The Early Bird Lunch Club

The sign on the restaurant door says it opens for lunch each day at 11:00 a.m., but for the the over-age-75 regulars, a table awaits somewhere in the neighborhood of 10. Through the front door and to the right, there is a rather ordinary dining room containing tacitly reserved tables for these every day diners. If you are one of the early birds and not in your place by 10:30, you cause big worry for your fellow faithful and owe everyone an explanation when you return. (Doctors' appointments are excused). 

It's a Groundhog Day kind of place, where the only things that change in 24 hours' time are the typed daily specials for the menu, and the wardrobe of the folks whose paths only cross here at lunch, five days a week.

Retired college professor Gene holds down the first table. A confirmed bachelor, Gene is the picture of urbane preciseness and a fount of knowledge about all sorts of topics. His specialist subject (with me) is how English grammar has gone into the gutter (we totally agree), and he is known to favor a Panama shirt every now and then. He lives alone and, at departure time, his waitress magically appears with styrofoam and plastic bearing his evening meal. 

The snowy haired and primly dressed Mrs. Evans sits two tables over. She is a reserved and reasonably spry 91 year old widow who offers a polite hello and a goodbye to her fellow diners, and is quiet-ish between the two. Mrs. Evans usually reports she is "just fine" as she sits alone at the same four-top, always facing the window a few feet in front of her. 

Occupying a far table towards the outside wall is Howard. The others often whisper Howard has never gotten over his wife's death 10 years ago, and now travels through life with a perpetual dark cloud over his white-haired head. He stops by all the other tables as he arrives to say hello and share whatever is his current dilemma. After eating, Howard bids a farewell to everyone as he passes back through, with solutions for solving his latest problem thrown from every table like pitches from the mound at Yankee Stadium. He sports a big gold chain around his neck and a large gold belt buckle, which make him appear somewhat jaunty and maybe a little more lost. 

One table over from the window is the only married couple I have ever seen in the early-lunch crowd, a retired minister from a small conservative church and his wife. Together they inject a beatific and subdued presence into the dining room, with their table almost altar-like. They are prayerful and perpetually poised, with an understated word for everyone that comes close to being a blessing. 

And the rowdiest one in the whole place holds court over in the corner by the window, my 92 year old aunt. In decided contrast to the preacher and his wife next door, she is hopelessly irreverent and chatty, with not one worry in the world about the others appreciating it or not. She was an English teacher in the local junior high, and is as free-wheeling as one can be in her 90s. From time to time, a former student drops by, and it's always a big deal. She gleefully recalls otherwise forgettable things about each one, a rousing laugh is shared, and her day is made. 

The only reason I ever came to know that this room of early-eaters exists is because my aunt invited me to lunch. While my work schedule features a noon lunch time, we agreed that every now and then I would juggle my endeavors so she and I could dine together at 11:00. And so I arrive precisely at 11, always to find her polishing off her meal. I have become accustomed to seeing her at work on the remnants of her favorites, Spaghetti and Pinto Beans (with an onion slice), or "Men-noot Steak" (some call it Minute Steak), while I wait for my lunch. 

Before the room fills up with various others and outsiders, the early diners catch up on the scoop, with news about weather, health, and the perils of Howard telegraphed from table to table with amazing efficiency. Since I am such a random visitor, my aunt is more than happy to provide almost-not-loud updates on the travails of everyone else whilst she cuts up her onion.

As she marches onwards to a staggering array of other topics, from world history to what happened yesterday in London's stock market, I often look around and wonder what these folks' lives are like beyond dwelling here on their private table islands in a little sea of coincidental friends.

~~~~~

My objective when I wrote this seven years ago was to acknowledge this unassuming little society and the arms-length companionship they enjoyed for a number of years, once upon a time. 

In 2013, this group was in its heyday. Since then, one by one, they have all drifted away, save for (I think) the preacher and his wife. First Mrs. Evans died, then Howard was moved by his niece to assisted living north of Atlanta where my aunt reported he was miserable. Gene died after going down the slippery slope of chronic bad health. My aunt gradually lost her independence--but remained irreverent and informed--right up to her last day in 96 years. 

The truth is, any time I visited, I was always a welcome guest parachuting from the outside world into their miniature universe. I often wondered what it would be like for them to abandon their solo tables and, for once, trade shouting across the room for sitting together. (I am pretty sure this thought never, ever crossed their minds). I consider myself fortunate to have seen in them how contextual fellowship can come along at any age, bringing with it value and significance. 

It's now clear that I got glimpses of these folks living out their last days, and it was nice to occasionally see quiet little chapters of their stories unfolding on a weekday around 10:30. Every time I drive by that restaurant, they all appear in my mind, and I wonder if Gene, Mrs. Evans, Howard, the preacher and his wife, and my aunt have been replaced by a brand new generation of early bird diners. One day I might just juggle my schedule and drop in at 11:00 to find out. 

Then be not coy, but use your time,
   And while ye may, go marry;
For having lost but once your prime,
   You may forever tarry. 
                                                                                                              Robert Herrick      

Delayed Riches

Of all the folks who ever graduated from the University of Tennessee, the trophy for being the most clueless about the future goes to me. Armed with a BS in education and teaching ambivalence, on the day after commencement I impulsively moved to Atlanta. it seemed like a decent enough idea, moving to a big and busy nearby city where I had snagged a Tower Place job and a tiny apartment. Moving momentum had a zingy adult flair, but it wasn't long at all until I was wandering alone in the Buckhead wilderness.

