My second job was as a dishwasher at a country café in a small, small Wyoming town. The woman who owned the place was that wonderful combination of country and girl. The kind of woman who can rope and tie a calf for branding in less than 8 seconds but also cries at Olympic Pairs Figure Skating.
She was older and her husband bought her the café because she retired from working the farm. The Senior Center was attached to the café and every day at noon there were a hoard of elderly country folks who would file in and commune over mass prepared meatloaf and potatoes and gross pudding deserts. (I hate pudding from a can.) For some of those people this was the only balanced meal they would get each day.
In the main café at breakfast, people would bring their unsuspecting friends in to try the "short stack" of pancakes. When the server would start to tell them the pancake is the size of a large pizza plate, their friend would shake their head in a knowing way. The price didn't suggest anything unusual but when the pancake was brought out, the unsuspecting friend's eyes would be the size of the pancake. Then realizing they'd ordered two was always a special treat.
The leftovers were scraped into a bucket and fed to the owner's dog later in the day. Any other dog would just look fat and happy but this was a working dog, he needed the extra calories. Table scraps were a necessity.
Of all the things I hated washing, I hated washing silverware the most. There was a lot of it. Even at home, to this day, I wash silverware first just to get it over with.
I never truly appreciated that place until now. I loved it when I was there but just now is the impact of what happened every day making sense.
In the morning, every morning, the owner would unlock the door but leave the lights off. My mom would be prepping for the day in the kitchen and the light from the kitchen provided just enough light to see the tables. They would trickle in one by one. They would sit quietly in the dark and drink coffee.
Most of them were farmers or ranchers. They would gather around the table, the server would bring them a cup of coffee and the unspoken conversation would commence. Every once in a while someone's wife would want to come along, just to see where they went every day. Those days were never as peaceful. Women have to fill the silence. I believe the term that was used to describe their chatter was "hen clucking". The wives just didn't get it.
Toward the end of an hour someone would grab the cup of dice and they would roll to see who was paying for everyone's coffee then they would get up and head off to start which ever chore starts their farming day. The owner would turn on the lights and the café was open.
Later in the morning they were all back around the same table only this time they would talk about their day. This time they might order breakfast. This time they told stories. My favorite was the one they called "the fisherman". He had retired some time before and spent most of his days fishing. He had a full set of false uppers he refused to glue in. When he told his big fish stories his teeth would bobble up and down in his mouth. It was awesome. Every one of those men aspired to be an old fisherman so this man was revered.
Over stories of broken fences and tractors, agreements were made, barns raised, help disbursed. It is where farm commerce happened with a knowing glance and a hand shake. This was a time when people gave their word and it meant something.
I look back at the last few years this venue has been largely silent and realize how much "hen clucking" has distracted me from an important part of the day. The part of the day you don't have to fill with noise. I realize that we all have to have some moments of silence. Maybe to gain some perspective, maybe to reflect. Maybe just to clear our heads. I have been so ambitious that I have forgotten the meaning of Ranch Hand coffee. So this morning in honor of the old fisherman and the farmers and the ranchers, I sit in my kitchen, with the glow of the lamp from the living room peeking around the corner and I am sipping my coffee in silence. Any minute an alarm will go off, the lights will come on and the responsibilities that color the day can begin. Until then I plan not to think. To let there be silence in my head.
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