September 26, 2019: Colonoscopies

Someone asked me to repost this. It's from June 2017--

It used to take at least a half hour before any of us would mention colonoscopes. Now we get to it right away. Even before we are served our first cup of coffee.

Just yesterday we not only talked about them but also bladder infections, melanoma, detached retinas, atrial fibrillation, shingles, abscessed molars, Hashimoto's Disease, and kidney stones.

And of course we share health insurance, doctor, and hospital stories. Few of them good.

My colonoscopy story was about my recent visit to a new internist. After taking my medical history and giving me a thorough examination, including a cardiogram, when he was done, he told me things look pretty good except for a heart murmur and my right hand tremors.

Ignoring that for a moment, I asked him about a colonoscopy. "I haven't had one in a few years," I said, "So maybe it's time . . ."

Before I could complete my thought, he said, "At your age we no longer recommend colonoscopies (he's a gastroenterologist no less) because no matter what we might find, at your age, you'll die of something else."

In a way that sounded good, but in truth, on reflection, not really.

I said, "I guess that gives me something to look forward to. Dying soon."

He doesn't have much of a sense of humor, or maybe his waiting room was full of patients and he didn't have time to schmooze, and so he barely smiled.

The cardiologist and neurologist he referred me too said pretty much the same thing--about the murmur, something else will get me before it becomes a problem; and the same for the tremor--"I'll write you a prescription for L-Dopa," he said, "And we'll hope for the best." He hardly needed to add, "that you'll die before . . ."

I stopped listening.

When I told the story to friends at the diner yesterday, one said, "This reminds me of a joke." We all groaned. Lou is not known to be a good joke teller. Undeterred though, he began, "Morty goes to his doctor who gives him his annual physical. When he's done, Morty asks, 'So how did I do?'

"The doctor says, 'Ten.'

 Confused, Morty asks, "'Ten what?' Years? Months? Days?'

"The doctor says, 'Ten, nine, eight, seven, six . . .'"

Not that bad a joke from Lou.

And of course everyone either has a new set of hearing aids or is about to get them. And so there's a lot of breakfast talk about that.

"Why do we always seem to be talking about medical issues?" Rona wondered. We were driving to the pharmacy to get my L-Dopa prescription refilled.

"Isn't it obvious?" I said. "We're all getting on in years and stuff happens."

"Wouldn't you think . . ." she began.

"And don't forget that Maine has the oldest population of all the 50 states. And our county, Lincoln, demographically, has the nation's oldest residents."

The next time we were at Deb's Bristol Diner, when even before the waitress arrived to take our order, Jim began to talk about his diabetes numbers, I said, "Not to sound unsympathetic, but maybe we should try to talk about something not medical."

Jim who is not the sensitive type, without attitude, said, "What would you recommend?"

"A book, gardening, or maybe Donald Trump."

He said, "I rather have a colonoscopy."

January 18, 2017--Breakfast Blog: Ernie's Texas Lunch

A funny thing happened on our way south--I was diagnosed with Lyme Disease and we're staying put until I do whatever I have to do.

I had planned to reprise a few breakfast blogs that I wrote on other drives to Florida. Since I'm feeling lazy, I will post them as planned over the next three days. Here's the first one--

Heading south, we stopped overnight in Gettysburg, PA to take in the battlefield the next day, especially the cemetery where Abraham Lincoln delivered the Gettysburg Address. As always, almost as soon as we arrived, we began the hunt for the just-right place to have a local breakfast.  Ernie’s Texas Lunch, in spite of its anything-but local sounding name, qualified. The menu didn’t have anything on it that sounding very Texan or Tex-Mex, for that matter, nor was it only open for lunch; but as we looked through the window the evening we arrived (it closes after lunch) we saw a classic small-town lunch counter and half a dozen wooden booths. 

“Perfect,” Rona exclaimed, “Look at the menu posted in the window. See that they feature chipped beef on toast—which I love—and make a big to-do about their home fried potatoes.” 

I peered at the menu over her shoulder and noticed that a “small portion” of home fires cost $2.50 and if you wanted onions with it, it’s another $1.50.  “I never saw that before,” I said, “how they charge extra for onions.” 

“Which suggests to me that this could be a special place. And we have to have the potatoes with, of course, the onions.” 

At 8:30 the next morning we were disappointed to find just one booth occupied by what felt like a grumpy, late-middle-age couple. Maybe they just needed coffee to perk them up, but it felt as if they had just had a fight or had given up talking to each other decades ago. But the waitress was cheery and we thought, It’s only breakfast. Not a big deal. Or not that big a deal.

“Be sure to have some of our home fries,” she chirped, “I cut them myself every morning. Real thin like they’re ‘sposed to be. And we cook ’em in a special oil. You’ll see how non-greasy they are. But sort of with a buttery taste. Real good,” she smiled as if to cast the light of happiness on that poor couple who continued to sit there scowling at each other. 

With such a complete description—more than we received earlier in the week at Balthazar where we went for bouillabaisse—how could we resist? “We’ll have a small order,” I said, “We’ll share them.” 

“And be sure to add the onions,” Rona’s smile was almost as wide as the waitress’. 

“Good choice,” she said. “That’s the right way to have ‘em.”  We ordered scrambled eggs and I asked also for a side of ham. “Not the salty country kind,” she made sure I knew, “But just as good. Some of our regulars say better.”  I nodded my assent, wondering who those regulars were considering how empty the place was, and with that our waitress did an about-face and bounced over toward the kitchen to place the order. “I’ll be right back with your coffee and tea,” she assured us over her shoulder, and we settled back to see what might happen. Expecting very little—except from the home fries—considering what wasn’t going on two booths over. 

But at nine o’clock things indeed began to happen. 

One-by-one a steady stream of customers showed up. First a woman of about 60 with her hair pulled back in tight braids. She sat alone in the booth by the door and almost as soon as she was settled popped up, raced to the door, which she opened, and shouted to someone in the street to “Come on in. I’ve been waiting for you.” She had literally been there less than a minute. 

