Seen and overheard at lunch.

I went to that “Fish Place” the other day. That’s what we call it at our house. That fast-food fried-fish chain that gets a bad rap for being a little overly greasy sometimes.  I went because I was in a hurry. I’m not usually a fan of their food, but it’s close to my office, and it’s fast and I actually like the “Nashville Hot Fish” they have on the menu now. I do wonder why the “Captain” doesn’t have a real last name. Only an initial. Oh well. 

Right after I ordered, a young-fellow who was maybe in his late 60’s or early 70’s came in, accompanying an elderly gent who was (I’d later learn) 91 years old. The elderly fellow was using a well-traveled walker (beat-up, dented, paint chipped). He was wearing dress slacks, and a long-loved light blue polyester sport-coat, and a jazzy plaid necktie (nicely matching the coat, with some light-blue in it) that had likely also seen decades of wear. I don’t know for sure, but I think rather than a son, the younger fellow may have just been a church friend. Either way, despite the fact that he was dressed more like a farmer, temperamentally compared to the old guy he was a chip off the old block. So I’ll call him Chip. They placed their order and took a table just in front of mine, both sitting on the same side. (I think this was so the older guy could hear better).   I learned here that the older fellow was named Frank, when Chip asked “Frank, do you want to sit there on your walker, or one of these chairs?”   Frank chose the seat on the walker, so Chip moved the chair out away from the table.

When their food was ready, the manager brought it out and put the tray on their table, and headed back to the front of the store.   The two of them arranged their plates a bit and Chip said to Frank, “I’ll return thanks.”  He reached out, took the old man’s hand, and they bowed their heads in close.  Chip’s words were a little on the loud side so that Frank could hear, but not so loud as to create a spectacle in the restaurant.

It was an endearing and sweet sight, the way Chip leaned over close to Frank’s ear when praying so that Frank could easily hear the prayer.  So could I.  It was a nice, relatively short, garden-variety saying of “grace”.   You know, “Thank you for this food, and the chance to spend some time together over a meal,” Etc.     As Chip ended his prayer and started to let Frank’s hand go, Frank clutched Chip’s hand a little tighter, pulled Chip in a little, almost imperceptibly, and continued praying….. silently letting Chip know that he wasn’t done just yet with talking to “the man upstairs”.    “Thank you for a long life.  Thank you for blessing us more than we deserve.  Thank you for family and friends.  Thank you for our country and bless our leaders. Thank you for Jesus.”

They made small talk as they dug in to their food and I wasn’t really paying any particular attention to the conversation.  But I did hear Chip ask Frank, “How’s your fish?”   “Pretty good, pretty good” he answered.

But when the manager came up a couple minutes later to check on them and asked the same question, Frank looked at him with a bit of a mischievous look in his eye and said, “Well, it’s not as good as my momma used to make!”     The manager grinned and said, “Really?  Not as good as your momma’s?   Well, I guess that’s OK.  We wouldn’t want to outdo your momma!”.   Frank went on and asked the manager, “How old do you think I am?”  The manager said, “I don’t know… hard to say. You look like a young fella to me.”    Frank said, “I’m 91.  But I still remember my momma’s cooking.  Nobody ever cooked better than her.  Nobody could fry fish as good as her. And she always sang when she cooked.”  At this point Frank wasn’t really talking to the manager anymore.  “Not a day goes by when I don’t miss her.” he said, to nobody in particular.

I got a lump in my throat.

I’m with Frank.   I hope the day never comes when I’m too old or too jaded by this world to miss my mom.    Not just her fried fish and other delectable delights, but definitely that.

So here I am, just as I am so many times, missing mom and her pretty smile and her stories.  And yes, her singing as she went about her housework.   Thanks Frank.

Love,
John