Coffee Talk

 Sun shines through the open windows telling me it is time to get up. I try to leap out of bed, but my legs are glued to the mattress. “Coffee,” I moan. Groggily, I force myself out of bed and walk down to the kitchen. I peer into the pantry and remember that I am out of coffee! I must resort to Plan B. I quickly get dressed, grab my wallet and jump on my cruiser to head to my local coffee shop. 

The sweet smell of coffee tickles my nose as I enter the Coffee Grinder, a long standing Ketchum, Idaho institute that serves organic coffee and tea, pastries from scratch, and other speciality items. 

I have an hour to kill, so I order my drip coffee in a porcelain cup to stay and take a seat. The owner, Nikki, is engaged in a conversation with a man I don’t recognize. They talk with ease, like old friends. He sits comfortably at the bar wearing khaki shorts, a polo shirt, and sandals. Nikki gets pulled away to help customers, so he pulls out his phone and starts dialing up friends. 

“Hey Mike. It’s me, Steve. How are you? I’m in Sun Valley for Rufus’ funeral.” 

Pause. 

“I know it’s a tragic thing. But, lovely ceremony on top of Baldy and everything.” 

“So, hey, I would love to see you while I’m here.” 

Pause. 

“What am I doing these days? Well, I’m in the sandal business.” I look down at his sandals. Practical brown leather sandals. 

As I look up from the sandals, a lady and her son enter the shop. The son is all teenager: goofy grin, baseball hat askew. He scratches his head and ponders the menu. His mother makes casual conversation to keep the mood light. 

“Look at this, hon.” She walks over to a collection of medium-sized wooden bowls hanging on the wall. 

Her son saunters over, glances at the bow-shaped bowls and grunts.

Softly she says, “Aren’t they interesting?” Sensing her son’s indifference, she turns to Nikki, “Interesting story.” 

The handcrafted bowls are eye-catching; the smooth interior carved perfectly to entertain a salad or a bowl of fruit. Oblivious, the man continues to shout into the phone’s speaker about sandals and the bottom line. I look down at the man’s sandals again. The leather is cracked, the quality cheap. He dials up another friend, but reaches voicemail. He hasn’t turned around once to look at the bowls

 “I’ll be here for the rest of the week. Would love to see you.” I hear desperation in his voice. He makes another call, ”Is Bob around?”

I read the wood carver’s bio and learned that the artist fell in a climbing accident and ended up in a coma for a week. After he emerged from the coma, he discovered his true calling. 

I think about how ephemeral life can be and how differently people live their lives; whether they spend it rushing from one thing to the next, trying to reconnect with old friends as they pass through town or whether they stay in one place, living a simple life expressing themselves through their art. 

I smile as I leave, feeling thankful that I ran out of coffee this morning. If I didn’t venture out to get my coffee, I wouldn’t have experienced coffee shop life, where people’s lives intersect, if only for a minute.

Head On

His pupil got larger and larger, pulling me closer to him. Time stood still. Silent and suspended. 

“Bam!” My face hit his face. It was like hitting a concrete wall. Then, blood. So much blood. 

There was a full moon that night; it was Friday, January 13 and it was the first full moon of the year, ominously called the Wolf Moon. My friend, Heather, and I were driving through the desolate winter landscape of Central Idaho toward our friend’s 40th birthday party in Driggs, Idaho. We had gotten a late start and the moon’s light was guiding us like a beacon. Heather was in the driver’s seat of her Hyundai SUV. I was the copilot and was supposed to be looking out for big game on the road. We were talking about all the powder we were going to ski at Grand Targhee over the weekend when I saw him. He was starting his migratory journey across the highway to meet up with his herd on the other side. He was a 5-point bull, beautiful, majestic, and right in our path. 

There was not enough time to brake or swerve. We hit him head-on going 65 mph. More accurately, I hit him head-on. My head took the brunt of the collision since he was at least 7 feet off the ground. The airbags didn’t protect me, instead tiny shards of shatterproof glass showered over my hair, face, and torso. A piece of glass lodged into my eye. My face felt hot and my right shoulder was throbbing. I looked down to see blood dripping from my head. Was it coming from me? What just happened? Where was Heather? Where am I?

Surprisingly, I only broke my nose and suffered lacerations and bruising on my face. My jaw stayed in tack, most likely due to the ten titanium plates that were systematically placed in my upper jaw from jaw surgery I had when I was 13. My face has been bloody, bruised, stitched and iced more times than I can count. Once right before my wedding day, I went flying face-first off my mountain bike. My face hit the ground like a ton of bricks. I was petrified that I was going to have to walk down the aisle looking like Two-Face, the villain in Batman. But, the saga of my face all started on the day of my sister’s 6th birthday. 

We lived in our old house on Wapato Drive in Portland, Oregon. We lived on a cul-de-sac with four other houses. Our house had a long driveway with bushes on either side of it. My sister and I used to love riding our bikes up and down the driveway and out into the street with the neighborhood kids and friends. We would pretend that we were in the circus and do circus tricks, such as riding our bikes with our hands in the air, or one leg out behind us in a ballerina’s arabesque. I loved my bike with its yellow banana seat and streamers. I imagined I was the prima ballerina in the show and my bike was my dancing partner. We used to have judges and competitions to determine who had the best form and who was the most daring. I loved the thrill of performing. 

For my sister’s 6th birthday, she had a clown party. Clowns have always frightened me with their painted faces, colorful wigs, and silly costumes. I was 8 years old and too old to fall for clown tricks. I wanted to know who was underneath the clown’s disguise. 

I took the opportunity to go outside the mayhem and ride my bike. My bike is where I felt free and weightless. I could be anything I wanted on my bike: a bird, a race car driver, a ballerina! This time I didn’t have any judges, it was just me out there on my own. I was practicing a new move: a one handed arabesque! I lined up my bike perfectly to get some speed; arched my back, and lifted my right back leg and left arm to the sky. No one was there to see me gracefully hit the sidewalk curb and fly like a trapeze artist onto the asphalt. I lay there stunned and in pain. I had never taken a hit to the face like that. What felt like an eternity was probably only a few seconds. Once I collected myself, I got up, held my face so it wouldn’t fall off, and ran inside. The clown show was in full process. I ran to my mom, who was across the great divide between the door, 20 kids, and a clown. I didn’t care that I interrupted the show or potentially ruined my sister’s birthday. I longed for the comfort of my mother’s arms and the assurance that I would be okay. She delivered with hugs and ice cream. The show was momentarily halted as the focus turned toward me and my needs. But, as they say in showbusiness, “the show must go on!” 

Thus, I calmed down enough to watch the end of the show. The clown turned balloons into dogs and pulled a large rainbow handkerchief out of his breast pocket. He ended up being better than I thought and the moment of being scared passed, as I experienced more fear in the moment of hitting my face on the curb. Now I had a story to tell and a badge of courage that when you fall down, it stings, but if you get back up, you will be witness to the vicissitudes and marvels of life. 

It was many years later that I would experience this feeling over and over again. Each time, getting back up, being brave, and facing life head on.