In my opinion, there are two types of "best days." There are those that stand out because of the events and experiences that fill them - days spent on vacation in exotic locales, those consumed with joyous events like graduations, weddings, and births, days that are memorable for meeting someone who will change your life, etc. However, there are also "best days" that are wonderful for no one particular reason. These days can fall in any part of the week, can be spent alone or with company, and can happen anywhere at any time. Seemingly unremarkable, these are the days that wouldn't make for decent conversation topics, since you'd be the only one to understand and appreciate what made them so great, and yet regardless, you know you'll likely remember them for a long time just the same. Yesterday was one such day for me.
It started by being awoken at the crack of 9 (the latest I've slept in weeks) by Jim, standing over my side of the bed and cooing my name in the tone that usually means only one thing - he wanted breakfast. He suggested we finally try Golden Harvest, the little hole-in-the-wall place we'd been hearing about for months. This place is as famous for its studio apartment-esque size as it is for its creative, abundantly portioned breakfasts, so he thought a Friday morning might be a good time to get in without waiting. After a week of cold cereal and egg white on English muffin breakfasts, something with meat and potatoes did put a grumbling in my stomach. Taking a cue from the streams of sunlight that poured in from between our window blinds, I grabbed a blue cotton sundress, threw my bedheaded hair in a messy ponytail, and we headed out.
A half hour later, we were seated at Golden Harvest, awaiting the arrival of our Mar's Specials. Three eggs (or egg whites, as we'd requested) scrambled with smoked turkey, mushrooms, tomatoes, scallions, and Swiss cheese, with a heaping side of crisp and seasoned home fries and two slices of dry whole-wheat. Basically heaven on a plate at 10:00 a.m. on a beautiful, summer Friday. As an added bonus, we weren't alone. When we'd stepped inside earlier and seen all six (no joke) tables this place housed were full, a lone gentleman sitting at the table closest to the door noticed us and asked if we cared to join him. Touched and intrigued, Jim and I sat down with Other Jim, a retired Grand Ledge resident with a white high-and-tight and an affinity for decaf coffee. Between mouthfuls of the most delicious looking biscuits and gravy I'd ever laid eyes on, Other Jim told us about his children, meeting his second wife (in 1981, and we couldn't tell if he was a widower or not by the way he spoke), and his garden. We, in turn, just sat and listened. After awhile, I got the feeling that Other Jim wasn't the stereotypical lonely old person who just wanted someone to talk to. He was just a sociable man who had no problem sharing a small table and stories with strangers. In that way, he had a lot in common with a young couple whose combined ages likely didn't surpass his own. It was a random, yet nice experience.
After he gave us his address and phone number ("Stop on by anytime and pick up something from my garden!"), Other Jim left and Jim and I tucked into our own breakfasts (every bit as good as everyone promised they'd be). We marveled at the fact that sadly, things like that just don't happen anymore. Diners, even those eating alone, just don't offer up spare seats at their tables to strangers anymore. It's as if people took those cautious warnings from their concerned parents to heart...forever."Don't talk to strangers." Nope, no problem there. We don't trust anyone, we have no interest in anyone outside of our own circles, and we automatically feel sorry for retired old men who just want to tell us about their gardens. "Poor guy...he must be all alone." I feel bad now even having had that thought, but temper this guilt with the thought that many people, especially those our age, likely would have smiled and shook their heads at Other Jim's offer, preferring to wait an unknown amount of time for their own table than to take him up on his kind invitation. Sad, but true, I think.
Perhaps this is part of what makes the morning of June 25th, 2010 the beginning of a "best day." A nice conversation with a new friend over a steaming plate of protein and dairy goodness. What could be better?
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