Diner Traditions

The bell over the door sounded like a coin in a jar. Saturday at the Bluebird meant steam on the windows, butter on the air, and four women in the corner booth directly behind me, their laughter tapping my shoulder like an old friend.

“Pre-old age,” one of them declared, folding a napkin like a map. “Would you call it that? I’m not old. I’m pre-old. Like preheating an oven.”

“Oh Lord, Nora,” another said, “all you preheat is trouble.” Her bracelets clicked when she waved Manny over. “Coffee, sweetheart. Keep it coming till we float.”

“On it, Beatriz,” Manny said, sliding a pot onto a hip like it was a dance partner.

“I brought coupons,” a third announced, fanning them. “Ten percent off omelettes if you wink at Manny.”

Manny winked. “Missy, I will charge you extra for that.”

“Bring it,” Missy said, tapping the laminated menu. “Western with jalapeños. If I’m pre-old, I get to feel alive.”

“I’m getting the spinach-feta,” the fourth woman murmured, voice steady as a metronome. She had a rosary peeking from her purse and eyes you could put your head on. “Ruth,” Manny said, “you want the usual?”

“Yes, baby. And wheat toast,” she said. “We’re pretending to be responsible this week.”

I pretended to stare at my notebook while their voices braided behind me, strong and bright.

“How’s your Daniel?” Nora asked.

“Still out in Denver, being a software… thing,” Beatriz said. “Engineer. He sent me a video of a robot making tortillas. I told him if he lets a robot anywhere near my kitchen, I’ll excommunicate him personally.”

Missy snorted. “Excommunicate. That’s adorable. My April got her nose pierced again. She says this one’s ‘more grown-up.’ I said, more grown-up than nose? What’s next, shoulder?”

Ruth laughed, soft and surprised. “My Joy started leading the Wednesday night youth group. Can you imagine? She was the one who glued the hymnals shut that one time.”

“She was innovative,” Nora said. “We call that leadership.”

Manny returned with plates heavy enough to be anchors. Steam rose like prayer. The woman who had offered the world to a paper napkin ... Nora ... lifted her fork. “To us,” she said. “Saturday morning touch base. May our eggs be hot and our gossip be… lukewarm.”

“Ha!” Beatriz said. “Lukewarm gossip. Speak for yourself. Did you hear about Deena’s son?”

“Careful,” Ruth warned, wagging a finger. “We worry and pray, but we do not devour our own.”

“Fine, fine. We nibble,” Beatriz amended, and then, softer: “He got laid off. She’s scared.”

Ruth set down her fork. “We’ll make a call. See if Pastor Mike still has that job board. And I’ve got an extra casserole pan. I’ll fill it.”

“See?” Nora said. “This is why we meet. We are a highly portable help desk.”

“I prefer ‘coven,’” Missy said. “Less tech support, more glamour.”

“I am glamorous,” Beatriz said, dabbing at her mouth. “Underneath this cardigans sits a panther. A pre-old panther.”

They giggled like girls with secrets.

“Wait,” Missy said, lowering her voice. “Did you see ... don’t look now ... Freddie Hargrove just walked in. High school baseball Freddie Hargrove.”

They all looked immediately.

“Subtle,” Nora said.

“Oh my stars,” Ruth whispered. “The hairline has migrated.”

“Hairlines are pilgrims,” Beatriz said. “They go on journeys to mysterious lands.”

“Speak for yourself,” Missy said, fluffing her bangs. “I have insurance on these.”

Manny slid by with more coffee, a human metronome to the morning’s hum. He filled my cup, too, because he knew I came here to write as much as to eat, to let the booth’s vinyl and their voices hold me up.

“How’s your mama?” Ruth asked then, and the air around their booth softened.

Nora cut her omelette into obedient squares. “She’s tired,” she said. “Chemo days make her…” She mimed a balloon deflating. “She sleeps like she’s paying off a debt.”

“We’ll go by this afternoon,” Ruth said. “We’ll pray, and we’ll bring peach pie.”

“And we’ll be loud,” Beatriz added. “Sick people hate whispering.”

“Text me the address,” Missy said. “I’ll bring flowers, and if she tells me she doesn’t like flowers I’ll bring different flowers.”

Nora’s laugh broke and repaired itself in the same second. “I love you idiots.”

“Watch your language,” Ruth said, and then added, “idiots.”

They went around the table, fibbing about aches like they owed them nothing.

“My knee,” Beatriz said, rotating it under the table, “needs an exorcism.”

“My right shoulder makes Rice Krispies whenever I reach for the top shelf,” Nora said.

“I would be happy to reach for your top shelf,” Manny offered, passing.

“Manny,” Missy said, patting his arm, “we are discussing our crackles. Respect the crackles.”

They drifted back to grandbabies the way crows circle a cornfield. Distant and delighted. Missy showed a photo to a chorus of oh’s.

