Ed's Cafe

On Sunday mornings Ed's Cafe, known locally as "the truck stop," serves freshly baked, melt-in-your-mouth, big, honkin' cinnamon rolls. One can either order caramel pecan or vanilla frosted---if there are any left to be had.

My husband frequents this establishment during the week for lunch, coffee, or an afternoon piece of homemade pie so he has a familiarity with the place and the regulars. Yes, this group of men, and a few women, relish in the ongoing BSing sessions.

The food and the comraderie are the draws of the Truck Stop; it certainly isn't the ambiance. The ceiling is falling down; the tile floor is cracked in places and worn off in others; the stools are the same kind Fonzie sat on 40 years ago and were installed in the same "Happy Days" era, but the lack of design and upkeep doesn't daunt the locals.

You'll find them gathered at the big table to the left as you walk in the east entrance. I don't know all their names, but you've seen 'em around: the gray whiskered guy with the quick laugh; the young man in a uniformed shirt who shaves his head; the white-haired retired farmer whose posture is a bit stooped; the gray, curly-haired, retired city council woman, etc. These characters are much the same as those who meet for morning coffee to gossip and tease each other in every other town across the country.

It's always interesting accompanying my husband on Sunday mornings, for those seated at the greeting table on the left obligingly tease my husband about being so well behaved: "You ought to come with him more often," they tell me. "It would make it a lot more bearable for us."

One morning we walked in, and one of them said, "I see you brought your daughter out for breakfast this morning." I know I'm dense, but at first I wondered what they were talking about. Our daughter wasn't with us.

Then it occurred to me. Hah! Real funny. Gee, I'm glad I put on make-up this morning and fixed my hair. I know they're joshin', but I feel it was somewhat of a compliment, at my husband's expense, of course. Should I tell him he looks good for his age? But, I decide to bask in the attention and shut up, for he doesn't seem upset by it.

We sit down at a table and Sue brings the usual: coffee for him and tea for me. We order our rolls, savoring each bite and trading parts of the paper as we finish them.


I look up and an old couple comes in. The woman is smiling and stooped with gray hair, and the man is red-faced and happy looking, and one of the greeting committee pipes up, "Hey, Frank. Nice of you to treat your daughter to breakfast this morning."