A Coffee Intermission

Mug contents unknown. Known, however, is the holder of this hot beverage vessel. She is a friend who allowed my use of her picture. I saw it on FB and asked permission … as is protocol when I come across one I’d like to share that is undeniably unique.

I don’t believe Katie expected a blog post when snapping this photo during a relaxing time recently – and, I didn’t anticipate writing about a mug filled with (possibly) a hot beverage I won’t drink … coffee. I write “possibly” because the contents of her mug have not been confirmed at this time. That aside, I’m a huge fan of black vs. blue pictures, … thus the photo.

Ah, the photo. Reflective, relaxing. All the adjectives one would use to chronicle a blanketed porch time overlooking a field stretched out to that wooded horizon. I especially like that innocent little intermission centered in the middle of the two larger acts stage left and right. Clouds above give us a perfectly hanging, never closing, curtain over this theater of tranquility.

Alas, however, I must address the “aside” issue. I don’t drink coffee. Assuming this was in her mug, I can’t connect with the liquidy, beany delight millions enjoy multiple times each day. Just. Can’t. Of all the wonderful, musical, game-loving, life-affirming, joking around, silly mannerisms I inherited from my dear mother … her deep-brewing love of the roasted java didn’t make it into MY particular mug.

I sat around a breakfast table the other morning as friends recounted their first experience drinking coffee. The place. The time. Possibly the company with whom they kept? I had nothing to contribute except a few iced tea laden exhales of nothingness.

Coffee culture does captivate me.

Daily, the drivethru lines outside our local Starbucks are fascinating. Squigling around the building, they are seemingly endless … anxious automatic caffeine caravans – awaiting their luscious Lattes and frothing Frappes.

We entertain multiple little specialty coffee shops around these parts and one large traveling Concession trailer (who also has multiple brick and mortar locations as well). One cafe I frequent a lot offers a buck-a-cup option for all eatery patrons on the honor system. You pump alternative brews from carafes into your favorite mug while enjoying limited menu items. Notice the “you” pronoun there … definitely not, “me”.

Coffee seems to be the great uniter. I see this happen in a small way as I sweeten my tea surrounded by coffee consumers. They become unconcious, competent conversationalists as liquid (de)caffeine rhythmically crosses their lips. It’s a ballet of words in between sips and warm-ups (otherwise known as top-me-offs) … swallowing can be timed and self-affirming as well. Even the finest of wine connoisseurs may not even sniff their way around stemware with such elegance … let alone partake of the Bordeaux.

It’s a conundrum to me. This whole coffee thing. To those who love it, I say, “fantastic” .. and truly mean the compliment. I had one small taste many ages ago. Many decades, to be accurate. Friends suggest this wasn’t enough to develop a taste. Well, I had one small chocolate chip cookie, a pizza, and pretzels for the first time a long time ago and fell in love with all of them soooooo, THAT theory is kinda bunk…

The picture is really quite beautiful. I love the mystery of NOT knowing what is in her mug. Hot, green tea? Yeah, that’s it. Indeed, if it IS coffee, I don’t need to know. Let’s assume whatever filled the mug, filled her spirit at the time.

I am entirely satisfied looking at – and beyond – the horizon. Blue and black framing the intermission where all of us can just take a big breath. Our curtain will not end the show, nor will what is going on now – good or bad – last forever.

Let’s all sit where we are, hold on to whatever is in our life’s mug, and enjoy the scenery.

Even if it does include a cup delicious, uhm, coffee …

Why Such a Tiny Signum

Latin is not loaded on my language baked potato. Smooth, melancholy melty music, yes. A dash of algebraic indulgence? Absolutely! Perhaps some salty, humerous sarcasm at times. All of these enhance a fluffy tuber of spoken word experiences during my daily go-abouts. I can hear music, figure out simple quadratic equations, or consider an edgy joke, or two, … all the while speaking words. To be clear, I do not give thought of this as a gift. Most could do the same, to be sure. Rub belly, pat head.

Just that Latin never was – nor shall be – on the plate. Given a choice between any difficult language, I’d pick Mandarin Chinese before divitis-diviti-divitem into Latin. My research has provided me some solace, however. “A dead language”, is how Latin is currently chronicled by popular search engines. With that information in hand, I feel somewhat Latinally requievit.

For the purpose at hand, er on finger … I have to only know one word: signum. It’s a “sign”. Specifically, used to denote a family crest imprinted in hot wax to seal important documents. Worn by emperors, popes, and various other hi-dee-hoy-dedees, signet rings were high society thingys, apparently. I did not know this.

Imagine learning of this majesty soon after finding a small ring back in a drawer earlier today. Now, I seriously doubt there was a pope in my lineage. If papal blood is coursing through my inner springs, I gots lots of splainin’ to do. Emperors? Hmm. There’s a notion. Possibly an inch closer to reality than pope, but still unlikely. Had a dog named Queeny when I was just a lad. Does that count?

