By MONTE DUTTON

It’s Thanksgiving, so, naturally, I’m writing about Waffle House.
Believe it or not, and defying all odds, I ate there on Tuesday for the first time in about a year. My breakfast hangout was always Steamers until it stopped being a breakfast hangout. Then it stopped being open at all for a while. Now it’s back, but not for breakfast. I still love it. There’s an excellent chance I’ll eat pregame before the Clinton game Friday night, and that I’ll order the same as last week before the Chester game.
Couldn’t hurt, right?

The end of Steamers breakfast changed my routine. My days used to start, oh, three days a week, with a regular rotation of breakfast plates. Then I’d run a few errands and return home to crank out copy.
During the Nine Days of Electrical Absence, I’d go to Whiteford’s and commiserate with a band of regulars, then crank out copy at some place that had wi-fi. The library was only open for one of those nine days, but the DHK Sports office went mobile by locating at places with working wi-fi, which wasn’t available at home for 11 days.

My visit to Waffle House was a result of being able to order breakfast other than biscuits after 10:30. Grits stimulates my creativity the same way spinach gives Popeye the Sailor Man strength.
Three cups of coffee. A waffle appetizer, followed by two eggs over-medium, sausage, toast with jam and the life-giving grits.
I’m strong to the finish though it won’t make me thinnish, I’m Popeye the Sailor Man! Honk! Honk!
Is too much football even possible? Check with me Monday. My appetite for football is as insatiable as the one for grits.

So far this morning, I’ve given thanks for raisin bran and coffee. Right now I’m watching the remnants of the Temptations singing “My Girl” in front of Macy’s.
Now I’m trying to play the song on guitar. My version of “My Girl” loses in translation, but no one’s going to hear it but me.
As George Jones never sang, If grits don’t kill me, the margarine will.
A man waxes nostalgic and wanes sentimental as thoughts turn to his late, great mama’s oyster dressing. When my nephew was a boy, I upbraided him for some disrespectful remarks about his grandmother.

“One day she’ll be gone, and you’ll regret saying things like that,” I said.
His expression turned pensive. For a few moments, he was in deep thought, considering what I had said.
Finally, he said, “And I’ll never have that dressing again.”
She had no recipe. She just crumbled spices with her fingers, stirred and tasted, before finally sliding it, perfect, into the oven. I’m not as good at anything as she was with oyster dressing.
The palate is unduly influenced by Mama’s cooking.

Two nights ago, I stayed up to 2 a.m., watching Furman play basketball on TV in Las Vegas against the Seattle Redhawks, not to be confused with the Seattle Seahawks. The Paladins are 7-0, and I’m enjoying it in part because they’re playing No. 1 Kansas on Saturday.
I love basketball. I’m just not there yet. On Friday night, Clinton plays Batesburg-Leesville at Wilder Stadium in the state quarterfinals. I’m still there.

On Wednesday, basketball overran me. I had it on while I was writing. I watched a fair amount. Louisville surprised Indiana. Belmont beat Tulane in a matchup of schools Furman has already beaten.
By nighttime, I was watching a TCM movie, several episodes of Perry Mason (Burt Reynolds played a bit role in one) and parts of Saturday Night Live’s tribute to Thanksgiving.

Now there’s an avalanche of football, about to crash momentarily as these words are written. Lions and Cowboys and Packers and whichever teams they’re playing.
The Red Devils and Panthers are playing on Friday night nearby. Gamecocks and Tigers are “where the mountains smile in grandeur o’er the hill and dale.” (An alma mater is a long way of singing “Clemson.”).

Buckeyes and Wolverines. Aggies and Longhorns. Undoubtedly I’ve omitted dozens. These are the biggest sporting events since Harris-Trump.

I’m about to swap my mini-guitar for my favorite one. Singing a song or two works about as well as coffee to keep me awake late at night, and a song doesn’t make me pee.

The challenge ahead means I need the good stuff. The good guitar stuff.
Can I stay focused? After Monday Night Football, will I even remember the Carolina-Clemson score? Or that Lamar’s last name is Jackson?
Maybe at the Waffle House.

“I guess that I’ve fought tougher men, but I really can’t remember when.” – Shel Silverstein, “A Boy Named Sue”
Wellpilgrim.com is winding down the fall making a transition to the winter chill. The bounces of the balls are getting truer.
Times are changing. I am aware of how irrelevant what I do for a living has become and thus how unimportant my efforts are. The readers appreciate them, but there aren’t enough of them. I doubt there ever will be again.

It’s what I do. It’s what I know.

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In the off chance you’d like to read my novels and other books, they’re available on Amazon and many prominent bookseller sites.
You can read them on your phones and other devices for a modest cost. I make a bit more if you purchase the actual books, but what I mainly want is for folks to read them.

Longer Songs, a collection of short stories that were based on songs I wrote, was published in 2017. I just read it for the first time since I wrote it, and it was better than I remembered. One of its purposes was to provide a sampler of my fiction. A download is only 99 cents, and the paperback is $7.99. You can’t afford not to read it, not that I’m objective.
Photo galleries are posted on Instagram @furmanatt and @laurenscountysports.
Thanks for putting up with me.