WAFFLES

An aroma would wake you on a Saturday morning and you knew it was a special day. The sweet smell of butter and sugar and eggs toasting and bacon frying on the stove pulling you out of bed. The sound of batter being stirred and poured sizzling and bubbling onto a hot pan.Crisp golden brown waffles or pancakes soft and fluffy, the sure sign that Dad would be home today, all day and not just sleeping. The Pennsylvania Railroad would do without him for twenty four hours and he’d be all ours again.This would be a special weekend, starting with early morning breakfast made by our father.
My Dad worked long hours on the railroad, determined to make a success of himself and to make sure Mom would never, ever have to go to work. The deprivations of the Great Depression and the horrors of World War II pushed him on. Twelve, fourteen, even sixteen hour shifts were the norm, and often he would not even be able to come home for days at a time. He would start out as a clerk, then yardmaster and eventually train master. He was a hard taskmaster, and his trains would run on time. His children would not live in a two room shack without running water and Christmas would be more than an orange and a piece of candy. Our home would be modest and spare, but it would be warm and clean and full of love.
Those special weekends would be drives in the car, a trip to the Berlin flea market, or Cowtown, or a day at Aunt Bette’s farm. Nights would be a pizza from Bruni’s in Woodbury or a double feature at the drive-in movies. These days were a treasure and they were few and far between.
Dad missed most evening meals with us. His past was hard and at times he was possessed of a quick and frightening temper. I did not suffer too many spankings, but those I did I will long remember.
He expected obedience and respect and good behavior.
He did not give of his emotions lightly, he did not wear his heart on his sleeve.
He worked long and hard and he provided.
And he made us waffles.