I took a one-day trip from the Pennsylvania summer home back to NYC for a—oh, this is a big surprise at my age—a doctor’s appointment. I need a knee replacement of my human left knee. My right knee was replaced eight years ago. After x-rays and a chat with the surgeon, a time was arranged for the procedure that fit my schedule. All went as well as I could have hoped for from this visit.

I then drove back to the country and decided to stop at Marshall’s, a farmers’ market about four miles off the highway forty minutes from the summer home. The goal was to buy a fried green tomato mix that the spouse loves. The stand was stocked up on Original Whistle Stop Recipes Brand Fried Green Tomato Batter Mix, which is also “Great for Eggplant, Onion Rings, Zucchini, Squash, and More!”. I bought enough to last for quite a few green tomatoes.

Although the day had gone well, I still felt stressed from the doctor’s appointment. You might think having had one knee replaced, I would have less anxiety this time around, but I feel as I did on my second marathon. I did not know what to expect before the first marathon. It was a new experience, and I was curious about it. However, I learned from that first marathon how hard the run was. Before the second marathon, I now had experience to tell me that the race was going to be especially arduous if I was to meet my goal of finishing in fewer than three hours. I was much more nervous before my second marathon than I was before the first.

So. I have gone through one knee replacement, and I remember the post-operative and rehabilitative pain, discomfort, and exhaustion. I am more nervous about the second replacement than the first, and on my drive to Pennsylvania, although I tried to distract myself with old rock ‘n roll, my mind kept returning to how hard it would be getting into a car to go home from the hospital and where to have the physical therapy and how to avoid the constipation from opioids. These thoughts led me to conclude that I was entitled to a little self-indulgence. I bought a ring baloney made for Marshall’s market, a purchase I had made only once before. However, ring baloney brings back a pleasant childhood memory when our local butcher took me into his smokehouse and cut me a piece of his just-smoked baloney. I still remember its warmth and juiciness and the smokey smell all around.

I should have been satisfied with that self-indulgence. The day had not been that stressful, but it was early afternoon, and I had not had lunch. I decided to indulge further at Humpty Junior’s, a short drive from the farmers’ market. With its red and white vinyl booths, black and white checkerboard floor, and white tables, it looks to be a throwback to an earlier era, which appeals to me. Think “Happy Days” but not as big as Arnold’s and without the jukebox. Although the sign in quaint typography out front proclaims, “Burgers, Steaks, Shakes, Dogs, Fries, Ice Cream & More” and another sign says, “Voted the Best Burger in Warren County by NJ. Com: True Jersey,” to me this is a place to get a milkshake. 

I was contemplating the board listing their more than fifty milkshakes, when I heard a young man who had been sitting in the booth by the door. “Excuse me,” he said, and then added the “Sir” we aged folk sometimes get. He continued, “May I pay for whatever you are going to order?” Not what I had expected, and I was flummoxed. I asked why, and he said he just wanted to. My usual mode of dress is not fancy, but I did not think that I looked homeless or destitute. I replied that I probably had more money than he did, but he just smiled as did the mother and daughter in the booth he had just vacated.  Perhaps I intuited the words of Sophocles: “One who knows how to show and to accept kindness/ will be a friend better than any possession.” Perhaps because I did not want to disappoint the hopeful looks the three smiles showed, but probably just because I was curious, I said, “Sure.”

He stuck out his hand and asked my name and then said he was John. After I inquired, he said that he lived nearby and worked for his church, one of those with “Bible” in its name. I asked what shake I should order. He asked what flavors I liked, and I said, “No, what would you order?” He said a Motor Oil, which he allowed had a funny name but was chocolatey with bits of Oreo. I gave that order to the young woman behind the counter. She asked, “Large or small.” He immediately said, “Large.” I knew this was more self-indulgence than I needed, but I demurred.*

After getting the drink, I stopped at his booth and found out the mother and daughter were from Pittsburgh, and they were visiting friends, gesturing towards John. I asked if they met through church activities, and the mother said no. She had watched John’s mother on YouTube. “She is a great speaker.” The girl told me that she was entering her senior year of homeschooling. I asked, “If your mother allows you to graduate, what do you plan to do?” “Interior design.” “Do you plan to study somewhere for it, or plan to get a job in the field?” “I hope to get an internship and take courses online.” The mother said she was a homemaker while homeschooling four children. The oldest had finished two years ago and now works for Panera. John, too, had been homeschooled and did not mention any higher education hopes. After a few minutes more chatting, I went on my way with my paid-for Motor Oil milkshake.

I am in my eighth decade, and this was a new experience, and unlike many new experiences these days, a pleasant one. However, the shake did dribble down on to my clean tee shirt as I drove, and with my little will power overwhelmed, I drank it all. I got back to my summer home looking a mess and with a bloated belly.

A good experience, but I was sorry that I did not ask how to watch a video of John’s mother and that I did not give them a card so that they might read this blog.

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* The spouse had a similar experience a few years ago when, traveling back alone to NYC on Mother’s Day, she stopped at a diner for lunch. The diner was very crowded, full of families celebrating Mom. Having finished her grilled cheese sandwich and chicken noodle soup, she went to pay the bill but was told that a patron had already paid! Had they found her forlorn — a handicapped woman alone on Mother’s Day? Sometimes people are just nice.