The older I get, the earlier I wake up in the morning. I’ve heard of this phenomenon from many of my boomer comrades, but as a Jedi Master at sleeping in late, I didn’t think it would ever happen to me.
Now, rolling over to see 5:00 AM glowing on the clock is my sweet spot. Staying up late has lost its appeal for me. There’s nothing much happening after 9:00 PM that I can’t stream and watch any time I want to. So it’s early to bed for me.
Thats aid, today — on this cold, dark January Ohio morning — it was no trouble toget up and take the wife to the airport for her early flight to Tampa.
Since turning the clocks back one hour, the mornings are as dark as night. This trip was made more difficult by a heavy, blowing snowfall. Most of us snow belt veterans know how to drive in this kind of weather, but there’s always one idiot in a pick-up truck who sees himself as invincible.
It was one of those storms where everyone (except pick-up guy) was cruising at about 35 miles per hour, flashers on, staying in the one lane with visible blacktop, using the red running lights ahead as reference on the trek. The snow was coming down heavily, and if I clicked my brights on, all I could see was swirling white in front of the windshield — like I was trapped inside a snowglobe that had been vigorously shaken.
Despite these challenges, we made good time, and the wife made her flight with no problems.
My drive back was slow and thankfully uneventful. And once I reached my exit, I saw it — an enticing yellow glow through the heavy snow, about a quarter mile to the west.
Like the lighthouse that guides weary seamen, the glowing yellow squares high above the roadway reach out to hungry, undercaffeinated overland travelers.
It was the Waffle House.
I have never dined there, but I’ve heard the legend — from stand-up comedians on stage and drunken students wandering in at 2:00 AM. It was the only thing open along the highway at this hour, and the warm glow beckoned me to come in. To sit. To get off the road for a little while and let the storm blow through.
I wasn’t sure what I expected when I pulled in. Anthony Bourdain described Waffle House as classic Americana, while Larry the Cable Guy sees it more as “whitetrash” cuisine.
On this blustery, cold, snowy morning, it was up to me to decide.
The parking lot was snow-covered, and I tried to park where I thought the lines would be if I could see them. I grabbed my backpack — not wanting my laptop left out in the cold — and headed inside.
The heavy door was tight with cold and required a hard yank to free it from the aluminum jamb. It came open with a loud, grinding metallic squeak, causing everyone inside to turn and look at me.
Feeling awkward, I said, “Howdy,” to the crew at the counter and stood waiting to be seated.
The interior was brightly lit. I was taken aback by the floor-to-ceiling plastic and tile. Fast food eatery aesthetic is famous for environments that make you want to eat fast and leave. Get your food fast, then kindly get the hell out.
While I understand that whole thing, I’ve never been in a space quite as cold as this.
Yellow.
Red.
Black.
White.
Not an earth tone anywhere — except maybe the waffles.
I was outnumbered five to one. Two cooks. Three wait staff. And me.
I had arrived at shift change, the night crew passing on notes and info to the day shift before bundling up and heading out into the frozen tundra toward home.
A nice young lady named Olive — way too awake and happy — nodded at me and said with a broad smile the words I love to hear:
“Morning,Hon, please sit wherever you like… wan sum coffee?”
Call me a traditionalist, but I love it when a waitress calls me “Hon.” It reminds me of going to diners with my dad. I feel like I’m going to get a good meal and go home happy.
Olive’s name tag was pinned to the front of her heavy pink hoodie. It had four or five oval pins that I took to signify seniority — accomplishment earned over time.
She was missing her top left incisor, but that didn’t diminish her beaming smile. If anything, it made it warmer.
I took a seat in a booth for four by the front window, facing the state route that brought me here.
The seats and table were matching — cold, hard, practical plastic. The gold-flecked pattern embedded in the laminate was long gone except at the edges, worn away by thousands of cleanings before I ever arrived.
There was no wobble in this booth. It was firmly bolted to the polished concrete floor and seemed determined not to let me settle in. Just eat your fill and get back out on the road.
Olive brought a heavy white mug, filled it with hot, average coffee, and looked at me expectantly.
“I’ve never been here before,” I said. “I’ll need a minute.”
She smiled again, slid the pad and pen into her pocket with one smooth practiced motion, and said, “No problem, Hon. You take all the time you need. Let me know if you got any questions.”
I took my time looking at the menu — and I was genuinely confused.
I design menus for a living. This did not compute.
Breakfast “all day” on one side. Lunch and dinner on the other. But none of it followed any logical reasoning.
What the hell is “smothered and covered”?
“Chunked.”
“Diced.”
“Quartered.”
I just wanted breakfast and a little while to recharge. To get warm. Then get back on the road. Not solve a puzzle only club members had the key to.
While I was studying the code, a young guy in a FedEx uniform came in and sat at the counter. Olive knew his order. She gave him a heavy white mug of coffee. They nodded and smiled.
Daily ritual complete.
A few minutes later, a middle-aged guy wearing a logo sweatshirt from the car dealership across the street came in. He slowed his walk and looked at me a little too long.
