The Grill

It does not look like an aromatherapy crowd.

They shuffle in from the cold until nearly every table is occupied. The old men wear sweaters and caps bearing logos for farm equipment companies and local union chapters. The younger men wear heavy overalls and work boots, having come straight from their shift at the plant.

They order homemade biscuits with sausage gravy. A large order is $3.29. For an extra $1 you can have sausage gravy poured over just about anything else on the breakfast menu.

We have come straight from the cemetery to pay tribute to one of the regulars, a soft-spoken guy who liked to laugh and work crossword puzzles over a half order with a biscuit on the side and who was my father-in-law.

At the end of our table a few members of his breakfast posse trade stories about the man who never seemed to have an unkind word and who was perhaps most content when he was here, joking with his buddies over biscuits and gravy. I get that. (Except for the part about eating biscuits soaked in sausage gravy, but that is not the point.)

What I don't get is the selection of essential oils, scented lotion and aromatherapy candles on display at the register and against a wall where a door decorated with chickens leads to the women's restroom. It doesn't fit. Do any of these guys ever stop to smell the patchouli?

I decide to get to the bottom of this because I have a keen eye for cultural anomalies, even if I did ask the waitress if they had any bagels. "Or maybe a baguette?" Because I am not afraid to ask stupid questions.

I move to the end of the table where my father-in-law's friends have bravely seated themselves next to the grandchildren, who are threatening each other with the ketchup and mustard dispensers.

"So," I say, crouching between their chairs to pose my burning question, "what is the story with all the candles and scented oils in here?"

There is a pause while the man with the IBEW Local 146 cap exchanges a look with the man in the sweater. The look says: "Dave's daughter-in-law is not real bright, is she?"

The man in the sweater looks at me patiently.

"Well," he explains, "I think they're trying to sell it."

My father-in-law would have cracked up at that.