You
can say a lotta things about Grampy but you can't say he doesn't
love his cuppa joe. He makes a fresh pot of Folgers first thing every
morning and drinks the whole pot. After he's done, he makes another
pot. And proceeds this way througout the day until 9pm at night when
he finishes his last cup with a bowl of popcorn and a good western on
TV. He told me that a few years ago the doctor told him to cut down
on his coffee consumption—that he was drinking too much caffeine.
“But you haven't, have you?” I noticed as he drained his cup. He
gave me a wink and said “I just make it real weak so there's not
much caffeine in there at all anymore. That way I can still drink a
lot” He was rather proud of his ingeniousness I could tell. “But
do you actually LIKE it that weak? It looks like weak tea to me”, I
said. “Hell no I don't like it!” he shouted over his shoulder as
he put another pot on. Subject closed. Move on, Cathy, move on....
That
brought pictures to my mind of Grampy in his pj's sitting at his
kitchen table at the crack of dawn cradling the coffeemaker, gulping
down cup after cup of hot coffee-water and keeping track on a notepad
sitting on the table next to him—which might not be too far from the
truth except there isn't a clear space at his kitchen table for
anything, let alone a coffeemaker. He has organized piles of—well
let's call a spade a spade and the crap on his table we'll just call
crap. Bills that have been paid are all in one pile. Bills that
haven't been paid are in another. Receipts for groceries are in yet
another pile. Receipts for Wienerschnitzel stand tall and proud in
their own pile. He even rinses out used Der Weinerschnitzel napkins
and sets them out on the table to dry so he can use them again.
Mailers, flyers, junk mail...nothing is discarded, nothing is
overlooked. He was opening a letter from some Indian Organization
asking for money one day. (Feather, not Dot) Cursing, he said he
wasn't going to send them any more money. “I've sent them three dollars, five times now and they keep sending me letters asking for
More!” he complained “Do they want blood from a turnip?” I
tried to explain non-profit organizations, fundraising and computer
mailing lists to him and failed. Finally I just said “Dad you know
how Santa has a Naughty list and a Nice list? Well so do the American
Indians and you, my friend, are on their Nice list.” He put the
letter and the 4x6 photo of poor little barefoot and crying Indian children back into the
envelope and placed it neatly in the “Letters Begging For More of
My Damn Money” pile on the table. “Dad why don't you just throw
it away?” I wondered out loud. He silently shook his head at my
ignorance and went back to his recliner to finish his Top Ramen. Hand
to God. I kid you not.
