We pulled up to the diner, put the van in park. We weren't there but a minute when the young girl emerged from the building and came to the driver's side window, which I lowered. I asked for recommendations and ordered a shake, just a shake. As we waited, I gazed into the the diner, at red and white benches, formica-covered tables, and chairs unused to a year.
It was a snapshot into what life used to be, the way things once were.
In that space--at those tables--people fell in love, and hearts were broken...all over greasy food and ice cream, served in a myriad of colors and flavors. Teens met friends and parents ordered food at this singular location, a place replicated all over the country, thousands and thousands of destinations, in every city, in every state.
And it's survived for decades.
I haven't spent much time outside the United States, though I did live in Europe for a few years back in the 1980s. They can build a Pizza Hut in Copenhagen, but it's not the same. You don't have a wicked big-block 1970s muscle car pulling up, reviving the engine, and having both teenagers and the adults turn their heads in admiration or disgust (but, really admiration...). It can never be the same thing.
I don't know the history of Brigham City's Peach City, but I can imagine it's similar to that of all the other places in big cities and small towns across America. Thousands upon thousands of people consuming tons and tons of food...and the memories that endure.
We weren't allowed in the building, so we joined the other auto-bound patrons waiting for our food. I know somethings will never return to what we once considered "normal," but when all this crap has settled, I hope at least the neighborhood diner can return...to what it once was.
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