After thirty-eight years of serving breakfast at the same small-town diner, my new thirty-year-old boss told me I was too old to work out front.
“We’re attracting younger customers, Bev. Madison will take your tables. You can wash dishes in the back.” I was sixty-two, with aching knees and arthritis in my hands, but I didn’t argue. I simply tied on the rubber apron and went to work.
The following morning, seventy customers crowded into a diner that seated only forty-eight. Every single one ordered the same thing: “Whatever Bev’s
