“Heat the Griddle”

Spring.

The invasion of green against the dominant brown.
From black and white to color.
And indeed… an invasion of birds whose behavior suggests that love is in the air.

Spring. Love. Emotion tipping the scale away from reason. Passion eclipsing sensibility. Risk sacking the quarterback named Safety.

1975 and 1976. A rush to win the affections of a college sophomore.

That rush included regular journeys to a tiny local diner by the railroad tracks in downtown Upland, Indiana. We called it the Pink Café. While it was only a mile from the Taylor University campus, it felt a passport away in customers and ambiance. Seasoned local patrons. Unventilated smoke hanging in the air. Conversations that didn’t include calculus, chemistry, or Russian literature.

I was invisible to the locals — perhaps an ignorable distraction from the business of small-town America. But my mission made the awkwardness tolerable, and my patronage, in part, made the transaction palatable for the regulars.

“Two honey buns and two cups of coffee.”

As simple as that.

But these were not your run-of-the-mill honey buns. These were swirled delights placed on a hot griddle lathered with melted butter. A stainless-steel pan top was pressed over the pastry and, for a minute or so, magic happened.

A few moments later, the molten rolls were placed inside Styrofoam containers, and I was out the door. One masterpiece for Mary, and one for her roommate Jeannie. Even as a naïve pursuer, I knew that many late-night conversations would happen in that room that I would not be part of. An advocate on the inside would extend my reach, plead my case, whisper in my favor, and maybe turn the tide. An extra honey bun and cup of coffee was a small price to pay.

I threw a few pebbles at Mary’s second-floor dorm window — a ’70s version of “text me when you get here” — and with the delivery made, I returned to my dorm room. Hopeful. Confident that the return on that caloric investment would justify the early alarm, the gas money, the nicotine-infused clothing, and the awkwardness of my invasion into uncommon territory.

That was then. Yes, 50 years ago. Love was in the air… mixed with the faint aroma of foolishness.

So, with the onslaught of springtime in Denver, the question lingers: “Is love still in the air?”

Have a Social Security check and a Medicare card sucked the spontaneity out of my romance? Does Mary know there are still moments when love dismisses reason as irrelevant? Does she still feel pursued and cherished, not merely safe and secure?

Spring. Love is in the air. The robins reminded me. My memories inspired me.

Never too old. Never too familiar.

Heat the griddle and do something that surprises the people you love.

Now. While you still can.