Our Cherished Memories of Youth Connect Us to Those We Love
Some family traditions leave a lasting imprint on our hearts
I recently enjoyed lunch with an old high school friend — one of those rare individuals I’ve stayed in touch with throughout the forty-year span of time that separates me from my adolescence.
As Ronnie and I reminisced about growing up together in a small town, he asked me if there was one special memory from my youth that stood out from all the others — one that, given the opportunity to relive, I would choose without hesitation.
Instead of feeling overwhelmed with the challenge of selecting a single experience from an overabundance of possibilities, his question stirred a whisper from the past, a memory wrapped in a magical sense of wonder. It took me back to a time before dating and school dances, before peer pressure made friends the preferred companions over parents — a time when I was my dad’s little girl.
My father often held two jobs, taking on additional work to keep food on the table and make sure the mortgage was paid. It left him with few opportunities to spend time with me, and yet he still found a way — every Saturday morning.
Getting up early to eat breakfast out with my father had become a Saturday tradition.
Waking up at six-thirty was definitely not my idea of the perfect way to start the weekend, but my dad would always ask. And knowing how much it meant to him — to spend that hour together — I would go.
He’d always take me to the same place, a popular little restaurant with cracked stucco walls and faded yellow paint. The unpaved parking lot added its own flavor to the culinary experience, generating a dust cloud with each new arrival and departure.
Outside, the thick, sweet aroma of cooking grease laced the air, and although I was still half-asleep, it was hard to ignore the drifting hints of crispy home fries and fresh hot donuts.
It was a busy place, with plates, glasses, and conversation shuffled back-and-forth across faded green tabletops pock-marked with burn craters from forgotten cigarettes. In the back corner, an old Wurlitzer filled the smoky air with Hank Williams, Tennessee Ernie Ford, and Tammy Wynette. The waitresses often joined in on the chorus as they swished in and out of the kitchen carrying eggs and bacon, stacks of pancakes, and homemade pie.
We’d always sit at the counter.
Perched on a backless rotating stool, I’d lean over the speckled beige Formica — still wet from the last wipe-down — and sip milk while watching my dad drink coffee from a thick-walled brown mug.
I knew the menu by heart. Typed on a half-sheet of light yellow paper and slid vertically between two pieces of stitched plastic, the only thing that ever changed was the prices — and then only by a nickel or two at the most.
My father would order two eggs, over easy. He liked the yokes runny. I never heard him order anything else. I usually asked for the same, but well done with hash browns and toast. The bill came to a buck seventy for both of us. After paying the tab, he’d slide the thirty cents change under his plate, even though he said a quarter would have been plenty.
While we sat there, he would talk to me.
Sometimes he told me about his job and the people he worked with. Other times he talked about the changes he planned on making around the house. Nothing major, a new rose bush to replace the one that died or trying a different trim color on the garage door.
And while I’m sure there were times when he struggled for the right words — words that I would understand — I always listened.
I remember lots of conversations going on around us, and occasionally I’d overhear someone say how cute it was to see a father taking his little girl out to breakfast. And more than once, I heard a shallow or misguided comment about how my dad “probably wished I had been born a boy.”
But it never bothered me, because I knew better.
There was something special about the bond between us.
Something so special it was difficult for him to express, at least in a way that would make sense to a ten-year-old.
So he tried to show me how he felt by taking me to breakfast on Saturday mornings. While most of the other men in the restaurant sat with their sons, he proudly sat with his daughter. And when he introduced me, he did it with a strong voice and a ring of pride that was obvious — even to me.
We shared that hour together every Saturday, until I turned thirteen and decided it wasn’t “cool” to be seen with my parents in public. What would my girlfriends think? They certainly didn’t go out to breakfast with their fathers. So I became a teenager — not rebellious, but wanting to fit in — and like most of my generation, I succumbed to peer pressure.
I think my dad knew it would happen eventually.
He realized I was growing up, and soon I’d find other interests — other distractions I would find more interesting and more important than spending time with him on a Saturday morning.
And when it was time, he let me go.
Long after I had left home and married, he continued to eat breakfast on Saturdays at that little restaurant. Even after all these years, I still think about those mornings when he ate alone, surrounded by other men — some who probably still sat with their sons talking about football, or the grandchild that was on the way, or which brand of beer to bring to the picnic.
And I wonder if, just before he left the house, he took a moment to look into my room and stare at the empty, perfectly-made bed and silently ask himself: Is she okay? Does she need anything? Is this the day she’s going to call?
The old restaurant is still there. My dad is not.
And so, Ronnie, there is one memory that outshines all the others. More than any Christmas or birthday, more than any other celebration of my youth, I cherish an early Saturday morning ritual, when my dad and I sat side-by-side on wobbly bar stools and ate an eighty-five-cent breakfast — together.
Because no matter how many years he’s been gone, or how old I become, I’ll always be my dad’s little girl.
Until next time,
Coming up in the next issue:
The Release of The New Girl in Town is Only Three weeks Away! And getting closer …
In case you missed the previous story …
Jaye Frances is the author of the suspense thriller trilogy World Without Love. Her other published works include The Beach, The Kure, and Love Travels Forever. Jaye’s newest book, The New Girl in Town, is scheduled for a summer release. Look for Jaye’s books in eBook and paperback from Amazon.