As we inched through the airport security line, I seemed to be the only one grinding my teeth. Would anyone have defended me if I’d spoken up to the shirts?
By Garrison Keillor
April 30, 2008 | A cabdriver picked me up outside the Waffle House in Little Rock, Ark., last Sunday and said so sweetly, “I hope you enjoyed your breakfast” — elongating the “joy” slightly and slurring the k in “breakfast” — and I said yes, but honestly, I don’t really associate breakfast with enjoyment. It’s chow. It’s a standardized meal meant to fortify you for the day’s maneuvers and you square your shoulders and sit down and eat it. This particular breakfast was grits, eggs over easy, country ham, and biscuits with gravy, a meal that will fuel you right through 5 o’clock, but enjoyment?
In my parents’ home we sat down to our Cheerios and toast and ate it and conversed in small declarative sentence fragments and jumped up and out the door, and I still do, and that’s why I don’t intend to retire: What do you do after breakfast? Do you have to hang out for hours with other geezers and geezerettes and reminisce about the days when it was fun to fly from place to place — remember? When you walked through the airport and out the door onto the tarmac and up the stairs to the plane, just like Ingrid Bergman in “Casablanca”? I don’t care to.