As a result of having divorced parents, I usually split my time between families on Christmas morning. I woke up at my mother’s house and opened presents while my step siblings at my dad’s house patiently waited for me to arrive to tear into their own parcels. One Christmas morning after my mom and Jim, my stepfather, dropped me off at my dad’s house, they decided to go to Waffle House.
In our small town on Christmas morning, Waffle House was the only place open. The service my parents received wasn’t particularly groundbreaking. But, figuring that their waitress picked up a Christmas morning shift for a reason, they gave her what could be described as an unusually large tip.
A few years later, they struck again when they gave an older gentleman sweeping the floors at Waffle House on Christmas day a 50 dollar tip. The man appeared to be a veteran. My mom described him as having what appeared to be army tattoos. He seemed genuinely surprised to receive a tip for sweeping the floors, not just for serving food.
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