Yesterday morning was the third annual Red-Stocking Breakfast to benefit the Kansas Children's Service League. They had the best turn-out yet and raised lots of money for kids while, at the same time, taking care of the morning meal. Last year, I did the FirstNews weather from the breakfast. It started to snow while I was on the air. As folks came in the restaurant, they'd tell me "It's really starting to come down out there." Being the Nostradamus of weather, I assured them it wouldn't amount to much. About eight inches later, the snow stopped. It turned out to be our largest...and, really, only...major snowfall of the year. A few folks reminded me of that turn of events, this year. One said he remembered shoveling about seven inches of "flurries" off his driveway when he got home that day. This year I didn't do the weather from the event and, naturally, it turned out to be a beautiful, sunny, mild morning.

Without weather duties to worry about, I was sure I could excel at my other job of the morning: waiter. After last year, the powers-that-be at the eatery, relegated me to carrying around the water pitcher. No more orange juice chores for me, this year, and don't even think about picking up the coffee pot! (It was probably part of some sort of "settlement.") They tried to tell me that filling water glasses was the most important job of all and required a very special person to do it just right, but I'm not buying it. Most of the time, I did okay on water patrol. I did have some trouble regulating the water vs ice ratio. At one point, a pile of ice cubes came rushing out and made touch-down in a lady's chair just before she did. Had her companion not stopped her from sitting down, she'd have felt the Chill of the Season, first hand. Well, not exactly, first hand but you get the picture. I drifted from table to table offering water and spilling ice cubes. There was so much ice clinking around, it sounded like the Elves' urologist's office at the North Pole. It was amazing to me how many people happened to drop their spoons or napkins on the floor and bent over to get them, just as I approached. Eventually, I just started to pour water into any empty or nearly empty glass. I may have been a little too gung-ho because, by the time my volunteer stint was over, a protest group had formed, carrying signs that read "SAY NO NO NO TO H2O!"

Other than occasions like yesterday morning, I've never been a waiter. I did spend lots of hours in a dining room, however, all through college. I played the piano for diners, four nights a week, at the Sheraton Hotel in Madison, Wisconsin. Now, I wasn't like the piano man in the Billy Joel song because I couldn't just jump into any old song that was requested. I'd lug my suitcase full of music with me and hope nobody asked for something I didn't already have. In fact, very rarely, did anyone come up to me with a request...other than to please, stop. Sometimes I would be asked to play Happy Birthday or Stardust or Just the Way You Are. Since, the way I played them, they all sounded about the same, it was not a big challenge.

One of the big bosses of the hotel came to visit once and I was told he lived in Cape Cod. So, when he came in the dining room I played the song Old Cape Cod. He looked up at me and smiled...then whispered something to our general manager. I figured I was in line for a raise. Turned out he had his hearing aid turned off and was telling the GM he thought "you could fit another couple of tables right over there if you just get rid of that piano." Another time, George "Goober" Lindsey came in with a group and I immediately went into the theme from The Andy Griffith Show. I kept looking over at him as I played...hoping for some recognition from one of the stars of my all-time favorite TV show. He never looked my way but I guess I did make an impression since he requested that he and his party be moved toward the back...as far away from the piano as you could get.

I guess, when it comes to dining rooms and restaurants, I should confine my activities to ordering, eating, paying and tipping. For the record, I did have a tip jar on the piano back in college. At the end of my three years of playing there, it was filled with dust, a candy wrapper and one dead centipede.