Egg Sandwiches, Elementary School, and Timeless Memories

There was a time when joy came in the form of an egg sandwich.

My friend Alan used to bring them to school, still warm from his mother’s kitchen, wrapped with care inside a reused plastic bread bag. When he peeled it open, the smell hit first: that mix of fried egg, hot oil, and soft white bread that somehow carried the warmth and comfort of home. The air around it felt heavier, richer. You could almost see the steam curling out, carrying the feeling of home straight to your heart.

The bread was pillowy and warm against your fingers, just a little slick where the oil had soaked through. When you bit in, it gave with a soft sigh, and the egg met you with that perfect edge of crisp, golden brown. The taste was simple: salt, oil, and love. The yolk was firm but not dry, the kind of flavor that needed nothing fancy, no cheese, no anything. Just itself. And when you swallowed, you could feel it all the way down, a small act of kindness turned into breakfast.

Even now, I can hear it: the crinkle of that bread bag, sunlight catching the sheen of the plastic like a spotlight on a treasure, the chatter of laughter and voices around us on the playground, the roar of big yellow buses dropping off kids, and the clean smell of morning air with a twinge of sour from the paper mill. We were sitting side by side on the playground, the dew still damp on our shoes, each with our own warm sandwich from his mother, savoring that first bright light of the day. It was as if we were in a bubble.

But the best memory isn’t the eating. It’s what came after. Alan and I, full and foolish, laughed as the wind caught that empty bread bag and sent it tumbling across the playground. It twisted and fluttered like it was alive, a tiny ghost of joy we chased across the gravel and grass. Our laughter carried with it the sound of pure childhood, breathless, bright, and unguarded.

It’s been a long stretch of years since those days at an elementary school in a very small town nestled among the pine trees of West Central Louisiana. Times have changed. I’ve since retired, and best I know Alan’s still continuing the fine career he built for himself. My egg sandwiches now are a different kind, the bread one hundred percent whole wheat, the egg scrambled in the microwave without oil, and the pepper fresh-ground. But this morning, when I made one in the quiet of a new day and the scent of eggs, the feel of the bread, and the crinkle of the plastic bread bag wafted through the kitchen, I was right back there again, a kid in memory, chasing that runaway bag through the golden light and laughter of a long-ago day.

These days I sometimes wonder if we might not be better off sitting down with others over an egg sandwich made with love, like the ones we had back then. I guess it’s just the kid in me, thinking aloud.

Thanks, Alan. And thanks, Mrs. Alan’s Mom.