Java Love

Coffee or Tea? The question was posed. My answer came swiftly.  Coffee. Hands down. No offense, Tea. I mean, I do enjoy a steaming cup of Earl Gray, made in a proper china teapot, every now and again—usually mid afternoon, with my feet up, but … its coffee that has my heart.

You have to understand. I grew up drinking coffee. I was raised on a dairy farm and it was my job every morning to bring the cows in from the field to be milked. This required EARLY rising and I am not, nor have I ever been, a morning person, let alone an early one!

Mom would roust me out of bed; I’d stumble out to the kitchen, wiping cobwebs from my eyes, to find a special treat waiting for me. A sturdy mug of coffee, specially prepared for me by Dad. Now, granted  it was mostly cream and sugar with a splash of coffee in it, (the original latte) but the privilege and luxury of sipping a mug of sweet creamy coffee made me feel  important, grown up and most of all, loved.

Charged up by the sugary octane, I would find my way to the mudroom for my coat and boots and head out into fields still shrouded in darkness to search out our herd of cows.

As I grew older the amount of coffee in the milky cup got stronger and while I eventually gave up sugar, the cream is still a very important part of my morning cuppa.

Now days, mornings are made possible by my husband, who almost without fail, brews a pot of fragrant coffee, before I’ve even rolled out of bed. When I scuff my way into the kitchen, he will hand me my cup. 

He knows to not try and engage in conversation with me until that cup is at least half way gone. That morning pot of coffee,I tell him, is one of the reasons I fall in love with him all over again. He chuckles but I’m dead serious.

I chuckle when I think of our early courtship, when he confessed to not being a coffee drinker and I, shocked at such an acknowledgment, drug him off to the nearest coffee house and introduced him to mochas. He can blame me for his coffee addiction, but I stand by my convictions. Coffee is a necessity!

I was terribly chagrined when a trip to the south a few years ago revealed an appalling lack of coffee stands. 

As in NONE. 

Sweet Tea, yes. Coffee? Uh, No.

I made do but after two weeks of Waffle House Sweet Tea, I was desperate. I threw myself shamelessly on the barista at the airport Starbucks and practically kissed her feet when she handed me my iced Americano. Hey. Don’t judge.

All our road trips start with a coffee stop. Gotta have proper fuel for the journey. I think the perfect road trip might be to plan it around espresso stands. We could call it research! One of the highlights now when we go camping is making coffee in my old fashioned percolator. That cheerful little glub, glug, glub as the water boils up into the coffee grounds and hits the little percolator knob? Sheer delight, I kid you not.

What else can I say about coffee? I love the aroma. The feel of the mug in my hands. But in the broader sense, it’s the conversations that take place and the relationships that build simply because someone says, “Let’s meet for coffee.”

Adventures in Bus Driving

(inspired by a true story, in 'fond' memory of my past bus driving experiences, and dedicated to the fearless bus drivers everywhere.)

The alarm clock buzzes. In desperation, my hand searches through the darkness. Squinting my eyes, the lumpy forms in the bedroom take on identity. Husband. Cat. Bathrobe. Yawning, stretching, I scuff my way down the stairs. O dark thirty is not my best time of the day.

The first sip of coffee is a holy thing. Reverently I bring the cup to my lips. I stand at the kitchen window, peering out, wondering what picturesque scene will be revealed upon daybreak. I look harder. The realization that we have snow brings a gasp of delight. It never fails to surprise me, even if it was predicted. Ignoring for the moment that I will soon be required to drive in it, I slip open the sliding glass door and let the sting of icy air greet me.

I live close enough to work to walk, even in snowy weather. It is the school bus I drive that will require careful maneuverings. The main roads will be wet and slushy. The narrow roads winding through housing developments are the trickier parts.

I drive for nearly 20 minutes through rural country side before I depart the highway and meander into the sub-division where my bus route truly begins. Weak light has barely penetrated the morning. The snow is coming down in earnest now, coating the roads with thick powder. White knuckled, I press on.

My Jr High students are charged with energy excited by the weather. The older ones barely register my presence, let alone the snow that is piling up. Without taking my eyes off the road, I remind the boisterous ones to please quiet down. The last stop on my route is at the corner market where I pick up six or seven passengers. I brake and assess my situation as they load the bus. 

For I have now reached the crucible of my journey. The Hill. As in Down. As in Covered In Snow. 

A small compact pulls out from the driveway to the right of me ready to descend. I watch in horror as the car immediately skids sideways, then fishtails onto the main road, barely missing a truck preparing to turn up. 

At that precise moment my bus phone rings. It is Sally, the bus garage secretary, calling for an update on weather in my location. I take this opportunity to fill her in on the challenge that lies before me, alerting her to the fact that I will be late as it looks like snow chains are warranted. She admonishes me to be careful and let them know if I need assistance.

Turning the bus engine off gets my passengers attention and I announce there will be a delay as I will need to put on snow chains. I speak calmly and with authority but in reality a knot has formed in my stomach. I know something no one else is aware of.

I have never put on snow chains in my life. 

Of course I was taught this in bus driver training. But pretending to put on chains in a dry warm bus garage is a heck of a lot different than kneeling in snow and wrestling with chains while being ever mindful of my charges on the bus. I murmur a prayer.

One of my high schoolers pokes his head out the bus door and asks if I want-- need-- help. I never expected this quiet senior to come to my rescue. Working together we get one side on. Before I can move to the other side, another student yells that my bus phone is ringing. I slip and slide my way back onto the bus, snatching up the phone breathlessly. My boss bellows instructions: the snow is coming down in full force, school is being called off, turn around and take my students home. 

I look around my bus. With the exception of one sleepy headed 7th grader, it is empty. While I have struggled with the chains, my students have wandered over to the corner market! When I holler that school has been canceled they take off, shouting with celebration. They are gone before I can finish telling them that I need to drive them home. I sink down in my bus seat with a groan. This is not going to go over well with my boss. A tap on my bus door snaps me to attention. The smiling face of the store clerk greets me.

"Want some coffee Miss?” 

"You bet!” I enthuse. 

He asks if I take anything in it. 

Whiskey I think. “Cream please.” 

I think I will just sit and savor the unexpected treat before I continue my merry journey through this winter-wonderland.