July 7, 2009--Midcoast: Tyler and the Ladies of the Breakfast Nook

Every town needs one. An unpretentious place where residents and visitors can gather in the morning for coffee, to read the local paper, and exchange news and gossip. Near here there is such a place—the Breakfast Nook. We never would have rented this house along the coast of Maine if it didn’t exist. Before even checking to see how many bedrooms this cottage has, we asked the owner where folks go for breakfast. When his face lit up with a smile, I knew we had found our spot for July and August.

The Nook, pressed up against a gas station, is diner-like, long and narrow with two areas of battered tables and chairs separated by an open kitchen. Not the chic kind you see in the latest hot spot in Manhattan, all spic and span stainless and polished granite, but a grungy griddle and deep fat fryer presided over by a scraggly bearded guy in shorts with a grease-stained Boston Redsox cap and Indian feather tattoos on both his calves. Forget any concern about the sanitary state of that griddle because in a few minutes he’ll be scrambling up some eggs for you, then slinging them up onto a chipped restaurant-supply plate, and alongside spatularing a heaping mound of onion-suffused hash browns that he precooked at 5:00 AM. Um, um.

But the real reason to drive the eight miles to get there is not for the eggs or homemade wheat bread—both of which are noteworthy—but for the people and the schmoozing.

Yesterday morning we were shunted to the back room. Decidedly not the preferred location for regulars—we after all had just arrived in town--but it was still full of local buzz. Right across from us, quite close as it is a very narrow space, was a group of four—three women tiered by age. The youngest appeared to be in her late 40s, next was a plump 60 year-old, and then a somewhat bent yet energetic woman with home-cut hair who must have been at least 85. With them was a buster of a tow-headed boy who looked to be about four. The nature of their relationship was unclear—the boy and the youngest woman appeared to be related but for that matter so did the other two. Perhaps a young grandmother, a great grandmother, and a great aunt? Though there was little physical family resemblance among any of them. Just a lot of palpable warmth and affection. Exactly who you’d like to find sitting opposite you before you’ve have your first cup of morning coffee.

As usual when there’s a young child among a group of adults, women really, he was the center of attention. And loving every indulgent minute of it. He had ordered a single blueberry pancake and when it arrived, steaming hot, the woman who I took to be his grandmother immediately buttered it. His apparent great aunt then reached across the table and smothered it in syrup; and the great grandmother, leaning diagonally toward him, took the delicate responsibility to cut it surgically into about twenty equal pieces. He bounced in his chair with obvious excitement.

Our food arrived—a farmer’s omelet oozing with sautéed fresh vegetables and crackling bacon which we planned to share—and we plunged in, concentrating on our eating, and for the moment let the boy and his women and his pancake slip from our field of view. We were hungry after the drive.

“Tyler,” we heard without looking up, “finish before it gets cold.” It was his grandmother, we now looked up to see, who was using her own fork to pick up one of the remaining pancake squares that remained on his plate. No longer steaming. He shook his head side-to-side, still smiling, still liking the attention even though it had now switched to what he seemed to take as nagging.

He mumbled something like, “Uh, uh, um.”

Rona looked over at him. He and they were no more than five feet away. She was clearly attempting to make eye contact. She had put down her own fork, even though some of the sumptuous omelet was left. She was making subtle gestures of encouragement and soon said, “It looks delicious to me. Are those blueberries or chocolate chips?” She remembered how our nieces when they were about his age were always trying to get us to take them to the Pancake House where, out of the supervision of their parents, they had little trouble getting us to agree to let them have short stacks laced with bits of forbidden chocolate.


He shook his head now a bit more forcefully and I wondered, in spite of his looking “normal” that he might have special needs. If I was right about him, I was concerned that his family would not appreciate Rona’s looking to get involved with them as they struggled through breakfast. He was clearly becoming rambunctious. Rocking back and forth in his chair with his hands lowered and gripping the sides of the seat.

