The Isle of Coffee
The coffee aisle is my favorite aisle in the grocery store. And yes, I am a bit odd. I remember when my husband and I first went grocery shopping together. I had inadvertently neglected to tell him of my little fetish with coffee. So here we were cruising along, sharing stories of our day apart, and I just stopped dead in my tracks. I canít explain what happens. Its like something taking complete control of your body and you are left helpless. Thatís what happens when I hit aisle 7, the coffee isle.
My first hint of aroma, and my eyes are rolling back. People at this point, are staring. But I donít care. Then again, I probably do care; itís just that I am oblivious. Oblivious because, I honestly think sometimes I have an out of body experience in isle 7. The Bermuda Isle of Giant Eagle.
So here I am, alone in the Bermuda Isle. I am instantly transported back to the farmhouse I spent a number of years of my youth cohabitating in. Its Saturday morning. And let me clarify. By Saturday morning, I mean 5am, before the sun awoke, birds still sleeping Saturday morning.
My father was an early riser. Gladly, that is one gene he neglected to pass on to me. He awoke at the same time every day, no matter if it was a workday or the weekend. First thing he did was put on a pot of coffee. Then he would swagger on out to the sun porch. Much to my surprise, he would swagger in his underwear. My father wore boxers, I found out one morning. Much to my horror, on a much-needed trip to the bathroom, I ran straight into the swaggering man in his boxers. I honestly donít know who was more embarrassed.
So here is my father, on the sun porch, in his boxers, sipping his beloved cup of Joe. I can almost hear him slurping if I listen hard enough. Then the magic of time would stop. He would pick up his guitar and start to sing. I would lie in bed and picture the animals outside start to stir. I imagined my father was Godís official alarm clock for morning. He wasnít the annoying, blaring type we bat at with our hands to stop their insanity. His was a peaceful stirring. I could see the cows nuzzling their young to wake up or the rabbits perking their ears to hear.
He would sing mostly old hymns. Old hymns that his mother had taught him as a little boy. Amazing Grace was one of his favorites. He had such an amazing voice. Such a soft, melodious color. A voice that was pure and unyielding. A voice that could sing Tenor or Baritone, whatever the moment needed. A voice that commanded attention but also comforted with a scraped knee.
I would snuggle myself a little deeper under my blankets and just listen. The harmonies of coffee and music invading my room. It was such an awesome feeling. One that I would learn to treasure after the swaggering man in his boxers left to sing in Gods choir.
So if you come across a crazy lady in the coffee aisle, just kindly go around her. And remember that sometimes the fondest of memories are found in the strangest of places.
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