Mr. Griffin’s Breakfast

Since I’m not driving in DC unless fleeing zombies, I parked my car in Springfield and got a hotel the night before the Rural Health Policy Institute. The less said about that hotel, the better, but next morning figuring anything would be better than the basement breakfast offered in that Shining-esque place, I googled “best breakfast in Springfield” and discovered it was .5 miles from me.

Healthy walk, early morning, they opened at 7. And apparently the Silver Diner is famous. Seated and served, I watched the cavern full of faux chrome fill quickly. Hipsters in slouch hats talking computers. Two businessmen in skinny ties, clearly having a power breakfast. The twentysomething sliding into a seat at the counter wearing last night’s party clothes, who ordered a mimosa.

Silver Diner in Springfield, VA

The waitress gave him side-eye.

The hostess Juanita was a jovial woman, chatting up the customers and basically covering for the fact that two people in the kitchen and two on the floor were working the whole diner—which probably sat 150 easy.

And I’m sitting there watching the power brokers and the people taking selfies in a famous restaurant and feeling vague existential dread because I have to go to DC and the last time was 2019 and humanity as we know it is way over with since then, and in comes this little old man. Slouching, not in a slouching hat. He waves and the hostess waves back and he walks past the Please wait to be seated sign to sit in the booth behind me.

The hostess brings him a huge mug of coffee and says, “The two biscuits?”

There is a pause. She repeats the phrase, louder, and he says, “Yes please.”

“You forget your hearing aids again?” From the corner of my eye, I can see her put her hands on her hips and give him a playful remonstrating stance, one foot tapping. She is grinning.

I hear a faint mumble that could have been “Yes ma’am” or “What’s it to you” but either way she laughs and walks past me shaking her head.

I tuck into my delicious and complicated Eggs Benedict. The waitress comes around the bar with two biscuits and gravy. Loudly, she enunciates, “Here are your biscuit, Mr. Griffin.”

I hear a plate land behind me. Then I hear contented chewing. But that might have been me.

A few minutes later the waitress passes by, pauses out of my sight line, says, “You done?”

The man mutters something that takes a good ten seconds.

“That’s okay. I’ll be here tomorrow. Just make sure you pay me. I’ll tell Juanita.”

Mr. Griffin has forgotten his wallet. I wonder briefly if he’s poor and they are giving him dignity for breakfast, but no, she laughs and adds, “Everybody knows you’re good for it.”

Exit shuffling slouchy man, looking well pleased with his breakfast. He has a dab of gravy on his jacket.

I thought the edge of the blue Metro line headed into DC didn’t hold much of a community, but I could be wrong. Either way, Mr. Griffin’s breakfast quelled my existential dread. Sweetness still exists.

Little Gold T-Rex

I belong to a group of current and recovering non-profit directors who hang out together on line, offering vent space, advice, and the occasional sharp critique of work, family, and life in general. The group is nicknamed T-Rexes, because they are fierce and get shit done and have awesome roars that strike terror in the hearts of their enemies, but they also have seriously limited reach.

It’s kind of a metaphor, see.

Anyway, one of the highlights of the group is our annual Chriswanzakkah Yule gift exchange. People plan for months in advance to find the perfect presents for this ritual, which has two facets. You can do the holiday of your choosing between Dec. 16 and Jan. 7 (there are myriad depending on your nationality and religion) and/or you can do the Advent Calendar exchange.

Advent also got some face lifts/fractured folklife repurposing. Last year one of the team was going through a tough time, changing jobs in difficult circumstances and moving unexpectedly out of a beloved home due to divorce and family troubles in mid-December. So I made her a “First 24 days in your new home” Calendar, full of silly stuff like a dinosaur pillowcase, some cooking herbs to restart her kitchen puttering, and a stress gun that shot teeny wee rainbow balls. (Fill in your own metaphor.)

For my gifts over the years, I’ve gotten a gin calendar from Beth, a sweet note about being a strong person for others from Joyce, and for a gift one year Ben sent an exquisite antique Blue Ball canning jar. I’ve also had yarn made from leftover saris from a non-profit helping women out of difficult marriages in India. And a small silver T-Rex necklace, which I wore the day I had to stand up to a bully about a sexual harassment policy. And the day I protested a detention center. And the day I wasn’t sure my mom would make it out of surgery. I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me, clutching my tiny silver T-Rex and remembering the group who has my back when the very air feels toxic.

This year, one of the Rexes was told by her husband that he hadn’t signed on for a lifetime commitment to her and the kids, based on the fact that one of the kids would always BE a medically and emotionally needy kid, and therefore he was walking away. And by the way she needed to support him until he changed jobs.

Of course we burned him in effigy, but we also sent her a 21-day Ex-Vent calendar (because it takes three weeks to form a new habit) so she could open the chocolate, jewelry, and practical household tools day by day with little notes of encouragement. After a quick note of thanks to Margaret, the Rex who had sent me the wee silver Tyrannosaur years before, I gave it a kiss and a prayer and packed it up for “Sue.” She sent a lovely note to the group saying how much she appreciated the support.

Amy was the name I drew for this year’s Advent exchange and I handcrafted a calendar of five categories: homemade soap, kitchen herbs from our garden, crocheted cork ornaments, plastic dinos in party clothes, and Really Bad Swag collected from conferences over the previous year. In a quick note of thanks, Amy sent me back a small present: a tiny gold T-Rex necklace in every other respect exactly like the silver one I bequeathed Sue.

When I clutch my little gold T-Rex, I can hear the roars of friends who know me and what I can do–and are counting on me to do it as part of the team, each in our myriad ways fixing the messes in this world, one non-profit director day at a time.