Little Rock Family

When I was little, my Granddad Jackson used to take me to the donut shop sometimes. I was told it was because I was very good, but I now suspect it had a lot to do with my parents need for a break from my endless chatter. 

He used to sit in the back of Daylight Donuts in the Russellville City Mall with his buddies. They would chain smoke, drink coffee with heavy cream and tell tall tales. If I went, I got a cake donut with strawberry icing, chocolate milk in a paper carton and the opportunity to stand in the booth next to Granddad and perform. I would tell stories or sing or whatever the old guys found entertaining. This is where I came to understand the value of a good story, 

well told.

My Granddad died almost two years ago. Most of the other old men are gone, too. Daylight Donuts closed. That space is now something really depressing, like a Quizno’s, but I guess people like toasted sandwiches. 

A few years ago, I began stopping in at Starbucks in The Heights in the mornings. There is a group of old men who collect themselves daily and tell lies. No one smokes anymore. They all worry too much about their cholesterol to eat donuts. So they drink their coffee with fat free milk and tell their tall tales. Over time, I was invited to join them. It felt like home.

I didn’t sing like before, but I got to argue with them about politics. I told them stories. Sometimes I took my son with me. They liked to buy him chocolate milk. He would stand in the chair next to me and show them his toy cars or do football referee signs to make them laugh. “Illegal man downfield” was always a big hit.

I have a straight job now, so I don’t get to join them anymore. I make my coffee at home before I go to the office. I miss them terribly, almost as much as I miss my Granddad. A girl needs some old men in her life. ?