Next an elderly gentleman arrived but had difficulty opening the heavy door. The waitress noticing him—more accurately she appeared to be expecting him--trotted to the front to push it open and then helped him up the two steps into the diner. Arm-in-arm she led him to a stool at the counter. She stood protectively as his side as he eased onto the swiveling seat. 

Then two women entered, clearly in the middle of a good story as they announced their arrival with a burst of laughter.  They got themselves settled back toward the kitchen at what looked like a communal table that could accommodate eight. 

And shortly thereafter another couple about my age came in and smiled at the rapidly filling room before sliding into the booth adjacent to ours. Rona winked at me as if to say, “Just what we were hoping for.” 

Then over the next five minutes a young man joined the woman who beckoned him from the street and they quickly entered into a whispered conversation, and he was followed in turn by three more single women who joined the others at the large table in the rear. 

A happy buzz settled over Ernie’s as the waitress scooted about filling and refilling coffee cups and raced back and forth from the kitchen with steaming plates of eggs and toast and home fries. Including ours.

The waitress came over to our booth to check to see if we needed a refill but more to find out what we thought about the potatoes. 

“The best ever,” Rona, with a mouthful, said.

“Told you so. It’s about how I cut ‘em up and as I told you the oil we use.”

“What kind is that?” I asked. 

“Can’t rightly tell you,” she said with an apologetic shrug, “It’s sort of a family secret. My people’ve been here since ‘41, same location, and though I wish I could tell—you seem like a nice couple--my husband, who’s the cook, would never talk to me again. Which on some days,” she said as an aside, “wouldn’t be such a bad thing.” 

“Ain’t that the truth,” someone who had slipped in and was standing behind her blurted out. “He is something else. I could tell you a whole day’s worth of stories about just him.” 

I looked up from my ham and eggs to see a tall woman of some years all wrapped up in a long coat and magenta boa which she whipped about in a circle as if she was performing on a vaudeville stage. 

She saw me staring at her and, in a cigarette-thickened voice, said, “You should have seen me when I was a girl. That is, assuming I ever was one.” She laughed at herself. “Just ask Judy over there,” she pointed back toward the table where the four women were seated, “also assuming she ever was one.  A girl, I mean.” She wanted to make sure I got the reference. 

“I’ll be right back, honey, assuming I can extract myself from this outfit.” She was struggling to untangle her boa. I noticed she was wearing matching magenta wool gloves. 

Rona and I, loving every minute of this, returned to our eggs and home fires, not wanting them to get cold. The potatoes were, in fact, as advertised. The best ever indeed. Clearly the result of the thin slicing, secret oil, and the $1.50’s worth of onions. 

“You look like a preacher to me.” It was the woman now without her coat, gloves, and boa who had come back to stand next to our table. I looked up at her, smiling quizzically. “Not that I have much use for them. Preachers, I mean. No offense intended.” 

“And none taken,” I said, “I’m the last person in the world to be taken for one.” 

“But if you have a minute, I have a preacher story for you.” 

“Love to hear it.” Rona nodded enthusiastically. 

“You see there was this country preacher and this city preacher.” We had no idea where this was going. I took a long sip of coffee. “The country preacher had a bicycle and the one from the city a big Lincoln. There was a crossroads right outside of town where they met every Sunday on their way to preaching. To exchange greetings and to say a word or two about what they had been reading in the Bible.

“One Sunday morning when they met the country preacher was walking. He told the city preacher who was driving his Lincoln that someone in his congregation had stolen his bike. And that he didn’t know how to figure out who it was. 

“’I have a suggestion,’ the city preacher said. ‘When you’re delivering your sermon today talk about the Ten Commandments. And when you get to the one about stealing look around and the one who stole your bicycle will be all uncomfortable and give himself away.’ 

“The next Sunday,” she continued, leaning in close to us so only we could hear, “when they met the country preacher again had his bicycle. ‘I see you recovered it. Did my advice about the Commandments work?’ 

“’Yes and no,’ the country preacher said. 

“’What happened?’ the city preacher asked. 

“’Well, when I got to the commandment about adultery, I remembered where I left it.’” 

While waiting for her joke to register, the magenta-woman straightened up to get a better look at our reaction.  Rona was the first to get it and then as well I did. It took a moment because neither of us was expecting a joke from her or anyone for that matter, much less a raunchy one. 

As we finally laughed, she joined in, tugging at her bra. “This danged thing’s always riding up on me.”  She turned to return to her friends. “I’ll be back. I got a million of ‘em. You all right with that?”

“Indeed we are,” Rona said, still chuckling. Choking on my coffee I nodded. 

Which she proceeded to do. Twice more to tell us a couple of other ribald jokes, this time sotto voce so everyone who wanted to could listen in.

Even the grumpy couple appeared to be smiling.

July 6, 2016--Midcoast: Rona

The day after the 4th we got a late start and didn't get to the Bristol Diner until about 9:30. On the way over, we speculated about how busy it might be. Probably packed," I said. "What with people still visiting and some departing, I'll bet we'll have to wait for seats at the counter. Forget a booth."

"Maybe one of our friends will be there and we'll be able to squeeze in with them. But I predict," Rona said, Rona who hates to predict anything--even the outcome of the Kentucky Derby, said, "My guess is it won't be that busy. It's past the breakfast hour."

"During holidays breakfast hour can be any time, including 2:00 in the afternoon."

"That's true," Rona acknowledged.

It turned out to be packed and we had to wait 10 minutes for a booth. It would have been much longer because the new waitress was overwhelmed and to help move things along, including making space for us, Rona cleared the table and toweled it off.

We sat for at least another 10 minutes before the waitress could get us a couple of cups of coffee. And then 10 minutes more before she got around to taking our order. Also in an attempt to move things along we both ordered the same thing--Deb's terrific budget burrito. We took a pass on asking for anything exotic, like what Rona on the way over said she was in the mood for. If Deb had made potato pancakes, then Rona was interested in one with a poached egg on top. If not, sautéed spinach and mushrooms over a toasted English muffin. Rona has taken to ordering these so often that they're coming to be known as a Rona.

Deb was cooking. She is well-known for being able to juggle at least half a dozen orders simultaneously but this morning she too seemed backed up.

"Is everything OK?" Rona asked Deb.

