My alarm went off this morning, just like any other. Typically, I begin each day on the porch, sipping coffee and journaling as I watch the sun crest over the mountains. But this morning was different. I hopped in my truck and hit the road for Southern Kitchen.
I find myself more frequently drawn to this place. You may be surprised at the reason I go. Though it’s good, it’s not the food. It started as a place to go to clear my head, but it’s been the old men that keep me going back.
Huston, Jimmy, Tim, Harry, Mike–the same familiar faces greet me every time I walk through the diner doors. I sit in the same booth, if I can, next to Jimmy and Huston. They all know me by name and ask me how my week’s been. The waitress asks if I’d like “my usual,” the breakfast-special with unlimited fill-ups on coffee. If you come to breakfast often enough, you get called a regular. I suppose you could call me that.
The topics of conversation at breakfast vary from weather to politics, local history to local gossip, hunting and fishing, to real estate. This morning, we talked about how many gas stations used to be in town. “There were at least 14 in New Market at one time,” remarked Huston counting each one. I think these conversations about local history are my favorite. Hearing about what used to be and how we got here provides valuable perspective.
My Papa passed away at 58 years old, one day before my 6th birthday. My Grandfather (dad’s side) passed away at 76 years old; I was 19. I was too young to get to know my Papa before he died. And my grandfather suffered from advanced Parkinson’s disease and lived out of state for most of my life. Our relationship was little more than a few now-faded memories around the holidays. Not having a relationship with them left an indelible emptiness in more than one aspect of my life.
In the spring of 2001, our family moved. I’d hoped we may have new neighbors with kids my age, but that wasn’t in the cards. Instead, there was Bill.
I think it was my interest in mechanics that first connected me with our neighbor, Bill. If it was made of metal, or had wheels, Bill either had it or used to have it, and he could absolutely fix it. One day, while walking down to the river, I saw Bill mowing his grass and decided to walk up his driveway to introduce myself, bravely wandering past the No Trespassing and Beware of Dog signs.
Bill called his old wolf-dog to his side as he shut off his lawn mower and welcomed me. He must have needed someone to talk to because he launched into story after story of diesel trucks, motorcycles, and muscle cars.
Bill’s weathered face was shrouded in a short but scraggly brown beard with touches of gray, his eyes kind. I expressed interest in the gun, in a homemade leather case, on his side. “What’s that?” I asked. He removed the double-barrel .410 shotgun pistol and showed it to me. “You never know what kind of snakes might be out here; can’t be too careful. Some of em’ have two legs,” he said.
To a 13-year-old, he seemed like someone from an old Western novel. I was enamored. Through the years, I helped him with various yard tasks, and in return, he helped me with motorized projects I had. When I bought my first pickup, a 1980 C-10 step side, Bill taught me how to adjust the carburetor. Leaning over the side of the engine bay, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, he reached in and turned the little fuel adjustment screws until it roared with life.
Around this same time, I got to know another man named William. It all started when he hired me to forge some iron hooks to hang his prized antique shotgun collection on the wall of his log cabin. Soon, I found myself, along with my brothers, doing various yard jobs for him. At the time, I was interested in hunting but didn’t have anyone to show me how. Hunting and wildlife management were William’s passions.
William asked if I’d like to accompany him on a hunting trip. What an opportunity! We met early one Saturday morning and rode in his Toyota pickup truck to the Bergton store. We listened to 60s music on his satellite radio. Once there, we had breakfast and coffee, and I listened as he exchanged hunting and fishing stories with the locals. Clean-shaven, hair neatly combed over, dressed in camo, he laughed out loud at yet another unbelievable deer story.
From the store, we put the truck into 4-wheel drive and climbed high into the mountains in search of deer. I’ve been hunting for nearly 25 years, and much of my knowledge is credited to the many happy times I accompanied William to his favorite hunting spots.
There have been many old men in my life. Some are still around, many are now gone, but each one of them has played a formative role in who I am today. The thing that sits with me the most about each of these relationships, about the old man way, is that they do things face to face. In a world full of fast-paced social media, sometimes what we need most is in-person conversation. There is no replacement for eating breakfast with someone your senior, cultivating any wisdom that can be had. It’s nice to be seen and heard in real-time, by men who already made it through the decades. Wisdom is there if you search it out. Sometimes, all it takes is an early morning jaunt to the local diner and a cup of coffee.
“With the ancient is wisdom; and in length of days understanding.” Job 12:12
