The Subject was Coffee...

===originally published Jan 25 2012===

Back in 1968 when my dad died we took him to his home in southern Idaho to bury him.  His heart never really left the high plains of his birth, it was really the only choice.  My mom's brother drove us up there, it was a long haul from Los Angeles.

Let me fill in few details, so the rest of this makes sense.  My father was from a pioneering family that arrived in Idaho with the Mormon migrations, the family had subscribed to that faith for several generations at that point.  They were good people, they lived their faith rather than exploited it, I have no complaints with them even though I myself do not subscribe.  My mom on the other hand was a recent convert to Mormonism when she married my dad, and as converts so often will took everything to the extreme.  First fervor the Catholic folk call it, although I suspect my mother had motivations even beyond that.  


Among the teachings of that faith is what is called "the word of wisdom," a warning against strong drink, tobacco and caffeine.  It isn't what you'd call an official edict, just a word to the wise to abstain from excess, avoid addictions, use good judgment concerning the things that can infiltrate your life and do harm.  It wasn't officially an edict, except of course at my house where my mom was taking everything to the utter limit, and demanding that everyone around our family either do the same, or keep their mouth shut.

Anyhow, it was a long and sad drive.  When we arrived we stayed at the grandparent's home, we'd come the furthest, everyone else lived only a few hours away at most.  Of course I was in shock, what twelve year old wouldn't be.  I was maintaining, dealing, it was real, it was time for me to step up I supposed.  I was praying I was ready, I was anything but sure about anything at that point.  The events of the first morning at grandma's house did anything but help the situation.

My uncle is a coffee drinker, actually a bit picky about his coffee.  He of course knew of his sisters demands, didn't bring it around the house, but I'd gone camping with him away from mom and knew his taste.  So it was no real surprise when grandma called out from the kitchen "coffees on!" that his face settled into a look I knew well, the one that meant "I'll be polite no matter what."  We adjourned into the kitchen, an lo! there on the stove was something I'd never, ever seen before: a rather large coffee pot on the stove!  One of the old percolator kind where you really do need a good eye to judge the color in the little glass on top to pull the brew off the heat when it was just right.   My uncle accepted a cup with a nod of thanks, and took a sip.

I watched it happen, saw it go across his face.  His face went from "I'll be polite" to "hey, that's how it's supposed to be!"  For a moment he looked at the coffee pot.  He knew it takes experience to run one of those, of course he did, he was the one who told me about it.  Then he looked at grandma with a bit of a quizzical look on his face.  Grandma?  She nodded, looked at where my mom was looking away with her nose in the air, and then looked back at my uncle with a soft smile, and a wink that echoed all the way to Dallas. 

My uncle said "good coffee!" in the tone of voice that meant he was really sincere, his salute voice, and I knew I'd been had.  As far as I'd been told, told over and over again, no one in the church ever touched the nasty stuff.  It was the first, but sadly not the last, little white lie I uncovered, lies I'd been told trying to coerce my life into someone else's mold.  Yea, that good cup of coffee did a lot to weaken the chains they'd been trying to hold me in.  It wasn't very long after that I broke that chain, and won my freedom.