Today’s almost-daily dispatch comes to you from my back deck. This space is one of the home improvements I am most proud of. In 2022, we had our trusty home improvement team install a sliding glass door and a small 10×10 deck that allows me to enjoy the morning sunrise and the hallelujah chorus of birds as dawn breaks.

I’m an early riser these days. So, when I saw that our local winery—now under new ownership—was offering breakfast starting at 6:00 AM, that information lodged a permanent spot in the cluttered Rolodex of my brain. That info card prompted me to offer an early morning breakfast jaunt to my mother for Mother’s Day.

She gladly accepted, and on Sunday, we left our home at 6:00 AM—gussied up as one does when they are a local in a very rural, non-Seattle part of Washington, heading to an establishment that caters to Seattleites. We traveled to the Westport Winery at a brisk pace, the sun painting the sky pink. Even though we reside in the same dwelling—she lives downstairs and I live upstairs—we often go a few days without really seeing each other or spending much time together. Our ride to the winery was a nice chance to get the “pre-game” catching up done.

We made the left-hand turn into the winery at 6:25 AM and immediately ascertained that our plans were going awry. The large metal swing arms were locked in place and the parking lot was vacant. There was one car, nose-central to the gates, establishing itself as first in line. I glanced down at the console clock.

“Uh oh, I wonder what happened?”

“They aren’t open,” Mom quipped. “That’s what happened.”

I side-eyed her. “I know that, but I wonder if someone got sick? Did the staff walk out?” I am ever the social worker, at the ready to solve the world’s problems.

At 82 years old, my mom’s solution to things is: “Well, I guess we are done. Let’s go back home.”

No.

No.

We are not done. At almost 54 years old, my solution is never to accept defeat. My Rolodex of stored information starts to turn on its spindle. My mind flips through the cards of restaurants, coffee shops, and Facebook ads that I have seen over the past ten days.

“Got it!” I proclaim triumphantly. “We will go to that new little place at the docks. They have created a cute little coffee shop bistro thing. We won’t be able to get a full breakfast, but probably great coffee and a little sammy. Plus, we can cozy up and watch the fishing boats as they head out this morning.”

Anything that has to do with watching any form of transportation conduct its business is a solid win for my mother. Especially the fishing boats.

We arrive at our second destination at 7:05 AM. There is a sandwich board out front, so I know that at least it is open. We are off to a good start. We head back to the space they created inside a hotel lobby that is now this sweet cafe. The young barista looks startled to have someone in the establishment this early; she stumbles with her words, apologizing that the espresso machines aren’t ready yet.

We smile and tell her not to worry; we are in no rush. She heads back to the kitchen to do whatever it is she needs to do to bring those machines to life. I glance at the menu board at the register. It’s a small menu, but appropriate for the vibe they are trying to create there. And then I see it:

“Sandwiches Available After 11 AM”

Sigh.

I go over to Mom, who has settled into a table by the window, taking in the view. It is a beautiful morning; the sun is shimmering off the water and the ships bob up and down with the swell in the marina.

“Pssst—hey, Mom,” I say, trying to be discreet but with a sense of urgency. “We have a very short window to book it out of here without making the barista feel worse than she already does.”

“What?!” Mom retorts, half-annoyed because I have disrupted her boat-watching and half-annoyed because she can’t hear very well sometimes.

“They don’t serve food until 11:00 AM. Let’s go. Let’s sneak out of here while we have a chance.”

There are no words to describe how fast this 82-year-old, four-foot-ten-inch woman shot up out of her chair and across the lobby like a bat out of hell. She moved with a sudden urgency, shifting her weight from her good hip to her bad hip with rhythm and ease. One Doctor Scholl’s foot in front of the other so fast that I had to jog to catch up.

We hopped back into the car and dissolved into stitches. Laughter filled the cabin of our tiny 4×4 as we recounted our great escape. I took a beat to really be present—to soak this all in, down to the marrow of my bones. I want to be able to recall all of it: the laughter, the love, and the silliness of all the adventures I have had with my mom over the years. It is moments just like this one that make all the struggles, the ups and downs, and the journey we have shared so worth it.

“So, now where to?” Mom asked, recovering from the giggle fit.

“Fuck if I know,” I said—and we both exploded in laughter again.

“Okay, okay, let’s check the Pine Tree. We have to drive past it on the way to anywhere else.”

The Pine Tree is one of the oldest establishments in Westport, Washington. It has been a place of celebration, comfort, and community for over a hundred years. They serve great food and stiff drinks; but as we pulled into the parking lot, we saw they, too, were closed. It was only 7:15 AM. A roar of laughter filled the air again as we dissolved into tears once more at our situation. All we wanted were eggs and some toast.

I wipe the tears of laughter from my eyes and wipe my nose on the sleeve of my sweater. At this point it was apparent that being gussied up wasn’t going to be a part of this equation. “We can drive the beach down to the gas station, fill up, and then we can catch breakfast at the Local. They open at 8:00,” my ever pragmatic brain assesses. Taking command of the situation.

“But the Pine Tree opens up at 8 too? What’s the difference?”, Mom shoots back, a bit exasperated.

“The difference is,” I retort, far too familiar with having to explain my multi tasking, hyper fixated way of problem solving through life. “Is that this way we get in a beach cruise and I can gas up at the cheapest place in town”.

*If you have not read about my LAST episode at said gas station, please feel free to catch up here: https://thejoysonajourney.com/2026/05/02/baby-assault-charges-bad/

“If I would have known we were gonna end up at the Local, I wouldn’t have put on this damn bra. I could have stayed in my jammies!”

No truer words were ever spoken, Ma.

No truer words.

The Pine Tree has a cousin, and her name is The Local Bar and Grill. While I cannot find the exact history of the Local, I know that she has been another well-loved establishment since the 1940s. While The Pine Tree has had a few facelifts, The Local Bar and Grill prefers to age gracefully. What makes this place especially poignant for me is that it has the exact same wood paneling on one wall that was in my childhood dining room. The Local Bar and Grill is the watering hole. Strangers are welcome; locals are family.

We headed south and turned onto the beach approach. As we made our way slowly down the four-mile sandy highway, we were met with the largest gathering of apex birds we have ever seen together at one time.

By our best count, there were at least twenty bald eagles—both mature and juvenile—enjoying their Mother’s Day breakfast at the coast. Speckled among them was a slew of turkey buzzards, but we won’t talk about them.

Ick.

We pulled off the beach and into the gravel lot of The Local Bar and Grill at 8:30 AM. Two and a half hours after we first pulled out of the driveway, we finally stepped through the door. The air inside smelled of coffee, sizzling bacon, and a hint of old wood. We were greeted not by a startled barista, but by the familiar hum of a place that knows exactly what it is. I sat down next to Mom, the 1940s wood paneling at our backs, and watched her finally relax, crisp cold Pepsi in hand, eggs and toast ordered.

While we waited on our order, decided to introduce Mom to the local tradition of pull-tabs. After all the failed starts and the 6:00 AM disappointment of a closed establishment, the universe finally decided to pay up. She sat there at the bar, meticulous and determined, and proceeded to win $125.00.

She may have put on a bra for The Winery, but she took home the prize at The Local. Two and a half hours, landing at “our bar”, and a hundred-dollar profit later, I’d say this Mother’s Day was a resounding, gussied-up success.

As we sat there in the place where locals are family, I realized that the winery’s locked gates were actually a gift. They gave us two hours of “stitches” in the car, a high-speed lobby extraction, and a private audience with twenty eagles on a sandy highway. We may have only traveled a quarter-mile from where we started, but we had gone exactly where we needed to be.