Archive for the coffee Category

Theme Fridays: Cigarette

Posted in coffee, evil inherent in nature, Theme Fridays with tags , , , on June 4, 2010 by clancyjane

Dr. Dawn called with More Bad News and July froze us over.  We took ourselves outside and sat under a cold sun drinking coffee– Mom in sickness, I in health.

Soon the sisters would arrive, mine and hers, and there would be more of us to prop ourselves against when the rest of the bad news broke, but right then it was just us with our coffees and a winter’s chill in summer.

We sat outside talking, warming in each other’s company, and watching the birds at the feeder.  They were loud and lively in their pecking, and didn’t yet know she wouldn’t be around to feed them in a week or two.

After a time, she said, “Well, kid, if I’m on the way out, I don’t see why we couldn’t go get a breaded tenderloin.”

I didn’t see why, either.

We drove up to the East End.  I wheeled her up to the communal table and took a seat across from her.  Mom’d been following a strict arthritis regimen for the past year or so, and breaded tenderloins were not on the menu.  I don’t know when she’d had one last.   We placed our order and got our sandwiches, but the pain meds had kicked in and Mom couldn’t eat a single bite.  We left there with nothing in our bellies but Dr. Dawn’s news, which sat heavy and hard in our centers.

I helped her into the car and she asked what I thought about her having a cigarette, seeing as how things were.  She’d given them up after the stroke three months before, the stroke from which she had fully recovered, and that made More Bad News particularly hard to swallow.

I thought it sounded fine.

We drove to Casey’s for the smokes.  She said get the cheap ones, kid, and I said huh uh.  I asked if she could smoke any brand she wanted what it would be, and she reckoned she’d have the Pall Malls.  I wondered if she’d had a Pall Mall or a Winston in the 30 years since we’d lived on the hill– back in the days when working people could afford to smoke their brands, and no one bought generic.

I got the cigs and a couple of coffees.  She put the pack in her purse and we drove back home and took our places outside with the birds again.   I opened up the smokes and set them, along with a lighter, beside the coffee next to her chair.  She took a drink and replaced the cup.  She took out a cigarette, picked up the lighter, and fell asleep with the unlit Pall Mall in one hand and the Bic in the other.

She would waken in awhile to light the cigarette and finish her coffee, and we would sit and watch the birds awhile longer.   Her last tenderloin had already been eaten, but I didn’t know that then as I sat beside her sleeping self and watched the rise and fall of a chest whose rises and falls were numbered now.

Christine and Annie take on Cigarette.


I Do Not Care About The Quarter

Posted in coffee, moms on July 20, 2008 by clancyjane

Dawn Anne  calls and says

The tests are back,

This isn’t good.

I give Mom the news.

We go for coffee.

The coffee comes, she shrugs and says

I’m sorry kid,

Looks like I made you waste a quarter.

I do not care about the quarter.

We take the coffees to go and drive uptown.

I refill her morphine and buy her some smokes.

We wind down 22nd and she lights up for the first time since March.

We park by Fairley’s pond and watch their swans herd a group of geese toward the bank.

Smoke from her Pall Mall wends and dissipates.

She wonders where she’ll be when next year’s callas come up.

“Right here”, I gesture, and shut my eyes tight to the image of

An empty Adirondack chair,

A garden filled with love-lies-bleeding.


Posted in coffee, death, evil inherent in nature, gratuities, life with tags , , on July 2, 2008 by clancyjane

Maggie Larson was on Ken’s porch with me and Janet when Elizabeth Smart was found.

Maggie was sleeping,  Janet was smoking and I was drinking coffee.

The stone was cool in the heavy air and from the corners of our ears we heard The Strokes through Ken’s open door and tendrils of “Have You Got A Story For Me” upsweeping from across the street at Angela Parenza‘s.

The Parenza porch was empty save for the potted Begonia’s and the Barry-an strings, Ken’s was full of us and some reddening tomatoes, and whatever was on the porch a few blocks down by Bob Berdella’s I cannot say.  We were too scared of ghosts to walk past what was lost there.