I’m fairly certain I was in his booth.
He chose the booth two down from me. And although I think it was just as good, he gave me a very clear look of disapproval.
Finally, I decided to be honest with Olive.
I made eye contact. She came over, pad out.
“May I have a cheese omelet and sausage links please…?”
She smiled. Didn’t write it down.
“No links, Hon. Patties.”
Then she turned to the newly arrived cook and delivered the order using what I can only describe as Waffle House sign language — like a third base coach giving the batter signals.
He raised his chin in the universal “got chu” gesture.
All the world was right again.
I turned to my laptop, hot-spotted it to my phone — not wanting to ask about WiFi— and did what we all do. Checked email. Made busy. Looked productive.
That’s when I felt a gust of cold air at my legs and heard the heavy outer door squeak open… then closed.
I looked up.
A very tall young lady entered with her little girl — maybe three years old — in a puffy pink winter coat and knitted cap.
The girl’s mum, whose name I didn’t catch, was a waitress here. The little one’s name was Charlotte.
I know this because everyone in the place yelled “Charlotte!” the moment she came in.
She ran from person to person, lifted into great warm bear hugs by each employee, her giggling echoing off the plastic interior.
The place was getting warmer by the minute.
Charlotte dashed to her seat at the end of the counter just as the cook delivered a plate with great flourish.
And I have to say — spectacular.
Two pancakes, each with the face and ears of Mickey Mouse. A drizzle of maple syrup. One sunny-side-up egg. Toast. Chocolate milk with a pink “bendy” straw that matched her coat.
When the cook set the plate down, Charlotte raised both hands in the air and, with absolute joy, shouted:
“Good morning, everybody, I love you!”
And we all clapped.
Even car lot guy.
I watched her dunk buttery toast into the sunny-side-up yolk, humming and dancing in her chair. Her mum, ever watchful, making sure she ate enough to fuel her day.
All the waitresses doted on her as Mum handled shift details. Finally, Mum hugged her close and said, “Grandpa should be here in a few, my sweet baby…”
Sometimes I see a story that may or may not actually be.
In that moment, I imagined a struggling young man — physically capable of creating a child but not mature enough to raise one. He needed physical intimacy and release. She needed emotional connection, or at least the appearance of love, even if fleeting.
My dad would call that a “sad hit and run.”
I had friends growing up in similar situations. It forces you to see the world through a different lens.
Butt he joy on Charlotte’s face was undeniable. Her voice filled the place with laughter and love.
Maybe it was me assuming she had less because I had both parents and what I considered a “normal” childhood.
She doesn’t know the cooks and regular patrons aren’t family — because to her, they are.
And she is complete.
To be honest, my family didn’t cheer when I came into the room. I don’t think ever.
So maybe Charlotte’s just fine.
No reason to feel bad for her at all.
Hell.
I kinda feel bad for me right now.
I turned back to the window. Across the wide state route, the wind snapped the dealership’s flagstaffs. The stars and stripes. The swallowtail-pennant-shaped Ohio burgee. The Cadillac crest. Halyards taut, stretched to their limits. Snow blowing nearly horizontal.
The raw halogen lights reflecting off snow-covered cars and trucks made the whole scene feel eerie — like the shaken snow globe was a world built for a Stephen King novel.
Olive set my order down with a smile.
I asked for hot sauce.
“Nope, all we have is Tabasco, sorry, Hon.”
So the legendary cuisine sat before me — time to decide if I was Team Bourdain or Team Cable Guy.
My review:
Cold, round, white plastic plate. A cheese omelet in the middle — neither cold nor hot.
The eggs tasted like they’d been pumped from a 55-gallon drum. The cheese resembled the kind squeezed from a plastic bag onto nachos. It looked like cheese. It just didn’t taste like it. Didn’t taste like anything, really.
Two sausage patties on a separate cold white plastic plate. About the diameter of a can of Skoal. Also neither hot nor cold. My instincts telling me they’d been around since yesterday.
The silverware was so thin and light I could have bent it in half with two fingers.
Overall? A meal assembled from ingredients secured by a purchasing department committed to using the lowest bidder.
Maybe if I had ordered it “smothered and covered” with some kind of spicy Appalachian alchemy, things would have improved. But Tabasco sure wasn’t enough.
I looked back across the road and thought about how many times I’ve driven past this place. All the stories unfolding in this small strip of town.
FedEx guy starts every shift here. Hot coffee. City Ham Biscuits wrapped to go.
Car lot guy and his bowl of something drowned in sausage gravy.
Both helping keep the system moving.
But it was Charlotte who made me write this.
While I critique the plastic, the laminate, the place settings and food — it’s her voice I still hear:
“Good morning, everybody, I love you!”
We had breakfast in the same place. Same cooks. Same utensils.
But her critique was joy.
Moving forward, I’ll try to see the world more like her. Celebrate what I receive without comparing it.
I’m also going to buy a small bottle of Frank’s Red Hot and keep it in my pocket.
Just in case.
