People Along the Way----Jack's and WW2

I have been a fan of Jack's Hamburgers since I was a kid. It is the anti- McDonalds and Burger King. All fast food burgers are pretty much the same, but the big red circle with the Jack's logo seems to still draw me. I wore the Jack's paper hat in Grad school, as a grill cook in Auburn. Annie and I were newlywed students and while I was flipping burgers, she was cleaning rat cages in the Biology Dept. Life was good in the Married Student Projects, as we called it, in 1978. $103/month rent and the Langdon Hall Free Show. Everything we ever needed.
Jack's drew me in, somewhere around the Calera exit on I-65, on the way to the Magic City today. I ordered my standard small burger with fries---ok, two small burgers with fries. I sat down in a booth and lost myself in my phone, like so many people do now. Surrounded by a number of truck drivers and a sweet senior citizen in a Jack's uniform roaming the dining area asking, "Need anything, hon?", I was in hamburger heaven.
The booth behind me was suddenly occupied. I heard an elderly female voice:
"I'm going to the restroom, don't let anyone sit in my seat and eat my food!", she said playfully.
"Wash my hands while you are there!" was the reply from the man. The lady laughed.
I finished my burger(s), let the sweet senior in the Jack's uniform bus my tray and got up to refill my Diet Dr Pepper for the rest of the trip to Bham. As I turned back around, I saw the gentleman, a trim, healthy man wearing a WW2 Vet baseball cap. My love of American History compelled me to talk to him.
"Sir, could you tell me where you served?"
"Sure, I was in the Pacific. It wasn't that bad."
I knew I was talking to one of the Greatest Generation, knowing 'the Pacific' in WW2 was a tough slog for all. He was being humble. I am well acquainted with the horrors that all branches of service endured fighting the Imperial Army and Navy of Japan. Yet, like many boys of that day, they kept their horrors secret and dealt with their pain internally.
"Were you in Vietnam?" he asked.
"No sir, I was too young by a few years, but my dad served two tours there."
"Glad I didn't have to go there. Your dad didn't get Agent Orange, did he?"
"No sir, he and my mom are doing good."
He noticed my name badge and asked what I did for a living and I told him. At that point his wife returned from the restroom. I knew I was talking to a couple who were full of sweet southern charm, so I joked, "I asked your husband if I could steal your food!" She laughed, sat down, and said, "Just don't take my fries!"
"He works for Rehab, helps people find jobs."
"Well, at least you know where to send me when my mind is gone!" she replied laughing.
"You know, he's going to be 92 soon", she said to me proudly.
"You are kidding me!", I replied, yet in my mind I had already done the math. Anyone wearing a WW2 baseball cap is in their late 80's or 90's. He actually looked like a man in his 70's.
"Y'all get on with your lunch, and thanks for sharing your story, sir. Pleasure talking to y'all!"
"You be careful out there, and thanks for helping folks," he said. A voice disappearing from the landscape of America at the rate of 430 a day. (I lost my good friend Jim Rice last week, a WW2 Navy vet who survived kamikazes and the worst typhoon that the Navy ever endured.)
This is life in Alabama. My encounter may seem like small talk to many, but it as deep and thick as a wet red-clay dirt road to me. Our people, all races, all ages, become permanently stained in your soul like that same red clay on a white tee shirt. These chance encounters are not shallow in my life. They are part of my fabric, part of why I am proud to be an Alabamian.