Beth Volpert Johansen
Sunday mornings are sacred in a number of ways. Some go to church, some don’t. However bread is broken, it is still sacred. I know this because my dear friend and minister, Dana Worsham says so. Consecrated or not, the breaking of bread with others is a communion.
Nearly every Sunday morning, if the weather is good, I situate myself behind my husband on the back of our Harley-Davidson Road King. The early morning light filtering through the leaves and pine needles warms my upturned face as I ride- arms wide. It is a freedom.
Our destination is always the dining room at Sisters Restaurant – just south of Loganville, GA. The place is attached to the back of Jerry’s Corner Store and gas and looks a bit like a cabin. Furnishings are NASCAR, Harley-Davidson, and the Natty Champion University of GA BullDAWGS.
When we roll up, we put the kickstand and helmets down next to the other bikes in between the trucks, coupes, and minivans. Sister’s is a place for everyone.
There are a number of characters who frequent the dining room. One fella who wears a well-worn “gentleman’s hat” keeps a pocket-full of quarters just for the children so they can get a gumball on the way out. He’s got a big mustache and looks a bit like a Mario Brother. A group of prayerful fellows meets at another table and break bread together as they discuss how to best serve their eclectic congregation. Mama’s and Daddy’s bust through the door chasing toddlers and gratefully place the baby in the outstretched arms of a waiting Granny. It’s beautiful.
Any given Sunday brings the hum of conversation and the scrape of forks scooping up hashbrowns, eggs, country-fried steak, and pancakes. All this is punctuated by the “Sisters” calling out orders, asking about more coffee, and countless comments that start with things like: “Yes, hon, I’ll get that – Hey, can you? – Yes, lemme put this down and I’ll get ‘em – I got that highchair…” The dining room buzzes like a well-choreographed stage production and we have never seen a grumpy patron.
It was this past Sunday, as the North shared some of it’s bitter cold with her Southern Sisters that traded our motorcycle for a warm and enclosed Highlander. We slid into a space just in time to get a table before the second rush. We like this time because it straddles the early folks’ departure and the later crew’s arrival and is a smidge less-crowded. Plus, we get to see regulars from both waves for a bit of communion.
Just after we sat down (“Y’all sit down wherever hon”), a group of five, all dressed in hunting camo, came in and sat down. The two women of the group were naturally beautiful. One of the gals had decided to leave her camo paint on her face. While it was the paint that first grabbed my attention, it was the smiles on both gals faces that kept it. These gals were genuinely happy sitting at a too-small booth with three burly beards. The whole group recounted their morning hunting describing the woods, the cold, and the kickback of the gun when fired. As the paint-faced gal recounted, with an imaginary gun, how she had pulled the trigger, I thought about how their words spoke of freedom.
There was no doubt in my mind that this crew could survive. But what began to filter through my head was the sound of Hank Jr. singing. Only this time, in my mind, I replaced “Country Boys” with “Country Girls”. It was those women, a generation way younger than me, that gave me hope for what is often portrayed by my brothers and sisters in the media as a hopeless state-of-the-world.
Further, I recalled my grandmother and mother teaching me to make just about anything with flour, an egg, water, and fat. Biscuits, noodles, dumplings, bread…Stuff of survival during uncertain and inflationary times. And I thought about those young ladies who probably knew how to do that too. But what made them special was that, unlike me, they could shoot, skin, process, and cook a delicious cut of meat to go with it. All while avoiding the grocery store.
It made me realize, while I don’t possess the skills to put actual meat on my table, I do have the skills to tell their story. So, I slid by their table on my way out (having fully written the blog in my head 5 times over) and asked them if I could take a picture. I told them I was a writer and that they had inspired a blog. I think they were surprised, but agreed, so I snapped a quick shot before they could change their minds, waved to all the “Sisters”, and headed out the door to catch up with my husband – full of food and the joy of communion with our fellow humans and a reasonable hope for the future.
FreelanceBeth 