"She's new," Deb said empathetically, "and is having trouble entering orders into the computer. The one that then sends the order to me so I know what to cook. That's what's slowing things down. Plus, we've had a very busy morning and probably could have used another girl. To help with the customers and to wash dishes. Look at that stack?"

Rona did and got right up off her seat and made her way to the sink. For the next two hours she cleared tables and washed dishes.

I sat alone with my burrito but happy to do so because with Rona's dishwashing and expediting everyone was getting their orders more or less on time and the vibe in the diner went from slight annoyance to a more-familiar happy buzz.

During those two hours something else happened--

We knew a few people who were there having breakfast and one or two noticed I was alone--which in itself is unusual--and that Rona seemed to be working for Deb. Yet more unusual.

At first, by this they were discombobulated but quickly figured out that Rona had not taken a dishwasher job--though doing so is one of her on-going fantasies--but rather had simply pitched in to help.

Then, as more and more customers poured in, some now having to line up to wait for a place at the counter or a booth, a number of people who were just two in a four-seater booth, shifted themselves to the counter and a few began to help buss tables. One or two running stacks of dirty dishes back to Rona at the sink in the kitchen.

It was as if the entire place, likely inspired by Rona's example, took responsibility to help Deb and her new hire get through the morning and make it easier for people to place orders and get seated without having to wait longer than absolutely necessary.

After her "shift," by 11:00 when breakfast was no long served and just before the lunch rush, Rona, all sweated up but exhilarated, emerged from the kitchen and said, "I think I'm done. Let's go to town to get the paper."

"That was terrific," I said, feeling good about Rona, "And I'm sure . . ."

Deb had also come out from the kitchen and finished my thought, "I can't tell you how much I appreciated that. We were at the tipping point. Actually past it, and you pulled us back."

"Thanks," Rona said, "To tell you the truth I've always wanted to do that. I really enjoyed it. And look what everyone else did--shifting to the counter to make room for larger groups, bussing tables, generally helping to clean up. That's what I love about this town. How people pitch in."

"I don't take it for granted," Deb said. "I really don't."

"One more thing," Rona said.

"Anything," Deb said and she meant it.

"What time do you want me tomorrow?"

"It's your lucky day," Deb said smiling, "We're closed on Wednesday. Enjoy your day off."

Deb

July 10, 2105--Fridays at the Bristol Diner: The Meaning of Life

"I'm not interested in the meaning of life."

"That surprises me, Paul. I think of you as a thoughtful, self-reflective guy. And also a little philosophically-minded. I would have thought the meaning of life would be of great interest to you."

"Maybe this will help," he said, though I wasn't pressing him to be helpful, "Though I may not be interested in that big-picture question, I am very interested in how to live a meaningful life." He paused to let that sink in and then said, "Get the distinction?"

I didn't feel the need to answer and he went on anyway, "Look, I'm in my mid-60s and have tapered off from work. What do I have, maybe 20 more good years. If I'm lucky. With my family history, probably 10 to 15. I'm passed the-meaning-of-life stage. I'm not religiously oriented. Never one to get too involved with any of that, including any more, personal belief systems. So I'm thinking about  just living. How to live meaningfully."

I didn't really disagree but I wanted to make this a bit more complicated, nuanced. "You say there is a  distinction between the two. I'm not sure I see it that way. Living meaningfully implies, doesn't it, that the way you choose to live--meaningfully--is derived from what you believe to be the meaning of life. I see them connected in that way."

I looked over at him while he thought this through.

"I can see your point but here's mine--Chasing after the meaning of life inevitably means seeking connections to something really big, maybe even something universal. Like following the Golden Rule. Guided by it to live so that you do unto others . . . You know the rest."

"Yes. To live meaningfully, as you put it, means, doesn't it, that unless you find meaning in things that are self-involving and pleasurable (and I know you well enough to know that's not you), if you have something resembling a humane or ethical core--and I think you do--that what you find meaningful does in fact connect to something else, often something bigger, even if not universal. Something at least close to the meaning of life?"

He peered at me seemingly thinking. I let a few beats go by and then asked, "So, what do you say?"

"Well, to tell you the truth, I'm into pursuing happiness. The other day was July 4th, right, and our Founders in the Declaration of Independence put that on the list that also included life and liberty."

"What do you think they meant by happiness? What was happiness to them? Surely not what many today think constitutes happiness--pleasure-seeking, doing their thing, adventure, acquiring stuff, sex, drugs. And to be fair, less controversially, things like family, reading, pursuing culture and . . ."

"I'm OK with much of that," Paul said, interrupting me. "I'm OK with folks doing their thing. As long as they're not harming anyone or anything or making demands on others or encroaching on anyone's territory. And here I'm not just talking about property but . . ."

"You do know, don't you, that Jefferson's first draft of the Declaration said that all men--men--are created equal and entitled to life, liberty, and property? Not only is what finally emerged--life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness a better sentence," I smiled at him, knowing how he reveres Jefferson, "but they may have thought that there was a connection between property and happiness."

"Well, to them, if you didn't have property you couldn't be a full, participating citizen. Jefferson's yeomen."

"But let's get away from early American history and get back to your pursuit of a meaningful life because I think it may have things in common with that pre-revolutionary meaning of happiness. Pursuing happiness," I returned to that in spite of saying we should move on, "suggests a life of meaning, and not one that's just pleasure-driven. In fact, other than Hamilton and his Federalist followers, Jefferson and others hated the idea of a life of commerce and materialistic striving. They wanted us to be good citizens above all else and find happiness largely in that. Very Roman."

"I don't see why you keep saying, or at least implying, that my interest in a meaningful life is not to be a good citizen or take care of my property and family--another important piece of the meaning equation--means all I care about are empty pleasures. I'm not really sybaritic or materialistic--though I confess to liking nice things--I don't think I take advantage of or ignore people who are struggling or less fortunate than I. I even try to do a little helping. So what's wrong with my loving my music and reading and gardening and all the good and healthy foods I prepare or, as I said, how I love and enjoy being with my family and fiends--even you," he said with an exaggerated wink."

"I'll concede you all that."

