by Thomas Martin
My Mother’s family believed in two things: getting along
with each other and drinking coffee. When company came over, the first thing we
did was put on a pot of coffee. Some families believe in cocktails – my Mom’s
family believed in coffee. I’m sure that my Norwegian Grandmother’s house had
some smell besides freshly brewed coffee, but I never knew what it was. Coffee was the glue of the Sorenson clan, I
guess it was our comfort food.
Breakfast was another important part of our family. Both my
Mother’s and my Father’s families were farmers and breakfast meant eggs, bacon,
toast, juice and of course, coffee. This was everyday, not just weekends or
holidays. “Big” was not an adjective associated with breakfast, it was just
breakfast – family breakfast. We all sat at the table and ate together. I can’t
imagine anyone refusing.
I remember one weekend my brother and I happened to be home.
I was 23 and my brother 26. It was before my Mother and Father sold the big
house and moved into something smaller. My brother and his wife recently had
their first child – the first Grandchild. That’s with a capital “G.” Children were also important in our family. I
know that my Mother had waited patiently (or as best she could) for this child,
this grandson, to arrive. My Mother got a late start in the baby making
business so instead of having the three or four children she wanted, she settled
on just two – me and my brother. So grandchildren meant new life, new laughter,
new joy and new hugs.
That Saturday morning my father was the first one up and the
first to the coffee pot. As the aroma drifted through the house, it was the
nudge that got me out of bed. It wasn’t long before my brother could no longer
resist the call and he too came into the living room, mug in hand, after
stopping in the kitchen at the shrine of “The Mountain Grown.”
My sister-in-law had to learn to appreciate coffee and
especially the morning ritual. When she first married my brother she drank tea.
But over time she learned to drink and
appreciate coffee. She’s one of us now and that is a good thing. That morning
she too emerged with her coffee but most importantly with the baby. The baby
was awake and he was smiling, even without having had a cup of coffee. Go
figure.
Now it was my Mother’s turn to come into the living room. Mom
took her coffee with a little milk – very
little milk. The rest of us were purists – black or nothing. Mom also had a
nasty habit of looking good in the morning. The rest of us looked like death.. That
morning she was especially beautiful because she saw her grandson. I know Mom
had coffee that morning, but she probably didn’t need it because she had a baby
to hold and to love and to make over. Not just any baby, but her grandson.
He was blond, just as a good Norwegian baby should be and he smiled and laughed
and smiled and laughed and Mom smiled and laughed back.
We moved into the kitchen to start breakfast. The air was
now mixed with the fragrance of the second pot of coffee brewing and the smell
of bacon frying. There were five people in that small, warm kitchen all getting
in each other’s way and all ready for our portion of that farmer’s breakfast. My
nephew was placed in his “bucket” near the table so he could see us and we
could see him. We sat down, we ate, we talked, we laughed and we all kept our
eyes on that beautiful baby boy.
My Mother could no longer stand being so far away from him. The
chasm of five to six feet between them was more than she could tolerate. She
got up, picked him up and walked to a strategically placed rocking chair not
far from the table and together they rocked.
I’ve always known I grew up in a home with lots of soft
laps, lots of hugs, lots of laughter, lots of aunts and uncles throwing me in
the air, and a grandmother whose hugs were so tight that you often felt it
could be your last breath. But sadly, we don’t remember what our parents were
like when we were small children. We don’t recall the joy we brought them. We
don’t fully realize how special we were to them. At least I didn’t – or not
until that day. When I saw the look on my Mother’s face as she held her
grandson, I knew it was the same look she had when she held me. I knew that all
the love my Mother had inside of her, the love spilling out all over my nephew,
was the same love she gave to me and my brother.
The adage says we can’t go home again. That Saturday, I did.
Not just to a house, but to my home, to my childhood, to my family.
Copyright © 2020, Thomas Martin, All Rights Reserved
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