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.
~~~~~
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
And while ye may, go marry;
For having lost but once your prime,
You may forever tarry.
Robert Herrick
How fortunate you are to have been a part of that, and how fortunate we are to read of it - lovingly observant and delicately precise. Apart from the ones about your parents, this may be my favorite so far.
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