Some years ago, I met up with an old friend. She had gone all bourgeoisie (boujee, for you young folk) on me...losing like 200 pounds, getting a sassy haircut and having plastic surgery done. Hey, with that kind of dedication I think she deserved it. We ate lunch together and then looked for a place to have coffee. I mentioned there was a Waffle House nearby. I don't recommend the coffee but man, those pecan waffles! She said to me, in plain English: "I take pride in the fact that I have never been inside a Waffle House." My heart broke as I realized she was no longer one of my people. For my people are those of the deepest earth, where dust and sweat and blood all mingle. There's no upturned noses, because there's no time for that. We know we are here for a minute and you better not waste one of those thinking you're better than anyone else. Not having that...
The finely-tuned machine that is your typical Waffle House is a feat of human engineering and wonder. A short-order cook handles the food with little pans and a great big griddle, while the crew deftly serves, cleans and smooths the waters seamlessly. It's more like a family than a workplace. The laughter and jokes pass easily. There are politics and rivalries in the room, but the team spirit rises above it and they make it work. The jukebox makes me want to get up and dance. I hear "Tennessee Whiskey" for a slow turn, then romantic "At Last" comes on, followed by a funky breakdown by Michael Jackson. Who needs the symphony?
Ken and I will not be retiring. The craziness of 9/11 wrecked his 22-year stint with a large company, leaving us without a 401K or pension. Then the crash of 2008 devastated what was left, financially. All of that is okay. We apparently haven't missed a meal and the Lord has graciously lifted our boats so that we are not drowning. Meanwhile, the nest emptied out and there are no teenage lumberjacks eating up all the profits anymore. So Papa and I love the little things: his days when his shift works evenings and I get him in the morning when he is a mad squirrel and feels like running around (my favorite thing to do); sometimes I have my evenings all to myself and I get to plunge into my right brain, where music and art intersect; on those kinds of days, where Pa doesn't have to be at work until after lunch, we often indulge and head to the local Waffle House. We get the same, exact thing every time, since my diet is pretty strict and Ken just loves doing the same routine thousands of times. I bring an apple, to round out my meal. The cook sees us coming in the door and throws our food on the grill -- she knows what's what. Our favorite server whips out a black coffee for me along with two glasses of Diet Coke for Ken. He sucks those down like a guy in a desert and she's got the next one poured already. He's going to regret those chemicals someday.
I love and respect the humble, hardworking folk that help me have a sweet few moments...I'm not having to cook, I get to hold hands and pray with my honey, there's fun and music and entertaining personalities all around. God bless the people who show up, day after day, honest and persevering. Thank you for helping lift my load.
Love this.
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