If my morning tree lived in my backyard.
There we sat. Three generations of strong, smart women — sharing bowls of queso, chips and delicious guacamole. My daughter and I on one side of the booth, my Mom on the other.
We barely had an hour for lunch, but we were making the most of it. Angela, our oh-so-cute waitress took our orders and poured iced teas. It was a noisy Monday lunch crowd, but we managed to converse, laugh and enjoy each other’s company.
Until, when we were about half way finished with our meal, three 30ish men were seated in the booth behind us.
Their crass conversation halted my ability to hear anything but them. It centered on the Tinder App, and on-line dating in general. On conquests. On drinking. On swiping right, and on the preferred size of women’s breasts. They bragged and they shared, and it went on, and on, and on.
At one point, my daughter leaned in and whispered, “I can’t help but…“ “Eavesdrop?” I finished her sentence. We both laughed, rolled our eyes and did our best to maintain.
“I hope Grandma can’t hear,” she said.
Soon, it was time to go. I asked Angela to bring me the check.
I was buying this lunch…
…until Angela returned moments later and announced, “Your check has magically been taken care of!” Her smile was bright, and it was clear she enjoyed delivering such news. And then she was gone.
The three of us shared a brief moment of confusion, exchanged questioning looks, and then burst into smiles. It was a first for all of us. Holy Guacamole! Someone had just paid for our lunch. I glanced around the crowded restaurant, searching for a familiar face, or one holding a secret. But the generous benefactor remained anonymous.
“I guess we’ll all be paying this forward,” my precious child said as we stood to leave.
So, this is happening on Saturday from 1-3 p.m. (I’m mentioned on their website)…Eeek! Come by and say hi 😃📚
This is a short excerpt from my second book; Don’t Worry Your Pretty Little Head, The Childhood Memoir of a towheaded Air Force Brat.
Mama doesn’t love sewing but she’s pretty good at it, and on an enlisted man’s salary, is forced back to the sewing machine to make most of our clothes when we’re very young.
She makes several things we call ‘bubble suits’ which are basically onesies with elastic at the top of each leg and buttons at the top of each shoulder. You only had to undo one button to step into the suit, put one arm through the arm hole, then put your other arm in place and button that side.
There’s a pretty bubble suit with little yellow flowers on it that’s my favorite. I put it on one summer day and notice that it’s kind of tight, but I leave it on and go outside to play. Mama sees me a while later and scolds me to ‘go inside and change before that thing cuts you in half’.
I’m probably six or seven and too old to be wearing a bubble suit anyway, but it is a sad day because I know that I have just outgrown all the homemade ‘baby’ clothes Mama made for us.