Friends

February 25, 2020 – Friends

         The last few days I have been bumping into quotations about friends and I wanted to share many I have collected with you.

You’re the

FRIEND

Everyone

wishes they had

A friend is someone who reaches for your hand

and touches your heart.

The only way to have a friend is to be one.

– Ralph Waldo Emerson

A good friend knows all your stories –

a best friend helped write them.

Best friend: They know how crazy you are

and still choose to be seen with you in public.

One loyal friend is worth ten thousand relatives.

Euripides – Greek poet

It takes time and loving care to grown an old friend.

A friend is one who walks in

when the rest of the world walks out.

– Water Winchell

A friend is someone who understands your past,

believes in your future,

and accepts you just the way you are. – Unknown

A true friend is someone who is there for you

when he’d rather be anywhere else. – Len Wein

Good friends are good for your health. – Irwin Sarason

Your friend is the man who knows all about you

and still likes you. – Elbert Hubbard

Sweet is the memory of distant friends!

Like the mellow rays of the departing sun,

it falls tenderly, yet sadly, on the heart.

– Washington Irving

A friend is a lot of things,

but a critic he isn’t. – Bern Williams

A true friend never gets in your way

unless you happen to be going down.

– Arnold H. Glasow

My fifteen minutes of fame

February 24, 2020 – My fifteen minutes of fame

          Everyone has their fifteen minutes of fame and I have had more than my share; but the first one was spectacular - top fold, almost full spread picture in the Life-Styles section of The Daily Courier.  That was when the paper was 13 inches wide by 22 inches long per page.  Not like that now.  I unearthed this treasure in a photo album that my Mom (now deceased) kept and in order to preserve it and share it with friends – for a chuckle – I have re-typed it below.

          The article captured my life at the time as a corporate wife who had moved 10 times in less than 11 years.  I also think it captured who I was at the time.  Anyone who knows me will say I am still that person.

          Later, I interviewed Virginia Rucker for a college assignment, she was a delightful lady.  Hopefully, I can scrounge that up for a chuckle or two.

The Daily Courier, Forest City, N.C., Wednesday, December 30, 1987, page 10A

Thoroughness is hallmark of her pursuits

She believes in learning the ropes

By Virginia Rucker

Daily Courier Associate Editor

CHASE – when Terry St. John goes at something, be it hobby or serious business, she does it thoroughly.

          She collects Delft blue china, has a garden filled with exotic vegetables and flowers, does crafts, and she has a computer at her home where she does professional work.

          Her skills, she says, are self-made.  “When I decide I want to do something new I get all the books I can and read, read, read. Then I go by trial and error until I get it right.”

          Gardening is an example of her approach.  When she and her husband, Russell Tobine, were moving to this county, where her husband works with AFA, they chose a house in this community because of its large, sunny lot.

          The resultant garden isn’t just your everyday variety – she has flourishing cauliflowers, broccoli, asparagus, some Chinese vegetables, along with the usual varieties.  Her flowers include many grown from bulbs and on a recent trip to Holland she picked up some new ideas on their cultivation.  She knows the botanical name for what she grows and composting and an irrigation system play important roles in her garden.

          New Englanders by birth – Terry from Massachusetts, Russell from New Hampshire – they like the early spring here.  Up North, “Our early spring lasts two weeks,” she jokes.  “We like the four seasons here and I can get two crops from my garden.”

          Her gardening hobby led to an interest in nutrition, so Terry read volumes on that subject.

          Walls and tables in their home testify to her skills in crafts and sewing (she made the draperies), but her marketable skill is in computers.

          “I am fascinated by them, what they can do.  I love to process words, write 16-page letters.”  She’s worked for business firms, and is currently free-lancing with clients from as far away as Greenwood, S.C.

          Her computer training began in 1978, when she used a computerized typewriter in the office where she worked.  Later she became a Kelly girl, going wherever she was sent and often sent to streamline business operations.

