Whenever we take a road trip, Max and I enjoy stopping at local diners for at least one meal in the places where we stay overnight or longer. If you want to truly experience the local color of a place, look no farther than a local diner. No two are alike, and that is one of their joys.
It is late morning when we arrive at Pearl’s Diner after our first night in Hocking Hills, a beautiful state park and national forest area in southeast Ohio. It’s nearly eighty degrees outside when we drive up to the little diner situated in a strip mall. There is only a small sign over the two plate glass windows, reading “Pearl’s: Cookin’ Like Granma’s” in red letters punctuated with a white chicken caricature at the end. The door stands wide open, and we can see ceiling fans turning inside. It’s only April, and apparently no AC yet. We enter tentatively. A woman is behind the pie counter with her back turned. There doesn’t appear to be anyone else working. Rosalyn (not her real name) is the only waitress.
“Have a seat wherever y’all want!” she hollers across the mostly empty tables covered in red and white checkered plastic tablecloths. She wears her brunette hair up in a clip and is dressed in body hugging black knit shorts and a Pearl’s Diner red tee shirt, which stretches over multiple tattoos on her neck and arms. I notice there are tiny beads of sweat on her forehead. I jump a little when she half shouts , “Mornin’! ” and lays two menus before us. Another couple arrive and take seats at a table almost directly across the room.
“Hey, Gail! Hey, Jim! I’ll get with ya’ in a little bit. I gotta see to this table first.” She takes our orders, turns, and sways back to what must be the kitchen.
Before long she returns to the other table bearing a whole coconut cream pie. I hear her say, “Jim, before I box this up, should I cut your pie into eight pieces? Or would four be better for ya since I know yer tryin’ ta lose a few pounds!” Jim rolls his eyes and Gail laughs.
Above their table is a wall cluttered with all types of mementos, mostly photographs of kids, probably belonging to the mysterious diner matriarch Pearl, or to Rosalyn, other diner workers, and local families. Crayon artwork pops up here and there among the photos. A sense of loving someone dear shines from that wall, representing most of an entire small Midwest town. I twist myself around to see what’s on the wall behind me. The same kinds of remembrances, including a large paint-by-number scene of autumn trees and two completed jigsaw puzzles of faded flower bouquets. They start up the wall at the old pine paneling halfway and reach as high as someone’s arms can pin, tape, or nail.
I watch Rosalyn bring five plastic bottles of water to a family sitting two tables away. They look surprised when she sets one down in front of each of them. “After the water main leak and the boil order from yesterday, all we can do is hand out bottled water. So I went over to the Walmart and bought all these up. Good idea, yeah?” They all nod and thank her almost in unison. She presses her forefinger into her cheek and demures, “Hey, I’m a waitress only because Miracle Workers isn’t a job title.” The table laughs as she turns and heads to the kitchen. Rosalyn is a definite presence in the room.
I’m having a good time taking in everything when she finally brings us our breakfast. “Two eggs over easy with a side of bacon” she announces as she sets a plate in front of me and pours more coffee in our mugs. My mug says, “Mama needs her coffee” (which is true!) and has butterflies on it. Max’s has a large photo of a bright red and blue dump truck on one side. The other side reads, “Little K: You holler, we’ll haul’er!” and includes a phone number. Rosalyn apologizes for the wait and sets our plates down. “No problem at all,” I say. “It’s been fun just sitting here watching everybody, and, I admit, listening to you!”
“Well, honey, it’s my mouth. I just can’t hold it all in. It’s gotten me in trouble more than one time! ” She hunches her shoulders towards us as though about to divulge a secret confession. “Almost lost my job once because of it.” And she sashays toward the open door to direct more customers to seats. The place is filling up, and it’s getting warm. We pay our check at the register a short time later to a young girl who tells us to have a blessed day.
The next morning, early Saturday, we locate the other popular diner in town called M&M’s. Google helps us wind our way to downtown Logan, a mostly deserted main street not unlike many in small towns across the country. We see maybe two or three cars parallel parked on either side and observe the neon orange “Open” sign in the window. We step from the car and jaywalk across the street. There is no other human or moving vehicle in sight to object.
As we step inside, we are immediately awash in red, gray, and white. An Ohio State Buckeyes display of souvenir merchandise almost prevents anyone from stepping farther into the dining area. There are stuffed bears and other little creatures in red, gray, and white; red, gray, and white megaphones, beads, socks, tee shirts, and pompons; red and gray mugs, plates, and glasses; goofy sunglasses and ball caps, plus too many other kitschy things to list. A tall, large, quiet young woman with shoulder length brown hair sneaks up and shows us to our seats, sets down two menus, and walks away. She seems shy. Meanwhile, three or four more tables of travelers and locals arrive, and soon the noise level shows signs of busy-ness.
It’s then that Molly (not her real name, either) walks in from the kitchen, a moving, talking Ohio State display herself. From sprayed stiff bright red hair to her red lips, white and grey tee, and red shorts, Molly is a sight.
“Have you had time to look at the menu?” she smiles widely and asks. We have, and so I order “Eggs over easy with a side of bacon, please,” and we settle into our mismatched dining chairs and table adorned with more Buckeye colored decor. Now we can look. This diner is filled from floor to ceiling with collectibles everywhere, beginning with a hard to miss stockinged leg lamp from A Christmas Story, prominently stationed on a half wall divider in the middle of the floor for all to see. Dolls, stuffed toys, photos, spoons, framed needle work, ball caps, mugs, wall clocks, ceramic blue birds—only a few of the hundreds of items either hanging or somehow resting on the four diner walls. Molly returns with our breakfast (really good bacon worth returning for) and gently sets the plate carefully before us, trying not to bend, and then places her hand in the middle of her back.
“I’m Molly, half of M&M diner. Are you from around here?” She smiles big, her bright red lips outlining her very white teeth.
“No, we’re from West Lafayette, Indiana, Purdue country.”
“Oh, I’ll have to think about that, but I guess we’ll have to forgive you for it!” she teases. I earlier overheard her say the same thing to a table of IU fans. Then she places her other hand in the middle of her back too. “This is my first day at work since my back surgery. I don’t think my doctor would like it, but I really need to be here. It’s good for my spirits. And I’m tryin’ to not overdo it.” Then she catches herself. “Hey, I don’t mean to keep you. Enjoy your breakfast and I’ll check back later,” which she does, and checks us out at the register. She wishes us a good remainder of our stay and truly blesses our safe drive home.
This is the last day of our trip, and there are no more diner stops. We’ve been to others around the country, and each one is a chance to be with ordinary folks whose stories might differ in location but are essentially the same no matter where we go. People with pride in their hometowns and businesses they have worked so hard to build and keep alive. People who might be busy but who will take time to share their lives and are sincerely interested in learning the same from you. People in pain, people who are tired, or people who can make you laugh. People with troubles and others with joy. People named Molly or Rosalyn who call you “Honey.” And people who invariably will somehow bless you before you leave.
Human connections are made in places like diners. Sadly, there are fewer and fewer of them, finding competition with fast food places too threatening for some to stay alive. If only we all could sit down every now and then with strangers over a red and white checked tablecloth, drink a pot of coffee, and share two eggs over easy with a side of bacon…please!
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