“You can have some of my English muffin,” Rona persisted. “I’m not going to finish it, and it’s delicious.” She held the buttered bottom half out toward him. We were so close together that the two women in the aisle seats could easily take it. Or slap Rona’s hand away. I sensed that that was a possiblity. Though Tyler continued to rock and smile, the women suspiciously looked over at Rona.

He then snuck a glance her way and seemed to wink at even though that was hard to confirm since his head was lowered and half hidden under a baseball cap of his own.

The woman I took to be his grandmother said, breaking what for me felt like tension, “He’s a little shy with strangers. But once he warms up he’ll be jabbering away with you.”

And with that Tyler said something that sounded like, “Good . . . not . . . mine . . . some.”

Rona, who appeared to understand every word said, “Yes, it’s good. Here. Please take it. I’m sure you’ll like it.” And to the woman asked, “Is it OK?”

They nodded and Rona handed the muffin half to the youngest woman who was closest to her and Tyler. “He just had a little sister. Six weeks ago. She’s back home with her mom. My daughter.” So I had got that connection right. “He’s still getting used to it.”

“I know how difficult that can be. I remember when my brother was born, how I had mixed feelings about that.”

“Well, Tyler’s fine now with having a little sister. Why when he went to see her for the first time at the hospital, he reached out his hand to her as if to shake it and said—and I’ll never forget this; I was there—‘How nice to meet you.’ Can you believe that? He was something else.”

With the muffin in his hand, Tyler had popped out of his chair and was marching up and down the narrow aisle past the kitchen and into the front room. The waitresses who clustered by the kitchen when they weren’t circulating refilling everyone’s mugs with coffee all seemed to know and enjoy Tyler. They would pat him on the head every time he passed, going back and forth. Nibbling all the while on Rona’s muffin.

“He does seem sweet,” Rona said, happy to be talking to our neighbors. “How old is he?”

“I know what you’re thinking,” I tensed up at this, “He looks like he’s four, doesn’t he?” Rona nodded, “Well, he’s just two and four months.”

“Really?” Tyler had bounced back into our back room and this visit veered a little closer to Rona than the last time. Still, he kept his distance and avoided looking directly at her. It was obvious that he knew they were talking about him and continued to be pleased with that.

“It’s true. He’s large for his age. I mean tall.”

“And . . .?”

“I know what you’re thinking. No, he’s all right. Fine actually. He’s just a little shy being so big and all that. I mean tall.”

With that I joined in. “I know how that feels. I was very tall for my age. Not quite like Tyler. It made me feel conspicuous and as a result I was quite shy. Still am, as a matter of fact.”

“Well, he’s not as shy as you think. Look at him parading around here. Like he owns the place.” She said this without any sense of criticism, seemingly enjoying his stomping front to back, back to font. “The girls here just love him. They encourage him. I’m only afraid he’ll get more spoiled than he already is.” She leaned forward and twisted in her chair so she could get a clear look at him as he threaded his way among the tables up front by the window.

“So you come in here often?” I asked.

“Just ‘bout every day. Especially on Tuesdays when they have their green egg special.” She must have seen me scrunch up my face. “The eggs aren’t green, of course, but they’re green from the pesto sauce they make it with. I know it sounds fancy for a place like this but it’s real good. You should come in here one Tuesday for that.”

I didn’t say we planned to come in pretty much every morning while we were in residence so we’d get a chance to work our way through all the specials. “And if you do, you’ll get to might get to see Tyler again. I mainly bring him on Tuesdays. By the time you go back to wherever you’re from . . .”

“New York,” I said.

“Well, isn’t that nice. I have a cousin who lived there once. Down in Rochester.” She caught my quizzical look and quickly added, “Oh, I know you’re from the city, not the state. Look at me, I didn’t want to offend. I know folks from New York City when you ask them where they’re from they always say just ‘New York.’”

I smiled and waved at her, “It’s my fault. I know I should say ‘New York City.’”

While we were talking this way, the other two women continued to work on their breakfasts, occasionally looking up or exchanging a few words with each other. It seemed about the food.

