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“It is only with the heart that one can see rightly;
what is essential is invisible to the eye.”

— Antoine de Saint-Exupéry (1900–1944). French writer and aviator, best known for The Little Prince, a timeless meditation on seeing, love, and what truly matters.

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Two travelers, journeying to the Northern Neck of Virginia, midway between our home in the Shenandoah Valley and our destination, Kilmarnock.

Two travelers with two mid-day choices.

“Horne’s,” Gary read out loud from his phone. “It’s an old-time eatery serving American fare since 1961. It’s a mile or so away.”

He continued with their lunch menu.

“Hmmm. Any other restaurants?”

“Randolph’s on the River.”

About the time he started with their menu, we were approaching Horne’s. Three cars in the parking lot at noon raised some red flags, and the building raised more. It had been something once upon a time, looking back now with one nostalgic backward glance too many.

“Let’s go on to Randolph’s.”

We were there in several minutes. Right on the river with a beautiful view of the bridge.

We drove into the parking lot. One car.

“Maybe they’re closed?”

We both discovered the open door at the same time, looked questionably at one another, entered, and sat by the window on the water’s edge.

We waited and waited and …

“I’ll walk over and get a menu.”

As he did, Gary craned his head toward the open kitchen door.

“It looks really unorganized in there.”

“Maybe we should go back to Horne’s.”

But just as I was on my way to the door, the solo bar customer assured Gary the food was good, as he yelled,

“Hey, Mama. Ya got a customer.”

We returned to our booth.

“Oh, so sorry. I’m the only one here. Nobody else show up yet. Cook. Waitress. Cashier. That’s me. Whatcha want to drink?”

“Water.”

“Same for me.”

In a second, the wizened, chisel-faced Black waitress was back, her hair pulled up tight on top of her head, pulling her taller than her thin frame stood, and 32-ounce plastic glasses of iced water landed gracefully before us.

“What will ya have?”

“Are your oysters local?”

“Oh, yessss. And they big ones.”

“I’ll have the oyster po-boy. You like it?”

“Oh. No. I don’t do oysters, but we sure sell a lot. And it’s on a really big bun.”

“I’ll have one.”

Gary ordered a tuna melt, with French fries and coleslaw.

“What about you?”

“Hmmm. Coleslaw and collards.”

She beamed. “I makes ’em. They so good.”

She spirited around to head back to the kitchen, turning for a sec,

“If ya’ll need anything, just yell out ‘Auntie.'”

We were amused, and maybe smitten by the rawness of her charm, even when she appeared again, grinning.

“Fish truck ain’t got here yet, so we don’t have no tuna. How about a Rock Fish sandwich? Mighty good.”

“Okay.”

“Broiled or fried?”

“Broiled.”

She sprinted away again, as we continued chuckling about our lunch choice and wondering what the food could possibly taste like in a restaurant staffed by a three-in-one.

But nearly as fast as Auntie had sprinted away, she appeared again balancing two plates of food as wide as her beam.

“Ya’ll enjoy.”

“Gary, look at the size of this po-boy! How will I ever eat it all?”

“Well, try one of these fries. I’ve never had fries this good.”

“OMG. They’re awesome. How did she do that?”

By then, I had started to savor the collards.

“Never in my life have I had collards this good. They’re velvety magnificent.”

Just as Gary could not be enticed to savor the collards, neither could I lure him to try my po-boy that I had just dubbed the world’s best ever.

We sat there, enjoying a lunch that we never expected to enjoy, each of us beaming more that Auntie’s beam that competed with the sun glistening on the river.

“What marvelous food!” I quipped. “How did she pull this off?”

She was back soon to see how we were doing.

“How’d you learn to cook collards like that?”

“My grandmother. Just wash ’em up and down several times. Add some onion.”

“Fat back?”

“No. Just bacon. Cook ’em long and slow.”

“They’re the best I’ve ever had.”

She leaned in and whispered as she headed back to the kitchen.

“Gonna bring you a big bowl to take with you.”

We kept eating. Kept enjoying our culinary surprise. Kept nodding in agreement when Gary pronounced:

“Just proves you can’t judge a book by its cover.”

Not judging a book by its cover is a saying we all know. It reminds us not to measure worth by appearances alone. The phrase has been around since 1867 when the Piqua Democrat put it this way:

“Don’t judge a book by its cover; see a man by his cloth, as there is often a good deal of solid worth and superior skill underneath a jacket and yaller pants.”

The idiom’s insight holds.

Once you notice it—really notice it—you start seeing its truth everywhere.

A green thing pushing up through a crack in the sidewalk. Something so small it could be missed entirely if you’re walking fast or looking at your phone. It shouldn’t be there. Concrete says no. Yet there it is, insisting. Alive. You slow down, surprised by how much you want it to win.

A dog at the shelter. The one not pressed eagerly against the gate. The older one. The one whose eyes seem to say, “I’ve already tried being hopeful.” There’s nothing wrong, exactly—just nothing flashy. You move on, almost without thinking, until something tugs. A look. A stillness. Suddenly you’re wondering what kind of life left that quiet patience behind.

A fixer-upper. The peeling paint, the sagging porch, the smell that lingers longer than you’d like. Everyone sees the work. The cost. The trouble. But every now and then you catch a glimpse of something else—a line of light across a floor, a room that wants to breathe again—and you realize the house isn’t finished telling its story.

Then there are people.

People whose jackets are worn. Whose stories arrive with footnotes. People who don’t sparkle on first glance, who hesitate, who carry loss or age or disappointment a little too visibly. People who have been misunderstood long enough that they’ve learned not to rush forward anymore.

People like us. Like you. Like me.

We all know how quickly judgment comes. A glance. A pause. A decision made before the second sentence. We decide what’s worth our time, our care, our patience—and what isn’t.

Sometimes, though, we sit down anyway.

By a river. In a nearly empty restaurant. With a three-in-one waitress who says, “Y’all enjoy” and means it.

If we’re lucky—if we slow down just enough—we leave carrying more than we expected. A full stomach. A warm heart. And the uneasy, beautiful knowledge that the best things in life often arrive wearing the wrong cover.