by Colleen Sell
“It’s called an appliance garage because it holds appliances,” I said. “Otherwise, they’d call it a coffee garage.”
“I make coffee every day,” he said. “How often do you use those things?”
He was right. My food processor and blender were relegated to a cupboard above the fridge. Crisis averted.
Then he discovered we couldn’t share the grinder. My nut-brown flavored beans, smooth and rich as vanilla pods, tainted his glistening dark French roast.
“Your hazelnut coffee contaminated my beans,” he complained. How he could taste the subtle flavor under the palate-stripping tar he drank was beyond me.
I pulled my old grinder out of storage. His and hers.
And separate coffee systems, too.
A professor of history, Andrew’s coffee system parallels his conservative approach to life. Conefiltered coffee, no modern electronics or warming plates. He counted scoops of ebony beans and ground them to a fine powder. He measured the water in the kettle, and as soon as it reached the boil, he metered out a slow, steady stream, like a scientist.
I, being an easily distracted writer, used a foolproof Mr. Coffee® pot. Just flick a switch and walk away. If I became engrossed in my work, the hotplate kept my coffee warm. Andrew said the warmer ruined the taste.
Even though he abhorred my coffee selection and scoffed at Mr. Coffee, he prepared my java with the same ritualistic care he did his own. Did I want hazelnut or raspberry? He stood in attendance, pouring my coffee the minute it was ready. Sometimes he’d find a new flavor and bring home a sample for me to try: butter pecan, Irish cream, mocha.
When I tired of flavored coffees and mentioned lattes, he came home with a stovetop espresso maker. Without being asked, he replaced my fancy flavors with a variety of espresso beans. The cupboard over-flowed with new sample packs.
The morning noises have changed with the brewing. As he heats the milk, the beep of the microwave joins the whir of the grinder. The rhythmic thump of the hand-held frother means my coffee is almost ready.
Now, I lie in bed, writing in my journal, scribbling down my unedited thoughts before the demands of the day intrude. Above the scratch of my pen I hear Andrew’s footsteps on the stairs. When I take the mug, its warmth loosens my cramped palm. I sniff the aroma and listen to the foam hiss a greeting.
One morning Andrew presented my latte with a towel draped over his arm. “Please accept this with my compliments,” he said with mock formality. I dared him to present it this way every morning. And he does with a laugh.
This week a new dimension was added to our morning ritual. Andrew drizzled coffee through the foam to form the rough outline of a heart. Café amoré. The next day a wobbly turkey adorned my latte. “It started out as a star,” he explained. Another morning, the face of a kitten, complete with whiskers, peered out at me.
The ritual, like our relationship, is constantly evolving. This morning, as I take my latte with its foamy petroglyph, I realize that despite our opposing views on everything related to coffee, the brew embodies our cooperation and unconditional love.
When I’m done with my morning cuppa joe, I’ll head to the kitchen and clean up the scattered grounds and spills. Tidying up isn’t Andrew’s strong point, but he makes a mighty fine java. I’ll put the kettle back in the coffee garage, wash our mugs, and place them side by side in the drying rack to await the next cup of café amoré.
— Charmian Christie
Lost and Found
He’d walked this road so many times. On this day, like so many days before, the chilly Alaskan wind tried to dampen his spirit. His dog had always been his companion on these short mindmassaging treks. She busied herself digging in the snow, scratching and scraping enthusiastically, searching for some mysterious doggie treasure. The nearby airport buzzed with the sounds of a Dash 8 readying for takeoff. Everything was as it always had been . . . except for the angel who accompanied him on this walk.
He felt her gloved hand tighten around his as the wind picked up a notch. Turning toward her, he saw the smile that had captivated him from the moment he had seen her several years earlier, waiting tables in a diner across town. She smiled for no reason other than because they were together. He felt the warmth of her gaze, her perfect dark eyes radiating love as the couple turned toward each other, his own gaze matching hers in intensity. He felt the thrill of her mouth on his as they kissed, embracing life and their love for each other, in the middle of that wintery Alaskan street.
He marveled at God’s work. Eight years earlier, she had arrived in tiny Kenai, Alaska, from the sprawling city of Bogota, Colombia. She had come with her sister, and through the strange weavings of life, she found herself trapped and alone in the small northern town. But she persevered, finding the strength and faith necessary to cast aside fears and to thrive in a culture completely different from her own.
It was about this time that an alcoholic wreck of a man was released from the pretrial facility at the nearby Wildwood Correctional Facility. His recent divorce and independent lifestyle had collided in a bottle, and with that crash, his spirit finally had been released. That is when he’d met her — in a small diner, where she worked and he’d stopped in for a hot meal . . . where, innocently, naively, they’d exchanged a few kind words and furtive smiles. He later found out that she didn’t even remember him from that day. He, on the other hand, would never forget the unbelievably happy lady who would make this pleasant, but otherwise ordinary, dining experience a life-changing event . . . one day, in the unforeseeable future.
