Guest Post: Sandra Heska King, “You Can Dish It Out”

My grandparents owned a small restaurant called the Airport Grill in Waters, an eye blink of a town a couple miles up the road. And yes, there was an “airfield” right behind it. “Field” being the key word. I don’t remember any concrete runway nor anything but a small private plane or a National Guard helicopter parked out on the grass.

My first job was as a waitress there.

Unless you count reservations clerk for our small motel. My dad still tells the story of waking up in the middle of the night to find me out in our screened porch handing a room key to a strange couple. I ‘d already taken them out to view the room, and they had filled out the registration card. I was probably still in elementary school, and I don’t know that I learned anything from that, but I’m guessing my parents did.

Anyway, back to the restaurant.

I was fifteen. I remember handing out plates of pancakes and Grandpa’s famous brown bread to camouflaged men on dark winter mornings. The air hung heavy with the aroma of coffee mingled with bacon grease, and the clank of forks and spoons accompanied deep voices discussing yesterday’s bag or today’s plan.

I served camouflaged men in the summer, too, who arrived in jeeps or canvas-backed trucks. As well as snow and water tourists and, of course, the locals who

often came in to eat.

One morning I arrived at work only to be stopped by yellow police tape draped everywhere. Grandpa closed the restaurant that day and sent me home. There had been a robbery—or an attempt.

Grandpa was having late-night coffee with the Space-E Motel owner. From where they sat in Wayne’s trailer, they could see a couple of men head toward the back of the Grill. They told Wayne’s wife to call the police and went to investigate. That’s when they saw one of the guys slip through a side window of the restaurant.

Jim, the owner of the Waters Grocery across the street, was outside, and they yelled to him for help. The three men stationed themselves at each exit. When the burglar realized he was surrounded, he tried to climb out a window. But Jim tackled him and ended up getting shot in the leg.

The man ditched his gun and returned to the motel where he and his cohorts were staying. When the police arrived, they threatened to shoot it out, but gave up in the end.

Lots of excitement for a teeny town.

 I reminded Grandpa about the two men who sat at the counter for the longest time earlier that day. I’d served them pie and refilled coffee cups over and over. How mad I was that they left me just a two-cent tip. Two pennies! Grandpa figured they were probably there to case the place.

One day, I waited on a big party of customers who all ordered spaghetti. The other waitress helped, and we both set our trays down on the end of the table at the same time. Her tray bumped my tray, and spaghetti flew everywhere, including laps.

Grandpa was furious, and I still remember him and Grandma arguing in the kitchen. I assume she was taking “my side.” But maybe the argument had turned to something else. Anyway, I heard her yell at him, “You can dish it out, but you just can’t take it!”

I’ve never forgotten that.

I read the phrase actually comes from cooking. Don’t dish out food you’re not willing to eat yourself.

In today’s terms it could mean don’t dish out unpalatable words—words you’re not willing to swallow. Don’t criticize if you’re not willing to be criticized. Don’t look for specks when you store planks. Don’t pass out work you’re not also willing to do. Don’t do to others what you don’t want done to you.

Oh, and if anyone wants to give you their two-cents’ worth. Be alert. They might just plan to rob you blind.