I’m in rural Georgia, up before sunrise, driving around looking for coffee. I end up at a Hardee’s—the kind of place where the staff’s smiles are as nice and warm as the biscuits. I order a coffee and a biscuit and sit alone in a corner booth, waking up slowly.
To my left sits a man—mid-70s, retired by the look of him—facing the window. I’ll call him J.T. Two feet away is another man about the same age. They aren’t together, but J.T. keeps talking as if they are.
“Welp,” J.T. says, “I got my breakfast and plenty more to pack up. I’ll heat it up for lunch and supper. I won’t have to come out again.”
A few minutes later: “Can’t say it’s the best biscuit I ever had, but I enjoy coming here every morning… seein’ everybody.”
The man beside him barely responds—maybe a grunt, maybe nothing. But J.T. doesn’t seem to mind. He keeps sharing little bits of his thought stream, tossing them into the air like breadcrumbs, hoping one might lead somewhere.
He has shared just enough to make me start wondering about his life. He doesn’t get out much. Probably a widower. What did he do before he retired?
Does Hardee’s at 7 a.m. feel like home because home is too quiet now?
He gives me enough clues to sketch the outline: a man who keeps his needs simple, who finds his community in a fast-food dining room, who values the familiar faces of employees and regulars more than the biscuit itself.
He doesn’t complain. Not once. He just narrates his little world, as if inviting someone—anyone—to witness it with him.
I think about going over to his table. I imagine asking if he’s local, telling him I’m from Florida and can’t believe how cold it is. If he says he’s a veteran, I’ll lean in closer; I’ll tell him about my dad, a naval aviator in WWII. Maybe he’ll talk about a grandson, and I’ll tell him I have one too. I can almost hear our conversation. I don’t have anything important or urgent to say, and that would fit right in with his routine here. The connection might make his day—who knows…
But I can’t make myself approach him. Too introverted, too early in the morning.
Then more men walk in—old friends, by the sound of their greetings. Regulars. J.T.’s people. His world expands just enough for me to feel okay leaving him there.
As I carry my tray to the trash, I walk past his table. I smile and say, “Good mornin’.”
He smiles back. “Good mornin’.”
And that’s it.
But it isn’t.
Because as I walk outside into the cold, I find myself wishing I knew his story. Wishing I could read the book of his life. Wishing someone—maybe even him—had written it down.
What if this quiet man has lived through something extraordinary?
What about when he did something brilliant or surprising?
What if the world will never know, because he never told it?
That thought stays with me long after the coffee cools.
Maybe You Know a J.T. Too…
Someone whose story is quietly disappearing.
Someone whose life would move people, if only it were written.
Someone whose wisdom, grit, humor, heartbreak, or resilience deserves to outlive the morning breakfast crowd at Hardee’s.
Or maybe…
maybe that someone is you.
We all carry chapters no one sees. Tales of adventure, tragedies, come-backs, meaningful life lessons…
The question is whether we let them fade… or we carve out a little courage, a few minutes a day, and begin.
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