I'm at the Grecian restaurant on Davis Islands gnoshing on smoked sausage, scrambled eggs, hash browns, and white toast lathered with real butter and grape jelly. I peruse the several newspapers spread out on my table, soak up the still-tolerable sunshine and listen to the latest Bob Dylan hits collection, which is being played in its entirety on the sound system of the java shop next door. For me, this about as good as it gets. Who knew being awake at 9 a.m. on a Saturday could be so rewarding?
I run into my old pal, local music hero Ronny Elliott (the person who first introduced me to the Grecian years ago), and we discuss the upcoming Homemade music symposium, in which we'll both be participating. He walks back to his Davis Islands home and I eavesdrop as a father at a nearby table explains the greatness of Bob Dylan to his two sons, who can't be older than 9 or 10. The waitress refills my water glass the moment it empties. Everyone on Davis Boulevard appears to be in good spirits. Maybe I need to alter my lifestyle a bit and start making this a weekly ritual.
The last time I greeted a Saturday or Sunday before 10 a.m. was probably when I helped my parents move in October, unless you count pulling an all-nighter and facing the dawn during my latest New Orleans holiday. I usually don't rise on the weekends until about noon. I owe this morning's pleasure to Buck's 3-year-old son and 2-year-old daughter.