Today’s post comes from Clyde of Mankato

I have given into the rampant coffee culture, an invasion from foreign lands such as the Middle East, so it is my guess that Trump and the Trumpeters do not participate. Coffee was brought to Europe by Asian invaders, it seems.

In my childhood coffee was this weak watery stuff, in my house more watery than most, my mother being that thrifty. She bristled at being called cheap, which she was. Coffee would also stunt your growth.

It took my a few years into my adulthood to start drinking it, then I stopped. Coffee was made in the faculty room, a place I learned to shun, and by midmorning was over-heated – the coffee and the room. Sandy has never been able to drink it. I learned to sip it to be sociable. My daughter had sworn she would never drink coffee, as did her husband. She did not even drink it to be sociable. Now they have this fancy-schmancy coffee system and thrive on it.

So about ten years ago I started making it occasionally, then almost every day. But I seldom buy it out and about; it is expensive, and I do not like dark coffees. Starbucks is battery acid to my pallet. Then my son, a devotee of coffee who has tried roasting his own beans, clued me into two temptations: 1) blonde coffees, such as Starbucks Veranda and 2) Trader Joes, especially their Joe and their Soft and Mellow. Thrifty, if I ignore the gas to go up to the Cites to buy it. (Thrifty I call myself, never cheap.)

I made a drip pot every morning. Every so often I would press coffee. My coffee has grown a little stronger and a little stronger. Then lust set in, fueled by my daughter’s fancy-schmancy coffee maker, which allows you to make a cup at a time if you wish.

Both of my offspring extolled the virtues of grinding your own coffee. Temptation won. Last week I ordered a thrifty coffee grinder. I lust after a single cup coffee maker. However, I am finding that grinding coffee each morning and pressing it is very nice, especially out on the patio before the heat rises. Somehow each morning for the last week my blonde coffee gets a little stronger each day.

I am still coveting a the single-cup coffee maker. (But not my neighbor’s ass.) A cup at a time as I wish, easily done! Oh, my, I do sin.

However, I will have to hide the grinder this weekend. My sister and brother-in-law are coming this weekend. They go on tirades about their children and their dedication to coffee and how strong they make coffee and the money they spend. They are cheap for their children’s sake.

What do you hide from guests?

Today’s post comes from Steve Grooms

When I worked as a writer for Democrats in the House of Representatives, our radio man was a fascinating guy named John. During a lunch break, John once announced to the gathered staff that a recent study discovered that most fatal heart attacks occur early in the morning. We wondered: Why?

“First, people brush their teeth when they get up. We have toxins in our teeth. Brushing  loosens them and sends them into the blood stream. Bingo! We drop dead still clutching our toothbrush!”

“The other thing,” John added, “is people use the toilet in the morning. A lot of people die of heart attacks while sitting on the toilet.”

The lunchroom went silent. “You can thank me later,” said John with a broad smile.

“Now there are two things you won’t be doing each morning. I just freed up a lot of precious time for you.”

In spite of John, I continue to have morning rituals. Older people find that rituals are comforting and they help us organize our lives. My rituals probably differ from yours.

Unlike most baboons, I am retired, I live alone and I have no pets.

Morning begins when I fire up my desktop computer. I don’t sleep much, so I’m often on the computer by 4 or 5 AM. The world outside my windows is dark, and no birds are yet filling the air with their tunes. I enjoy the radio while I’m at the computer, usually music on Folk Alley or NPR’s Morning Edition. I wear headphones to avoid disturbing the sleep of my upstairs neighbors.

As I drink black coffee I study my internet browser (Google’s Chrome). I’ve set Chrome up to display 16 web sites that I have “bookmarked” for easy access. I always begin with the site on the far left side of the bookmark bar. That’s NBC News, which I use as my basic source of national and international news.

After reading interesting stories there I move to the next site to the right, which is the online version of the Washington Post. That’s a great site. I can easily spend an hour reading all the news, op/ed and lifestyle stories in this (paperless) paper.

The last thing I read on the Post site is my favorite: Carolyn Hax’s column of personal advice. I never used to read advice columns. Carolyn’s column starts with letters in which readers describe their screwed up lives and dilemmas. Then Carolyn speaks up to analyze the situation and propose solutions. Damn, she’s good!

Next comes the online version of the Star Tribune. I read that closely. While my body is in Oregon much of my heart is in Minnesota. Following that, I read the online version of The Oregonian. That paper delivers weak writing in a frustrating format. I rarely waste much time with it.

Having read news stories for maybe two hours, I move right again to the link for Trail Baboon. That’s my treat after studying so many depressing news items.

Next comes the NPR site, a highly varied compendium of stories running on NPR. After that I read MinnPost. Next is Politico, a political news magazine that is often boring but not always. I finish my computer time by indulging my weakness for news about the Minnesota Vikings. I blush to confess I read five web sites that talk about nothing but the team. There are, I suppose, worse vices.

All that computer time accounts for maybe three hours of my morning. Then I move to the second big event of the day: writing my letter. Since I’ve mentioned this often before, I won’t say much here. In 1999 two things happened at about the same time. An old friend lost her husband to cancer. My marriage ended.

