Grandpa's Coffee Cup ~ by Grace Augustine

Morning after morning Grandpa would brew a pot of coffee. I

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wouldn’t actually call it coffee, it resembled thick, black goo but it was something he enjoyed. The blacker the better.

“Ah,” he would say. “Elixir of the gods.” A broad smile would then cross his face as he picked up the newspaper and read the daily tidbits which could be anything from the markets to the local sports.

The coffee always accompanied countless games of solitaire, too. Sometimes he’d cheat to win, sometimes he’d be frustrated, smacking the cards into submission.

As the mornings wore on, there were always chores to do…dusting,

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heading to the garage to work on some project that would prevent him from doing “woman’s work.” Then there was always the trip to the restaurant for more coffee and kibitzing with the locals that had the same agenda.

If there was a Chicago Cubs or Chicago Bears game on television, he would be in the corner rocker watching the games with his eyes closed. Even though Grandma wasn’t paying attention to television, she always had something to say about him sleeping through whatever program he’d chosen to watch. She would peer occasionally over her glasses while making sure she didn’t drop stitches from her current knitting project.

Saturdays were for driving the countryside. It was setting out with no agenda and taking country roads and driving with no destination in mind. Sometimes it would be hours, sometimes it would be thirty minutes. It was always an adventure in the back seat when it happened because as a kid, I spent time with two of the most wonderful people.

Sunday, while Grandma dressed, Grandpa always put on his gray suit and white shirt and drove to church, only a few blocks away. After services it was the trip home to change clothes and dive into the roast beef dinner that had been cooking while they were away.

Grandpa was a master storyteller. Having served in WWII, he had many things to share—shenanigans of his unit mates, the enemy, where he was stationed, operating the weapon assigned to him, fixing the vehicles. It was always new, even if he’d told the story a hundred times.

He wasn’t afraid to spend time with his grandchildren. He would

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load my brother and me in the red wagon and we’d take walks around the block, sometimes never getting any further than the end of the driveway if the neighbor (his best friend) was outside. If we did make it around the block, a stop at the neighborhood park happened and he pushed us in the swings or on the merry-go-round. When it was time to leave, we knew not to whine about not wanting to go. We hopped back in the wagon and rode the block back to his house where Grandma had a yummy snack waiting.

Again, I’d see Grandpa reaching for the old stained coffee cup, pour the dark liquid into it and pop it into the microwave before grabbing a couple freshly baked cookies and sitting down at the table to watch a game show and play more solitaire.

In his later years, he spent most of his time in the corner rocker sleeping. He passed while I was in high school. I regret that I didn’t

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have more time with him.

Every now and again when I make my morning coffee, I smile…I see a lot of him in my coffee cup and hope that I can live up to the man I saw in my Grandpa.

     --Grace Augustine 2017 (c)


**Author's Note: This flash fiction story was inspired by my boys's paternal grandfather. It is told from their perspective.