When The Room Lights Up
Same As It Ever Was
The other night Sharon and I went to the Tee Pee Tap Room, a restaurant that serves real Mexican food, the kind that teeters out there on the peak of perfection. We call it Phoenix Mex, and we know from living in so many places, it’s distinctive, special—it’s the best. And we’ve got a long history with this tiny restaurant. We used to go there, some fifty years ago, when I was in graduate school. On a student’s budget in those years, the Tee Pee Tap Room was always a big night out. This was just place the place for us. Still is.
You go into the Tee Pee Tap Room and you will find pictures of celebrities all over the walls, including presidents who have come to dine in this little hole-in-the-wall. We were delighted to find the place looks and feels just as it did so many years ago, some tacky lights streaming across the ceiling, crowded booths, lively gatherings, always far more people than probably should be there. Most of all the food remains exquisite, just like we remembered it. We were ecstatic to find the Tee Pee Tap Room was still there, still the same, “same as it ever was,” as David Byrne and the Talking Heads used to sing around that time.
Most of all, as we were reminiscing, we remembered especially the women who seemed to delight in walking our babies about. We couldn’t afford babysitters in those days, in fact, no one wanted to risk babysitting our sometimes-over-the-top-with-energy twin boys. They were a handful, no doubt about it, as Sharon knows best. But then we would come into this restaurant, and to our surprise, the waitresses would latch onto our little guys, holding them gently, walking them around the place, pointing out the artistic features on the walls, the strings of lights over the room, the bustling kitchen exuding its great smells. Our boys were absorbed, captivated, attentive, calmed. They fully trusted these women. We did too.
These women were surely mothers themselves, maybe from large families, likely devoted Catholics, more than likely living on very tight budgets. They were strong women. We sensed a tenderness among them toward our babies, and such undeserved kindness towards us, perhaps especially aimed at Sharon. They knew a mother’s life could be demanding. Somehow they knew the guys could be a handful too, that these moments were good for them, and a giddy respite for us. Somehow they knew they had abundant love to share. Love is what the boys felt. They surrendered into their arms with eagerness. We felt it too.
Ah, well, I could be exaggerating some of this, I suppose, but the memories the other night seemed so strong for both of us. When love comes into the room, it lights up everything. It sears deeply into our memories. We loved those women back then, as best we could return their love. Maybe our memory does them just a little honor. Our world was breaking apart even back then, “same as it ever was,” I suppose. These women brought us together for a shining moment.
Looking back, it feels different back then. Nostalgia? Maybe. The love that broke into our evenings from those women who knew how to share love, somehow held it all together. Thank God for these women holding our babies, holding the world together. Thank God for the love they were willing to share with our boys and with Sharon and me.
Things were surely different back then, I sadly surmise. Maybe such memories can help heal us, give us another model how to relate to each other, give us new aspirations how to behave, give us a model for the small ways we might share love. Maybe even such memories can bring us together again. Remember, when love comes into the room, it lights up everything. It did then. It still can.