"But I won't go along with your insisting that I somehow have to be interested in higher pursuits if my life is to be meaningful. I'll stack my music and the things I love to read against anyone or anything who claims that there are higher things which are needed to guide a meaningful life. All the codes, all the so-called sacred texts to me were written by men--not by God or gods--and are no more valid as guides to the good or meaningful life than the things I've discovered on my own."

He had became a little heated and I didn't want to press him that much further. But, I said, "I too believe that sacred texts and moral codes such as Hammurabi's or Leviticus and Deuteronomy are all man-made. But they do distill a lot of wisdom and are thus worth taking into serious consideration even when attempting to living a meaningful life disconnected from the meaning-of-life."

"With that, we've come full circle," Paul said, easing himself up out of the booth. "Stiff joints," he grimaced.

"Sorry to have kept you so long," I apologized.

He waved me off, "I always enjoy talking to you, even though at times you make me crazy."

March 20, 2015--Betty Carol's (Concluded)

There were not just a few folks squeezed together at a table by the window. The rest of the place was bustling. There were about ten tables and all but one, which we slipped into, were full. And opposite an open kitchen, along a counter, there were six stools, five of which were occupied. There was also a line at the counter of at least six men waiting to pick up takeout food.

The grill was sizzling and at least half the people were talking simultaneously so the place had a homey buzz. And the aromas emerging from the kitchen incited our appetites, which on their own were quite advanced.

"Are you sure it's almost ten o'clock Rona whispered. "I mean, look at this place. Lumberton seems to be quite a small town and it feels as if half the people who live here must be having breakfast."

"And, it looks as if they all know each other."

There was lots of cross table talk as well as joshing and back slapping at the counter. Black and white together, though at the tables white folks appeared to be sitting primarily with other white folks and the same was true for the black customers. But there was enough cross-race byplay to make it feel far from segregated. I was reminded of the fact that Greensboro, where the lunch-counter sit-in movement began in the 1960s, was not that distant.

"How far we've come," I said to as if myself. But I know Rona heard me, understood, and nodded.

"Let's order," she said. "I'm starving and could go for some eggs and grits."

"Me too," I said. "And I see they have country ham. My favorite. All for $4.75. You can't beat that price."

"Don't get used to it," Rona said, "We're headed to Manhattan where, if we go to Balthazar for breakfast, half a grapefruit costs $11.00."

"Maybe more," I said."We were there three months ago and there's inflation to consider." I was attempting to make a joke.

"Let's just enjoy ourselves," Rona said, "and for once not think about the cost of things."

By then one of the waitresses came by with a steaming pot of coffee. With a smile she poured two cups and said she'd be back in a minute to take our orders. And as promised, she was and we both ordered scrambled eggs, grits, country ham, and homemade biscuits.

Looking over at the table behind Rona I ogled the stack of biscuits. The man who had ordered them winked as if to assure us that we chosen wisely. And um, um did we ever. The eggs came perfectly scrambled, floating on top of a large plate of anything-but-instant grits; and a sliver of country ham, just as leathery as I like it, accompanied it on a second dish with our own stack of biscuits.

Everything was delicious and as we gobbled the food the waitress returned repeatedly to refill our cups. Though it was easy to see that we were not locals, in fact from the location of Betty Carol's and the fact that Lumberton has few if any tourist or historic sites (I learned later that it was the setting for David Lynch's Blue Velvet) anyone unfamiliar had to be from out of town. But, as a sweet courtesy she asked, "Are you from here?"

"Not really," Rona said. "We're from the city. I mean, New York City."

"Now that's some place to be from," she smiled broadly. "I think about getting up there one of these days. I have family in New York."

"Where's that?" I asked.

"Never been there but my mother says right by the capital."

"That would be Albany."

"That's what she thinks. She's never been there neither. It's just somethin' we time-to-time think about doing. Helps keep us going."

"Well, if you do visit, try to work in a few days in New York City. It's not that far from Albany," Rona added.

"They say things up there cost a lot." I thought again about the $11.00 grapefruit.

"True enough. But if it's . . ."

"Be right by, honey. They're makin' a racket over there. Can't pour 'em coffee fast enough. If that was me, you'd have to carry me out a here, what with all that caffeine. But I'll be right back."

While she was serving the men at the counter, the stream of people coming in for takeout didn't abate, though it was getting close to the time they shut down breakfast and switch to a buffet lunch. Having noticed that, Rona and I had wondered if we should stop eating our breakfast and also think about lunch. I had gone to the bathroom and needed to skirt by where they were cooking fried chicken and okra for the buffet. I had reported to Rona what was in the works.

"All you can eat for only seven dollars," I said.

"There you go again talking about the cost of things. Can't we just . . ."

Before she could finish her thought our waitress returned, still smiling. "All the fellas are askin' 'bout you. Specially when I told them where you're from. Jackie over there, the one dressed like Snoop Dogg--the one standin' by George-Willie--he has been tryin' to make things happen for himself here but there's nothing going on but this." She swept the room with a broad gesture. "Which is not big enough for him."

"What does he do?" Rona asked. I saw that he did in fact look a lot like Snoop Dogg. Minimally he was inspired by him.

"A musician," she sighed. "All the boys here are either musicians or playing basketball. Hoping they'll get a ticket out a here. Though as you can see, folks seem pretty happy to be in this place. Not just at Betty Carol's but in this town too. We do our complainin' but it's not such a bad place to be. Look around. People from all walks get along. Mind you, it's not perfect. What place is? But life's good here. Still, I understand. I have a couple of boys myself and all I hear about are LeBron James and Jay-Z. A lot of these boys don't want to work timbering or in one of the plants or do healthcare work. They have big dreams. Though I tell my boys it's the quality of life that counts. Family first but then there are all these fine folks here who have figured out how to live together. To my mind that counts for something.'"

"It does for me too," I said. "Those are good values."

"You folks plannin' on staying for lunch? Horace over there he makes some mean fried chicken."

"I'm all full up," Rona said. Her dish looked as if she has scraped it. "Maybe we'll take some with us to nibble on the road."

"Sounds good to me," the waitress said, all excited. "By the way, my name's Mary." She reached out to shake both our hands as we also introduced ourselves. "You prefer white or dark?"

