Stories: Homeword

Sweet Coffee Milk

I have special childhood memories of visits to my grandparents’ home – vivid recollections beginning with long car drives to Covington, Louisiana, on hot summer days.

The humidity along the north bank of Lake Pontchartrain hangs in the air like wet clothes on a line in the backyard. Relief comes only by rolling down Dad’s white Impala’s windows. Maximum “air conditioning” is created as he soars beyond speeds acceptable today on most highways.

We reach our destination. I see the double-wide gate made of dull, silver chain link fence Paw Paw opens at daybreak and closes at dusk.

I feel beneath my feet the deep gravel of his driveway as I trudge from our car carrying my small suitcase.

The tall, long leaf pines tower over his house casting welcomed perpetual shade. The hum of the window air conditioning unit greets us as we walk to the kitchen’s screen door that opens out onto the carport.

The smell of Maw Maw’s cooking – smothered steak covered with dark brown gravy, golden biscuits resting in a black, cast iron skillet, fresh field peas simmering with chunks of salty, smoked pork – heralds my grandparents’ expectation of our arrival followed by their hugs, her kisses, and his firm “Baptist” handshakes.

Evening dinner dishes are cleaned and put away in the shiny, varnished knotty-wood cabinets that reach to the ceiling. We collapse together on long sofas and comfy chairs that circle Paw Paw’s television console. After the local news and a network variety show, my grandfather announces “morning will be here before we know it.” (It was the cue to rise and prepare for bed.)

Mom and Dad adjourn to the guest room. The four children bed down in different parts of the house. I was always assigned to sleep with Paw Paw. With my pajamas on, I climb up into the four poster bed and snuggle in. I was never the first to sleep. Most times I fell asleep listening to the deep breathing and loud snoring of my grandfather.

The sun is poised on the horizon when Paw Paw rolls out of bed. I quickly follow. Weekend mornings are defined by my grandfather slipping into a dark kitchen before the neighbor’s rooster crows.

A dented, old water kettle is filled and placed on the gas burner. My grandfather reaches for the grey, metal drip coffee pot resting on the worn kitchen counter.

Louisiana chicory coffee is spooned into the filter part of the pot. It is placed tightly atop of the coffee chamber, and the water drip portion of the pot is stacked next. Hot water is poured, and it slowly sifts through the coffee grounds down into the coffee chamber. A low heat maintains the fresh coffee’s temperature while the aroma floats throughout the house announcing a new day.

Paw Paw then sets a coffee cup and a small glass near the stove. He pours his cup and takes the glass, fills it three quarters of the way full with fresh milk delivered around 5 a.m., and then tops it off with rich, dark coffee turning the white to a light caramel color. Before he hands me my morning elixir, he takes a slightly tarnished silver spoon and heaps in one, two, three scoops of sugar and stirs.

He lifts me up and sits me on a red kitchen stool, hands me my glass of “sweet coffee milk,” and stands close as we drink the first cups of the day in silence.

Coffee with my grandfather – it was such a simple act. But it has all the elements to make it memorable: solitude, intimacy, tenderness. These moments in time capture values and traditions to be replicated with loved ones.

It may not be coffee you share, but find ways to share the day-to-day things that can be remembered for years to come.

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