(Byron Yawn)
And then sometimes the opportunities simply fall in your lap. Case in point. My wife and I were eating lunch at a Mediterranean restaurant we frequent here in Nashville. By frequent I mean – I no longer need to order. The owner, a gracious Arabic lady, automatically prepares my plate when she sees me walk in. I’m greeted with a “Byron!” every time. (Sounding more like “Baroon!” filtered through the heavy Lebanese accent.) She and I know each other pretty well. Well enough for her to inquire about my family. “How are the kids?” So I tell her the latest. My oldest son recently shattered his lower leg and will be semi-home bound for several months. Upon hearing, she stops – dollop of hummus suspended in midair – and asks one of the more profound questions a human can ask. (This is word for word.)
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