The Diner

It was our family tradition: every year on the first day of summer, the four of us ate supper at one of those retro diners downtown — one where smiling waitresses wore miniskirts and ruffled aprons and served all the mouthwatering goodness that made Sunday-best children forget their table manners. Since I could remember, we had always gone to a small, bustling place called Sem's. It was my home away from home — warm and welcoming, with checkered floors and pinstriped wallpaper and a long, tiled bar with red stools.

The stools were fun. Jamie taught me how to sit and push to swivel all the way around. I never fell.

That first summer day was what I lived for. It was better than any holiday, event, even my birthday. I'm not quite sure why we didn't just wait until the last day of school, but a hearty Sem's meal, salty and oily and all, was a marvellous break — relief from the awfully healthy green salads we ate when the garden grew — and I savoured every moment of it.

Jamie used to share her safari animals colouring book. I wanted to do the giraffes. I broke the gold crayon, and then she never let me colour anymore.

Instead, Mom would play I Spy with me while we waited. Dad sat with his head down. He was always tired. Mom said he worked too hard. That was the last year he came with us to Sem's. He said if he stayed home, it would be one fewer meal to pay for. Jamie offered to stay home instead. Dad refused, and hugged her, his eyes watery. I'd never seen anyone who looked so tired.

Sem's was abundant in energy. The place was overflowing with people, all very different, but laughing and chatting the same. Enjoying the good food, the music. Striking up pleasant conversation with the charismatic manager, Rhonda, who could sing opera and always let us sit in the dark green, leather booth by the window because she knew it was my favourite spot.

And the food! From down the street I could smell the deep aroma of fresh fries and real, melted cheese; the creamy milkshakes in clinking fountain glasses; root beer floats with bendy straws and maraschino cherries; triangular grilled sandwiches held together with tinsel-tipped toothpicks; thick, juicy burgers; kettle chips with the spicy homemade salsa that dribbled down my chin every time. I was always the last one to finish.

Jamie said she'd eat my fries if I didn't hurry up. I told I'd take her milkshake. She kicked me under the table, knowing my legs were too short to reach back. Then she tapped her toes together so that the lights on her sports sandals blinked at me like a taunt. I knocked over her milkshake, and it splattered on her white sundress like mud sprayed up in the wake of a tractor. She screamed. We left early.

The following year, it was the first time that none of us went to Sem's.

It was comforting seeing Rhonda after that. She was kind, and genuinely concerned that we hadn't shown up the year before. But she understood. She insisted upon giving all three of us free root beer floats. I learned that Sem had been her grandfather's name.

Years passed. Jamie asked to volunteer there once she graduated middle school. Rhonda beamed. Of course!

Eventually I volunteered there too. I rinsed the fountain glasses and refilled the ice cube bucket; I laid the tableware with a flourish; I washed the wide front window under the shade of the curved, red and white striped awning overhead. I never got tired of it.

I graduated high school the year Sem's closed.

Rhonda had passed unexpectedly of a stroke and her son couldn't afford to keep business going. The sign reading "Sem's" was replaced by "For Sale".

When I heard, I felt like I'd gone into shock. I couldn't make it to the funeral, held far away in her hometown. I mailed a card with my condolences, though I barely remember what I wrote.

It had been less than a week before summer.

Jamie got married. Summers came and went, faded into autumn. Sem's was bought and turned into a barbershop.

But sometimes, when I drive by, I can still see the brass bell dangling from the door. The striped awning over the window, and just inside, our green leather booth. Rhonda laughing with a young couple as music plays. Bowls of chips and the rich, drippy salsa. The red barstools.

I graduated college and got a decent job in retail. It was good enough. But I didn't work there for long. I knew what I needed to do.

When I had enough saved and using some of Dad's inheritance, I quit my job and bought a two-bedroom loft apartment and the retail property underneath — a clean, empty space for sale. I started up my own diner on that street corner.

I knew it was right for me. The place was always full, and it was fulfilling. I often left the kitchen and talked with customers. Newcomers. Regulars. I loved the youthful look of the old woman's face as she remembered the tomato soup her mother always made. I loved the hopeful, lively look in the crinkled eyes of the retired veteran. I loved the children's messy smiles as salsa ran down their chins.

But my favourite customers came every year on the first day of summer. I still light up as the bell tinkles on the door and I see Jamie walk in with her husband and two young, growing daughters. She cries and hugs me every time. I reserve them the window seats. I laugh with the girls as they spin around on the stools; dance to the music; play hopscotch on the checkered floor tiles.

It's a good place. It's a diverse, thriving community filled with laughter and smiles. A place where only the best memories are made. For Jamie's girls, it's home away from home.

I named it Rhonda's.

(END)