We're sitting on opposite sides of the booth, the fat white manilla envelope--with "Yale University" printed in bright blue letters on the upper left hand corner--laying on the table between us, silly grins on our faces.

The restaurant is empty except for a table in back, which is informally reserved for coffee drinking men who wander in throughout the day.  My high school history teacher is getting up to leave.  "You girls look happy," he notes as he passes by.

A counter runs the full length of the right side.  A pie case hanging behind is filled with homemade pies baked early each morning by Edith, who leaves by six.  Patty, who has been waitressing here for 40 years, leans forward on the counter waiting for a sign that we're ready to order.

Eight booths line the left side, the red plastic seats reflective of the local high school colors.  Tables of six seats each march down the center in the synchronized formation of a high school band.

Pictures of high school sports heroes look lonely and out of place above the empty booths.  They're flanked by the Rotary and Lion club banners that hang like invitations to the younger generation--many of whom will travel no further from Marshall than the outer edges of our high school sports' conference.

We have yet to pick up a menu from behind the ketchup bottle that sits in front of the individual juke box at the edge of our booth.

"Read it again, Alex," I say to my oldest daughter.

"Dear Alexis," she reads, "We are proud to announce that you have been accepted...."

After hugs and congratulations at home, I brought her to Tom's, the place where I had celebrated most of my own youthful victories.

On birthdays, holidays, and following swim meets, I came with parents.  After high school ball games, I came with friends.  We would order breaded pork tenderloins and french fries--with Tom's famous homemade mayonnaise on the side instead of ketchup--and wait for the yellow school bus to drop off the players.  As they walked in the door, we greeted them with cheers and hugs, shared our fries, and waited for parents to pick us up.

Alex's high school years were different.  The arrival of Interstate 70 at the edge of our little town soon brought McDonalds and Burger King and handed Tom's back to the adults.  Now it courts the teens, but with little success.  Their celebrations have moved to the convenience of fast food.

But Alex knows my history with Tom's, and has learned to accept, if not appreciate, my dipping of  fries into the homemade mayonnaise.  When we first moved to Marshall, Tom's was one of our first ventures out.  That day, she and her sister searched the pictures on the wall to see if they could find any faded poses of mom in a cheerleading outfit.

This day, she pays no attention to the pictures, while I silently resent the lack of academic heroes in the frames.

"Connecticut," I say, still trying to process her acceptance and to place Connecticut among all of the Eastern states that I've never been to.  "We'll need to visit."

"Soon," she says.

The cheers for the returning players that echo in my memory suddenly seem so uncomplicated.  My cheers for Alex have layers.  As I stare at the case of homemade pies, Connecticut seems an almost impossible distance from where we sit.  I wonder if I've prepared her well enough to venture from the safety of a restaurant where Patty has served both the mother and the daughter as teens.