          “They hired me to be awful, to eliminate some jobs, to train people in others.  I got headaches from that job and I saw the lack of morality in some firms – working people for low salaries and knowing that these employees would be fired and replacements would be paid more.”

          But what she does more frequently than anything is move.  It’s a way of life, like her hobbies, and she’s gotten it down to a fine art. “I unpack immediately, put up curtains, pictures, and plant flowers.  “We’ve moved seven times in the last 10 years, and have fun moving across the country, from New England to Kansas City, to Bates City, Mo., Seaford, Delaware, Minneapolis, Minnesota, Wayne, New Jersey, and Hollywood, Florida.”

          “We’ve lived in this county two and one-half years, the longest we’ve ever lived in one place.  We like it here; the people are friendly, Forest City is Americana.  People are the same wherever we go.  I enjoy talking to them in stores, wherever I go.  I’m naturally curious, inquisitive and I learn a lot by asking questions and listening.”

          “There’s no reason for anyone to be lonely, regardless of where they live, in big cities or small towns there’s always weather, flora, fauna and people to enjoy.  You make your own happiness, it doesn’t depend on circumstances.”

          Besides her cross-country moves Terry has traveled abroad with Russell on his job.  They’ve been to Malaysia and returned three weeks ago from Holland where he went on business and she visited the Delft factory and added to her collection of china.

          His company asked Russell if he’d be interested in working in their Malyasian plant, so they went to inspect the place.  “We spent two weeks in Malysia.  Before we left I got books and read about the weather, the food, so I’d know what clothes to take, what food to expect – no cheeseburgers in Malaysia.  The trip (with stops in Singapore and Hong Kong) made me look at this country differently; it would be good experience for everyone to go abroad after high school to see the freedoms we enjoy.  We don’t have to have a license to move, we can have telephones, televisions, cars, freedom to speak, to criticize government officials.”

          Independent by nature, she’s retained her maiden name and is proud of the fact that she’s made her own way since graduation from high school. “My parents taught us to work for what we had – we appreciate things more if we earn them.  Nowadays young people expect their parents to give them a car on their 16^th birthday.  I remember I worked for more than two years to buy a car and pay for it myself.  I remember what that car meant to me."

Boston Brown Bread

February 20, 2020 – Boston Brown Bread

         I put out a request for something from my New England.  New England food runs deep in my psyche – maple syrup tops the list, next comes Boston Brown Bread.

         Recently I went on a “hunt” for B & M Boston Brown Bread along with the B & M baked beans that come in a cute little squatty jar at my local grocery stores.  In the last 10 years we’ve lost a few grocery stores and are basically down to three stores now.  I didn’t find brown bread in a can.

         Occasionally, I find the squatty jar of B & M baked beans and add one to my grocery cart to keep my pantry stocked.  But, I haven’t seen any brown bread in years.  [I think it is a case the manager of the store has to come from New England, or they don't stock it.]

         But, alas, I have had a hankering and I put out the word to my best friend, my brother, Ken.

         You see, he still lives in Yankee land, in Massachusetts, and he laughed at me, but he does remember that just about every Saturday night as kids we had hot dogs and beans with B & M Brown bread from a can.  Mom would hot water bath heat it then open the can on both ends. The bread would slip out and she’d slice ½ in to ¾ inch slabs of it.  It was so hot and moist and a pat or two of butter melted easily into the dark rich bread.  YUM.  And, the fragrance of it, always warranted a raccoon sniff [see my blog: November 4, 2016 ]

         I even remember Mom making brown bread from scratch every once in a while, which is an art form in itself.  You start with an empty coffee can, something that you can’t really find these days in 2020 because most coffee is now sold in plastic bags or K-cups.  I will have to look for a suitable metal can so that I can try my hand at it again for nostalgia’s sake.

         Yesterday my brother, Ken, said he was at the post office sending me my CARE Package [I guess he didn’t know that he would need to do this service for me since Mom has passed away.] My mouth is watering with anticipation.

