Coffee and the morning rituals associated with drinking it take me back to my grandparents’ house in Odessa, Texas. My grandfather sipped on his Folgers and scribbled on yellow legal pads – stashing each page away into a wall of filing cabinets. There’s no telling the decades worth of morning thoughts he had logged away in those drawers. I hope to leave behind a similar legacy.
When I was still so enamored with Ernest Hemingway, I would wake up early to a wind up clock passed down from my grandmother and clack away on my Underwood typewriter. This was back when I was 17, and I would have an entire French press to myself every morning. I imagine I was shaping myself after the habits of my grandfather.
Morning coffee is even better when hand-ground, and there is something about waking up before the sun rises. It’s as if you are truly alone. It’s what my father does, and my grandfather did. To quote Chief Hopper, mornings are a time for coffee and contemplation.
Since those high school mornings, I haven’t gone a day without morning coffee. It must be something about the ritual and repetition. About setting aside time to be introspective. About grind, grind, grinding out thoughts on paper.
Or maybe we drink coffee because it’s tactile. It’s authentic, like yellow legal pad and wind up clocks. Though I can hardly stomach Folgers, something about coffee connects me with my grandfather. He was an authentic man, and I hope to grow to be more like him.
When I’m older, and likely still tinkering on motorcycles and drinking coffee, I hope I can instill the same sense of reverence in my children and my children’s’ children that I had for my grandfather. After all, what else do we have on this earth than our loved ones and the legacy we leave? Only these things, and hopefully a few coffee stained journals.