08/13/2026
Our customers are what makes Jeri's Kitchen great. With out all of you, we wouldn't have the drive to do this day in and day out. Thank you all. Thank you Sheahan Happens.
Sixty Summer Stories
#39
August 12, 2026
The first Wednesday morning in my new home, my dear Uncle Byron came over for tea at 10:00. As he was leaving, he turned around and said, “Be at Jeri’s at 5:00. You’re gonna meet some old people.” And so I did. I was just barely a card-carrying senior citizen (Medicare, Social Security), but when I arrived I saw that I’d be the kid of the bunch. I still am, usually. They are all younger than my folks (Dad would be 98 and Mom, 96) but old enough to be twice as wise as I am, and often, twice as funny.
They’ve met at the same table, near the salad bar, every Wednesday night since God was a baby. Well, that can’t be right. Jeri’s Kitchen used to be in a different building, which burned, and they relocated to 312 N. Main in…I don’t know. I do know that I’ve been coming to Jeri’s off and on for a long time, earlier when visiting family and recently for three years, since I became a permanent resident. I’m a
gosh-darn bonafide regular now, and I always know that if I’m feeling a little blue (which, thankfully, doesn’t happen very often these days), all I have to do is open the double doors and I’ll hear, “WELCOME TO JERI’S!”, from someone on their friendly staff. (Our most vocal and enthusiastic greeter is Melissa, and Uncle Byron imitates her all the time. “I’ve got your uncle trained!” Yes, you do, Melissa.)
I think it was 25 years ago or so that I was in Kansas for a cousin’s winter wedding, and so Uncle Byron and Aunt Rita Ann (my dad’s little sister) treated me to supper at Jeri’s. I was seated next to Auntie, facing east toward the back (EAST! That’s how I roll now. Total farm girl, knowing directions and stuff.). Auntie brightened up, stuck her arm in the air to wave at someone who was all the way at the back wall. Somebody special, I figured. Then Uncle Byron, as he often has in these last three years, said, “That’s your second cousin!” “Donna Rohlman!” said Auntie. I jumped up and ran over to Donna (it’s possible I did actually run) to introduce myself and grab her in a big Sheahan hug.
I have since learned that it is no big deal to meet a cousin. I mean, half the town’s related to the other half, nearly. And they’ve known it for a long time. Like, five generations or so. Seems like I meet a new cousin (second, third, either of those removed once or twice) about every week, because I’m new here and just discovering all the connections. Still thrilled about it, and probably will be till I die.
I grew up in California with zero cousins, so it was a big deal when we’d visit the Sheahan farm in the summer and meet all the kinfolk.
We had a wonderful life, maybe an enviable life to some people. Gorgeous weather. Being as close to the Pacific Ocean as Kingman is to Wichita. And driving over the Santa Cruz mountains and through a redwood forest to reach the shore. We lived in the suburbs, I had my own room, but my brother and I shared everything, like Popsicles and Hershey bars and soda pops.
A pretty great life, but it was just us. Closest relatives were 1600 miles away. No cousins to play with, except for maybe two weeks in the summer at the farm, every other year, if we were lucky. Sleeping upstairs at the farm, on a hot July night with the windows open and the ceiling fan trying valiantly to cool us down, I was grateful to live in coastal California, for the weather, and the lack of nasty junebugs and mosquitoes.
I did love our Kansas time, and soaked it all in: riding Grandpa’s horse, Cocoa, and falling off when only one of us fit through the barn door). `But I did feel it keenly, the closeness of the aunts, uncles and cousins who spent lots of time with Grandma and Grandpa, all year round. Nobody asked me to choose between California or cousins, and I’m glad our lives played out the way they did, but I’m also mighty glad to be playing the fourth quarter of my game right here.
And Jeri’s, our family diner on Main Street, has been very much a part of that.
The Andersen family has been running this place since…(doing math…talk amongst yourselves)…1989? That’s a long time to run any business, let alone a restaurant.
You will not find better fried chicken anywhere, and that’s quite a statement coming from me, who lived 25 of my adult years in the South, where they are persnickety about fried chicken, and proud when they get it right.
Jeri’s gets it right. So say all the travelers who’ve heard of it, stopping in on their way to points west, east, north and south. “You have to get the pie!” Yes, you do. I’m also kind of a Southern-trained connoisseur of chocolate pie, and YES, MA’AM, Jeri’s is good! They also have—you know, it’s an embarrassment of riches, really—Daylight Donuts, made fresh at the crack of Dawn’s behind every morning. AND Tillamook ice cream.
Day after tomorrow is the BBQ buffet, a carnivore’s dream, with ribs, brisket, pulled pork, and who knows what else. If it mooed or snorted or oinked, it’ll be there. YUM.
I could go on about all the delectable delights to be found at 312 N. Main, but there’s so much more.
As with any truly fine and memorable local diner, it’s the people, our people, who make it everybody’s favorite gathering place. Now that I’ve been here three years, it’s hard to walk through Jeri’s without stopping to say hello and give hugs and hear terrible dad jokes. Oh, the laughs. On and on.
On Wednesdays, with Uncle Byron and Nyla and Bob and Kay and Mary and Bob (oh, the stories they all share) I get full to the brim with warm love and affection from these “old” friends who make me laugh and feel welcome, like I belong, to them, to Jeri’s, to this town. It happens there every day (on Sundays, only till 2:30. The Andersens have to rest sometime!).
Wednesday is my favorite Jeri’s day. But any day, any day at all, I can walk in the door at 312 N. Main and know that I am home.