"How 'bout a mix of both?" I said.

"Perfect choice," she said. "I'll have it for you in a minute. In the meantime, can I pour you some more coffee?"

"I've had more than my quota," I said, covering my cup with my hand.

"By the way," she said, "today's my 45th birthday. I know I don't look it," she laughed, "Gettin' to know you is my favorite present."

Back in the car, Rona said, "What did you mean about no one having any teeth? That wasn't very nice. They all looked fine to me. Mostly quite spiffy. Including that Snoop fellow. He had the Dogg's act down perfectly."

March 19, 2015--Snowbirding: Betty Carol's for Breakfast

I whispered, "I don't think anyone here has teeth."

Rona shushed me. We had made a long detour off I-95 shortly after crossing the North Carolina boarder to seek out Betty Carol's, a breakfast place in Lumberton that our GPS listed.

"It's almost ten o'clock and I'm starving. And you need to get some coffee into you before we get back on the interstate. The traffic is already building up and you'll need to concentrate."

We finally found it, seemingly an enterprise of Breath of Life Ministries, Inc. with which it shares a building.

"That must be why there are so many cars here," I said. "For the Ministries. At nearly ten, we'll be lucky if the place is even still open. In small towns like this everyone is finished with breakfast by eight. On the other hand, Betty Carol's must be where the Ministries gives homeless people coffee and something hot to eat in the morning."

"It does look as if all the lights are out. But," Rona said, squinting into the sun. "I think I see someone at a table by the window. Let's hurry. Maybe we'll at least be able to get a quick cup of coffee."

"Though maybe we'll have to pretend to be homeless." Gently, Rona slapped me.

Nearly two hours later we reluctantly left. "If we didn't have to get back to the city, I'd suggest we look for a place to stay for a couple of days so we could come back here for a couple of more mornings."

It was that good. In fact, anyone who follows these blogs knows we are devotees of breakfast places, ranging from the cool chic of Cafe Beaujolais in Mendocino, California to the very modest but cozy Bristol Diner in Bristol, Maine.

But for food, way off-the-road setting, the crowd, schmooziness, down-home-feeling, exterior and interior ambience, friendliness, and diversity it doesn't get any better than Betty Carol's.

"You know how we always say," Rona said, "Places with names made up of two first names often turn out to be terrific. 'Betty Carol's'--this place tops them all."

To be concluded tomorrow . . .

January 6, 2015--Snowbriding: Domestic Goddess

"You won't find anything there."

I was looking at the blackboard where breakfast specials were listed. "Why's that?" I asked the fellow sitting at a communal table with half a dozen pals who were clearly regulars at the Lamplighter, reputedly the best place for breakfast in Florence, South Carolina.

"If you look closely, you'll see they're only available Monday through Saturday. I know you haven't had your coffee yet, but today's Sunday." He said this more to his friends than to me and they slapped their considerable thighs in pleasure.

I muttered, "I know that." And then directly to him, trying to be friendly, "So what do you recommend? From what I read about this place I understand they make great biscuits."

"Read about it?' he said, mocking me. "I don't know anyone who'd do that or anyone here who could read what got written." His friends rocked back and forth as he toyed with me. "But to answer you--southern hospitality, you know--anything with country ham. And don't forget the grits. It'll cost you a little more--with the specials they give you a break on the price--but you won't get hurt too bad." He winked at me and grinned.

I rejoined Rona at our booth and told her the country ham was recommended. Looking at the menu she noticed that they served it and an egg on a biscuit. "I think I'll have that. And," she whispered, "It's only $1.90."

"We're not in New York anymore. And look, two eggs, country ham, grits, two biscuits, and coffee or tea, not on the special board, is $5.95."

"Including the coffee?"

I looked at the menu again, "That's right."

Both orders came in a flash and were delicious, Rona, who is an authority on grits declared the Lamplighter's the best she ever had.

Feeling pressure to get on the road--we had quite a distance to cover if we were to get to Ocala, Florida before dark--we asked for the ticket (how they refer to the bill or check in the South) and when it arrived Rona scrutinized it as if there was a problem. "It looks correct, but," she leaned toward me and whispered, "it's less than ten dollars. In fact less than nine. How do they make a living charging so little?"

The place was crowded. "Maybe," I offered, "they make it up in the volume. In nay case I think we pay at the cash register over by the communal table."

We gave it a wide berth and kept my eyes averted, but we weren't able to slip by unnoticed. "You folks live here?" the original fellow asked, obviously knowing from my accent that we were from up North.

"Nice of you to put it that way," Rona said. "That makes us feel welcomed about being here. But, no, we stopped here overnight on our way to Florida and heard this was the best breakfast place in town."

"And?"

"And you were right," I said, "about the country ham and--"

"And grits," Rona said, "About the best I ever had."

The boys at the table exchanged glances and head nods. "Where you from then?"

"From New York," I said.

"The city part of New York?"

"That part."

"Isn't Al Sharpton from there?" he asked, sounding ominous.

I muttered something, feeling eager to pay and get out of town.

"Didn't hear that," he said, twisting his finger in his ear. "Don't hear so good these days. You know, that little fella they put on TV all the time? Sharpton?"

"I think he is," Rona said. I glared at her. "You have a problem with that?"

Before he could answer, thankfully one of his buddies said, "I know someone from up there. He's in the honey business. Sells his honey at, whatcha call it, the green market."

"There's a big one right near where we live," Rona said, "At Union Square."

"That's the place," he said.

"Did you say Union Square?" the first fellow asked, again with a mocking tone. "For the soldiers who came down here during the War of Northern Aggression?"

"The very one," I said, feeling somehow bold. Why not, I thought. What could happen? It was 2015, not 1965, and we weren't in Selma.

"We're your people from?" he asked, sounding less threatening.

"From New York."

"I mean originally."

"Oh, my mother's from Poland and my father's family--"

"From a cabin in a forrest in Poland," Rona added. "But when they got to Ellis Island they changed the family name to Mooney. So she passed for being Irish. Which helped her when she began teaching. The school system at the time was all Irish." I had no idea where all this was coming from. Maybe the caffeine. But though things seemed calmed down still I wanted to pay and leave.