~~~~~

During my UT senior year, I had a little job at what was then the happening athletic club. Work featured a revolving door of Knoxville royalty, including a stratospheric mix of former Vol football players. And one of them happened to be the nicest man in town (and possibly the world). His name is George and, somewhere in our mundane chit chat, I mentioned I had not one worthy idea about post-graduation plans.

Without hesitation, George served up advice: "You need to go be a Delta flight attendant. They work hard, but they have a lot of fun." My worldliness was woefully limited, but even I knew that flight attendant jobs were hard to come by. With nothing to lose, I headed to the Knoxville Delta Ticket Office for an application.

George had more advice: "Where it asks if you know anyone who works for Delta, write in Paco on the ramp in Memphis". I did, and with limited hopes, I mailed it to Atlanta. 

As quickly as my application went to Virginia Avenue, a thanks-but-no-thanks form letter came right back. I remember very clearly standing at the Morrill Hall mailboxes and tossing the letter in the trash can.

~~~~~

I was a sad lost soul in a hot Atlanta summer with exactly two friends. There was Pam, a kind and (I thought) worldly 27-year-old co-worker who graciously took it upon herself to show me the Buckhead ropes, and Richard, my upstairs neighbor, an affable divorced guy who had his son every other weekend and spent the rest of his time drinking.

My work world was populated by a smattering of well-heeled Buckhead, of a brand new language and culture to me. They were a pleasant and fascinating lot, and I loved learning their gentile ways and about how elite professionals move about in life. That particular summer, their busy social and philanthropic lives made me feel even lonelier than I was already. 

When September rolled around, ATL's shiny newness had worn off and I found myself in the depths of loneliness, bewildered about what I could do to fix things. On the Wednesday of an exceptionally despairing week, I arrived home to a ringing phone. On the other end was my mother who had opened a letter from Delta Air Lines forwarded from my UT address: I had a flight attendant interview that Friday at 8:30 a.m. 

My interviewer was a kind, older Southern gentleman who might well have been around since the Deland Dusters and Mr. C. E. Woolman. As he read through my paper application in his hands, he gushed about his affinity for the Tennessee Vols, asking me if I was acquainted with old so-n-so at UT (I can't recall who it was, but I did know him--lucky break). 

Suddenly, something on the pages caught his eye and he stopped: "Say, you know Paco on the ramp in Memphis--well, that is great, just great!" I smiled vaguely and mentioned Paco is a great friend of a great friend as my interviewer opened his desk drawer and pulled out a little slip of paper, the golden ticket downtown for a visit with the Delta pre-employment psychiatrist, the legendary Dr. Janos. 

And so, just like that, in what was a true miracle, I was lifted from the abyss of a seemingly hopeless, lackluster solitary life in Atlanta and headed for Delta--which opened the doors of the world for decidedly un-well traveled me. It was a true miracle. While this is but a small anecdote, I have called upon its message countless times over the years: 

Just when things seem dark and impossible, God can dazzlingly throw down a really great life ring from heaven and rescue the perishing. 

While in many ways I now see I was kind of the unprepared master of my own summer disaster a long time ago, this tale popped back up in my head while considering all the uncertainty facing the Class of 2020. Right now, Facebook is a wonderful kaleidoscope of graduating loved ones, many of whom we have known since their childhoods, and assorted others we have happily collected along the way. 

Tonight at 7:00 p.m. we were supposed to be in Furman University's Paladin Stadium, part of the excited congregation gathered to honor Annabelle, her friends, and classmates as they receive their degrees. (And she was set to be sitting next to 1/3 of her Northside Methodist Preschool Carpool #18, which really really brings things full circle). The weather prediction is sunny but cool, and it's easy to predict how much I would cry. 

Like so many in Classes of 2020 all over the place, instead of commencement festivities today, we will eagerly await the deferred ceremony, and look forward to seeing the glorious array of delayed celebratory pictures from all the ones we love. 

I have every confidence that, even in an uncertain world, God still has a trick or two up His sleeve for these students, all of whom have so very much more going on than I ever did as I left UT. 

I am thankful for all the gifts Furman University has given Annabelle. And I am perpetually thankful for my always-friend George up in Knoxville and the very best advice he ever gave anyone, for old so-n-so at UT, and, of course, for the mysterious Paco on the ramp in Memphis. 

Through the Back Gate

In early 2016, the answer to the question, "Annabelle, do you know where you are going to college?"

At the sophomore parents meeting held early in the fall of 2013, the upper school head had but one fervent message: 

GO VISIT COLLEGES TODAY, TOMORROW, ANY WAKING HOUR. 

DO IT NOW. 

TIME IS NOT YOUR FRIEND.

It was a stunning call to action, and I had the highest intentions about answering the bell. As promised, time did slip away, and when that sneaky senior year arrived, Annabelle was not well traveled when it came to colleges. With the clock ticking loudly in the background, we scrambled out the door on miniature world tours to schools--big, small, and in between. And we still came up way short in college visits.

When 2016 began, Annabelle’s college future was a big unknown. Furman University dwelled somewhere-ish on the radar screen—but when they found her and eventually presented attractive incentives, a trip to Accepted Students Day became a dandy idea. 

My knowledge of Furman consisted of our dear friend Sande sharing how much her then-junior son loved his life on the beautiful campus of a university known for being academically challenging and building lifelong friendships. Accepted Student Annabelle was neutral on the subject, so we were both pretty much blank slates ready to be dazzled as we drove up I-85 to South Carolina and asked Siri to show us the way from the interstate to FU. 

While many friends had breathlessly detailed Greenville’s vibrant greatness, Siri led us through an intriguing corridor of used car lots, payday loan places, and secondhand appliance stores. But soon a right and then a left revealed the promise of good things to come--a set of brick pillars with a subtle Furman University reference. Siri told us we had arrived. 

While we had anticipated a moment like seeing Disney’s Magic Kingdom for the first time, we saw athletic practice fields, nondescript parking lots, and what looked like the underpinnings of a promising campus. Stopping to regroup, Annabelle announced we must pretend this had never occurred and start all over again. Out we went between the pillars through which we had just passed. 

And shortly thereafter, we located Furman's real front entrance, gates that are a prelude to the magnificent fountain, the long tree-lined mall, the lush green lawns laden with criss-crossing brick paths leading to an array of understated and lovely buildings. Like magic, one glimpse of this splendor and it was like our first campus entry had never happened at all. 

