joyful noise

On Mothers Day, Mrs. P, our son and I went out for breakfast. We went to a good, old-fashioned diner in South Philadelphia, not too far from our son's house. Apparently, we were not the only people to have this idea, as the parking lot was full, the place was packed, there was a lot of people waiting to be seated standing in a line that was winding out of the entrance. But we waited. After a surprisingly short amount of time, a hostess grabbed a handful of menus and led us to a cozy booth in the far back corner of the multi-sectioned dining room.

Our little booth was adjacent to a large table, at which was seated a group of women. With little deduction, it was very obvious that the women represented a multi-generational family. There were young women snapping photos on their cellphones. There were older (and by "older," I — of course — mean "my age.") women posing for those pictures, snuggling up to one another and flashing wide and happy smiles. There was one woman seated next to an aluminum walker. She was smiling, silently taking in all of the hustle and bustle going on at her table and the tables surrounding. 

My family perused our menus as a waitress brought over huge plates, overflowing with typical breakfast-y foods and placed them before each woman at our neighboring table. Every so often, the sound of silverware clinking against ceramic plates was drowned out by loud, joyous singing. These women burst effortlessly into song as though they were the cast of a 1940s big-screen musical. They sang a few choruses of Motown classics. They sprinkled in some rhythmic selections from the 70s disco era. A few of the women — those seated at the accessible ends of the table — stood up and danced in place, waving their hands in the air like they just didn't care! When the waitress returned with refills of coffee and a few side dishes that were late from the kitchen, several of the women grabbed the staff member to pose for a picture.

During their meal, they all exchanged colorfully-wrapped gifts and beautiful bouquets of flowers. And there was more singing and more photos and more laughter and more joy. At one point, one of the women asked my son if he could take a group picture of everyone in their party posing with the owner of the diner, as though he was some sort of celebrity. Even the quiet matriarchal woman was included in this shot, her chair turned to face the camera. Her smile grew impossibly larger than it was before.

Our breakfast arrived and our meal was accompanied by the loud elation from our neighboring diners. Their singing, their outbursts, the tone of their conversation erupted in pure delight. It was infectious. I made a quick scan of the surrounding tables and everyone appeared to be enjoying these women enjoying themselves.

While we ate, I shot a look across the table to my wife and she shot the same look back at me. We have known each other for 44 years. We've been married for almost 42 of them. We sort of know each others thoughts at certain times — without saying a word. This was one of those times. The meaning of our "silent glances" was confirmed later during the drive back our son's house. We both believed that my father — who died over thirty years ago — and her father — who just celebrated his 90th birthday — would have both been furious! They both would have complained loudly about the women seated next to us. They both would have felt this behavior was inappropriate, disruptive, rude, undignified and unwelcome. They both would have asked for a different table, far out of earshot of these inconsiderate women. And once moved to a different table, they would have continued their complaints. They both were from a different, less tolerant generation.

But it was joyous! Very joyous! Very very joyous! The thought of complaining never even crossed our minds. If perhaps it was a screaming infant... maybe. But even Josh Pincus can't complain about joy.

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