by Ann Howell (bio after article)
The jar’s empty - no! Why did I put the extra coffee in the bag going home with the family? I peer out the kitchen window of our lakeside cottage. If I don’t hurry, the heat of the sun will be full face on the Adirondack chair calling to me from next to the lake.
I pull on a pair of shorts, T-shirt, and slip into some sandals. Swipe my lips with lipstick and run a comb through my hair. I grab my wallet and head for the door. Car keys? Not on the rack hanging at the back door for just that purpose. My hand scatters yesterday’s newspaper on the end of the kitchen’s catchall counter. The keys slide through the flurry of old news, off the edge, and into the open jaws of the trashcan below. Who forgot to put the lid back?
The keys slop through the sinkhole of yesterday’s soggy filter and wet coffee grounds. Guess I know who forgot to put the lid back. The whole mess lounges on a pile of ditched spaghetti noodles and marina sauce. I regret dumping the filter basket. I could have dripped enough water through it for a first cup until I could get to the store. That option’s gone. Craving to fingers: retrieve the keys and get the hell on the road. I plunge up to my knuckles into the grounds, wash keys and hands, head for the door.
Finally, I settle behind the wheel. Four wheel drive pulls my jeep up the steep road. I know the little country store won’t have my special blend of beans – they won’t have beans – but they’ll have something.
A mile climbing up the gravel. A mile down the pavement of Highway 11. I cross the lake once, but all I see is a giant vat of Mocha Grande` below and imagine myself diving from the bridge into it. I immerse myself in it before resurfacing through it. I become one with the coffee, marked as its own, branded through to my soul. While treading, I mimic my two chocolate labs and lap up the cacao taste the way they lie in the waters’ edge and drink from the lake. I roll over and float while the coffee feeds me, my every pore soaking in the sweet caffeinated nectar…
Hurry my brain urges. I veer into the store’s parking lot. Before I open the screened door crossbarred with the ‘Colonial is Good Bread’ sign, I smell it. I hear the dying gurgles as the last of the water filters through. A blue denim arm lifts the vessel and pours the liquid into a clunky white diner-style mug. The steaming brew aims for his mouth, but pauses when I enter.
“Morning.” He nods his head.
“I’ll give you five dollars for that cup of coffee.” I blurt out.
The man doesn’t raise an eyebrow. “It’s all yours, Ma’am. I’ll throw in the mug.”
I take the sacrament from the hands of the priest and raise the chalice to my lips. Never mind it’s black as a raven. The first sip rockets me straight to into the stratosphere. I do not pass Go nor do I collect two hundred dollars. It doesn’t matter. I have the gold.
The clerk stares at me for a moment before averting his eyes toward the ‘Live Bait’ sign in the window. He flushes and shifts from foot to foot.
“Sorry,” I say. Now that a shot is in my system, my senses return. “I ran out of coffee this morning…” I finish the sentence with a what-can-I-say grin and a shrug.
The man walks over to a shelf, picks up a bag of Eight O’Clock Coffee, and sits it next to the register. He walks back behind the counter and punches some keys on the register.
“That’ll be three, eighty-nine,” he says. “This is the only brand I carry.”
“Plus the five for the…”
“No.” He holds his hand up. “The first cup’s on me.”
Thirty minutes later I settle into the Adirondack. My favorite oversized mug adorned with the Hydrangea Garden pattern, brims with a fresh cup of Eight O’Clock Coffee. Creamy half-and-half shades it a light cinnamon color. A tray on the table next to me holds a matching plate containing cantaloupe chunks sprinkled with blueberries. Next to those, the pastel morning sun melts away the slather of butter atop a toasted English muffin.
I peruse the lake. It lies wide and flat, its edges scalloping the shoreline without a sound. Monday morning it’s devoid of boats after a busy weekend. My neighbors’ AC hums a low, steady tune in the trees behind me. Thousands of feet above me the slight discernable sound of a plane is short lived. It carries people in a hurry while I gaze upon tranquility. Loitering columns of mist drift over the water, boiling away to disappear altogether. I blow on the steam levitating above my mug and sip. In the trees across the cove, several birds – crows or ravens? – engage in muted conversation hiding amongst the piney branches. The morning softly lingers. My body dissolves further into the chair. I enjoy my communion with my surroundings over coffee and bless the problem with the well. Because of it, and having to wait for the plumber, I gain an extra day at the lake, just my Eight O’Clock and me.
Copyright © 2002 + © Ann Howell. All Rights Reserved.
About Ann Howell
Ann H. Howell is an Asheville, NC, native. She’s been married for 29 years, has two sons, a cat, and started over again with year old chocolate lab puppies.
A few years ago, during her mid-life crisis, she took writing classes, toyed with short stories and wrote a novel, which she shoved in a drawer for over a year. She’s currently involved with a writing group and in the process of re-writing the novel, working part time as an Administrative Assistant, and coaching her son through senior year of high school/college applications. Ann’s favorite author is Lee Smith. Favorite activities: time with family, son’s football games, writing, reading, walking.
