As far back
as I can remember there was always a coffee cup on the kitchen table when I was
growing up. That cup belong to Dad. I don’t mean to imply that he had a
favorite cup; he didn’t. But whatever cup he may be using at any given time was
always sitting on the kitchen table at his spot. Yes, he had a spot that was
his too. It was Dad’s chair; at Dad’s spot at the table and at that spot was of
course his cup. That cup would remain there, being used every day until one of
us (usually Mom I assume or possibly myself, but mostly Mom) would remove it to
be washed. Somehow another cup would magically appear and that cup would become
Dad’s cup until it too was removed to be washed. And the cycle would continue.
But the important part was that his cup was always there.
Another
important aspect to Dad’s spot is that no one sat there but him. I can’t recall
anyone beyond the age of 5 (little ones were excused from unspoken rules as
were all the grandchildren) ever sitting in Dad’s chair until of course I did
when I was a teenager. Sounds silly to put the thought to paper but that spot
was his alone and basically left always available to him no matter what. That
is of course until I decided somewhere along the way that I could sit there
when Dad was not home. And I did. And no one objected. So I continued to do so
forever.
It became
the favorite spot for me in the kitchen and the only place I would sit if Dad
were not home. Many, many years later now that Dad is gone it is still his spot
in my mind and will always remain so. I still prefer to sit there but it feels
different now so sometimes I will opted to sit in a different place.
Dad was a
milkman…much like the old fashioned version of a milkman that may come to mind
when you hear the word. That guy that most people don’t remember bringing milk
to their homes… only Dad didn’t do home delivery. He delivered milk to schools
and stores or at least that’s what I remember of his job (that and that he
would sometimes bring home 10 gallon tubs of ice cream for us!). And being a milkman meant that he was getting
up and going to work when most people were still sound asleep in their beds.
When we were
very young he would always make the rounds when he woke at 2am; checking on his
little sleeping chicks; covering up the chilly little bodies where blankets had
slipped off; turning off the forgotten light that may have been left on. I
remember waking sometimes; not fully awake but enough to know I was now warm
and comfortable where just moments before I was starting to surface from
feeling the chill. (It seems like growing up in that house there were always
cold drafts) I have a faded memory of times I’d hear his movements through the
house; muted and comforting to know Dad was there. Sometimes I’d hear him leave
my room and I’d just crack an eye open slightly to see his silhouette as he
left my room or I’d hear a slight scraping as he pulled out his chair in the
kitchen and sat at the table. Mom would have left him a sandwich for his
breakfast and of course coffee in the pot. Dad had a real thing for coffee in
those days but who wouldn’t if you had to start your day at 2 am?
It never
occurred to me how lonely a routine he had waking each day and leaving long
before anyone else was awake. I was fortunate enough to be raised feeling safe
and secure and unfortunately with that came a kind of selfishness that was
unintentional for sure but there none the less. I just didn’t take into
consideration how much Dad did for all of us. At least not until I was a quite
a bit older.
There were a
few times I remember getting up when I heard Dad. I’d go down to the kitchen
and sit with him while he ate his sandwich and drank his coffee. I don’t
remember what we talked about. I’m sure it wasn’t anything important. It was
more the quiet contact with him that was important to me. I wanted to be with
him on my own; to have a personal connection to this wonderful father that did
so much for all of us and got so little back really. He never asked for
anything from any of us other than we be the best we could be. And even that
was only just something that was understood….he never actually said it. He
really just expected it.
So I’d come
down in the dark, being as quiet as possible and join Dad in the kitchen. He’d
ask why I’m up and I’d say something like I don’t know or I had to pee. I
remember listening to the coffee perk in the pot and watching him eat. I’d curl
my legs up under me on that hard wooden kitchen chair in an attempt to warm my
freezing feet. And when he was ready to leave he’d tell me I should get back to
bed and sometimes he’d kiss me on the head before he headed out. I never knew
if those moments had any meaning to him but they certainly did for me. I hope I
wasn’t intruding on his personal quiet time but if I was he never let it show. I
miss those times. They were a time of innocence and safety when the world had
not been allowed into our lives fully yet. It was a good time.
Little
memories like this will surface sometimes out of nowhere and I’m glad they do.
It’s made me realize I am my father’s daughter; that I do the same thing at my
own house. I have a cup that is mine; in my spot on the counter. I use that cup
for my tea (sorry Dad I never took to coffee like you did) for days on end
until it needs washing. Then it gets replaced by another cup and the cycle
repeats endlessly. I have a spot at the kitchen table that is mine too. It’s my
chair and pretty much the only spot I sit in while in the kitchen. There is a
tiny difference with the cups I use however. My cups mean something to me. Most of them
are mementos of places I’ve been with friends and family; some of them were
created by artists at pottery places and all of them have to be large enough to
hold a goodly amount of tea to satisfy me. I really like my cups and in fact
have far too many to use but I’ll keep buying them just the same.
It was while
I was drinking tea at work the other day and letting my mind wander a bit, that
I suddenly realized I do the same thing my Dad used to do. The whole cup and
spot in the kitchen are offshoots from Dad’s routine that I’ve made into my
own. It made me happy and a little sad to realize this. I have carried on a
habit of my Dad’s without even knowing I was doing it. That may seem odd to
others but for me it means more than I can ever explain.
