Sunday breakfast at the Hangar Cafe

November 30, 2003

I arrived at the Hangar Café late this morning, around 8:30 am, for my Sunday breakfast. Not too many vehicles were in the parking lot, so the food would be fast and the company would be older. The two-person table in the back was occupied and I wanted a table, but I realized the waitresses had a short week and needed tips more than I needed space.

The counter was good enough and the short-order cook served my food. From my college days, I remembered my early morning drunk etiquette and left him a healthy tip. When the cook serves you at the counter, he’s your waiter. I guess college was good for my socialization skills.

The northern Arizona sheep farmers began their winter moves to the Valley last month. Some of the flocks lambed last weekend. The smaller fields around Hamilton High School have the frisky creatures cavorting like kindergarteners at a birthday party. I guess wearing your own sweater helps on these brisk 50 degree mornings.

Four cotton farmers were having breakfast this morning at the Café. All were robust men in their late 60’s and early 70’s. They had a table behind me and spoke of this year’s crop and their grandkids. The cotton harvest had ended two weeks ago.

As I paid my bill, one of the men was prepaying for one of his friend’s coffee. The waitress knew the friend didn’t like anyone paying for his food. The man said, “I know that. That’s why I’m paying for his coffee.”

Good naturedly, she said, “I don’t want him coming after me, because you paid for it. Make sure he knows you did it.”

I mentioned to the man that it was nice of him to pay for his friend’s coffee considering the consequences. “You guys must be good friends.” He smiled and said, “Yep. He won’t like it, but I’m gonna do it.”

This morning –

The planes were flying at Chandler Municipal Airport.

The breakfasts at the Café were damn good.

And a friend’s appreciation for another’s help in bringing in a cotton crop was expressed by a cup of coffee.

Enjoy your day.

www.airnav.com/airport/KCHD
Bird's Eye View
Review of Hangar Cafe
What it looks like inside and out

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Where's Waldo

1980

It was a place that didn't exist. The building looked abandoned. The first floor was grimy and filled with long-discarded heavy machinery. You could peer inside the windows and quickly become bored. The top floors had broken windows and open freight doors.

The surrounding buildings also looked abandoned.

I entered my building from a secured rear entrance. The path to the entrance was narrow, weed-filled and uneven. You focused your eyes on the ground, especially in winter. When you followed it to the left, a long-discarded masonry debris heap forced you to quickly side-step into a small, blind courtyard. Then, you saw the Marine.

Thoughts of a father accepting his two-year-old daughter's deafness

6/23/86 Tempe, Arizona

Often, I meet no one as I bike the canal to my gym. It's probably the time of day that I ride. It's 7 p.m. and many people are recovering from dinner and the news. The solitary runners I do meet will wave and continue on, as do I, both of us quickly returning to our thoughts. Mine are reflective and mostly about the day's events. After awhile, the day and its problems are solved or forgotten.

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Canal Snapshots

It's quiet along the canal at dusk - couples stroll by and nod hello, followed by runners checking their pulse. The runners quickly wave as they pass. The birds feeding on the banks hardly move for our presence. A family of ducks uses the canal's currents to find quieter areas.

The heat from the packed dirt path mixes with the evening temperature to make bicycling a canonizing act. Once in awhile I get lucky and briefly interrupt a cool breeze escaping from the water. It swirls in the evening heat and disappears behind me. The respite is quick and forgotten. The damned heat remains.

A harbinger of seasons is missing from the surrounding area. Sheep and their graze land, once plentiful, are gone. Subdivisions now line the canal. Only a short run of rusted wire fence in a nearby clump of cottonwoods mark their passing. I feel the tingle of childhood memories as I slowly ride by. Foot trails leading to the tiny cottonwood haven show signs of children's play. They, too, have found a respite.

The next mile is filled with romps and discoveries as I remember my youth. Captured times quickly flicker, leaving me awash with unresolved endings and forgotten faces. The days of summer woofle-ball and neighborhood friendships are replaced with present day thoughts and responsibilities. I begin pedaling faster.

The spillway signals my turnoff. I hear its roar above the traffic. I begin a slow stop in the canal road gravel. I patiently wait for a lull in traffic, feeling the sweat run down my legs and pool in my shoes.

The drivers play with bicyclists out here, so after several false starts, I cross the road. My canal is left behind.

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The Railroad Tracks : Listening to My Parents

As a young boy of eleven, I learned to have fun near the railroad tracks. The Chesapeake and Ohio railroad company (now CSX) generously offered their land to me and my buddies as our private playground. We humbly accepted.

The tracks were gloriously located at the end of my street. Within minutes, I could jeopardize my life and the lives of many of my friends. Oh, the glory of being free.

My parents said the tracks were off-limits. In case I, their idiot savant son, didn't understand their reasoning, they included a death penalty clause. (If only I could have comprehended their language!) The tracks soon became my preferred hangout.

My buddies and I would walk the tracks, discuss life and discover the nearby marshes, creeks, abandoned shacks and Civil War redoubts.

It was in this nurturing environment I learned the ways of the firecracker, cherry bomb, ash can and the true M-80. It was the early sixties and America was proud to allow their boys to experiment with explosives. Ah, freedom. It mixes so well with young boy stupidity when a destructive device is nearby. Vive la Liberte!

While mentally obtuse in many areas of school, I quickly learned the patois of ze railroad track and the proper response to a railroad guard's query. The time to start running is right around the "E" in ... "HEY, YOU!"

I was never caught, but I did change my underwear a few times.

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