Most mornings in Gimli begin with a breakfast trip to The Oldie, a quaint old typical small-town greasy spoon. The decor is exactly what one would expect, worn-out carpets, tables and chairs from the 50s and plastic water cups, opaque from decades of dishwasher abuse. I love going there and observing and listening to the locals, usually groups of fishermen and farmers, little old ladies from the countless old folks homes in the area and strapping young lads with mandatory baseball caps. The scene is so different from urban restaurants, there is no pretension or posturing in these people. Tired phrases like salt of the earth come to mind. The women arent slathered in makeup, the men arent glued to their cellphones, these people actually talk to one another. This morning, two little old ladies were gossiping about the other women in their retirement home, speculating on various diseases that the others had, and later discussing their childrens poor choices of spouse. The men boldly discuss the merits of snow tires and tractor repair, hockey and oil additives. It amuses me so. I live in a Norman Rockwell painting, and I love it.
Posted on: Thu, 01 Jan 2015 16:08:07 +0000
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