The two events merged in an odd way. My friend was living in a valley outside a tiny town in extreme southeastern Minnesota. While she had a few friends, she was an outsider living in a highly conservative corner of the state. I began writing daily email letters to her to soften her grief and chat about progressive politics. What I didn’t understand for many years was that my friend was handling being a widow well, but I needed the correspondence as a way of processing my own grief. I write a letter each morning, even on days when I can barely stand thinking about my life. Writing those letters is healthy for me. Knowing I “have” to write them encourages me to think more about events in my life, living a little more completely.

My letters give me a reason to reflect on each passing day and to seek meaning in the mundane events of my life. I often roam the back alleys of my history, relishing old memories and rediscovering myself. Just as singers need to sing and athletes need to exercise, writers need to write. The daily letters have become a crucial connection with that part of me.

Do you have a morning ritual?

Today’s post comes from Barbara in Rivertown 

I’ve noticed since moving that there are lots of new sounds here at the new Winona homestead. While there isn’t as much traffic noise (sirens, planes, and freeway) as there was in the city, there are number of things that get my attention:

1. 8 a.m. bells from St. John’s Catholic Church just a couple of blocks away, not to mention noon and 6 p.m. bells as well! If we’re not already up by the 8:00 bonging, by golly we are up when they finish.
2. The truck of a neighbor across the alley who leaves at 6 a.m. – have only met this person to wave at. There is also a motorcycle that comes through the alley (we are RIGHT ON the alley) often enough. No more distance between us and the garbage trucks, either.
3. A mournful dog who is vocal when his people are late getting home from work. He belongs to  our next door neighbor to the north, who is, happily enough, someone we know from folk dancing here in the early 80s! Was amazing the first time we looked out the window and said “Isn’t that Gerard??”
4. Gerard’s cat, who was formerly invited in to what is now our house, and lets us know she ought to be allowed in ANY time she wants.
5. A plethora of as yet unidentified songbirds (plus the usual robins, cardinals, woodpeckers).
6. Train whistles (luckily, during waking hours) – the trains aren’t as close as they were in Robbinsdale (back yard), but they’re more frequent.
7. There are even a few sounds that I had a hard time figuring out – the “clucking” I thought I heard periodically (thinking someone on the block had chickens) turned out to be our refrigerator when it goes back on. Then a low hum in the middle of the night, just once, had a very mysterious quality to it – I even got up and walked outside to see if I could identify it, but never did. Something on the river?

There are actually some sounds from Robbinsdale that I miss, particularly the chipmunks and some of the birds.

Where have you lived that was a location rich in sounds?

Today’s post comes from Clyde of Mankato

Steve posted this yesterday:

I continue to be fascinated by Liam [his grandson]. His buddy is Terrian, 7 years old, the next-door neighbor kid. Terrian and Liam, 6, can play for hours. Liam was next door doing that recently until a dispute broke out between Terrian and his parents. Things escalated until the parents sent Liam home.

My daughter wondered how her son viewed the fight. I enjoy the way she talks to him, always with genuine interest in what he’ll say . . . because he is not predictable. “I stayed off to the side,” reported Liam. “When kids do something like that, you just let it happen. And then you hope they learn from their mistakes.”

Liam and Terrian–not the names of my youth. Friendship does mean not trying to change the other person, does it not?

Childhood friendships are a constant source of literature and thought. Among the many movies, my favorite is The World of Henry Orient, about two adolescent girls in New York City. You can no doubt name many others.

Childhood friendships are very important, yet they seldom last into adulthood. I have nothing in common with my long childhood friend. He went into the Navy; I went to the University of Chicago. We entered two different universes. We stumbled over each other for awhile on Facebook. We were over two years apart in age. I was the younger. In our youth we roamed the woods on my hill together and shared many adventures, often staying overnight in a shack built by our two older brothers, who were long friends and grew very far apart by the time they were 25.

In truth my best childhood friends were Boots and Cleo. Cleo and Clyde–we had to be welded at the hip for life.

What did you learn from your childhood friendships?

Today’s post comes from Barbara in River Town.

I woke up feeling out of sorts, basically missing The Familiar.

We’ve been here in our new home (Winona, MN) for a total of three weeks, and I still haven’t found places to plug in all the lamps (I dislike overhead lights) or put the contents of all the boxes. I sometimes stand in the kitchen and rotate 360˚ while I try to remember where an item is located.

To top it off, this morning the freezer door was standing open when I got up. I’d forgotten that we have to check on the refrig doors, since they don’t “close by themselves” as they did in the old place.

We are still getting used to the idiosyncrasies of this new house.  I am, in a word, unmoored.

Except for visiting my mom, I am currently without direction (now that most of the unpacking is done). In my old life, I had several commitments a week that had me busy and involved – with people I like and projects I felt were worthy of my time. I remember this period from the last time we changed city, so I know it gives way to something better, and I will find my people and projects here. But I’m in that awkward stage of BEFORE, and need to give it some time.

Don’t get me wrong – the house is delightful in many ways, and this town has ‘way more going for it than I even remember. I just need to start connecting.

When was the last time you felt “unmoored”?