         At the post office, he was chatting with the postmaster and said he was mailing some Boston Brown Bread to his sister.  The postmaster said, “Yeah, I have to send it to my relatives in West Virginia.”

         It is a small world, they both had a chuckle about sending the taste of New England to distant relatives.

         

         Meanwhile, if you are curious about what I am raving about, below is a link to an article about B & M Brown Bread, still manufactured in Portland, Maine.

https://newengland.com/today/food/new-england-made/bm-brown-bread-in-a-can/

         If you want to try to make it yourself, the above link has an additional link to “Granny’s Brown Bread”.  The recipe I have for Boston Brown bread comes from The Fanny Farmer Cookbook by Fannie Merritt Farmer, and uses one cup sour milk or 7/8 cup sweet milk or water instead of the sour cream listed in Granny’s Brown Bread recipe.  Either recipe – you have to devote 2 ½ to 3 tentative hours to the process.

         If you think you haven't that kind of time, ask a friend or relative who lives in New England to send you a couple of cans.

Book notes: Failing Forward

February 19, 2020 – Book notes:  Failing Forward

        

         Failing Forward, Turning mistakes into stepping stones for success by John C. Maxell is the topic of my blog today.

         When I read a “self-help” book, from the library, I take notes in the form of an outline or copying out entire passages. I am especially fond of quotations.  This book created a treasure trove of quotations and ideas as well as my own thought process of what I had failed and why.

         If you are STUCK – I suggest you obtain this book – either purchasing or finding it at the library and give it a read.  It makes you think and gets you revived up for action to take control of your life.

         Sometimes we just need a reminder or a kick in the pants – this book should take care of that need easily.

Here is a sample:

“In life, the question is not if you will have problems, but how you are going to deal with your problems. If the possibility of failure were erased, what would you attempt to achieve?

The essence of man is imperfection. Know that you're going to make mistakes. The fellow who never makes a mistake takes his orders from one who does. Wake up and realize this: Failure is simply a price we pay to achieve success.

         This book is crammed with quotations and the last two days I have been transcribing my notes.  The quotations are just as meaningful and viable today as the day I jotted them down. 

         When I was checking on the availability of this book online so that I could reference it properly, I noticed a website entitled: Failing Forward Quotes.

        

         If you’ve had failures, are working diligently, and getting nowhere, or need to get to the next level in your career or personal life, I suggest you read this book.  To entice you to read the book – go to the link below.

         If you need a reminder of the inspiration you received from previously reading this book – visit the website below to recap some the best quotations about failure, perseverance and the road to success.

         If you just love good quotes – this is the place to read, admire, and pass these timeless gems along.

https://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/614412-failing-forward

Wedding anniversary – 42 years

February 18, 2020 – Wedding anniversary – 42 years

“Continuous effort – not strength or intelligence –

is the key to unlocking our potential.”

– Winston Churchill

         Forty-Two (42) is awesome when you attach it to how many years one has been married.  It sounds impressive when you remember what was said when you were age 23 and just getting married for the first time.  Well-meaning friends (?) said things like, “I thought she’d never marry”, “Better late than never,” and my favorite one, “It won’t last.”

        

         I am delighted to say, I’ve proved them all WRONG.

         I had a handful of girlfriends at my wedding, the majority were already divorced, and I made sure that all those divorced gals were in the pack when I tossed my bouquet off the back step into the snowy night. Liz Wasel, unmarried, caught it. Of course, I, the bride, cheated,  I tossed it directly at her.

         Liz married a few years later and had a successful marriage except she died leaving a grieving husband who had been a widower when they had met and started dating.  Her husband was more than heartbroken losing a second wife.

         When I reflect on my wedding, I reflect on the perplexed look on Liz’s face when she caught the bouquet.  I read it as, “Yeah, get married, to whom?”

         Marriage is difficult – it is give and take and not everything in life is fair.  Sometimes you have to take the back seat because someone else is making the ‘serious money’ paycheck and you are just the dingy floating along the wicked sail of life. You are still having a great time, but sometimes it bruises your self-esteem.

