ShareThisSaturday-morning breaks and once again the old man and I are headed out to score a booth at our local breakfast spot. We're off to a good start. There's no line at the door; no need to hover like vultures while waiting for a table to clear. Prompt seating, it turns out, is one of the perks of living in a state where a fair portion of the population ups and leaves once the going gets hot.
Ah -- ode to summer's lazy days.
We can linger if we want; take slow sips of green tea and exchange pleasantries with the regulars and the cheery waitress who's asking if we want "the usual." That would be two eggs over medium, one slice of rye toast and a fruit cup for me. Two over easy, home fries with onions and a slice of wheat for him. As is our habit, I slide one of my eggs onto his plate; a fair trade for the sprinkle of home fries he pours onto mine.
We used to bring the kids along, adding chocolate-chip pancakes and another plate of eggs and hash browns to the order. These days the teenagers would rather while most of the day in the land of nod.
That's how Saturday morning came to be "date morning."
We spend it covering ample ground; from what's going on with the kids, to work, to the day's chore list. "Can we have pork chops?" he asks longingly as I make up the week's dinner menu and give him a "maybe" because I think they're on sale.
"Just don't serve them up on a Ford Granada," he says, and we laugh again about the days before cell phones when he was very late and I was mad, so I pitched a couple of prime, stuffed pork chops out the door, plate and all, and they landed on the hood of the sedan. I turned up the oven and made sure to burn them first.
Yes, that's funny now.
Then we're off to talking about what time the Sox are on and what needs to be picked up at the local vegetable stand. We go on to gripe about politics and all that's wrong with the world and, occasionally, each other.
Sometimes we come up with grand solutions. Sometimes we throw up our hands; call a truce. Lay down a tip, pay the check and we're out the door.
It's an easy routine, evolving as happens when you've been married for close to 30 years.
Evidently that's a long time -- at least by today's standards.
"Wow! Good for you!"
We hear that a lot from folks who are obviously impressed at our stick-to-itiveness or those who knew us back when some folks were wagering it wouldn't last.
Losers.
We've come a ways, melding our paths into one heck of a long and winding road. We've trod through deep valleys. Climbed our share of heartbreak hills. Encountered roadblocks that sent us backtracking and down a different route that, sometimes, turned out to be for the better.
Even so, there are times when it feels more like a sprint than a marathon. Especially when talk wanes into comfortable silence and my attention turns to the older couple who are enjoying breakfast with friends at a nearby table. They've been married for over 60 years, I know, because they live in our neighborhood and we've had that conversation.
Like us, they are creatures of habit. They order their usual. They prefer a table to a booth, because at their age, chairs are easier to get in and out of.
I watch as they chat about this and that and she gets to laughing so heartily that her sweater slips off her shoulder just ever so slightly. I watch as he moves closer to right it, and leaves her with a gentle pat.
I watch and I realize that we are not even halfway there yet.
(E-mail Michele Miller at miller(at)sptimes.com.)
(Distributed by Scripps Howard News Service www.scrippsnews.com)
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