"The Irish, they're the ones built America," he said, again nodding toward his companions. "Then the slaves came and they did nothing."

"Slaves?" I gasped. "Did nothing? I think you got that all backwards and wrong. I mean the Irish--"

"I'm just playin' with you, that's all," he said with the beginnings of a smile.

Taking no chances, I said, "Gotta hit the road. Nice talking to you guys. Really. And thanks again for--"

"Everyone from New York has a beard and wears something black."

"Well I--"

"And has a beautiful women with him," the fellow in a Vietnam Vet cap sitting in a wheelchair at the end of table said with a nod of appreciation.

"Thank you kindly," Rona said, with an emerging South Carolina accent. "We've been married 30 years."

"Thirty-one," I corrected her.

"Thirty, thirty-one," he said, sounding all flirty, Why she don't even look thirty-one."

"That's right nice of you," Rona said.

"A domestic goddess," he gushed, "A regular domestic goddess. You sure are lucky, boy." He meant me.

"S'pose I am," I said. "S'pose I am."

We paid and drove west to get back onto I-95.

"I like that," Rona said after a while. I knew what she was referring to.

September 9, 2014--Midcoast: Post-Season

The Tuesday evening after Labor Day with friends we went for dinner to our favorite waterside restaurant--Coveside.

As we pulled up the parking lot was unusually empty. Always, one is fortunate to find a spot near the place, often having to settle to park precariously half-on, half-off the narrow road.

"Not really surprising," Rona said, "The day after holidays it's often quiet at restaurants."

"But this looks more than quiet," one of our friends said. "It looks to me as if there's no one here. Let's check to see what the sign on the door says."

We were close enough so I could read it--

New Hours 

Open Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. Dinner Only.

Thank you for helping us have such a good season!

"Didn't they switch to limited hours last year the first of October?"

"That's what I recall," I said. "I wonder what's going on."

"Let's try the Contented Sole," Rona said. "I can go for one of their duck-fat pizzas." Immediately, in anticipation, my mouth began to water as I turned around to get us there as quickly as possible.

 But we found that it too was closed, also with a new post-season schedule on the door.

"It looks as if all our places are in a race to close," our friend said, "What's the rush? It's only September 2nd. Still technically summer."

So Rona called the Anchor Inn, our third choice--though a fine place--to see if they too were closed. They were happily open and Rona asked if we could get a table for four in about 20, 25 minutes. "No problem," they said.

So we took off for Round Pond. "We can still catch the sunset," I said, thinking about their London broil with caramelized onions.

But when we got there there were at least 30 people waiting for tables. "What happened to 'no problem?'" Rona asked the hostess.

"Well," she said with unusual attitude, "I didn't speak with you and since you don't have a reservation it will be about 45 minutes before we can accommodate you. Wait in the bar and I'll come for you when there's a table available."

"What's going on?" our friend asked, attempting to calm Rona down. She was upset to have gotten a double message.

"I think," the hostess said, "everybody else is closed and so we have everyone--including you--who couldn't get into Coveside or Contented Sole." She rushed away to help clear a table.

Dinner eventually was fine. I did have my London broil and was not disappointed; helped, I suspected, by the two gin and tonics I had at the bar while waiting.

The next morning, as usual, we headed out for breakfast at the Bristol Diner. As we approached, we again noticed there were no cars parked out front and the Open flag wasn't flying.

"What's going on?" Rona asked, sounding immediately almost as frustrated as the night before. "There's a sign on the door, but without reading it I think I know what it says."

And indeed it too said they would now be closed two days a week. "I guess the summer's officially over," I sighed as we turned back home where we had a sweet breakfast on our back deck at Cafe Rona.

In the days following we asked our restaurant friends if it was true that this year they were scaling back their hours earlier than usual.

"Yes," we heard. "We had such a good season that we pretty much already made our money for the year."

But to one restaurant owner who we know very well, I asked, "But if you follow your usual schedule, since you've done so well so far, why not stay open more--at least through leaf-peeping season--and really have a good financial year?"

"We made enough already," we heard. "You have to know when enough's enough. "It's all about living, isn't it?"

"Ture enough," Rona said. "That's one reason we like being here. People like you have the right values. You know what's important. Having more and more isn't necessarily the meaning of life."

"I suspect you'll hear different," our friend tweaked us, "once you get back to New York."

"Indeed we will," Rona said, sounding a bit blue about that time approaching.

December 26, 2013--Cafe Rona

The morning of Christmas eve we got off to a lazy start.

I was up to my usual thing--reading My Promised Land in bed when at about 8:45 Rona began to stir.

After she was fully awake, rather than go right downstairs for waffles in what I have come to call Cafe Rona, we remained in bed looking west out over the city in sunlight, toward the Hudson River, and beyond to New Jersey.

Without wind or even a breeze, it was a motionless morning. The only things moving were a bank of languid clouds and planes in Newark Airport flight patterns.

"So many planes today," Rona said.

"Right before Christmas must be about the busiest travel day of the year," I suggested.

"It's fun to think about where everyone is headed."

"Packed in like sardines," I said, referring again to the recent piece in the New York Times about how airlines are cramming more seats into their planes in pursuit of more profit.

Ignoring my cynicism, Rona said, "This early they're probably heading south or west. It's too early for any overseas flights. But wouldn't it be nice to be heading for Spain later today." She snuggled closer.

"I'm happy right here with you," I said, enjoying the snuggling, "Though Spain--"

"You know what's interesting?" Rona asked, looking out the bedroom windows, "All the helicopters. Maybe I haven't noticed them before, but look at how many are flying back and forth."

And sure enough there was a steady stream, mainly heading south parallel with the river. "They look to be spaced about a minute apart."

"Here come two more. And right behind them another one. Do you think something unusual's going on?"

"I don't know. Maybe since the airports and roads are busy they're ferrying people there. You know, above the traffic."

"Or they're charters taking people out to the Hamptons for the holidays."

"Or they are privately owned taking rich people to Martha's Vineyard."

"When we're downstairs," Rona said, beginning to rise, "let's see if we can look up what's going on. Maybe it's just normal traffic or maybe something special is happening."

