I felt right at home when I first stepped into Jean’s Diner in Hoosick Falls, New York, five years ago. And this is a curious thing for me; I rarely feel at home outside of my house, and as always, I have no illusions about being a local.

I have never fit in anywhere I’ve lived; it’s my comfort zone.

Jean’s is much as it opened decades ago in the farming and down-on-its-luck town of Hoosick Falls. This is the real country, this diner; I always feel like a midget when I sit down there and watch the big, tall men sit on their stools at the counter.

Maria and I are almost always at tables, not counter people. The big farmers in their jeans and suspenders usually eat there. Couples and families sit at the tables.

Jean died some time ago, and her children Kelly and Kevin run the diner much as she did. They usually work hard in the kitchen but often come out to check on things and say hello.

There is no reason to change Jean’s, no fancy new cuisine, no modern tables, fancy dressers.

The most significant change in years was hanging blinds in the windows to keep the sunlight from heating up the tables. They had to put up signs urging people not to move the blinds until they were finished.

The only signs at the door caution people that Jeans’ does not accept credit cards, only cash and checks. We know to get to Jean’s before church gets out, and the parking lot is jammed with cars, and most of the tables are full.

The big men wear jeans, and they and the older ones have suspenders. The dress is a work dress, always practical and casual. People come in with small children (smothered with love by the staff), and older people come in with canes and walking sticks.

Everyone is welcome, or at least made to feel welcome. Everyone pulls out their iPhones to show pictures of their sons, daughters, grandchildren, or great-grandchildren.

When the pandemic struck, the diner was in trouble, but the town rallied to Jean’s, and the Mansion hired them to cater lunches. And they did a lot of takeout business.

They got through it; there is no way Hoosick Falls would lose Jeans or let them go down.  Jean’s didn’t need to change after the pandemic. It is precisely the same as it was before the pandemic. Nobody wants it to change; they love it just the way it is.

The diner is about 14 miles from us and on the same road we live on, just further South. We go out of our driveway, turn left and go straight to the diner.

But really, it is a different world. It’s everything I love about the country –  unpretentious, dependable, people-centered, inexpensive and straightforward, much loved in ways fancy restaurants in cities could never be – and everything that is different from me and my past.

You know precisely what you are getting at the diner; there are no surprises or accidents.

I can’t say why I feel so comfortable there; sometimes, I don’t understand myself. I never feel unwelcome there, nor do I blend in exceptionally well. I am always outside the tent; it’s just my way. Nobody thinks I’m local, I’m not trying to fool anybody.

Sometimes the pictures on the wall change, but otherwise, the diner is precisely as it was when I first walked in. The food is delicious and very inexpensive. There is a big sign reminding people to remember our veterans.

Their breakfasts are the best we have had anywhere, big soft pancakes, crispy potatoes, fresh eggs, and big and sweet home-baked muffins when we are in the mood (I can’t eat them anymore, they are huge.)

Breakfast for two is visually around $14 with coffee and juice. We get oat pancakes or eggs over with wheat toast and home fries. Once in a while, I get bacon or sausage. The food is never greasy.

It comes quickly and is fresh and hot.

When I moved up here, I knew I would always be a New Yorker (the code name for all outsiders), an outlet. I can find acceptance, but I will always feel and be a refugee, leaving my culture and experience behind. I was born into a refugee family, and that is where I am at home.

Still, I love Jeans’ Diner, and Maria and I go there for breakfast every Sunday morning.

There are lots of new people moving into our areas; young and middle-aged city people from New York and Boston are now working virtually and moving here to get away from the city.

I never see any of them at Jean’s. America is much more of a class society than I ever realized. I don’t think Jean’s is looking for them.

We are never treated poorly. It isn’t that anyone treats us poorly or is unpleasant; quite the opposite. It’s just that Jean’s is all about family, and we are not family.  You have to be born and grow up there to be accepted that way.

The hard-working farmer and windows and people of Hoosick Falls are the family, and everyone local is treated as such. Jean’s knows who their customers and pictures of kids in sports and growing up are all over the walls.

Nina, our regular waitress and now a friend, has our coffee and Maria’s tea (decaf for me) waiting on the table before we sit down. She seems to know just which table we will sit at; she spots us getting out of our car through the window.

She always wants to know how we are, and she loves Maria and keeps telling me I have a “good one” and that I better treat her well and share my fried potatoes. When I was wearing a surgical boot, she always asked me how I was and what was happening with my foot.

She was jubilant when I showed up in regular shoes. And she noticed.

Every time I look up, I see her bring food to one of the big men at the counter, and she always talks to them and listens to them, although she doesn’t stop to chat when things are busy.

Nina is part social worker and universal big sister and grandma. She knows everyone and cares about everyone too much to fake it.

She moves fast and takes time when she can speak to everyone; she knows who is healthy and sick, whose mom or dad died and when, who is out of work, and who has a new child or grandkid. She often babysits people with small children; she considers everyone her family.

When the diner is crowded, she is a blur, doing ten things at once, taking care of everybody, bringing the food on time, and getting the check immediately.

The first thing we do on Sunday mornings when we make up is turn to each other, and one of us will say, “Let’s go to Jean’s for breakfast.”

I have to say that the giant men at the counters fascinate me, I am six feet tall, but I think I could fit in the jeans pocket of many of these men. They are the biggest men I’ve ever seen, primarily farmers who have worked hard all their lives.

I feel tiny around them.

Some are older, some have lost their wives, and some widowed women also come in. Some just come in for a coffee break with a muffin. They are hugged, comforted, and talked to in a special way, with lots of kidding sometimes and lots of empathy at others.

The servers at Jean’s are social workers and servers, and they have learned how to move fast, take orders, and clean tables.  The service is always right on the spot.

The town is their family at Jean’s; it is not just about money. It is something more. Today I took four pictures of the men at the counters, each taking a few minutes after the other.

That’s Nina talking to one of them.

Photographing the scene at the counters is a regular thing for me now. I don’t do faces to protect their privacy.  I hope to do it every week.