By Farris Leonard
I needed a real bacon cheeseburger. That was my mission when I drove into Lane’s Ferry Grill a few days ago. The place was packed—friendly hubbub, sizzling sounds, the smell of grilled meat in the air. Just what I was hoping for.
As I settled into a booth (there was but one empty seat in the whole restaurant), I noticed an elderly gentleman just near me. He caught my eye, then motioned toward that only free chair, as though asking if he might sit there. I replied, “Sure,” thinking nothing more of it. He then began filling out his order sheet. I couldn’t tell right away, but soon I learned: he couldn’t hear well, couldn’t speak well, so he used notes to communicate.
One of the staff observed and asked if he could sit there beside me. I told them we’d already worked that out. What followed was something quietly powerful: we began passing notes back and forth. Little pieces of paper holding messages, sketches, questions. What struck me was not just his age—93—but the life he carried in his eyes.
We wrote about all sorts of things. I asked what he had seen in his lifetime. He told me he actually met John F. Kennedy in the ‘40s. He’d been to Arizona once, during a blistering heatwave—nearly 120 degrees. Weather, memories, odd little details from decades past. All flowing in ink and laughter and pauses filled with gratitude.
The bacon cheeseburger came, of course. It was good—juicy, smoky, enough bacon. But it paled beside what I gained that day. As we ate, shared stories, I kept thinking: even in the hustle and noise of daily life, there’s space for moments like this. Small ones that reach deep.
Before I left, I wrote one last note to him:
“Sir, I want to thank you for sharing lunch with me. I must go now, but I want you to know you made my day a better day. Take care of yourself.”
He read it, paused. I saw his eyes well up a little, then a smile; he clasped that paper close, reached across with a handshake—stronger and more meaningful than many I’ve had in conversations full of words. We hugged. We took a picture. That’s when it really hit me: no grand gestures required. Just presence. Listening. Compassion.
This story isn’t about me. It’s about all of us—what we could do if only we slowed down enough to share a moment. To make someone’s day a little lighter. To see the person, not just the circumstance.