While Rona was making the coffee, waffles, and Black Forest bacon, I puttered around the Internet to see what I could dig up.

"I can't find any news about this morning's helicopter traffic. Let me see what I can learn about charters."

"How many strips of bacon do you want?"

"I think three." While placing my order, from the New York Helicopters Website, I gathered a picture of what was most likely the situation.

"Listen to this, from 7:00 a.m. to 7:00 p.m., they offer charters from downtown Manhattan to the local airports. And it looks as if for today at least all their choppers are booked."

"No surprise," Rona said. Intoxicating smells were already emanating from the kitchen.

"They say it take 8 to 12 minutes to get to any of the three airports--JFK, LaGuardia, and Newark. And listen to this."

"What?"

"Guess how much it costs."

"I'd say, let me think, maybe $150 each way?"

"Think again," I said.

"OK. I'm assuming more. These flights are obviously not for ordinary people, so I'll say, $250 a person."

"Not even close," I said, "How does $875 per sound?"

"How much did you say?" Rona sounded incredulous. As was I.

"You heard me--$875. And there's a two-person minimum."

"Ridiculous. So before tax and probably a tip it will set a couple back $1,750 just to get to the friggin airport! Things are really getting out of hand."

"But wait, there's good news."

"What's that?"

"You can take up to 25 pounds of luggage."

"You call that good news?"

"Well, it's something. At least they don't charge for luggage as many airlines now do."

"When we travel," Rona said, laughing about the absurdity of this. "My shoe bag alone weighs 25 pounds."

"I'm glad you and not I said that."

December 6, 2013--Breakfast

For 30 years Rona and I, almost every morning, have gone out for breakfast. Let me correct that--not almost every morning but every morning.

It was less about the coffee and food than the people. At Balthazar, in Manhattan's SoHo, for nearly 15 of those 30 years, until last year, every day, at table 85 in the bar area, we would join friends who, like us, were seeking community and companionship.

Some days those friends could number more than a dozen and we would push tables together to accommodate all of us. Since the group included people from a variety of backgrounds, interests, and professional life--filmmakers, interior designers, book publishers, performance artists, Wall Street lawyers, anthropologists, novelists, chefs, actors, carpenters, opera directors--with breakfasters from such a wide range of callings, discussions ranged from the serious (what to do in the Middle East and the results of friends' colonoscopies) to the sly (gossip about who else was in the room--"Is that Yoko?").

It was sweet and stimulating, which, like other evanescent realities, succumbed to time and changing circumstances. For one, Balthazar became a go-to place for breakfast and brunch and it was no longer possible to hold so many tables because Jonathan Miller or Nigella Lawson had just arrived from London and might pop in to join us.

Then also, as with Rona and me, work realities shifted, schedules needed to be adjusted, and some of us were no longer so much in town. In our case, we essentially moved to Maine and Florida and retained just a loving, periodic connection to Manhattan and Balth.

In Maine there is the Bristol Diner, a perfect place for a simple breakfast and a gathering place, like Balthazar in its own way, for an even more diverse group of local and seasonable residents--from lobstermen to orthopedic surgeons to federal judges to telephone linemen. So, when there, we can be found almost every morning in one of  the Bristol's five booths, sometimes ensconced for two or three hours as friends drift in and out.

And in Delray Beach, we have a similar reality at the Green Owl. Breakfast in both places for us is an ideal way to emerge to full morning consciousness among people we care about and with whom each day we eagerly look forward to spending time and exchanging stories--some real, much made up.

But then, in New York, all of this has suddenly changed--we are having breakfast at home.

And loving it.

The other morning Rona said, "After nearly 30 years of going out for breakfast, which is very luxurious, having breakfast in my pajamas with the newspaper delivered to our door, feels really luxurious."

"And," I agreed, "we're saving a lot of money."

"That's true, but not really what's important to me. We're doing what we want to do. No pressure to get up and out. That's what's important."

"True. But still I like the idea that we're saving at least $15 a day. That really adds up."

Rona turned her attention to the Style section.

"Really," I said, "Add it up. What did we have this morning? You had an egg (which since it was organic cost about 30 cents and was cooked in maybe a nickel's worth of butter) and pumpkin bread toast (about 50 cents worth) and English breakfast tea (say, 25 cents for the teabag). And I had a--"

"Do we really have to do this? I was having such a sweet time and all you can think about is how much butter I used."

"We don't have to do this, but I'm only trying to make a point."

"Go on then. But please, make it brief."

"I had a croissant with jam (I think we paid $2.75 for that at Dean and Deluca) and a mug of Medaglia D'Oro instant espresso (which cost maybe 20 cents, plus about a dime's worth of warmed half-and-half)." Smiling at Rona, I said, "I'm done."

"How much was the jam and what about the gas and electricity we used to defrost the croissant and cook the egg? Did you figure that in?"

Not realizing she was making fun of me, I thought, "Maybe 15 cents for the jam--it's from France--and we'll see about the gas and electric when we get the next Con Ed bill. But don't forget we don't have to pay tax at home--what is it, about 9 percent?--or leave a tip. I think you leave at least $5.00 every morning." Rona nodded.

"So let me do a quick calculation." I went to get paper and a pen. "At Balth my double espresso is, what, seven dollars and the croissant $4.50. And your egg and toast would be at least $5.00, plus your tea would be $2.00 more."

"Two-fifty. And half a grapefruit, if you're crazy enough to order it, is $10. Ten freaking dollars!" Rona said under her breath.

"So at Balth the same breakfasts plus tax and tip would go for about $25; whereas here it cost us only about $4.00, not including utilities." Self-satsified, I smiled toward Rona who by then was buried in the crossword puzzle.

"I mean, in addition to being delicious and nice and so schmoozy to have breakfast in pajamas, we saved at least $20, which means, if we did this only five days a week (and at the moment we're pretty much eating in every day) we'd save more than $100 a week. Which adds up to real money."

"Agreed," Rona admitted without looking up.

"So what about tomorrow? What are you in the mood for?

"Must we? I'm just trying to enjoy this morning."

