Just an ordinary day ... in an ordinary diner ... with an extraordinary man.
I was in a local diner having an open-faced, hot turkey sandwich with tons of gravy. I do this from time to time when I feel the need to eat something hot that brings me back to the aura of family. The world is a big place. A hot turkey sandwich somehow makes me feel less alone within it. There is a certain peace and calm in warm food with gravy.
As I savored my last bit of mashed potatoes, I looked around the diner at America in distress. These very tough times were apparent on the tired face of our waitress. You could hear the squeeze of a bad economy and a nearing recession in the silence of the couple at the next table and the man playing scratchers at the counter.
Across the room and seated by a window was an older gentleman. He, too, looked worn. He was eating the meat loaf special. Perhaps meatloaf did for him, what hot turkey does for me. There was nothing particularly outstanding about this old man other than his hat. It was a bright, blue ball cap that said World War II Veteran in shiny, gold letters.
I watched him carefully as he doted on his meatloaf. What had this guy seen? How had it changed his life? I thought about the beaches of Normandy and the Pacific Theater. Did he survive the infamous rush to shore? Was he a paratrooper that dropped into a small town in Italy or France? Was he there at Buchenwald, Dachau, or Mauthausan?
I wanted to talk to him, but there was a sense of dignity in merely watching him. In those decades long before I was born, this once young man had liberated Europe from the dark horrors of Nazism. What does he still remember? What can he never forget? Does anyone ever recover from war?
No sooner had I concluded that our collective memories are short and that we walk each day in the freedom and unacknowledged sacrifice of others … than a young man got up from his table and crossed the diner. He held out his hand to the older man and said, “I want to thank you for all you have done for our country.” The old man reached up and shook the younger man’s hand. He smiled briefly and said, “Oh it’s my hat.” The young man said, “No … it’s you.” The old man looked down at his meatloaf and very quietly responded, “You’re welcome.”
It was a quiet and brief exchange but one of the more powerful moments I had seen in quite some time. Life is certainly strange, but sometimes it’s also extraordinary.
I can only assume that this is a true encounter because it is so authentic. I only wish that you had approached the man and talked to him in his lonely sojourn (perhaps he is a widower?) with his meatloaf. Since he was wearing the cap announcing his service, it meant that he was proud of serving and wanted to show it. I believe that men like that want to tell people about what they experienced before they are no longer here and can no longer tell anyone.
The last time I saw my uncle who is now 96 and served for 20 years from 1941 in the Air Force, I knew little of his service during World War II, so I asked him. I was surprised to find that during the entire war, he never left the United States, it was only much later that he served as a consultant in Vietnam. He never saw battle of any kind.
I was in a local diner having an open-faced, hot turkey sandwich with tons of gravy. I do this from time to time when I feel the need to eat something hot that brings me back to the aura of family. The world is a big place. A hot turkey sandwich somehow makes me feel less alone within it. There is a certain peace and calm in warm food with gravy.