~~~~~

Here is the Reader's Digest version of the Furman beginning: 

• Accepted Students Day - I loved the university - Annabelle thought it was ok
• Freshman Orientation - I loved everything - Annabelle didn’t like much of anything.
• Move-in Day - Annabelle met all her best friends for the next four years and loved everything 

And these four years full of exceeded expectations have flown by, each semester more fun and better than the last. While college days are never perfectly perfect, Annabelle’s glide through Furman has kept me anchored in perpetual thankfulness for great opportunities, friends, professors, travel, and significant experiences that have been served up on a silver platter. Courtesy of social media magic, I have had a front row seat to (almost) all of the above, and have heard enough to be familiar with the big players. 

And so when 2020 began, it was with a mixture of joy and sadness the countdown to the launch from Furman began. Annabelle was eagerly anticipating the landmark events that were left in her college career (and what she would wear to each). Knowing their college time together was precious, she, her roommates, and friends were dedicated to making memories in marvelous ways while studying hard and making post-graduate plans. 

In early March, Annabelle went off to Scotland for her final spring break and, by the time she returned, the whole world had flipped over into something brand new. Just like that, with a hasty and unceremonious campus exodus, senior year was all but over. There were no real goodbyes with friends, neighbors, professors, or the Furman Police who had grown pretty fond of writing parking tickets for Annabelle. Winding up back here on my sofa attending disembodied Zoom classes in isolation was a very weird way to end wonderful college years. 

~~~~~

The long-anticipated graduation day, Saturday, May 9th, is almost here. I expect it might be an unusual time of considering what the day might have been for Furman Class of 2020 and their families. I imagine this is the same for the many other Classes of 2020 all across the country missing their end-of-school-year commencement ceremonies. It seems very strange to sit here and say Annabelle is a college graduate without the official spring confirmation, benediction, parties, tears, pictures, and hugs. 

In 2016, we were unaware and I was totally unprepared for the big Furman surprise that snuck up on us, and the last days of this senior year were just as sneaky and startling. Somehow it feels like Annabelle ended up leaving Furman through the back gate, kind of like the first day we were ever there. 

The university has promised a traditional Furman graduation ceremony in the fall which I hope will present the opportunity for one last official trip through the front gate to see all of those 2016 Freshman Move-In Day friends walk down the tree-lined mall together. 

I really hope that, just like these last four Furman years, fall commencement far exceeds expectations and makes spring's abrupt campus departure feel like it never happened at all.