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We bought our first house in Greensboro on Magnolia Street in Fisher Park. It's the home where our first child came home to after he was born. Monday mornings were reserved for opening the front door and letting Riley wave to the garbage truck driver as he performed his rounds.

Talk about joy. Riley's face would light up with excitement. The truck driver, however, barely acknowledged his presence. I couldn't decide whether he was withdrawn or just plain ornery.

Then we moved to a bigger house in another part of town. I never gave the guy a second thought for the next three years until my job took me down Magnolia Street last Monday morning. I was walking past our old house when his truck pulled up and stopped.

He rolled down his window. "Didn't you used to live on this street?" he asked.

I told him I did and pointed to the white house with the side porch.

"I remember your boy used to always wave to me," he said. "That always made my day."

He asked where we moved to and about Riley. We talked for a few minutes. He never once smiled, but I could tell he enjoyed our conversation. Eventually he drove off.

Yet another reminder not to judge people so hastily.