         Over the past 40 years, I have met many new divorcee’s and old divorcee’s as well as those just engaged and those that have become sudden widows.  Each has their own story to tell and I sometimes don’t grasp it, like they can’t fathom my marriage story.  Mine is 42 years of twists and turns; ups and downs; sadness and delight, and it is not yet done.

         With intimate friends, I jest sometimes about my marriage saying, “It is a death struggle” [with a chuckle], a phrase my husband and I have used affectionately over the years because we do scream and shout and argue. I sometimes stomp my feet and toss my hair for effect, as well.

         We have to blow off the steam and move on.  At least shouting and screaming we both know who doesn’t like what and we can make amends and improve our lot, our situation, and continue to cleave together as one.

         I love giving advice when asked about a happy marriage or a long marriage, I answer as follows:

         The first key is: Always make sure you have toilet tissue in the house.

         The second key is: Acquiescence

         Then add: Continuous effort

In memory of Elizabeth Wasel Stockwell

1955 to 2004

Liz, I still miss you.

        

Writing Group monthly essay.

February 17, 2020 – Writing Group monthly essay.

Below is February’s project.  We were given the bolded first line.

It was love at first sight, as I remember.

         My Mom always said, “comparison shop, you never know what you are missing, if you don’t go out and look at all that is available.”

         The first one was cobalt blue, big and shiny. It was both functional and pretty, but too pricey for our needs.

         The next one, was shiny black with awesome tires. I circled it slowly and paused to kick a tire. Isn’t that what one does to work-horse type tires?  It was rugged, more suited to a construction worker, and not what I was looking for.

         Then, I spied a compact model.  I ran my fingertips lovingly across the red enamel paint job.  I admired its sleek lines.  I took it for a test drive, a couple turns and twists. It would be most satisfactory.

         My husband asked, “Are you sure this is the one you want?”

         “Yes, yes definitely.”

         Paying for it my thoughts turned toward spring days of sun, of the soft breeze on my face, of breaking in my brand spanking new red wheelbarrow.  

180 words

The Pantry – “To pantry or not to pantry.”

February 16, 2020 – The Pantry – “To pantry or not to pantry.”

         Back in 1985, I’d just moved to the South when I was at a new friend’s home, and she blurted out, “I’ve nothing in the house to eat.”

         I didn’t believe her. “Of course you do,” I said, thinking everyone has staples in their pantry. I could empathize that one doesn’t always want to be creative and come up with some mundane meal made out of the staples in the pantry, but that is what a pantry is all about.

         “No, I absolutely do not have a thing, come look if you don’t believe me,” she said and she jumped up and led me to her kitchen where she swung open overhead cabinets and lower cabinets, “no cereal, no canned goods . . .” her voice drifted off.

         I was stunned and speechless for once.  It was only at that moment I understood the depth of her situation, her quandary, her angst.  I’d personally never experienced a completely bare pantry.  That moment stuck in my memory – closer to the surface than it should have – for years – even now when I straighten up my pantry or pull out everything and wipe down the shelves – that dramatic scene plays out in my head.

         Was it just an economic thing or a regional thing. I have mulled it over for years. I was one of three children in a lower wage household and there was always something in the pantry. 

         In the North in the wintertime, in the 1960s and 1970s you have to set back things because of sudden storms. Canned beans, tuna, chipped beef, egg noodles, rice, or elbow macaroni.  Also, there was the produce from the previous summer garden, such as, the stewed tomatoes, canned green beans, or canned peaches.

         Last evening, my husband was wandering around the kitchen opening the cabinets searching for a snack.  He opened the dry good staples cabinet and turned his nose up at his Ritz crackers, then he opened the canned goods lower cabinet and gave it a purview.

         “What are you looking for,” I called out and then added, “Supper didn’t fill you up?”

