There’s a familiar ache when I drive past Wolfy’s Restaurant, the place where my father met for breakfast for almost two decades with a group of friends they called the Breakfast Club. Seldom did any of them miss their weekly gathering. They were the boys of Ocala High School, class of 1940, give or take a year between them. They became the soldiers of World War II, then husbands, fathers, grandfathers, and, for some, widows. Only three members of the club—who once boasted of 20 men – haven’t succumbed to old age, illness or tragedy.
The back corner of the restaurant was reserved for them with tables pushed together to accommodate everyone. Still, it was tight, so latecomers would squeeze in, elbow to elbow, and steal an extra fork from his buddy.
I had the privilege to be their guest for breakfast once—an honor bestowed only to a lucky few. I think my invitation was secured not because I was Sherman’s daughter, although that probably had something to do with it, but because I was writing a local feature about them. They were in rare form, cutting up and joking with one another for the sake of their visiting scribe. They shared stories of high school pranks, football victories, and life in a small town. Breakfast ended by settling up on the weekly bet—usually about a sports event of some kind. The winner got breakfast paid for and a little extra spending money.
As the years progressed, the club became diligent about their weekly time together. If one member was feeling poorly, someone else would pick him up for breakfast so he wouldn’t have to drive. Only vacations and hospital stays precluded attendance and spouses knew better than to plan something on a Wednesday morning.
And they were there, too, at the funeral of my father who left implicit instructions that when he died, he wanted a special section at the church reserved for the Breakfast Club. They sat together, elbow to fragile elbow, in suits that hung on their wrinkled frames.
I think of my hastily scheduled and infrequent lunches with girlfriends. A quick cell phone call usually confirms lunch. First one who gets to the restaurant orders sweet tea for everyone. Try to get a booth. Four of us will be there. And so we rush in, frantic from the day’s assortment of meetings, school programs, and budding crises. By mid lunch, we begin to subtly check our watch because we have to be somewhere else in half and hour. We always have to be somewhere else in half an hour. So the conversation is clipped, though not economical in spirit. In spite of the mental distractions, we get a lot in. Talk of children, spouses, work, politics, hopes, fears, and the grocery list are sprinkled in between passing the mustard for our sandwiches.
Many of these friendships have now spanned decades, too, just like dad’s club coterie. We’ve gone through college, husbands, babies, jobs, and mortgages. I’m not as good as Dad in reserving a regular spot on the calendar for friends, but I’d like to be.
I wonder what my lunch group will say to one another 20 years from now? The context will change though I suspect the dialogue will be even richer and deeper. Talk of retirement, grandkids, mountain homes, and dreams will layer our time together…if we’re lucky. This much I know I’d like to say to them as we sit, elbow to elbow, in a crowded booth—“Thank you.”