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.