“That is a baby,” Beatriz said. “That is a person who has never been disappointed by an avocado.”

“Look,” Missy insisted, “his little nose. He got my nose.”

“He got my appetite,” Nora said, eyeing the smear of hollandaise left. “I’m resisting licking this plate in front of God and everybody.”

“You lick the plate, He’ll understand,” Ruth said. “The Lord is not afraid of butter.”

They whispered about a friend whose liver was misbehaving. Ruth took a napkin and a pen from her purse and wrote names. “I will put you on the list,” she said, not just to the friend but to the air.

“You still keep an actual list?” Beatriz asked. “Paper?”

“My prayers are analog,” Ruth said. “They keep better.”

There was a sudden, sharp silence. The kind that happens when something heavier than coffee sits down with you.

“I got a scan Monday,” Nora said, fork poised like a white flag. “Doctor says it’s probably nothing.”

“Probably nothing,” Missy said, already reaching with her hands, her bracelets chiming. “Is a terrible phrase.”

“Worse than ‘it’s just a cold,’” Beatriz agreed.

Ruth reached across the Formica and found Nora’s fingers. “Let’s do a small prayer,” she said, so gently even the butter held its breath. Heads bowed, the world shrank to four hands and the smell of cinnamon. “God who knows all scans,” she said, “and all the insides they try to read ... keep this one boring. And if it cannot be boring, make it brief. Give our girl peace. And give me the words to make the nurse laugh.”

“Amen,” said three voices, and then Missy added, “And good hair. Monday deserves good hair.”

“Amen to hair,” Beatriz said.

They laughed. Not with relief, exactly, but with a kind of stubborn joy. Their joy had elbows.

I turned a page in my notebook, and my pen pressed a little deeper. Something in me loosened, like a knot letting go.

Manny arrived with the check and a wink. “Who’s paying?” he asked.

“We’re adults,” Beatriz said. “Send it to the panther.”

“I got it,” I heard myself say, turning in my seat. Four faces turned toward me, and I felt caught, eavesdropper in the open. “Sorry. I just… I sit here every week. You make this place feel like Sunday morning with less guilt. Let me.”

Missy cocked her head. “You a poet or a spy?”

“Both,” I said. “Pre-old. Apprentice.”

“Sweet boy,” Ruth said, “we can pay.”

“You can,” I said. “But today I want to. Consider it ... ” I fumbled. “Consider it my tithe.”

They looked at each other, then at me, and something wordless passed around the booth like an inside joke finally inviting me in.

“All right,” Nora said. “But you have to take a note.”

She tore her napkin in two and wrote on it. When she handed it to me, I expected an address or a phone number. It said: Keep showing up. There isn’t a better magic.

“Deal,” I said.

“Also,” Beatriz added, “eat. You’re all elbows.”

“I’m fine,” I lied.

“Baby,” Missy said, “we have eyes.”

Ruth lifted her cup toward me. “We will pray boring for you, too. Boring days. Boring good health. Boring happiness that sneaks up on you.”

“Thank you,” I said, the words landing in me like hot biscuits.

They slid out of the booth one by one, like the tide stepping back. Coats on, purses snapped, lipstick reapplied. Missy kissed Manny’s cheek. Beatriz tucked an extra dollar under the salt shaker. Ruth’s hand brushed my wrist. Nora stood for a second, looking at the window where our reflections pretended to be people living inside the glass.

“Pre-old,” she said again, grinning. “Pre-everything.”

“See you next Saturday,” I said.

“You bet,” Beatriz said. “We are consistent as toast.”

They left in a flurry of perfume and winter air. The bell jingled. The room went on being itself. Manny set a cinnamon roll in front of me that I absolutely did not order.

“On the house,” he said. “From the coven.”

I stared at the icing, heard the echo of their laughter, and felt my chest hum like a diner sign warming up. Some mornings you just sit at your favorite booth and the world insists on being beautiful anyway.

- Julia O’Hara 2025

THANK YOU for reading my work. I am a global nomad/permanent traveler, or Coddiwombler, if you will, and I move from place to place about every three months. I am currently in Peru and heading to Chile in a few days and from there, who knows? I enjoy writing articles, stories, songs and poems about life, spirituality and my travels. You can find my songs linked below. Feel free to like and subscribe on any of the platforms. And if you are inspired to, tips are always appreciated, but not necessary. I just like sharing.

YouTube Top Song List.

https://www.YouTube.com/results?search_query=julia+o%27hara+top+songs

Amazon PlayList

https://www.amazon.com//music/player/artists/B0D5JP6QYN/julia-o'hara

Spotify PlayList

https://open.spotify.com/artist/2sVdGmG90X3BJVn457VxWA

You can also purchase my books here:

https://www.lulu.com /spotlight/julie-ohara

I am also a member of Buy Me A Coffee – a funding site where you can “buy me a cup of coffee”

https:www.buymeacoffee.com/JulieOHara