         “No, I’m still hungry,” he paced once more around the kitchen and popped open the container of croissants on the center island to start his snack process.

         He made himself a toasted croissant with my best raspberry jam.

          Mind you, I am the one who will drop the extra $1.50 per jar for top-shelf specialty preserves or jams, and my favorite brand is Bonne Maman, from France. I use the jars as “leftover” containers for the freezer or refrigerator, and especially admire the red and white checked tops.  A quality glass jar that is wide mouth is so useful in the kitchen.

         I buy it to be consumed, but, ‘himself’, my husband doesn’t grasp that they are expensive and he never replaces them with the same quality.  When he shops, he opts for the cheapest store brand.  It irks me – as you can tell – when he mentions, “This is really good cherry preserves or raspberry jam.”  I simply roll my eyes and say to myself, yeah, this leprechaun seems to be the only one who forks out the $$$$ for it.

         That is enough about my petty, perennial domestic dispute about jams, jelly, and preservatives as I am straying from the topic.

         Nevertheless, a month ago, I answered the telephone and it was a longtime friend, Palmer, from the Delmarva area.  We chatted a while and he asked to speak to my husband and I said, “He is out getting cat food, he doesn’t think ahead.”

         I got the biggest guffaw out of Palmer and he said, “Just like the Elaine, she will stop on the way home and pick up only one roll of toilet tissue, me I buy a 12-pack.”

         “I am just like you, I buy ahead on the things we use week in week out, and Russ, he buys the smallest size of cat food and then will run the roads to buy a small one every other day instead of the big one that will last for several days.”

         Palmer ticked off a catalog of items he buys in advance and I added additional items from my perpetual staples list in my head and then mentioned when I scan the discount ads in the local newspaper I make a mental note of the price and if I need to stock up.  He laughed and concurred that he did that as well.

         “You and I are the think-a-headers and Elaine and Russ are just the opposite,” Palmer concluded.

         So, we get to the topic of this blog – “To Pantry or not to Pantry.

         After my husband had his toasted croissant with Bonne Maman Cherry Preserves [the absolute best!] he said, “I am still hungry.”

         “How about a bowl of chilled peaches?”

         “You have chilled peaches?” he asked surprised.

         “Yeah, I always keep a can in the refrigerator.”

         “Where?”

         “Usually on the bottom shelf in the back on the left.”  I got up and went to the refrigerator and fished out a can of chilled fruit.

         “Sorry, this one happens to be pears, not peaches.”

         “That is even better,” came his reply.

         I went to my pantry and grabbed another can of fruit – room temperature – and put it in the refrigerator and then opened the can of chilled pears, dishing them out in my new bowls I’d found a couple weeks ago.

         “Oh, these are good,” he said through the slurps.

         I thought, yes, they are good – for a thinker-a-header wife.

         Note to self:  Straighten up my pantry and take an inventory; make sure I have a back-up of Bonne Maman.

Plan for what is difficult when it is easy,

do what is great while it is small.

– Sun Tzu



Always plan ahead.  It wasn’t raining

when Noah built the ark.

- Richard Cushing



“This is grits” or “These are grits”

February 15, 2020 – “This is grits” or “These are grits”

         I swung the door open to The Skillet and the smell of hamburgers and coffee enveloped me.  Yes, just as I remembered.  It had been years – Five, ten, may fifteen years ago.  Time seems to fly. I don’t remember the last time I’d been in The Skillet.  It was like coming home to a home I remembered all too well, my weekly haunt where I ate lunch, mostly alone, when I worked in Spartanburg, South Carolina.

         Back then, down town didn’t have all those new buildings.  Gosh, the traffic was crazy today, but it was noon time and everyone in all those office buildings was scampering around for lunch.

         There were only a handful of seats at the bar, but there was one table left at the very back and that would work.  I led the way and pointed to the chair opposite me at the big table – seats 4 to 6 comfortably directly in front of the rest rooms.  My husband sat down and looked around.  He had never been here and was surprised that I knew about this place.  I snagged the menu and ordered us ham and cheese omelets with hash browns and coffee.

