Sunday Morning Breakfast
---
My alarm went off at 6:15 am. It was Sunday morning and I had to get ready for our Sunday morning breakfast at the Hangar Cafe. It's something K and I do every Sunday. It's our family time. However hectic the week was, Sunday morning breakfast is our time to share and catch up on our lives.
This Sunday morning was different. I didn't hear any activity from K's bathroom, so I opened her bedroom door. She was sleeping as only college students do. I didn't wake her. She needed sleep more than my scintillating, early morning humor.
Thirty minutes later, I was showered, shaved, lightly cologned and lookin' studly. Well, as studly as a middle-aged man can muster at 7 a.m. Yeah, I'm the Man.
I divvied up the Tribune and left the good parts on the kitchen counter along with a note for K. She'd still be asleep when I returned, but I left the note nonetheless.
I threw the weekend edition of the WSJ into the truck and selected an R & B compilation CD called "Funky Love". It's eleven dance songs, some slow, some funky, eliciting love and lust from my junior days. As I eased onto the street, Aretha Franklin eased into her spiritual testimonial about Dr. Feelgood.
I was driving past Arizona Avenue when Marvin Gaye started singing "Let's Get It On". Nothing like getting sanctified on a Sunday morning. Mercy, Mercy, me. Next came Aretha Franklin with "Rock Steady", a jump-up dance celebration that had me moving in ways that are illegal in some parts of Arizona.
She was still pumping when I parked the truck in the lot adjacent to the airfield. I walked through the security gate and saw four private planes parked on the apron outside the restaurant. They had flown in for a $100 breakfast.
To get to the cafe, I walked past the hangar of an acrobatic school. Two guys in slimline parachutes wet diaper-walked to a nearby acrobatic biplane. Both experienced pilots, the student was taking advanced acrobatic training to hone his abilities to get out of a "tight spot" - stalling, spinning, loss of an engine, frozen controls or a bad lunch. Within an hour, he'd be twisting the tiny biplane in the designated acrobatic air box five miles to the East.
Once inside the Cafe, I waved to the owner and waitresses. "Where's, K?", they asked. Lisa, our favorite waitress, made me promise I'd say hey to K when I got home.
The pilots, spouses and friends from the four planes were on the patio. They were a jovial bunch, so I joined them. Within minutes I was sharing the WSJ with those in need and conversation with those who were morning folk like me.
We were roughly the same age bracket, so we talked about our elderly parents, our adult kids and our own lives. Some of the topics were light and induced laughter and some earned shared nods and faraway looks.
It was the same kind of conversations that K and I share during our Sunday Breakfasts, but these were shared with strangers. It wasn't the same.
I guess that's what family is all about.
---
My alarm went off at 6:15 am. It was Sunday morning and I had to get ready for our Sunday morning breakfast at the Hangar Cafe. It's something K and I do every Sunday. It's our family time. However hectic the week was, Sunday morning breakfast is our time to share and catch up on our lives.
This Sunday morning was different. I didn't hear any activity from K's bathroom, so I opened her bedroom door. She was sleeping as only college students do. I didn't wake her. She needed sleep more than my scintillating, early morning humor.
Thirty minutes later, I was showered, shaved, lightly cologned and lookin' studly. Well, as studly as a middle-aged man can muster at 7 a.m. Yeah, I'm the Man.
I divvied up the Tribune and left the good parts on the kitchen counter along with a note for K. She'd still be asleep when I returned, but I left the note nonetheless.
I threw the weekend edition of the WSJ into the truck and selected an R & B compilation CD called "Funky Love". It's eleven dance songs, some slow, some funky, eliciting love and lust from my junior days. As I eased onto the street, Aretha Franklin eased into her spiritual testimonial about Dr. Feelgood.
I was driving past Arizona Avenue when Marvin Gaye started singing "Let's Get It On". Nothing like getting sanctified on a Sunday morning. Mercy, Mercy, me. Next came Aretha Franklin with "Rock Steady", a jump-up dance celebration that had me moving in ways that are illegal in some parts of Arizona.
She was still pumping when I parked the truck in the lot adjacent to the airfield. I walked through the security gate and saw four private planes parked on the apron outside the restaurant. They had flown in for a $100 breakfast.
To get to the cafe, I walked past the hangar of an acrobatic school. Two guys in slimline parachutes wet diaper-walked to a nearby acrobatic biplane. Both experienced pilots, the student was taking advanced acrobatic training to hone his abilities to get out of a "tight spot" - stalling, spinning, loss of an engine, frozen controls or a bad lunch. Within an hour, he'd be twisting the tiny biplane in the designated acrobatic air box five miles to the East.
Once inside the Cafe, I waved to the owner and waitresses. "Where's, K?", they asked. Lisa, our favorite waitress, made me promise I'd say hey to K when I got home.
The pilots, spouses and friends from the four planes were on the patio. They were a jovial bunch, so I joined them. Within minutes I was sharing the WSJ with those in need and conversation with those who were morning folk like me.
We were roughly the same age bracket, so we talked about our elderly parents, our adult kids and our own lives. Some of the topics were light and induced laughter and some earned shared nods and faraway looks.
It was the same kind of conversations that K and I share during our Sunday Breakfasts, but these were shared with strangers. It wasn't the same.
I guess that's what family is all about.
---
posted by Mike Chandler | 3:21 PM
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