Cruising across I-85 out of North Carolina and into Georgia, a hungry traveler cannot help but be enticed by the numerous Waffle Houses located in convenient proximity to the interstate. This particular trip I lasted until Cumming. My father introduced me to these fixtures of the southern roadside when I was a boy. One might think that after the palette develops the desire to visit such relatively Spartan eating establishments would be a thing of the past—perhaps blanked even from memory. After all, how can you keep them on the farm once they've been to the city? But not me. I've been to the finer eating establishments in New York, and had what must have been the most overwhelming eating experiences of my life in Napa Valley at Thomas Keller's "French Laundry". Still, I cannot pass but a few Waffle Houses in the early morning hours before I'm compelled to stop for coffee, a waffle and sausage. My friend Mark, an Atlanta native, and I still chuckle about our addiction.
And yet there is another reason I visit. I'm drawn to the folks who make up the bulk of the Waffle House clientele—old men with plenty of stories. It's not just me. These places are always scattered with Saturday morning dads who bring their kids in for more than just the food, it's the atmosphere in general that keeps you coming back. I think we long as fathers to tell our kids stories. Real stories—not just the cartoon versions. And yet I wonder if most of us dads feel as if we live such uninteresting lives to our kids. We are compelled by our lack of enthusiasm in our own personal histories that we reach outside ourselves to look for greatness. It's sad really that we so very much underestimate our own lives. So we take our kids to the Waffle House where they like the food, so do we, but we are also on a mission of another sort. We are longing to tap into a story I believe. The story of regular Jim's and Joe's who have become old souls. That's what I was looking for in Cumming, Georgia that day. I found it sitting on a barstool, drinking coffee.
He had a pack of Pall Mall cigarettes peeking out of the center-breast pocket of his worn denim overalls. Underneath he wore a slightly newer red/black plaid flannel shirt. His feet were well protected by what looked like steel-toe workboots, and he capped his fine gray hair (what was left of it) with a red mesh ball cap. I thought it odd that his hat was unbranded. I expected a man of his age to identify with Peterbuilt or Kenworth, Pioneer or John Deere, Dale Earnhardt, anything other than a simple solid red face. But there he sat without a logo. Even the waitresses referred to him by a nickname, not his given name. They called him "Old Goat" and he didn't seem to mind. In fact after listening to their conversation for a moment it was obvious that he was a daily customer with lengthy stays. It looked like an inviting place so I took the stool beside him.
"Boy, it sounds like they're being hard on you", I said to his right ear. "Yeah, I let 'em think they've got the best of me", he replied with a glance at the one behind the register. "Looks like you've been coming in here for a while?", I asked. "Longer than you've been alive, probably", was his reply. It was all he needed to prompt him. He knew he had another soul who would listen to him—and without further delay, he took off into sharing his past with me. He was raised "just down the road" and worked around Cumming for most of his life. In World War 2 he was a member of the 82nd Airborne in the "European Theatre" where he did a 37 month tour. He met the love of his life before his stint as a soldier but waited until after he returned to marry her "because I just couldn't see dying over there and leaving a widow back here."
So in 1944 they married, went on to have three children (the latter two were twins) and settled down in Cumming. For 55 years she woke up with him, fixed his breakfast and "took car e of things." He went off to work each day and provided for the family. "We had a real good life", he said as he sipped the last of a cold cup of coffee. "Lost her in '99, haven't been the same since", he went on. "We were home together, sittin' and talkin' after a walk together. She got up and kissed the top of my head, went toward the bedroom and just dropped. Dead before she hit the floor." He said this staring out the window, obviously reliving the shock of the scene in his mind. He turned and looked at me. "You married boy?"
"Yes, sir", I said. He leaned in. "You'll see one day. You live with a woman that long…..You just really depend on them being there….Don't know what to do with yourself after they're gone……Wonder why you don't go before them….Doesn't seem right to do that to 'em…..You'll see." I nodded. "Yes sir, I think I do." He was quiet for a moment and his eyes grew a little misty. I began to wonder if I'd trespassed somewhere in the memories of this man. Memories he may not have dealt with for a while. We hurry so quickly to heal from the pain of such losses. Maybe he'd done that because he was a soldier. Maybe the pain of many losses were attached to his tears, the pain of his wife's passing as the capstone of all his hoarded anguish (He also experienced the death of his oldest child 2 years later). I don't know. Mustering a final act of courage, the old man looked again at me, leaning in as he'd done before. "Son, if there ain't no heaven then there ain't no point."
I never got his name. I don't recall he ever said the name of his wife, though he spoke heartedly about her. He simply laid $1.37 on the counter and with cracking knees ambled out of that Waffle House. No need for good-byes. He planned on seeing them the next morning. But if he didn't, I gathered, his hope rested in another place—a place where the story could continue. I believe it's that hope which keeps him alive—keeps him going. If there ain't no heaven, there ain't no point. Something in him wouldn't let him believe otherwise. Even at times when he couldn't make sense of it, he refused to believe his story was pointless. So do I.
"Therefore, since we have been made right in God's sight by faith, we have peace with God because of what Jesus Christ our Lord has done for us. Because of our faith, Christ has brought us into this place of undeserved privilege where we now stand, and we confidently and joyfully look forward to sharing God's glory." Romans 5:1-2
