Binger Exit

“I wonder how many hours of my life I’ve spent waiting for him to say goodbye to everyone.”

-Grandma Lenore

My grandpa Bing was a shining example of what it means to love people. Going places with Grandpa was like accompanying a sincere and genuine mayoral candidate on a campaign stop. Everywhere Grandpa went, he would engage with people and share a laugh, joke, or memory. In 1993, when I was nine years old, my family went to watch a couple local teams play in the Michigan high school state football championships at the Pontiac Silverdome. Pontiac was a good eight hours and a world away from our small rural town in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, but that didn’t stop Grandpa from stopping and talking to dozens of people as we walked a lap around the Silverdome concourse before the game and at halftime. Some of these encounters were with old friends and colleagues from Grandpa’s time as a board member on the Michigan High School Athletic Association (MHSAA). Others were guys he had refereed with 30 years prior. Some were just people he made eye contact with or recognized from somewhere else. It was amazing to watch his ability to connect with people and share his gentle spirit during these interactions.

The term “Binger Exit” was coined by my good friend Matt after he noticed that my grandpa could not leave a restaurant without going around to each table and bantering with every patron in the place. It was pretty much tradition that my family would go out to eat somewhere after church on Sunday. Bernie’s Back Inn, Wildwood, Corner House, Country Kitchen, Rialto. Picture a classic small town diner and you’ll be on the money for what these places looked like. An old school cash register by the entrance, rough carpeting with plenty of stains, a counter with stools up near the kitchen, a faint smell of lingering cigarette smoke and cheap coffee, tables with removable clear plastic tops and ads for local businesses beneath, stiff metal-framed chairs with that faux-leather vinyl padding on the seat and backrest, and, of course, plenty of locals to chat with at 11:30 AM on a Sunday.

We’d have our meal, talk about life and the week ahead, and share some laughs. The check would come and my mom and grandparents would argue over who got to pay. Often my grandma or grandpa would wear my mom down and one of them would hand me the bill and some cash to go pay at the register. The pay counter always included an assortment of fliers for local fundraisers, small trays of Lions Club mints for sale, and a little metal spike with the day’s already-settled checks impaled in a stack. About this time, my grandpa would begin his Binger Exit, standing up from the table and surveying the place while my grandma put her coat on, collected her purse, and headed towards the exit. By the time I was driving age in the early 2000s, my grandpa had a cane and moved pretty slow and a bit unsteadily due to a stroke. Sometimes I would support him getting out of his chair and help him get his coat and hat on, the hat just barely resting on top of Grandpa’s head at just the right angle to not mess up his perfect coif of parted silver hair. The fact that it was a bit harder for Grandpa to maneuver on his feet didn’t stop him from taking a lap around the place, squeezing shoulders, shaking hands, and bantering with pretty much everyone he encountered.

If it was an older couple sitting at a table, one of my grandpa’s go-to lines was, “So she let you cook today, huh?” This would generally cause an eruption of laughter from all involved. Apparently that line never got old because it was always the same reaction.

Undoubtedly, some of his regular weekday morning coffee crew buddies would be seated somewhere in the diner. These were guys my grandpa had been friends with for 80 years by this point.

“Hey Andy, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Okay, Bing.”

If Grandpa didn’t immediately know or recognize the people at a certain table, he just saw it as an opportunity to make new friends. He’d walk right up and ask, “Who are you folks?” Inevitably, the former strangers and my grandpa would find some kind of mutual connection or friend that would open up a topic of conversation.

In the colder winter months, I would take the car keys and go pull my grandparents’ car around so they didn’t have to walk across an icy parking lot in frigid temperatures. My grandma would climb into her seat and await my grandpa’s emergence from the restaurant.

Finally, at long last, Grandpa would appear from the restaurant and assess his Binger Exit.

“I think I got a few more votes.” A rye smile and small chuckle.

“Those people are from Hermansville.” Okay, good to know.

“I taught that kid in school.” The “kid” was in his 70s now.

“Where’s Lynn? Oh, has she been waiting?” Like he didn’t know.

“Did you get enough to eat?” I had eaten my meal plus half of both my grandparents’ meals.

And with a hug and a kiss, Grandpa would climb into the driver’s seat and be on his way home (at no more than 10 miles per hour).