In a few more minutes, with Tyler still making his rounds, we were all finished and the checks had arrived. I noticed to their table the waitress delivered three checks—one to each of the women. Seeing this from the kitchen area Tyler bounded back and stood expectantly beside the oldest woman who I took to be his great grandmother. She was rummaging around in her pocketbook, looking for money. She extracted what looked like a ten-dollar bill and together with her check gave it to Tyler who promptly raced to the front where he passed it to the cashier. Clutching the change he returned, and then from his great aunt with her check and this time a twenty returned to the front, paid the bill, and skipped back with the change, squeezing the bills and change carefully between his hands so s not to drop any of the coins. And then with his grandmother’s money, another twenty, he was back and forth so quickly that I wondered if he and they were getting the proper change.

Then it was Rona’s turn. Seeing he was done with his family’s three bills, Rona asked, “Would you pay ours now, Tyler?” In his direction she held out our bill and a twenty. He peeked up at her. He was so tall that with Rona seated they were almost eye-to-eye. Without a word or hesitation he snatched they check and money from her hand and raced forward, returning in a minute with what looked like two dollars and a fistful of coins. “Thank you so much,” Rona said, “But oh my, I see I don’t have enough for a tip.” Tyler stood near her now, looking directly at her. Puzzled. From her wallet, Rona extracted a five and, holding it out toward Tyler, asked, “Do you think you could get me some change?”

“I’m not sure he’s understanding you,” his grandmother said, “He’s never done that before. He always just pays our bills.”

Tyler shook his head side-to-side and I think muttered, “I do it.” And as before he snatched the bill from Rona’s hand and made his way to the front. This time not pausing at the kitchen to get his head patted. Again, returning as quickly as he left, this time with a handful of dollar bills. Five of them splayed out in his right hand. Grinning broadly he handed them proudly to Rona who thanked him and patted him on his baseball cap.

With that his great aunt got up to leave, nodding in our direction; and quickly after that, separately, exchanging waves that suggested they hoped to see us again, Tyler and his grandmother. We were then left with his great grandmother.

“You must be very proud of him,” Rona offered, “He’s so big and smart.”

“He is nice. That’s for sure. But it’s really not for me to be proud of him.”

“Why’s that?” Rona asked, “He seems special. Self-confident and very comfortable with people.”

“He’s not family, you know. We’re all just friends. To be sure Sally’s his grandmother. It’s her daughter who just had the baby. But the other lady, Jane, well, she and I go back years and we know Sally too for quite some time. Sort of helped raise her. I guess you could say in many ways we’re like family. But we just get together here for breakfast. Like Sally said, mainly Tuesdays. That’s how we see each other. Catch up with things. You know how we women are.”

“I do,” Rona said, “It’s wonderful that you do this. When friends are like family it’s really the best.”

“That may be true but I wish what is left of mine—not too many now—would live a little closer. But I do have Sally and Jane. They look after me. Not that I need much looking after.”

“And now there’s Tyler and his little sister. That must be nice.”

“Sort of.”

“You mean . . .?”

“To tell you the truth, yes Tyler’s a nice boy but he’s so full of energy that it’s not the same on Tuesdays having him around when we meet at the Nook.”

“I can see that, but then he . . .”

“With us having to pay all that attention to him, we never get any talking done.”

And with that she pushed her chair back and painfully began to lift herself from it. “That hip of mine is giving me more trouble again this morning. If I was a little younger I do something about it.”

“Is there nothing . . .?”

Ignoring Rona’s concern, she said, as she found her car keys, “I know what you’re thinking—‘What’s an old lay like that doing still driving?’ Well, not to worry I live just three-quarters a mile from here and drive about half a mile an hour. I’m no menace to anyone. I don’t want to have to move into one of those assisted-living places. That’s not for me. I’ve always taken care of myself and intend to continue.”

Then from the back door she said, “Don’t get me wrong I do love that little fella. But I sure do miss our talking.”