         “You’ve been here before?”  He asked curiously after he took his first sip of coffee from the old timey ivory ceramic mug.

         “I used to come here all the time when I worked down here,” I answered and then added, “good coffee.”

         “Yeah, it is good coffee.”

         “When did you work down here,” he asked with a blank look.

         I am thinking, YUP, this is his short term memory kicking in, this is the heart operation that caused pockets of lost information. 

         I have been dealing with this for the last eight years.  It is something all spouses deal with when their mates undergo open-heart surgery.  Sometimes it is amusing, but sometimes it hurts.  This time it was an “ouch” because it was proof that his mind had wiped the memory of my legal secretarial career days away as if it was fog casually moped from the car windshield.

         I winched, but tried to ignore it as I should be getting used it.  One day last week, I did lean over and asked him in a backhanded way. 

         “Do you remember the good times as well as the bad times?”

         “Yes, I remember all the good times,” he replied with a soft smile.

         So he knows his memory isn’t stellar anymore and I am dealing with it as best as I can.

         I directed my attention to the restaurant.  Not much had changed.  They had removed the row of booths and turned it into a storage area.  I do remember that the booth seats were shot – we’d sink down deep in them. It was like climbing out of a hole when we would go to leave.  

         A gal I worked with, Stefanie, and I, - OH, what was her last name - it escapes me, used to eat lunch here quite often back then.  I would say, “I am in the mood for a greasy hamburger” and she’d point at me and say, “Skillet!”  The hardest decision was who would drive.  She had a mane of fiery red hair and worked for Duncan and I at the time worked for Phillips and the new associate attorney Smith. 

         I noticed on the back wall of the restaurant was something new to me.  There is a painted canvas of a breakfast plate with the words “This is grits” and “These are grits”.  It made me smile – good old Southern humor.

         I will admit I am late to “grits” as food and must say, on the two occasions I have had ‘Shrimp and grits’ I thought it was mighty fine.

         I picked up a to-go menu so that I could take a trip down memory lane later.  The Skillet has been serving Spartanburg for 70 years. “We hope you return to continue the tradition.”

         Note to self – next time I am hankering for a wonderful burger – drive to Spartanburg and slip onto one of those twirling chrome and red vinyl stools and have me a Skillet burger.

NOTE: Below is the answer to This or These – singular or plural – Jennifer Becton has perfectly answered this vastly debated question. 

Visit her at:

http://bectonliterary.com/southern-grammar-grits/

The Skillet and Morgan's on the Square

February 14, 2020 – The Skillet and Morgan's on the Square

         I was the chauffeur for my husband going to the heart clinic for tests and he could have no breakfast and half way through the tests he had to eat and then return for the final test.  In my mind, I had two possible destinations in mind, one I didn’t think was in business any longer, and my favorite was a perfect destination for a late breakfast – if it was still in existence.



         I used to work in Spartanburg in the late 1980s and not knowing my way around the city on my first day of work, I simply got in my car at lunch time and drove south a couple of blocks and took a left at the second stop light – when I saw the tallest building downtown – a bank building.  I knew there had to be a sandwich shop in town somewhere.

         I ended up on East Main Street and looking ahead several car lengths, I noticed a sign on the right that advertised The Skillet Restaurant with the letters of 

S K I L L E T spelled out in white against a row of individual black silhouettes of skillets.  I liked the sign, it was cute.  I pulled into the parking lot of the small strip of 3 or 4 store fronts, The Skillet was on the left end bordering a busy street.

         I parked and walked in, my kind of place, a place to disappear in a crowd in a new city.  A place to eat alone, without any fanfare, as a stranger. I was immediately comfortable as the door closed behind me.

