I have so many coffee stories that would be  good fits for this memoirs prompt, but not one of them would be worth a squat without this one…

My grandmother lived alone in a tar shingle sided house atop one of the “mini-mountains” of the Foothills to the Appalachians  in southeastern Ohio. She tended her garden for many years, and drew her water, using a galvanized pail and a long piece of clothesline, from a well that sat 50 feet from her front door. There were chamber pots in every bedroom.

She drank Hills Brothers coffee that was brewed in a stove top percolator.

We lived about three hours from my grandmother and would spend 2-3 weekends a month visiting her. Dad would either pack us all up on Friday evening or haul us “down home” until Sunday afternoon late, or he would wait until early Saturday to perform the ritual.

My sister , two brothers, and I always liked the Friday night option. This meant we got two mornings drinking coffee and eating warm chocolate pudding for breakfast (shhhh! Don’t tell Mom and Dad!), with grandma (or Mom as everyone called her). No matter how early we kids got up, Mom was already up and the pudding was just about done. Of course the coffee was brewed.

The five of us, grandma included, would sit in the kitchen, drink coffee and watch as the early morning fog would burn away from the hilltop. There was a mystical serenity about seeing the traces of fog retreat through the tree line and into the vast forest that was just beyond.

There was a rite of passage in our family that involved grandma and coffee. No child was allowed to reach the age of six until they spent a few mornings drinking coffee with the short, sweet woman. It was during those mornings that I learned a lot about gentle kindness, what a twinkle in an eye means, and love from a woman who was shorter, but a lot tougher than me.

Her toughness didn’t show in her disposition. It had marked her with gnarly hands, strong legs, and a good tan. There was not an echo of meanness in her voice, just stories of living the ‘good life’ atop that mountain. There was no proof of any ill gotten gains, just the reality of simple dress and bountiful garden harvests .

I owe my love for coffee to the sweet woman who drank Hills Brothers coffee brewed in a stove top percolator.

I owe my love for life to those early weekend mornings spent on top of that mountain with my grandmother.

© 2010, Alex Crabtree. All rights reserved.

Years ago I started writing Flash Fiction for just the sheer enjoyment of writing, and now it has turned into a full blown addiction. I can't quit the horse, man! Another dirty little secret about me is my ability to write all kinds of web content. SEO content, articles, blog posts, manifests; you name it, I'll write it. Looking for some help? My gun hangs at r.alex.crabtree@gmail.com

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Tags: coffee, memoirs, mountain mornings

This entry was posted on July 22, 2010 at 12:30 pm and is filed under Memoirs. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.