The Far End of Life - Two

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As we rode into town, I began to have doubts about the restaurant I chose for my mother’s birthday celebration. I found the place on the internet and the best review said “… at least it’s better than the Olive Garden.”

“At least?” I wondered.

It was quiet in the car, so Mom talked continuously, as if to keep herself company. It was pretty much the same monolog she repeats each time we visit.

“What is it with David Letterman?” She began. “I would just like to meet the moron who thinks he’s funny enough to be on television...”

“I’m sure Letterman feels the same way, Mom,” I chorused.

“And that Prince Charles! You can tell he is not right by looking at him. The ears alone are enough to make me puke! Besides, they’re not even British. They’re all German, you know.”

“I am sure they do their best, Mom…”

I was beginning to wonder if I would arrive at the restaurant before my head exploded when a Chili’s restaurant appeared on the right.

“Hey Mom, look there! It is a Chili’s! They have great food. What do you say to lunch there, instead?”

“You know I can’t taste anything, only sweet and sour…”

To my mind, Chili’s was a known quantity. I vaguely recalled they had gooey sweet desserts and I knew they made a decent cheeseburger and fries. Throw in a bottle of beer and at least one of us would enjoy their lunch.

I turned sharply into the parking lot and found a place beneath a shade tree. That is important in Texas, on an afternoon in June, particularly in a black car. In an hour, the shade could save a long life.

I opened the passenger side door and offered my hand.

“Tiger Woods has been touched by God and I don’t care what else he’s done, I still love him… “

“Apparently, so did a lot of others,” I mumbled in my most wry manner.

The barrage continued as we tottered across the parking lot and into the restaurant. A nice looking young woman opened the door for us and offered a cheery greeting before showing us to a booth. Our waitress showed up immediately and handed us menus. I ordered drinks and she went away for a few minutes. When she returned, I ordered for us both. I went for the cheeseburger and fries and I selected the gooiest walnut-fudge, ice cream, caramel and chocolate syrup dessert I could find for my mother.

“I can only taste sweet and sour,” she reminded me.

“And a side order of sauerkraut,” I offered facetiously.

The waitress left.

It was then I noticed a placard on the wall indicating that Chili’s supports the St. Jude Research Hospital for Children. My mother believes Saint Jude, the Catholic patron saint of hopeless cases, is responsible for looking after her and everyone in the family. Frankly, I think she may be on to something.

“Hey, Mom, look at that,” I said without thinking.

She looked up and squinted at the large print. Then, she began to weep.

“Oh, I know Saint Jude is the one who directed us here,” she began.

“Mebbe so,” I thought.

Then, Mom called the waitress and asked about the restaurant’s support of the saint’s mission back on Earth. The waitress explained that one month per year; the restaurant donates its profits to the hospital. Mom was elevated to a state of ecstasy. It could not have been better if she received a signed birthday card from the saint, himself.

I thought it was cool of Chili’s, too.

“I send him twenty-five dollars every month!” She exclaimed. “And I’m going to write him a check as soon as I get home!”

Choked with emotion, she was barely able to gobble up her dessert.

Me? I had no such problem. I consumed a good cheeseburger with fries and drained a cold beer.

Mother chatted and I listened dutifully on the ride home.

No one can know this for sure, but mebbe the saint DID have something to do with our spontaneous change of plan. Regardless, he showed my mother a good time.

After thinking about this experience awhile, I have decided to check out the Italian restaurant that was our original destination. I am curious to learn if that establishment is involved with any saints. I just gotta know.

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