Back as a wee Pance we would often travel up I81 to the town of Buchanan to spend weekends at MaMa’s house (aka, maternal grandmother). Only an hour away, it lent itself nicely to an easy, fun and frequent vacation opportunity. The return drive was consistently dotted with Mom’s comments on the sheer mass of Mack trucks that travel north on Sundays and how we, thank goodness – “I wouldn’t want to battle that traffic” – were headed south. (Amen to that)
And I always knew when Blacksburg was just around the bend when we reached the golden rectangular letters advertising WAFFLE HOUSE. Except, we never passed by when some combination of letters weren’t burnt out. It was the perfect game to end every trip… sound out the letters that were left, then laugh and laugh and laugh. Look! It’s Wale ouse! Hahaha, we’re home!
And oh what a staple in my life Waffle House would become. In high school – the best place to sober your friends up before returning them safely home. In college – the best breakfast to feed a hangover. A jukebox of special songs, a menu of signature grub. You can scatter, smother, cover and chunk me anytime, Waffle House.
Having moved north to the land of no Waffle Houses, I was forced to organize a Waffle House Road Trip to the lucky location closest to NYC. Bethlehem, PA, 1.75 hours south (of course). All in all, very doable. Except now I have to battle all those Mack trucks on the return trip. Oh the sacrifices.