The beard

The men at the table kitty corner to us were chattering and laughing not unlike a group of girlfriends.

The breakfast and lunch restaurant had a yesteryear feel not because it had been deliberately designed, but left over from yesteryear.

Waitresses in jeans scuttled about bringing cholesterol-soaked meals.

Rick and I had chosen it as part of our-support-the locals philosophy rather than the chain Dunking ' Donuts across the street. I'd already indulged my love of their raisin cinnamon bagels and fallen in love with their pumpkin spice latte, but we wanted real not chain.

We were not disappointed with the old-fashioned menu of things like corned beef hash and potato pancakes.

Back to the men.

One wore a scarf on his head, pirate style. He must have been pushing a good 300 pounds of what looked like muscle. The others could have been getting ready for a day's work on the construction crew.

The man at the end of the table perhaps in his forties had a graying beard, neatly trimmed EXCEPT for the middle, which he had grown and braided. It reached past his chest.

They left.

We finished our meal and left too. Along with our happy tummies and taste buds we chocked up another good memory of our adventure.