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.

Unconventional Love by Grace Augustine

      

Courtesy of Pexels.com free photos

     Ben and Hildy sat at the park from mid-morning until the sun went down. It wasn’t uncommon to see the couple every Saturday, choosing just the right spot to spread out the blanket. There was always a book, always laughter, always a picnic basket filled to the brim with snacks to share.
     Theirs was a unique relationship. Ben, twenty years’ Hildy’s senior, had lived a hard life…one of prejudice at work, as well as church and many other societal situations. He’d worked hard in the coal mines until age got the better of him. Retirement sent him into a deep depression for which he was hospitalized. That’s where he met Hildy.
     Hildy, a sassy thirty-year-old, loved her work as a therapist on the psych floor of Trinity Hospital. She’d seen many come and go and smiled when she remembered her part in their healing. She’d stopped by Ben’s room the day he was admitted.  Her heart sank when she saw the uncommunicative, handsome older man sitting near the window.
     “Hi, Ben. I’m Hildy. It’s nice meeting you,” she greeted, taking the older man’s hand in hers and smiling brightly.
Her greeting met with no response. 
     “I can see we’re going to have to do something to cheer you up.”
     Ben turned toward Hildy and looked at her compassionate blue eyes. He shrugged his shoulders.
     “What’s the use?” The deep voice questioned. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
     “Oh, now, that is just a lie, sir, and you know it. Before I snap my fingers, you’ll be waltzing out of here. I promise.”
     Hildy continued meeting with Ben daily for the next two weeks. Each day she read excerpts to him from her favorite books. By the end of the second week, she noticed Ben smiling and engaging in conversation with her.
     “I have a surprise for you, Ben. Get your sweater and come with me.”
     Ben followed Hildy from the room. Soon they were walking hand in hand to the gardens at the hospital where they sat on a bench in the noon-day sun.
     Hildy opened her book and read several poems from Edna St. Vincent Milay. Her voice was sweet and positive and soothing. She glanced at Ben and smiled when she saw him smiling, eyes closed, as he took in every word she read.
     Each Saturday, Hildy led them to the same bench. Each Saturday, Ben held one side of the book and Hildy the other. Each took turns reading. Then, one day, it was time for Ben to be released from the hospital.
     “You’re going home today, Ben.”
     Ben sat with his elbows on his knees, hands folded, and head lowered. He wasn’t sure he should say what he was thinking but went ahead anyway.
     “Why did you do what you did, Hildy? Why did you read to me? Why were you kind to me? Not once did the color of my skin matter. Not once did my former profession matter. Not once did you judge me.”
     Hildy patted Ben’s arm then grasped one of his hands in both of hers.
     “Ben, I only see your heart. I see a loving, kind man who needed to be shown his worth.
     A tear fell down Ben’s cheek.
     “Hildy, I don’t want to say goodbye to you.”
     “Who says we have to say goodbye?”
     Every Saturday, for the past five years, Hildy and Ben met at the park at 10 am. They sat on a blanket, they laughed and read books, they shared a meal and their souls with each other. And, when the sun went down, Ben walked Hildy to her car and hugged her tightly.
     “I love you Hildy.”
     “I love you, too, Ben.”

I'll Meet You At The Footbridge ~ by Grace Augustine

   

photo: SunnySkyz

Caitlyn climbed upon my lap and snaked her little arms around my neck.  It made me smile to know my great-grandchildren loved spending time with us.

“Tell me again, how you and great grandpa met,” she pleaded.

I pulled her little nine-year-old body closer to me for a hug and kissed her temple.  She knew this story frontwards and backwards, but always had to have me retell it whenever she visited.

“Well, Catie, I wasn’t very good at picking out boys to date. After four years of high school and four years of college, I’d had countless boys that were just terrible.”

Catie nodded her head.

“That’s when you asked great great grandma to fix you up, right?”

I snickered silently at that sentence.  Yes, that is when I had to be fixed up with a date.

“Yes, Catie. My mom and I sat at the kitchen table discussing boys and how most of my friends were married and having children. Then there was me…”

“Yeah, but, you were beautiful, Oma Marie. You still are.”

“Oh, child, thank you. Now, do you want me to finish this story, or are you going to tell it to me?”

“I’ll shut up, Oma Marie,” the little poppet affirmed.

“My mom worked at a factory with a lot of other people. There were some young men there, one in particular, who wasn’t having any luck with dating. So, my mom asked him if he would like to come to dinner. I was mortified! But, I’m the one who told her to find me someone to marry.”

Catie laughed at that. She opened her mouth but shut it quickly.

“Your Opa Mark knocked on the door of our home and, of course, my mom made me answer the door. There he stood, all six-foot-six of him, dressed to the nines. No words came out of my mouth. I just stared at him. He probably thought I was the biggest loser he’d ever met.  My mom yelled at me to invite him to come in, so I did.

“The dining room table was filled with food, and my two sisters and mom and dad. After dinner, mom suggested that Mark and I go in the living room and get to know each other. We spent the next three hours talking and laughing. When it was time for him to leave, I walked with him to the door. He kissed my cheek and asked when he could see me again.”

I tear up every time I tell this story to sweet Caitlyn. I hugged her closer to me as I thought of my darling, Mark. He is the best thing that ever happened to me. I constantly thank my mother in Heaven for introducing us.

“This is where Opa Mark asks you to meet him at the bridge, right?” Caitlyn’s head bobbed, as did her curls.

“Yes, honey, this is where Opa Mark and I met at the bridge. Every time we met, we met at the bridge before we went out on our dates. Three months into our relationship, Opa Mark asked me to marry him and I said yes. Each year on our anniversary, we walk the length of that bridge and remember that special night. Tomorrow, we will be married fifty-five years.”

“Oma Marie! That’s a very long time! I wonder if my Momma will pick my husband.”

“Oh, Catie, you have years before you have to worry about that. Enjoy your time growing up. When it’s time for that special boy in your life, I’m sure you will have many knocking on your door.”

“But, I don’t want many. I just want one. I want one that is as special as Opa Mark,” Catie stated. “You love Opa Mark a whole lot, don’t you?”

“I love Opa Mark with all of who I am, honey.”

“Are you going to the bridge tomorrow? Can I come?”

I smiled down at my oldest great grandchild. She was so much like her grandmother and her mother with a bit of me mixed in there for good measure.

“Yes, Opa Mark and I will walk down that bridge tomorrow. We must do that. It’s tradition. And, Catie, no, you can’t go with us tomorrow. But, whatcha say to us doing it another day? We’ll get ice cream.”

Catie’s eyes grew large at the thought of ice cream. Again, her arms were around my neck and she kissed my cheek.

“I love you Oma Marie, and I love the bridge, too.”