They didn’t really get to know each other until a few years later, when she worked at a Mexican restaurant close to his home that he frequented often. His drinking days behind him, his social life became dinner out. And his favorite eating establishment became Rosita’s, where she usually found a way to be his server. Although circumstances and caution prevented them from getting too close, they became good friends. Many times, she sat and visited with him during short breaks in her shift, an activity the proprietor of the restaurant allowed, noticing a spark between them that neither of them admitted to.
He began traveling, replacing his drinking life with adventure. The culture and history of Latin America captivated him, and as innocent as it seemed at the time, the day she talked him into visiting her home country, Colombia, and Bogota, the city of her youth, they became closer still. He returned from the trip excited to show her pictures of where he’d been and what he’d seen in her home-land. He remembered her taking his hand in hers as she welcomed him back to the restaurant. He brought her a cross from the Salt Cathedral, which she had suggested he visit.
Over the next few years, the two of them saw more of each other. They went on walks on the beach and in the forest. She gave him Spanish lessons. On occasion, he would put his arm around her, but her reaction was tentative and he realized he was crossing a line. Her personal life was a bit of a mystery to him, and he didn’t push her for explanations. But he knew she was in some sort of relationship with another man. And he knew that she was not the type of woman to betray the trust of anyone.
Finally, he weakened. Frustrated, he said some things that put her in a complicated spot. Equally frustrated, she told him to back off, to quit creating a love in his mind when friendship was all they had. A barrier grew between them, and they stopped seeing each other. The Spanish lessons ceased, as did the walks.
On a trip to Africa, he met a South African woman. They got along well and kept in touch with each other over the Internet. She decided to come and visit him during the upcoming summer. He had given up on his Colombian angel. It was time to look elsewhere. He was getting older; time was no longer on his side.
After returning from Africa, his Colombian angel contacted him. She wanted to see photographs of his trip. He always wanted to see her. They got together, and as always, her smile and positive nature overwhelmed him. Despite his situation with the lady from South Africa, the two friends began communicating again. One sun
ny spring day, they went on a short hike in the mountains, and their worlds began to spin. Without so much as a single kiss between them, the sparks that had been held in check for so many years began to fly. A week later, they found themselves in each other’s arms. Their hunger for one another finally found satisfaction as their lips met for the first time. For the first time, the passion in their eyes was released as they looked upon each other. They made love.
Then, he shattered his angel’s heart. He would never forget that day. A day after making love to the woman he had adored for so long, he would break her heart . . . and his own. The woman from South Africa was coming. She had turned her life upside-down to fly halfway across the world to be with him. He had to give her his best. He sat with the one he loved and told her of his decision to let her go so he could do what he felt in his heart was right. He would never forget the look in those perfect dark eyes as she bravely took his decision and accepted it. He drove away; she resolved to let him go. In her mind, she had taken him for granted, assuming he would always be there for her. Now, she realized she had waited too long to let him know how much she cared. He was gone.
She spent the summer working long hours and crying her lonely nights away in Wasilla, to the north of Kenai. Her former boss at Rosita’s, the one who had seen the spark between them so many years ago, had offered her a new job. As it turned out, that job was the thin thread that kept her in Alaska through that summer.
The man spent his summer waiting for his South African lady and questioning himself for the price he had paid for her visit. Illness and visa problems and every conceivable event got in the way of her travel. Finally, in early October, he gave up. She admitted that the trip would not soon occur. He told her to forget it.
God has such a wonderful way about Him. A work-related phone call caught him by surprise, and for the first time in months, he heard the voice of his angel in the receiver: “Wade?”
“Martha?”
Their conversation was short and polite. To him, however, the message was immense. She did not hate him. He had been so sure she would never forgive him that he had given up on finding her. God had returned her to his world.
A week later, while in the same restaurant where they had met, he met another waitress from Bogota. In casual conversation he found out she knew Martha. A week later, she told him Martha had said “hi.” They had found each other again.
He’d walked this road so many times. But now as the dog dug excitedly in the snow bank, as the Dash 8 rumbled nearby, and as the arctic breeze tried in vain to dampen his enthusiasm, he held his angel in his arms. Her perfect dark eyes held his gaze as he swam in the warmth of her touch. Her lips met his, and the thrill of their love danced through his body as he pulled her tightly against him. He pulled away from her kiss and with his hand gently held her beautiful face against his chest.
Closing his eyes, he whispered, “Gracias, mi amor.”
The words were meant for her to hear. But they were also meant for God. Love had found its way to a woman from Bogota, Colombia, and a man from Kenai, Alaska. It had rewarded them for their patience, for their honor. They tilted back their heads and smiled warmly at each other. As they gazed lovingly, knowingly, into each other’s eyes, surely God smiled, too, at these two lovers who were meant to be, who had finally found the path He meant for them to share.
— Wade Morgan
To Love Greatly
“I will never, ever have a decent boyfriend. Never!” Dayna screamed through a waterfall of tears. “And don’t you dare tell me I will, Mom. You can’t face the truth, but I can. Nobody good will ever want me.”
My heart sank. Choking back tears, I said simply, “I’m sorry it didn’t work out for you, honey.”
What more could I say?
