbie, the sister who’s 2 years my junior, was walking through the house, exploring the new digs, and stumbled upon one of the workers, hunched over and slurping water straight from the master bathroom sink. He clearly was beyond thirsty, and terrified that he was going to get in some sort of trouble, because as soon as Debbie spotted him, he quickly straightened up with a nervous look. She told me, big sis, who went immediately to tell my dad. And my father did something that stuck with me to this day. He got in his car, found a gas station (which wasn’t super easy since we weren’t familiar with the area), and purchased Gatorade for every last one of the movers, and asked them to please sit down and take a break to enjoy it when he returned. My parents, and especially my dad, is brilliant, and does well for us, but has never treated anyone, especially someone who’s worked for us, with anything less than the respect you’d give the Queen of England.
I was so outraged, I had to send this gentleman a respectfully disagreeing email. Enjoy. And feel free to let him know how you feel. Kyle.Smith@NYPost.com