So, this morning, as I’m pouring coffee for the both of us I wondered to myself…. In nearly 49 years of married life I wonder how many cups of coffee I have poured for my wife, or she has poured for me. Coffee is a constant in our life. I drink less today than in the old days — when I was trucking I could easily have downed 30 or 40 cups in a day — those days when you’re sitting around in a truck stop waiting for a load, or waiting to accumulate enough hours on your log to start driving again. Now we’re down to a “normal” of a 10 cup coffee pot split between the two of us. And the doctor isn’t happy with THAT! (Jeez, what does he expect?????)
I don’t know about you but I love the little ‘thing’ about pouring coffee for each other in the morning. One of us — the least sleepy one of a morning — will get up and turn on the pot on the way back from the bathroom at some random time. It might be 6 a.m.. It might be 5 a.m.. I might have awakened early and been in the office for a couple hours and come out at 4 a.m. parched and in need of coffee. But once the percolating has finished it’s de rigeur that whoever rouses out of their place next will ask the other whether coffee is desired/needed/a necessity — and the pouring begins.
It’s not a big deal. We’ve done it in houses; we’ve done it in the RV; we’ve done it in hotels where someone has to either make that ridiculous rot-gut that hotels offer guests, or has to run to the lobby for styrofoam cups of lobby-made coffee; and we do it now in the new place. Conversation usually accompanies coffee, though sometimes I take my first into the office. Nowadays I read my news feed over my first cuppa and we talk about the day and the news; sometimes we don’t talk; always it’s sweet to be in the same room where I can look over and see her (often still in bed whilst I’m sitting in my easy chair on the other side of the bedroom looking at her). I had an uncle who, when he built his house laid out the floorplan so that when he was sitting in HIS easy chair he could look over the top of his morning newspaper and see “his wife.” I always thought there was something exceedingly chauvinistic about that — that 1950’s & 1960’s meaning of “his wife,” or “my wife,” as if they were possessions. Still and all there was a certain kinship to the feeling of comfort of being able to look over the top of something as every day as a newspaper — which is the metaphorical definition of “daily” — and to be able to see one’s life partner right there near you.
Retirement is the closest we have ever gotten to our sort-of-lifelong-goal of being able to work together. We never found a commercial idea that would thought would fly whereby we could actually make a living by working together but we have done just that for our entire marriage: worked together — to achieve mutual goals even if they weren’t the making of our livelihood.
Anyway… it’s one of my favorite times of the day. That first cuppa with my wife.
And for something a little lighter, on the morning after the news hit the media that the Department of Justice intends appointing a special prosecutor over the Russian investigation. I hope you enjoy the little ditty. I thought it was cute. I thought it was true. I thought it was apropos of the threats this country faces as we speak.