I cruised through my old neighborhood the other day and stopped at a cafe at the corner of Grant Road and Country Club Drive. The diner is housed in an old six-hundred-square-foot building.
Cars roared by on the street as the residents of the town of Tucson scurried off to work.
During the early 1960s, I lived across the street. Back in those days, the old building was probably a furniture store or maybe a jewelry shop. I can't remember for sure. I'm sure the restaurant is not on the top-10 list of places to grab some grub, but what it does have is plenty of lovely souls.
As I sipped a cup of hot coffee, I watched the eight workers do their business. One cook was busy dispersing tons of chopped-up potatoes on the sizzling grill while the other cook rolled out the batter that would eventually turn into pancakes as big as sombreros. The waitresses were busy taking orders, and the gentleman, smiling from ear to ear, was handling the dishwashing chore, grinning from ear to ear, as he collected the dishes off the tables and rushed off to the far corner of the building. I took another sip of coffee, and before I put the cup down, one of the eight workers was there, refreshing my java.
They all worked in unison, but what got my attention was how happy they were. They all loved what they were doing. Life is what you make of it. I wasn't in the best of moods when I entered the establishment, but I left there feeling better about the human race. Life's a struggle at times, and I'm sure the employees at the cafe weren't immune to that fact, but if they had their own problems, you couldn't tell by watching them.
During the early 1960s, I lived across the street. Back in those days, the old building was probably a furniture store or maybe a jewelry shop. I can't remember for sure. I'm sure the restaurant is not on the top-10 list of places to grab some grub, but what it does have is plenty of lovely souls.
As I sipped a cup of hot coffee, I watched the eight workers do their business. One cook was busy dispersing tons of chopped-up potatoes on the sizzling grill while the other cook rolled out the batter that would eventually turn into pancakes as big as sombreros. The waitresses were busy taking orders, and the gentleman, smiling from ear to ear, was handling the dishwashing chore, grinning from ear to ear, as he collected the dishes off the tables and rushed off to the far corner of the building. I took another sip of coffee, and before I put the cup down, one of the eight workers was there, refreshing my java.
They all worked in unison, but what got my attention was how happy they were. They all loved what they were doing. Life is what you make of it. I wasn't in the best of moods when I entered the establishment, but I left there feeling better about the human race. Life's a struggle at times, and I'm sure the employees at the cafe weren't immune to that fact, but if they had their own problems, you couldn't tell by watching them.
Sure, the place is old. The dishes looked like they came from my grandmother's China cabinet, and I got a kick out of the old revolving toaster that spits out a dozen pieces of bread that quickly end up on a customer's plate.
As I paid my bill, I asked the waitress. "How long have you been working here?"
As I paid my bill, I asked the waitress. "How long have you been working here?"
The waitress quickly calculated her answer, her fingers on the move, and said. "Oh, I've only been here six years; my granddaughter, pointing to the young waitress across the way, has been here 12 years. We all love working here; it is so much fun."
I said to her. "It shows."
I said to her. "It shows."
As I closed the door behind me, I thought to myself. I came in for a cup of coffee and left with a lot more.
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