There’s a knock at my apartment door and I react the same way we all do – argh, shit, sorry, I’m a loud monster.

The door opens and a frail, hunched-over man stands outside with an enormous silver platter, carrying three porcelain plates draped in pink Saran Wrap with small paper napkins underneath.

Howdy, partner! Would you like some banana cream pie?

This cowboy is the elderly gentleman who lives with his wife on my building’s floor. I’ve unofficially adopted them as my Peoria grandparents, and though I’m not entirely sure they’re aware of this one-way pledge, I like to think that they must have some idea each time I greet them by their honorifics.

The Mrs. will often be doing laundry when I’m leaving for work, always apologizing for tying up the machine. I assure her that it’s no problem, that I’m on my way out (and usually running late.)

There are smells that waft down the hallway on weekends – bacon. I often hear the newspaper deliverer step off the elevator at 5 a.m. and plop down the Journal Star on their doormat.

A small dish of Wint-O-Green Lifesavers is periodically refilled in the common hallway we share.

It’s time to write a thank-you note.