Knight: Coffee has been the fuel for the journey of life

<p>Driving to meet Bob for talk and coffee. We try to get together once a month. It’s a bit of a drive, but what better reason can one have to burn gasoline than to commune with a long-time friend?</p><p>We’ll discuss books and curious ideas we’ve discovered; share random thoughts we have been postulating and new ways of seeing the world. When we get together, coffee is the fuel that drives us. Coffee is in itself justification to drive a few miles.</p><p>I wonder how many gallons of coffee we have consumed over the decades. To know that, I would need data going way back before college. I am thinking about coffee because I just read “Ways to Take Your Coffee” by Leath Tonino in the March 2019 issue of The Sun, a literary magazine. Tonino describes in seven paragraphs different situations involving coffee. I’m not sure whether to call the piece an essay, memoir or a prose poem, but whatever the label, it started me thinking. Took me down my own roads which is what all good writing should do.</p><p>Nearly 30 years ago, I was sitting at an outdoor cafe table at the bottom of Mont Blanc drinking an espresso. I had come down off the mountain because I became dizzy with altitude sickness when I first walked out of the cable car. I tried to shake it off: sat down, drank water, looked off into the distance, but it was no use. I had no choice but to go back down. My traveling companions and I agreed to meet up when they were done exploring. The French air in Chamonix was alpine cool and the sun was bright. It was the first time I had tried an espresso. I normally don’t use sugar, but this time I did.</p><p>One morning in February 1996 I was standing on the sidewalk shivering with many hundreds of others waiting to be let in to the National Gallery to see an exhibit of the paintings of the Dutch master Johannes Vermeer. We got there two hours early. Bright, brittle sunlight, cloudless blue sky and massive stone buildings. The low-teens cold seem to seep into our bones. I volunteered to walk the three blocks to a Starbucks we could just make out and get coffees for our newly-made friends in line. The welcomed warmth of the cafe was short-lived, and soon I was back in line shuddering. For a little while, though, my hands were wrapped around a steaming hot paper cup. Venti-sized.</p><p>Six years later, I was a widower sitting in various coffee shops around town by myself. I wrote in my journal and browsed newspapers. I graded papers and did crossword puzzles. I read books or stared. I tried to get a table by the window when I could. But what I mostly did was watch people come and then stay and then go. I was alone together with them. Depending on the place and the time of day, the coffee was sometimes bitter, but I didn’t mind. It was a way to fill time, something to do.</p><p>This morning Becky and I got up and went downstairs for the morning ritual. One of us puts water in the kettle, scoops four heaps of coffee in the press then, when the kettle starts singing, pour the boiling water over the grounds to steep for four minutes. After this, we move to our spots at the kitchen table to watch the birds outside the window. We sit at the table and talk. We read devotions and look at our calendars. Occasionally I go out to fill the feeders. We wait for a while before we think about breakfast. We like to take time to savor the coffee.</p><p>Norman Knight, a retired Clark-Pleasant Middle School teacher, writes this weekly column for the Daily Journal. Send comments to <a href="mailto:[email protected]">[email protected]</a>.</p>