Breakfast at McDonald's

It's Indie Ink Writing Challenge time again!  I was given a prompt, which will follow, by Tara Roberts.  Here's my reply:

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Centuries before the birth of Christ, man kept track of time.  The Bible informs us that the flood made famous by Noah and his floating menagerie lasted for precisely 40 days.  According to the same text, Methuselah lived for 969 years.

Solstices let farmers know when it’s time to plant and time to harvest.

Man has used all manner of devices to record time, from sundials to the most technologically advanced atomic clocks in use today, instruments so precise that they can claim to be accurate within a range of one second over 30 million years. 

A much less scientific way to measure the passing of time is to recall what the same thing meant to you at different times on your life.

“We’re going to McDonald’s!”

Until my teenage years, to hear such a proclamation from one of my parents was cause for celebration.  Burgers & fries, maybe a soda and the chance to run, play and climb were irresistible.  A trip to the land of the Golden Arches wasn’t on par with the holiday holy grail of childhood (Easter, Halloween, Christmas and birthday), but it wasn’t far off.  Finding out I could actually celebrate my birthday AT McDonald’s was like telling me I could open my Christmas presents at Kris Kringle’s house!

When puberty struck, those halcyon days of being a child at McDonald’s were but a memory.  The House that Ronald Built became the place to hang out, see and be seen on Friday and Saturday nights after high school football or basketball games.  In lieu of anyone’s parents being out of town, facilitating a party, of course. 

College passed without many trips to McDonald’s, but the living-paycheck-to-paycheck 20’s inevitably dictated frequent raids of the Dollar Menu when Friday was still two days away, the fridge was empty and money was scarce.

As seasons changed again in my life, McDonald’s became a refuge from 110 degree summertime heat in the Mojave Desert for me and my enthusiastic, often hungry son.

Eventually, I’ll probably complete my metamorphosis into one of the lonely geriatrics who spends each morning sipping coffee and reading the newspaper under the Golden Arches in a desperate attempt to feel part of the world, to rub shoulders with living, breathing people instead of being cooped up inside a house empty but for memories and ghosts.

It’s said that in small towns in basketball-crazed Indiana, the past isn’t measured in years as much as by how long it’s been since the last great high school team or player graced the local hardwood.  One old man at the barbershop to another, for instance, remarking that “this could be the year we make it back to a semistate.”  Both men knowing, instantly, that it’s been 9, 20 or 43 years since the town’s schoolboy five last reached such lofty heights.  “We haven’t seen snow like this since the season Raymond was 5^th in the voting for Mr. Basketball.”  No reference to the Gregorian calendar required. 

A signpost on the timeline of my life has been the voice of my mother telling me to “wait until your father gets home.” 

When first I heard those words, they were framed by an angry, exasperated tone. My mom’s scolding and threats had failed to curtail my bad behavior, which had gotten progressively worse as the day dragged on. I was stopped instantly in my tracks.  While mommy grabbing and shaking me or spanking me might have been a mere annoyance to the rambunctious 5 year old I’d become, a paddling from daddy was guaranteed to bring tears to my eyes and make sitting down a challenge.  I definitely didn’t want to tempt his wrath!

The tone of “wait until your father gets home” at some point went from being a threat to being exciting and hopeful.  When dad got home I could share with him the “A” I’d gotten on the math test, the news that I’d made the team,  or that the school paper had published an article I’d submitted.  Dad getting home from work more often meant a time for celebration, not fear.  Or at the very least a time for guarded optimism that I’d be allowed to use the car, borrow some money, or be given permission to join my ne’er-do-well friends at the concert Saturday night.

Moving away after college meant that the days of “wait until your father gets home” were over, or so I thought. 

Now when I hear those words in my wizened mother’s raspy voice, the sound is best described as guarded optimism.  Of course he’ll come home again.  The inevitable return trip to the hospital may occur the next day or even hours after his wheelchair is pushed through the front door, but he’ll be home.  If it means Thanksgiving dinner isn’t eaten until December 4^th, we’ll wait for him to come home.  He has to. Because hearing those words for the last time will mean I’m closer than ever to the days when the girl working the counter at McDonald’s can put in my breakfast order merely by seeing my Buick pull into the parking lot, without having to wait for my stooped body to shuffle inside. 

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The prompt I was given was "wait until your father gets home."  I challenged Angie M .357 with the prompt "fortune favors the bold."