The ring is tiny. Like, really small. Ten-K gold scribbled on the envelope enclosing the memories all these years. A name identifying my long-remembered relative is also penned. I knew of him, but never set eyes on him. What makes no sense is the sizing. I fear it would be easier for a camel in a needle than this ring to slip-slide down a man’s finger. The thing’s diameter barely exceeds my tolerance of the self-check-out voice lady nagging me over and over with bagging instructions THAT I ALREADY KNOW HOW TO DO AFTER DOING IT ONE-THOUSAND TIMES BEFORE!!!!!

But I digress.

I’m in possession of a family hot-press waxing signet ring. It has value, I guess. Never met my relative, although I do know him some-what. He was my grandfather. A remarkable man in his own right. Hard worker in the mills over in Pittsburgh when those hot chambers actually meant something to the world. Steel, iron, coal … backbone industries at the time. This ring was, truly, a symbol – form over function; although his life was markedly function over form. I see the signet as a weight to counter-balance his life.

He died before his time. A shorter than expected lifetime. A disease-ravaged body from what I understand. The story is he died close to the year – if not THE year – I was born … after surviving a birth late in the previous century. Efforts to pull up his obituary to confirm details have been tough, though.

I wish he was across the table now – albeit in his third century – to answer my nagging query: “Why such a tiny signum?”…

(Granted, pre-defining terms must be done with exigentia due to the apparent nature of the question. A slap in the face may be immediately forthcoming if this is not done. Nobody wants their undefined signum challenged – especially if appearing tiny).

My grandfather isn’t here, I don’t appreciate Latin, and this ring, quite possibly, is smaller than my appreciation of the Oompa Loompas playing water polo.

With that, it’ll go back into the really worn, pencil sketched envelope I found it in and heretofore will remain. Until someone with pencil-diameter sized fingers shows up – who, quite frankly claims to be part of our family AND has some emperor dude/dude-ess blood in ’em, this ring is staying put.

A Little Sweetness

Some call me sweetly sentimental. Some may agree with sweet – perhaps some only sentimental. Those close enough to be great friends drop all the niceties and stick with a simply sarcastic, “You’re kinda weird”. I concur as I am aware it is only meant as the nicest gesture possible … and with that I reply, “Thank you” and go on with my day.

It’s a group of morning guys as diverse as the jokes I tell. They’re not always the best (the humerous pleasantries, that is). I get it; however, I can’t simply sit there morning over morning, month over month, with such fertile conversational fabric being tossed around and not make a beautiful tapestry of merriment.

Golf, politics, food, relationships, various work related issues, … all of it bantered about from guy to guy. And yet, I’m expected to sit there and NOT throw in a silly pun, related joke, or twisted tale? Me thinks not.

Merciful and kind criticism comes from the likes of business owners, retired financiers, educators, county workers, city employees, and occassional contractors. All of whom I consider good friends. I time my wittisisms carefully, although not always timely – if that makes any sense at all. One must accept the occassional failure in my line of a.m. amateur whimsical folly.

During a rare few moments one morning – when the subjects at hand provided no juicy bait on the humerous hook – I glanced down at the simple sugar packet holder … to fill the apparent void in my brain. These funny little pink, white, blue, and yellow guys suddenly became exceptionally interesting. How different they look, maybe? Do they? Same shape, same basic function: sweetness? Just different color outside and kinda different chemistry inside, … but looks the same inside.

The differentness and sameness. Quirky. One could open one of each color, pour out the contents into separate mixed piles, and be challenged to match each white pile with its original packaging. With no pasty-finger testing allowed, I doubt it could be done. Four simple little piles of white “sugar” … looking the same. Four very different colored packets. Simple in the packets. Complicated when removed. Yet, when I’ve put a pink and white over ice before my tea hundreds of times in the past, this never earned my consideration.

This could be doctoral candidate thesis stuff here! I’m thinking a possible Nobel prize nod… and I have a slow news day at the breakfast table to thank.

Well, if I was to make that trip to Sweden one day for my medal, my sugar packet theory would have developed into a lesson in friendship. For my friends who tolerate me come in different colors, shapes, and sizes; however, they’re pretty much the same inside.

Quirky, different, and same. They hang together with me for a purpose: to support and nurture a friendship – regardless of how bad or good things are going. All of us, in a sense, add a certain sweetness to each other’s lives in a different colored way. Our packets – experiences and personalities – support and frame the care and concern we bring “to the table” for everyone else.

So, that’s it in a sugar packet nutshell. I didn’t HAVE to be quiet, but it was forced upon me by the gods of inadequate interlocutors. Nobody, but nobody, had a tidbit – a morsel – of compelling comedic conversation going on. Thus, a reflection on the deeper meaning of sugar packets (like they had a superficial meaning to begin with?)…

Oh, well. I’ll await my invite from the Nobel committee. Until then, all of you continue YOUR sweetness, ok?