Sean Dietrich
The Cracker Barrel is slammed. And loud. Inside, there isn’t much in the way of elbow room. There are heaps of people. And I am trying to master the wooden Triangle Peg game.
The object of this game, of course, is simple. Leave the fewest pegs remaining on the triangle as possible. Finish a game with only one peg is left; you are a NASA-level genius. Two pegs; you are moderately clever. Four pegs; your parents are first cousins.
Sean Dietrich
I love Cracker Barrel. But then, I have a long history with this institution. I’ve eaten at Cracker Barrels from Beaverton, Oregon, to Prattville, Alabama. I’ve eaten here on Thanksgiving, the day I graduated college, the morning after my wedding, and the day after my father died. The food suits me.
The overhead music always has steel guitar in it. The people in the giftshop always ask how you’re doing. And if you’re bored, you can always embarrass your wife by buying a Davy Crockett hat and wearing it into the dining room.
Today, an elderly couple is sitting next to me as I fiddle with the peg game. The old man is skinny. She is frail. They are shoulder to shoulder.
The man is wearing a hospital bracelet. His entire lower leg is in a medical brace. His face is bruised purple. There is dried blood on his forearms. He is resting his head onto the old woman’s shoulder because it looks like he’s been through hell itself.
She is helping him drink his Coke with a straw.
“Thank you, Judy,” he says between sips.
She just pats his head.
On the other side of the dining room is a table of paramedics. They are young, wearing buzz cuts, cargo pants, radios mounted on their shoulders. Their eyes are drooping, the coffee evidently isn’t helping. It looks like they’ve had a long night.
I eavesdrop on their conversation:
“What’re you doing for Thanksgiving?”
“Sleeping,” says the other.
“Yeah, well, I’m just gonna give my kids KFC and go back to bed, I’ve worked two ten-hour shifts. I’m about to start hallucinating.”
These men are modern day saints. You can have your reality TV stars and your social media influencers. Show me an EMT, and I’ll show you the embodiment of all that is good in America.
Meantime, behind me is a young family with several kids. Four boys. Three boys healthy looking. One is not. One child is small and slight, with a colostomy bag. He has another electronic device mounted on his head, just behind the ear. I believe it’s a neuroprosthetic implant for those with hearing problems.
The boy stares at his older brother’s plate and says, “Can I have some of your pancakes, J.D.?”
J.D. rolls his eyes. “You mean, you already finished your pancakes? You pig.”
“I was hungry, J.D.”
J.D. does something incredible. Although he is a teenager, and although he is at that age where kids are notoriously selfish, the teenage boy relinquishes his pancakes and places them onto his little brother’s plate.
J.D. hasn’t even taken a bite of his pancakes yet, and still, he gives them away.
The little boy’s face glows like a landing strip. “Thanks, J.D!”
Across from me, I see the elderly woman is now feeding the elderly man. She is administering spoonfuls of grits to his mouth, blowing on them to cool them down, then dabbing his chin with a napkin. Occasionally, she kisses his forehead.
Then, the room fills with a loud beeping sound. Everyone’s heads turn to look at the EMTs, whose radios are squawking and hissing. The paramedics stand. They leave cash on the table. They slam their coffees.
They jog out of the restaurant, and we all see them through the windows. Off to save a life. They pile into their vehicles, sound the sirens, and speed toward hell itself.
As it happens, I’m not smart enough to conquer the peg game, but I know a few things. I know that people are beautiful. I know that life is a treat that does not last half as long as we expect. I know that the elderly couple beside me embodies the purest of love known to humans. I know that J.D. is a good brother.
And I know that this Thanksgiving, all EMTs should be granted a pay raise.