Waffle House

Clara and Margaret love waffles, and they love Waffle House. If they could, they would eat all their meals at our nearby neighborhood Waffle House. As it is, I limit their Waffle House intake to trips. We've been traveling as of late, so they are full up to the bottom, as they say, with waffles, eggs with cheese, raisin toast and bacon. I know Clara is Peg's granddaughter. She came with a love of the two essential b's, butter and bacon. Both are plentiful at Waffle House.
This past weekend, the girls and I drove to Alabama to see family. On the way there, on the horror called I-85, the former interstate that's now a goat path, we stopped in Coweta County at a so-so Waffle House. On the way back, along I-20, we found a Waffle House I wanted to bring home. Wonderful staff, great food, a waitress who listened attentively to everything Margaret was saying. Not a crumb was left. And best of all, Clara came home with a Waffle House hat.
The hat came in handy later on Sunday. We arrived in Athens around four, and Gene promptly loaded up the girls and took them to the YMCA to swim. When he got to the desk, a nice woman named Brandy said she would take the girls through the women's locker room to the swimming pools. Brandy told me on Monday how things had gone with the girls.
After Gene left them, Margaret began to cry and panic a little. Clara took her hand and glared at Brandy. With her left hand, Clara pointed to her Waffle House hat.
"Do you see this hat? I'm Clara and I'm not afraid of anything. Come on, Tita." And then she led her sister through the locker room and into the pool, with Brandy following close behind. Margaret stopped crying, of course.
Now, what magical powers that Waffle House hat bestows, I can't say. But when the time comes for some new challenge I have to face, I'm going to borrow it.

Playing Games

Clara and Margaret have a new game. King. They pull swim diapers over their heads, and you know what? The diapers do resemble crowns. Either crowns or the headpieces bishops wear. Either option--king or bishop or pope--would suit Clara. All come with authority.
Anyway, the girls pull diapers over their heads and then run around the house shouting, "King! King!" They want me to play but no diaper, save for a Depends, could possibly fit my pumpkin head.
Outside, they like to play Firefighter. Either Gene or I blasts them with water from the hose, something we couldn't do last year because of the drought. Clara, of course, would like to blast Margaret, but we don't allow her to do this.
At the swimming pool, both my girls are jumping in and going under the water for a few seconds, emerging wiping their eyes. Clara was falling into the water from Gene's shoulders, while Margaret had him supporting her stiff legs while he flipped her into the water. Margaret asked to take off her swim vest and then splashed around to get accustomed to just being in the water. They will take lessons this fall at the local YMCA.
They are sticking up for each other. When Gene threatened to swat Clara on the bottom, Margaret started shouting, "Don't swat Clara! Don't swat my sister!" And when I pretend to growl and bite Margaret's feet, Clara stops me with real concern. I guess when you are King you watch out for all your subjects.

On the Beach this Spring