Disney? Grand Canyon? Broadway? Statue of Liberty? Washington DC?
My dad loved all of the above on his several visits to the United States and recalled them each with great fondness.
But, dad’s real love of this nation was rather peculiar, and once he made me aware of it, it was easy and inexpensive to provide.
He loved the rural breakfast spots. He enjoyed these often-crowded establishments where the waitresses called him honey and sweetie-pie and yelled customer orders at the short-order cook who in turn yelled order up while cracking eggs and turning strips of bacon and shifting piles of hash browns on the crowded grill.
He enjoyed the back-chat between the waitresses and the regulars whose orders they remembered through sheer repetition and whose wives and families they knew.
Dad loved to sit at the counter rather than at a table so he could watch the action, admire the efficiency, and eavesdrop on the behind the counter banter among veteran waitstaff.
On our first visit to such an establishment, his bottomless cup of coffee filled for the third time, dad remarked, “Just like in the movies, bring me here again, this is the real America!”
(Waffle House, Columbus Indiana)
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