I've been missing Bill today, the owner of the now defunct 8th Ave Market where I happily shopped for a number of years. Bill was Old School, which meant he was there 24/7, rain or shine, pick your cliche, etc. etc. Even when he could barely walk, he was there stocking shelves, cutting meat, and chatting up his loyal customers.
Bill was an interesting mix of friendly and curmudgeonly. Like, if you told him someone died, he'd say, "Hell, they're lucky to be out of this mess." And if you pointed out that a brick of cheese had some mold on it, he'd cut it off and say, "Hell, that won't hurt you." And you knew in his heart he thought you were a big weener baby for even noticing the mold part.
On the other hand, he always laughed at your jokes and asked about your kids. And when someone died, he donated meat for the funeral luncheon. Even if he thought they were lucky to be out of this mess.
I miss you, Bill.