Dayna, my developmentally disabled thirty-nine-year-old daughter, manages serious perceptual and neurological learning disabilities. She attended a special education program all through school. Romance had not worked out for Dayna, ever. She had recovered from severe breakups of long-term relationships before. This was the second time she’d left her low-rent, HUD apartment for disabled persons to make a go with a partner in another region of our state. When the romance failed, her reentry into the HUD program and setting up house again embarrassed her and drained me financially. Relying on family assistance to get back on her feet now, at almost forty years old, was almost too much for Dayna to endure. Her self-esteem was at its lowest, and she was convinced no one would ever love her.
A few weeks passed, and Dayna, with her characteristic resilience, put herself back into the dating tournament. She used the Internet and local singles magazines, and she went to local church and social groups. We talked on the phone every Monday night to recap the weekend dating events, and I dreaded the summary evaluations, such as:
“He was nice looking but seemed creepy.”
“He kept repeating everything I said.”
“I loved his thick, curly hair, but his teeth were bad and his clothes weren’t clean.”
“He is so anxious. I couldn’t relax.”
Or the very real, but painful for a mother to hear, “He has even more disabilities than I do, Mom.”
Or the even more painful, “He ditched me when I went to the bathroom, and I had to pay for both of our burgers and coffees.”
Sometimes the dates were more devious:
“It wasn’t even his real phone number, Mom. It was a laundry. Why did he do that to me?”
There was a Tim, a Robert, a Paul, a Ben, a Kevin, a Ron, and someone with limited English skills named “Panji.” One suitor was as old as her father. The string of first dates kept getting longer. My heart was breaking for Dayna. Maybe she was right, maybe she would live alone all of her life.
Some twists in her dating scene were just plain odd, as in this post-date report:
“Mom, the man from Maine just dumped me from our date, saying I wasn’t fat at all. He was really mad because I’m petite and skinny. He called me a liar.”
“I don’t understand, honey. Did you make a posting saying you are overweight?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Well, maybe he has some problems and came up with an idea that you are overweight, or maybe he was hoping you would be large. I don’t know.”
Then, she said sweetly, “I know I’m a good person, and in my posting I said I am more to love.”
“More?”
“Yeah, Mom, you know how you always tell me I am more lovable than most people, that I have more love to give and give it largely. All I did was put my contact information in the ‘More to Love’ section because you’re right, I have more love to offer than most people.”
Her brother and I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, and we did a little of both. We imagined the man with a preference for large women finding himself face to face with four feet, eleven-inch, ninety-eight pound Dayna and roared.
Then, just over the New Hampshire border, in Peabody, Massachusetts, Brad, age fifty-one, was convinced that his disabilities ruled out his chance of ever forming a healthy relationship with a woman. His heart and spirit had been stomped on so many times. He decided Dayna, this new woman up north, would be his last try. They compared interests and their religious beliefs. They went on picnics and walked on the Maine and New Hampshire beaches.
Her enthusiasm spilled over into our nightly calls:
“Mom, he even told me that he is special education, too, and he can’t read well. His spelling is terrible online. But you know what? He can drive.”
That was a big deal, because Dayna would never be able to drive, and getting around on buses and making transfers confused and stressed her.
“So, Mom, what do you think?”
“Don’t get in his car. Ask him to park in front of the coffeehouse and then take down his license plate number. When you’re in the bathroom, call and record it on my voice mail.”
“Okay.”
“And remember, say good-bye at the
coffee house and don’t walk home until you see him go down the one-way street out of the city. Then call me again when you get home at eleven.”
“I know, Mom. I have school-learning disabili-ties. I’m not stupid.”
My promotion of her self-advocacy was taking root. Still, she was vulnerable in the dating world.
Brad, as it turned out, would be a powerful force for me to reckon with. I had an uneasy feeling that I wouldn’t be able to scare him away.
“Brad says it’s time to meet you, Mom. He wants to be sure you like him. He thinks if you don’t, you might ruin it for us.”
Now there’s an “it” and an “us?” My heart skipped a beat, and I had to bite my tongue not to confront her. My mantra was, “Go easy, Mother, or she, they, will dig in their heels.” Dayna has made more than one disastrous move out of town, rebelling against me and trying to prove loyalty to a boyfriend. I needed to be very careful.
I faked it. “Why wouldn’t I like him, honey? He must be nice if he is making you so happy. I just hope he likes me.”
That’s right: put him on the defensive with the reverse-psychology approach. It’s Dayna’s poor old mother who needs to be handled gently, and he will have to prove that he is on my side. Take that, you tall, dark heartthrob. I was feeling smug, sure that this latest guy could not outsmart me. I wanted Dayna to be happy, but I also wanted to be sure the guy would be right for her. I held hope that someone with developmental disabilities could be as sweet as she is and that together, with resources and support, they could improve each other’s lives. Still, I doubted Brad was the one. Fifty-one and still living with his sister? This guy will never make it.
Brad did drive and produced a license, registration, and proof of insurance with a safe driver price reduction. My preconceived idea of Brad was beginning to crumble. At dinner, he pulled Dayna’s chair out, hung up her coat, and cut her steak, which I had always done because she couldn’t navigate a knife.