Coffee

Collecting coffee grounds from the work pot the past several weeks, laying them on the garden. This week, our secretary who used to work in the building cafe, snagged me a whole tub, several gallons, of grounds. All of it went to the north side of the front, where nothing grew well. I deeply suspect snails, which is why I poured caffeine along the hedge, and started scrounging grounds from the staff room. It looks like the richest of soils, lush and dark.

There is a peculiar odor to it, one I have never found appealing. The reason I never drank the stuff, much as I wanted to, many times, for the sake of alertness. The mass of aging grounds wasn't worse smelling than a strong, hot mug of it, perhaps because it was cold. A dankness, sure. And a memory. An undertone of tobacco, and I sat next to Uncle Milton as he smoked and drank endless cups of coffee, as Aunt Alma cooked. A round pedestal table, in creamy formica, vinyl chairs, pushed into the corner of their bright suburban kitchen. The cigarettes in the ashtray, one of those metal saucers with a plaid sandbag on the bottom to keep it level. Or the heavy clear glass lump. The huge, pink, swooping, multi-bowl ashtray lived in their finished, wood paneled basement, and I was given the collection of change to play with in it. Pushing pennies through the indentations from space to space. Always well cleaned beforehand, of course.

Uncle Milton was one of the few adult family members who never pushed me, one way or another, as a little kid. Never pretended interest nor affection. Kind enough, acknowledged me without condescension. Although, like my father, got a little grabby when puberty hit. Not as much as my father, and easily deflected, I was never alone with him. In an odd way it confirmed my unease with my father's handling of me. His brother's echo, an insight, and a sort of inoculation. It didn't last long, nor was I afraid of him. I knew full well if I told Aunt Alma, he would have gotten holy hell. Never came to that, nowhere close.

The few occasions were uncomfortable, but even at the time they didn't feel serious. Akin to a random, half hearted, drunken pass at a party, never repeated, readily discounted.

So the coffee/tobacco stink brought a weirdly clear but rather mixed memory. I wore surgical gloves to strew it, so it wouldn't stay in my hands. Such a change in our culture, that kind of smoking now is so rare. Used to be common. People smoked in the checkout line in grocery stores, cars from the 70's still reek of long dead cigarettes.



Today the rain pours down, and the growing stuff is green and lush. The cats have both been on the bed together, the last four days, and at night. Moby has apparently decided he wants to be on the bed, and will tolerate her being there as well. Although this morning, he started moaning at her presence, and wound up nudged off - by me. "No fighting on the bed." I say. He comes back a while later, merely huffs at her, and lets D pet him until he's purring loudly and contentedly. Eleanor snuggles in to me. The last few evenings, as we read in bed, Moby laid on me, and Eleanor took D's knees.

I still don't think they will ever cuddle with each other, but they seem to be developing a relationship that works for them.