         It smelled like hamburgers and freshly brewed coffee.  I saddled up to the twirling chrome stools at the undulating countertop between two total strangers and snagged the menu.  The two waitresses were dashing to and fro and one came up to me as soon as I looked up from the menu.  I had a hamburger and cup of coffee – no big decision on my part.  But, the menu had all day breakfast and the thought of an omelet crossed my mind momentarily, but I went with the “safety net” burger because of the smell of cooking hamburgers.

         That first lunch started my love affair with The Skillet.

         When I got back to the new job at the new office, my new boss asked where I’d gone to lunch.

         “The skillet,” I answered.

         He smiled and asked, “How did you happen to find that place?”

        

         “I just got in the car and drove – first thing I came to. I had a great hamburger.”

         I remember from the look on his face and the tilt of his head to one side, I got the impression he expected that someone had suggested it, or that I knew Spartanburg.  But, that side head tilt made me ponder – I still wonder what he thought.  Did he think I was crazy, or adventurous, or would simply make a good member of the team.

         Over my tenure at Butler, Means, Evins, and Browne, the law office in downtown Spartanburg, I, alone or with another secretary would slide off to The Skillet for a wicked hamburger.  It didn’t take long before I’d be eating a hamburger,and one of my attorneys would be across the room having a burger alone or with a friend.

         I had a handful of haunts in town to eat.  Most days, to economize my dress size and my budget, I’d be brown bagging and I would switch between three places.  I’d drive to the railroad depot and eat, or the water park if it was nice and sit outside listening to the fountain or down behind Converse college and watch the ball players practice on the field.  I kept a folding chair in my trunk for that lunch outing.

         Then, when I was spending money, it was evenly divided between The Skillet Restaurant and a restaurant known as Morgan’s on the Square – across from the banking establishment that handled my affairs. On those days when it was clear weather, year round, I’d walk over a few blocks, cash my check, and then immediately cross the street and lunch at Morgan’s on the Square.  It was my every other Friday treat to myself for being employed and commuting over an hour each way for that job.  I would ask for a seat in the corner to watch people and I’d write personal letters to my Mom or friends while I waited for my lunch and afterwards continue to write to kill the rest of my lunch hour.

         All the attorney’s discovered I spoiled myself on payday down at Morgan’s on the Square – it was a pricey lunch – often I would have a glass of Merlot if my boss attorney was not going to be in the office that afternoon.  [I honestly don’t type that well under the influence of one glass of wine.]

         One day, beautiful sunny day, I walked down, cashed my check and had lunch at Morgan’s on the Square.  Half way through lunch one of those sudden thunderstorms that swept the city in the spring or fall – came fast out of nowhere and it was raining buckets.  I paid my bill and I waited to leave expecting a break in the rain in 15 minutes or so.  I paced back and forth inside the front of the restaurant. I had no umbrella and no rain coat. I would have to wait until it stopped raining.  Even if I had an umbrella, in that type of downpour I’d be soaked to the skin before I got half a block back to the office and I was two and half blocks away.

         The oldest attorney at the firm, Mr. Browne, knew about my every other Friday paycheck routine, of luncheon at Morgan’s on the Square.  He asked the office manager, Margie, to come with him to fetched me.  He parked at the front of the building at the curb, of Morgan’s on the Square, and Margie dashed into the building.

         “Mr. Browne was worried about you. Curb service!” she announced as she dropped back her hooded raincoat.

         I was so surprised, I had been debating telephoning the office . . . then thought I‘d give it another 15 minutes.

         Even running from the restaurant to the waiting curbside car and then scampering from the law office parking lot to the back door – all three of us were half-soaked.

         Talk about a fine southern gentlemen – Mr. Bobbie Browne was that.



         Coming from the heart clinic I slipped down side streets I’d almost forgotten and hoped my memory served me well.  I slowed as I drove past where Morgan’s on the Square had been, no – wouldn’t work for my husband.

         Then I took a left turn at the next intersection and heading right for the tallest building still, the bank building, and later turned in at the faded sign.  It wasn’t until I swung the door of The Skillet open that I knew we were at “home” for a late breakfast.