Breakfast conversation at Sarah’s Diner had subsided. The members of the Circular Congregation Breakfast Club were concentrating more on caloric intake and less on conversational outpouring.

Sarah set plates full of cholesterol inducing deliciousness in front of each of her Seven Dwarfs (in the purest male sense of the word), refilled their coffee cups and backed safely away from the breakfast melee. Forks, knives, and elbows were flying at speeds akin to a NASCAR pit crew.

Big John Hudson was usually the last to walk in the door, usually the first to push his full belly back from the table, which usually meant he was about to offer up some ridiculous utterance. This particular morning was exactly that usual. “Good thing I don’t have to buy any Valentine’s Day presents, this year,” he said — as if it should mean something.

The six other congregational members did their best to ignore Big John, and continued emptying their plates of eggs (any way you want them), sausage (patties and/or links), bacon (lots of it), tall (and short) stacks of flap-jacks, along with biscuits and gravy — but, absolutely no fruit or yogurt.

“That sure makes my February easier,” John sighed, ignoring the low interest level from his compatriots. “Not having a girlfriend is so freeing.”

“Freeing from what?” scoffed Harrison Winkle. “You’ve never had a girlfriend.”

“Unless you’re counting the one from Uzbekistan, you met online,” added Jimmy. “The one none of us have ever seen. So, I’m not counting her.”

Harry and Jimmy had finished their fruit-free breakfasts and were ready to take on Big John’s ludicrous topic of the day. Mort, Arnold, and Firewalker were sprinting towards the finish line, intent on joining the debate. Tommy Jones was pacing himself, partly because he knew he would need to join the fracas as the referee, and partly because he had some Valentine’s questions of his own.

Harry was divorced, and intent on being successful at it. Jimmy was a bachelor, and equally intent on keeping his record alive. Arnold only courted his political career, and found her to be a fickle mistress. Firewalker and Mort were the married members of the group — meaning their Valentine’s plans caused them great annual worry and concern (“Happy wife — Happy life” is not a philosophy, it is unbreakable rule).

However, Tommy Jones, the octogenarian widower, had recently met a much younger septuagenarian and had been carrying on a months-long romance by means of messaging via cell phones.

“What are you and your lady-friend going to do for Valentine’s Day?” Sarah asked Tommy. His senior romance intrigued her, and she enjoyed his occasional reports on the frustrations involved in courting by means of a keypad.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” he confided to Sarah (and unfortunately, to the rest of the men-children around the table). “I don’t know the Valentine’s Day rules for dating by smart-phone. We have been messaging, every day, for months, but we have only been on one actual, face-to-face, date.

Am I supposed to get her something? Is she supposed to give me something? How much of something should I get her? What does it mean if I give her something? What does it mean of she doesn’t give me something?” Tommy’s litany of questions continued until he realized the entire congregation was listening — and also realized that none of them had a clue about any of the answers.

“How do you feel about her?” Sarah asked.

“I kinda like her,” Tommy hesitantly replied. “I sorta like her,” he continued. “A lot — kinda — in a way.” Tommy stopped stammering and looked around the table. “I feel like a danged fool teenager. An old, danged fool teenager — a ‘seenager.’”

Sarah smiled and patted Tommy’s shoulder.

“Write her a card that says exactly that,” she said. “If she feels the same way, she’s going to love it.”

“You really think she would like that?’

“It would work on me,” Sarah said with a wink and a smile. “But, you two,” Sarah quickly turned her attention to Mort and Firewalker. “You are, both, going to need flowers, dinner and definitely something sparkly.”

Larry Wilson is a mostly lifelong resident of Niles. His essays stem from experiences, compilations and recollections from friends and family. He can be reached at wflw@hotmail.com