THE SIGN IS ROLLED AWAY

 

Tomato Aspic. Cranberry Pecan Jello Salad, Carrot Raisin Salad, Cucumbers and Tomatoes, Fruit Salad, Tunafish. Sliced Roast Beef with Au Jus. Ham. Chicken Tenders with Honey Mustard. Fried Chicken. Friday's Fried Catfish. Liver and Onions. Fried Chicken Livers with White Gravy. Baked White Fish. Enchiladas. A few options.

 Lima beans. Corn on the cob. Mashed potatoes with brown gravy. Famous fried okra year round. Brown beans. Turnip greens. Cornbread dressing. Eggplant Casserole. A call for green beans at the window beside the swinging kitchen doors. One of the white aproned cooks comes out carrying, two handed, the giant pot of fresh green beans, delivering them into an almost empty tray on the long steam table. Spinach with chopped boiled eggs. Macaroni and cheese. Hot, Cloverleaf yeast rolls. Garlic toast. Hot water cornbread. Wheat rolls. Chocolate pie. Famous pecan pie. Coconut pie. Reaching in to snag the biggest piece of Egg custard pie. Strawberry shortcake. Green jello.    

For the taking, silver-wrapped slips of butter, lemon wedges, Half & Half pods for the mugs of hot coffee. Glass tumblers full of iced water and iced tea, condensation dotting the sides. 

Step inside the curtained glass foyer, welcoming with outdoor lamps like stepping onto a neighbor's porch. Benches for sitting out the long line or meeting your favorite crew. Walk past the long wall painted with views of Arkansas' hills and meadows. Highchairs with plastic wrapped trays waiting for the youngest customers.

A usually slow walk, peering over people's heads to see what was being dished out that day. Running into your best friend or an acquaintance from long ago. 

Easy favorites and hard decisions. My Daddy's vegetable plate - macaroni and cheese, dressing and mashed potatoes. I have to have the greens and hot water cornbread. Egg custard pie.

Three in my party. Servers carrying trays when necessary, one-handed, snatching up pepper sauce or ketchup from the condiment counter. Sitting under a starry sky or in the larger room with a wall of windows. A favorite spot, four top pushed against the windows. Feast quickly laid out across the table. A cloth napkin. The Beverage Cart Lady pushing seconds and thirds of water and iced tea. A china plate with lemon wedges. An extra napkin.

Four generations of Franke's running the ship since 1919. Cafeterias in Little Rock, Hot Springs, Fort Smith, North Little Rock and Conway. Easter. Mother's Day. Holiday pies for pickup. Sandwiches for the downtown workers. A large to-go order of fresh, hot catfish headed to my home.

One of the oldest restaurants in Arkansas. Just down my road. A family atmosphere. The best visit, the long table in the windowed room, full of family and friends, maybe presents. Young and old.

The Karo Nut Pie was awarded Best Dessert in Arkansas by Zagat's in 2015. Franke's was inducted into the Arkansas Food Hall of Fame in 2018. Delicious, homemade family cooking by scratch, brought local, regional and national attention to the beloved restaurant.  

Since the pandemic and the closing of the last restaurant in 2020, besides the food, I have missed seeing the familiar faces of the people who offered true service. Many worked there for years. All contributed to the experience.  

The sound of helium filling up balloons. Passed out to the younger crowd. Mothers trying to tie the attached ribbons around fidgeting wrists. 

Check out and chocolate mints. Pecan pies displayed for carry out. Easy banter.

Step outside. A little one learns not to let go of the balloon. In a second of release, she sees the balloon drift away. Her mouth opens in surprise. The balloon really is gone, forever. 

THE COMMON COLD IS NOT

 The common cold is not. I'm in my office. Haven't spent much time in here except to check bills and a bank balance. All because the common cold has waylaid me. I have had a whopper of a cold, coming and going for the last nine days. Today is the first day I feel somewhat normal. In this pandemic day and age, Covid symptoms can mimic cold symptoms. 

The worst thing was that Mama was also coming down with the same cold but just barely ahead of me and much worse. When you are eighty-eight this is what happens. Between us, we have three, government provided, negative tests, two doctor visits and one x-ray.

I spent Saturday and Sunday night and most of Monday with her. She moved to town three years ago. By the interstate, I am 12 minutes from her door if she should need me. Well, she has needed me. On Saturday, when she was weak and running fever, I debated taking her to the hospital but how to go? I gave her a strong, prescription Ibuprofen and her fever went down and stayed down. But this is the daughter or son's dilemma. When to do what, when?

On Sunday night, I prayed I would be physically able to take her to the doctor! But she was the priority and we made it. Having to wear a mask while sneezing, not being able to breath and coughing is more than a challenge. But we certainly didn't want to get anyone else sick. I held back in the foyer, coughing my head off, trying not to attract attention. I finally moved outside onto the sidewalk to breathe and suck cough drops. 

We are both much, much better after our antibiotics. She is eager to resume Yoga, Book Club,Skip Bo, Happy Hour and Dinner but I don't want her to rush it. She did forget to play Wordle one day ending her streak. She had bronchitis and I had a sinus infection and the crud. But still, she asked me if this was dying? No, I won't let you, not on my watch.

I have been so sick that I haven't worried about the severe weather all week long (very much), the state of the garage and and other home improvements, Ukraine and Putin, Kent, food, car repairs or friends. Breathing has been my most important focus. It all comes down to being to draw breath through your nose. Such a simple thing in our miraculous body taken for granted but life impacting.

Two boxes of Puff's Plus and a myriad of cough drops, I have survived. Because of my medication, I can take only a scant amount of decongestant or a swig of good cough syrup. 

But I have thought about a couple of things during the blur of hours. Due to my vain nature, even when sick, the color of my hair. Is my hair turning grey or are those just scalawag rogue fake white blondes fooling me among the roots well revealed?

And my writing. I waller in my writing- my lack of production and my lack of gumption. Maybe I can't write anymore, certainly as well, although, as I proceed into my current decade there is no reason to explain except for slothful ease.

Sitting around, watching the endless loop of TCM musicals and B&W I've seen before, I told myself I would get up and writing something. This is an exercise - a start.

This may not be worthy of blogville but I am trying to follow-through with my fevered thought (I had no fever). Whatever the outcome.

Now I have written two pages on a grey day. But I can breathe! With both nostrils. Sneezing and coughing is greatly reduced. Taste has come back.

My only regret is not being able to take care of my Mama better. (I did drive over two days ago for my weekly Cat Box Errand.)

She was always the best, most tireless nurse when we were sick which was usually when my Daddy was out of town, in the middle of the night. On night I remember her sitting by my bed, pinching my nose shut so I wouldn't have a nosebleed when I started coughing. The overhead light was on and she had a paperback book in her lap.

If able, I would have been at her apartment serving grape drink - diluted Welch's Grape Juice with fresh crushed ice and sprinkle of sugar. Or her convalescent meal of hamburger patty, green beans, green salad with Green Goddess dressing, a roll and warm chocolate pudding. All depending on if you had thrown up in the last forty-eight hours which would only net a few tablespoons of cold Coca-Cola and four saltines. 

This is the care I would have started with. A freshly spruced-up bed and a pillow for her head. B&W movies she had seen before. 

Nothing is too good. I am taking her lunch today. Food has been an issue. But Chick-Fil-A will keep her going in the right direction. Afterall, when your Mama is eighty-eight, you can never be too caring.