"Let's see, we have eggs of course and can make wonderful French toast from Agata & Valentina's pumpkin bread. Or have some of those terrific Bay's English muffins; or waffles--we have Eggos for old-times sake but also the ones we bought the other day at Fairway in Red Hook that are made in France; and we also have various kinds of bagels--you like bagels sometimes; and your McCann's steel cut oatmeal, which you've been serving with brown sugar and sliced up dried figs; and granola; even oat scones from the Balthazar bakery and--"

"Enough! I just ate and already you're talking about eating."

"I only . . ."

November 12, 2013--Midcoast: Ken's Fault

It had turned cold and we were huddled in a booth at the Bristol Diner.

"Body heat works even better than our propane heater," Rona said, snuggling closer to Ken. "But the Rinnai does manage to make our living room cozy."

"So why are you leaving so soon?" Al asked. Sitting next to him I could feel heat coming off him like from a wood stove.

"It's November 10th," I said. "This is the latest we've ever been able to stay."

"It's all Ken's fault," I said, winking at him across the table. He smiled knowingly back at me.

"Ken's fault?"

"Right. It all started about four years ago. It was late September and we were having an innocent enough breakfast, I think in this same booth, and Ken began to ask us about our fireplace. 'You have one, right?' "Yes,' I said, 'but we haven't used it much.' 'How wide is it? I mean, can it handle logs about this size/" To illustrate, Ken held his arms out about 18 inches apart.

"'That's about right,' Rona said. 'It would help a lot if you made a fire in the morning,' Ken said, 'It would for sure take care of the overnight chill.' 'We'll have to look into our firewood situation,' I said."

"I'm not following this," Al said, signaling to Amanda to refill his coffee mug. "Nice and hot this time."

"So the next morning," I continued, "I was in bed reading and Rona was just beginning to rouse. It was about 7:30 when we heard stomping on our front deck. It sort of frightened me," I said, "Since we weren't expecting anyone--deliveries or workers--and sounds of any human activity so early where we live are not only rare but unknown. Rona with a start woke fully and whispered that I should get up to see what was going on."

"What does this have to do with Ken?" Al asked, sounding impatient, "Or how early or late you've been staying in Maine?"

"I'm getting to that. The stomping was coming from Ken. He had backed his truck into our driveway and was unloading this beautifully split fire wood onto our deck. Stacking it just perfect. I knew then why he had been quizzing us about the size of our fireplace.

"I went out both to thank and help him, but he waved me off. 'I had all this firewood we don't need anymore. When our house burned down about 15 years ago we rebuilt without a fireplace. We didn't want any more fires in our house. But I thought you could use this. You can keep your house heated and maybe that would allow you to stay on a little longer.'

"And with that and a wave he was gone. I thought, sort of like the Lone Ranger who does his good deed and doesn't stay around for thanks."

"That was about how many years ago?" Al said, "And what does that have to do with now?"

"Well, through the years, each year Ken either did something or suggested something we could do to keep our place livable as the weather got colder. As you know we have a cottage--a real cottage--without much, actually any insulation. With the exception of maybe above the dropped ceiling in our bedroom. The rest is open, uninsulated rafters.

"So Ken three years ago suggested we get a Rinnai heater and have it installed in the living room. Between the fireplace--and his firewood--and the Rinnai, he speculated we could stay at least a week more even if over night the temperature dipped below freezing. 'With that,' he said, 'plus running the hose faucets at night--really letting them drip--there's not much danger of the pipes freezing. So if you're cozy inside and the spigots are slowing draining, you should be fine.' And we were and could stay until at least the first week or so of October."

"Amanda, can I have so more coffee. Steve here is only up to three years ago, and I suspect we'll be here until lunchtime before he finishes his Ken story."

I knew he was fooling with me--Al likes stories as much as the rest of us--"But I'll speed things up," I said. "So two years ago, Ken began to talk with us about things we could do to insulate the place. Not change its character by lowering the ceiling in the kitchen, dining room, and living room, or sticking insulation up in the rafters and then covering it over--that would change the look of the place. We'd rather be a little chilly than take away what we think of as part of the place's charm.

"'I mean,' Ken said, 'you have that open loft behind the fireplace, don't you? Well, half your heat from the fireplace and the Rinnai is going up there and doing you no good, unless you move up there as well.' 'So, what should we do?' Rona asked. 'How about draping the opening that separates the loft from the living room?' Ken suggested. 'With insulated drapes? They work pretty good. You can get them ready-made at Kmart or Walmart and then tack 'em up to fit the sloping ceiling.'

"We did that last year and it made some difference. Ken also suggested we put draft blockers at the base of all our doors to eliminate much of the cold air coming from outside and from room-to-room where some rooms are warmer than others. Like we have a really efficient electric heater in our bedroom but cold air comes through the closets that share a wall with the unheated guest room. We did that too and, boy, did that make a difference!"

"Can we get to this year already?" Al sighed, rolling his eyes. "I'm have an appointment and don't have all day like you guys to drink coffee and tell endless stories."

"Well, this year Ken has had all sorts of suggestions about what to do with the pipes under the house."

"Wrap them?" Al said, attempting to move things along.

"That was one thought," Rona said, "But he felt it would be better to see if our plumbers could build an enclosure under the house around the core where all the pipes are. This wouldn't change the look of the place--you know we have lattice around the house that's open. We don't want to seal all that up since it would change the look of things."

"The 'look of things' again," Al said, giving Rona some grief.

"You know we're serious about the aesthetics of the place. We don't want to--"

"Change the character of the pace. I've heard you kids say that a hundred times. Maybe a thousand." he chuckled.

"Well, the Pendeltons, the plumbers came over last week and said it wouldn't be that hard to do. And, again at Ken's suggestion, they liked the idea of having insulating foam sprayed up under the floor. By doing that, they said, and it's been confirmed by the Seal-It insulation people, the floor would stay warm and with all the other things Ken has been suggesting, we probably would have no trouble staying all the way til the end of December."

"And come back in early May," I added, grinning.

"I gotta go," Al said. "To tell you the truth, I've been playing with you a little bit," as if we didn't know, "But, if thanks to Ken, you can stay until then, that suits me just fine."