When I was growing up in Ashdown, Arkansas, I thought every adult was old. I really couldn’t tell how old someone was, I just knew that they looked old to me, so they were.
Maybe that’s why the young man gave me the discount.
About a dozen years ago, I went in early one morning to a restaurant that served breakfast. It’s gone now, but when it was around it was one of the few places where you could get real homemade biscuits and gravy, grits, and molasses instead of jelly.
By John Moore
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