The storm came sooner than we thought. The sky had grown dark by late afternoon, and before dusk, heavy snow was falling quickly and horizontally. I didn’t want to open the diner that night because no one would be out in that weather. But I still parked, even though the wipers on my old pickup weren’t working right. By the time I parked, everything was a white haze.
I sat there for a minute with the engine running, watching the wind beat the glass. I wanted to go home, lock the door, and wait it out with a cup of tea and a blanket. But then I saw them: lights gleaming through the snow. There was a line of eighteen-wheelers parked on the side of the road, with their engines running and their tail lights barely visible. There had to be at least a dozen, and maybe even more that we couldn’t see. The roads were closing very quickly. These folks didn’t know where to go.
One of them marched through the snow with white grit on his clothing and ice in his beard. He knocked softly on the glass door, his face stiff but polite.
“Is there any chance we could get a coffee?” he said. The glass made it hard for him to hear. “Roads are closed.”
I glanced at him for a moment, then turned around and looked at the empty diner behind me. There are no lights. No coffee was made. Only rows of booths and no sound. I didn’t know. It’s been challenging to operate this firm on my own for the last four years, and it’s been considerably tougher since George died. The loneliness came in like rust. There were times when it felt like I was keeping the doors open just because I didn’t want to give up.
But then I heard my grandmother’s voice as clearly as if she were there next to me. “When in doubt, give people food,” she remarked.
I then opened the door.
The first driver came in and stamped the snow off his shoes. While I made coffee, he called the others on the radio. In less than twenty minutes, the diner was full. There were piles of coats on chairs, boots drying near the heat vents, and people carrying mugs of steaming coffee. The cold began to fade, and in its stead came the soft sound of people talking and laughing. I didn’t have a whole menu, so I made scrambled eggs, bacon, and warmed up what was in the freezer. It wasn’t elegant, but it was warm and it was something.
One of the truckers, Roy, was a huge man with a Tennessee accent and a laugh that shook the walls. He replied he would help with the dishes. Another guy hauled out a worn-out guitar from his setup and played old country tunes till the coffee pot was empty. Someone else took over the grill while I rested my feet. It didn’t feel like work anymore.
By dawn, we knew each other well.
The snowstorm kept going. There was more snow and more cars on the second day. It must have gone out on the airwaves. There wasn’t enough food, yet no one said anything. The men assisted without being asked by shoveling the path, clearing the roof, and using duct tape and a truck tarp to patch a window that was letting in chilly air. I found some cans of beans, potatoes, and tomatoes and made a stew with some aid. It strangely went on for a long time.
By the third day, it wasn’t just a diner; it was a safe place. A place to laugh and be happy in a world that has become cold and quiet. For the first time in years, I didn’t feel like I was just getting through the day. I thought I was doing something helpful. Saw. I thought of myself as someone who had something to offer, not just the widow running a diner that was going out of business. The kind of person I was before George died.
The workmen made sure to clean the property from top to bottom as soon as the roads were open again. They cleaned the booths, wiped the floors, and even degreased the fryer. Before he left, Roy gave me a napkin that was folded. Inside was a message that said, “You have a story.” There was a number for the phone below it. He winked and continued, “I know someone who works at Food Network.” Call him.
I didn’t. I didn’t call him right away. A week later, though, a woman called me. She stated a friend had warned her about the “storm-bound diner.” A group with cameras came a few weeks later. They filmed for two days, with myself, the diner, and some of the truckers who came back for it. The tale went all around the country. People gave money. The money was enough to fix the roof that was leaking. You just need a new fryer, a new sign, and a new start.
But the diner wasn’t the only thing that changed.
The community has been drying out for years, and it’s lost stores and hope. People came after the story was published, though. Some of them were people from the area who hadn’t been there in years. Some were new. Some individuals came just to see the place that kept open during the storm. Two stores that had been closed opened again in March. The flower store is back. Next came the bookstore. Things were different.
Every February, we host Kindness Weekend. The town sets up lights, the school band performs, and I make stew in that same big pot. If they’re on their way somewhere, truckers still stop by. They do remember. I do too.
People still want to know why I opened that door and let in a dozen people who were covered in snow. I didn’t know the truth then. I just knew I couldn’t stand the quiet anymore. I’m tired of being alone in a location that was intended for others. I didn’t do it to be a hero. I did it because someone knocked, and I would rather not wait for someone to be nice. It came right in, leaving tracks in the snow and asking for coffee.
