Good Friday

GOOD FRIDAY

I usually have lunch with my wife on Fridays. She works first shift and I work second, so we only get to see each other either very early in the day, very late at night or at lunchtime. On Monday through Thursday she usually comes home at noon and we chit-chat with each other, watch the news together and maybe share a bite or two. But on Fridays its my habit to walk downtown and meet her at one of our favorite restaurants for lunch. She drives in from work and, after eating, we ride back home in her car. It works out well for both of us. Besides, the restaurant we eat at serves the best doggone fish dinner in town! They deep fry the white fish fillets in a thick cornmeal batter and it comes out of the fryers fresh and hot - crunchy on the outside and flaky and juicy on the inside. Couple those golden fillets with a creamy tartar sauce, fresh-cut fries and coleslaw and you have quite a lovely meal.

But on my walk downtown today I was, for some reason, not thinking about the upcoming lunch, but glancing around and noticing the weather. It had stopped raining within the hour and the ground was still wet, with reflecting puddles here and there and the new spring grass glistening with green diamonds. It's springtime here now in my part of Ohio and the temperature was cool to the skin without being uncomfortable. The breezes were light, the sun was trying to break out of the tattered gray morning rain clouds and it was just about perfect for a brisk walk. As I made my way down the street I was reflecting on how many really perfect days I could remember living through. Ones where it was not too hot or cold, not too wet or dry, not too cloudy or sunny. Where the wind cooled the skin if it was hot or warmed the body if it was cold. Where the insects weren't biting or swarming or stinging and where your allergies weren't a problem, the drink in your hand was wonderfully refreshing and the lady keeping you company was thrilling, willing and oh, so exactly right. I thought to myself not very doggone many! That further led me to realize that a perfect day was not only a rare and unusual beast, but also a very subjective term. Some utterly dreadful days I can remember had been quite nice due to company and circumstances while other gorgeous days had been super calamities because of other company and other circumstances.

But, in any event, today was a good day to be alive, hungry and walking toward a familiar, welcome meal.

As I walked along the block where the restaurant was located I began to smell the heavenly odor of frying fish wafting out of the vent at the back of the restaurant. Along with frying onions, freshly baked bread and several perfumes that trigger exciting memories, frying fish is one of the best things that man can bestow upon a nose. I suppose if you had to live with it for a long time it might lose its allure, but frying fish was my Friday smell and I relished it.

As I walked into the business and sat down at one of the few empty booths, I noticed who was present. Mike, the owner's son and heir-apparent was there, taking some of the drink orders, running register, speaking and joking with a lot of the regulars. I knew our meal would be served quick and hot that day as Mike's presence guaranteed it. The wait staff didn't dawdle on days he was on duty. Pat was there too, Mike's dad. He'd bought the restaurant quite a few years ago and had kept up its reputation as a good lunch spot in our little town's business district. He'd also kept up the legacy of that restaurant being THE fish place on Fridays. The wait staff was familiar also – Gloria the older waitress who'd been there since day-one, Lois the no-nonsense head waitress who could run rings around the other staff and a couple other's who's names I hadn't learned. And, of course Luther was there, bussing the tables and jawing about the local college sports teams. Mike had smiled and nodded at me when I had entered and had delivered our normal drinks without my having to order them, then Gloria had added the napkins and silverware. She knew to wait for my wife to arrive before taking our orders.

I noticed that the usual contingent of Amish lunch-goers was present also, the men's broad-brimmed black felt hats and the lady's black bonnets visible here and there, the soft sound of the Pennsylvania Dutch language discernible amid the hum of other conversations in the room. There were some college kids around too, and some local business folks both blue-collar and white. I even saw a local female artist's albino brother there, his white beard, pith helmet and red-rimmed half-blind eyes an odd but familiar lunch sight. Some retirees, some shop-girls and a few possible tourists eyeballing the Amish folks rounded out the customers.

The wife arrived around then and began chattering about parking places, things going on at her workplace, concerns about one of our dog's health, plans for our upcoming vacation to New Orleans and other things that were important that moment in time. I mostly sat quietly, listening, adding a word here and there, letting her ramble. I'd learned through 36 years of marriage that women need to talk as much as men need to be quiet. I found I could judge my wife's mental health and emotional stability by how vocal she was. Lots of talking meant things were fine and all was well with the world. But if she was quiet? You tiptoed a lot, kept out of her way and always kept a clear path between you and escape.

Today was a good day.

Our fish dinners arrived promptly and we dug in with gusto, savoring the flaky fish and tasty sides, wiping the hot cooking oil from our fingers and lips. Not surprisingly, she talked while she ate

She filled my ears with more conversation on our way home, then slipped into the house and talked to our two Schnauzers for a minute until it was time to return to work. She was still yammering away at us as she closed the back door to the house and slid into the Honda for her dash back to her office.

I put the dogs out on their chains and then stood on the back porch as she left, eying the freshly-washed blue sky and the trees in the back yard with their young leaves. I took a deep breath and smelled the lilacs on the fence row, the neighbor's newly-mowed grass and the other green, living smells of a too-long-in-coming Ohio springtime. I patted my full belly and smiled.

Was it a perfect day, even subjectively?

Maybe.

But it was, for sure, another good Friday.