Growing up I never drank coffee; why I don’t know. I never wanted to smoke either, except for that week when I was ten. It took a week of sneaking smokes from my dad’s open pack before I begged the gnawing question: Why am I doing this? It was my friend’s idea and being a follower I went along. It still reminds me of a joke (if you will) where a man who is beating himself on the head with a hammer is asked why would he do such a thing. His reply; “Because it feels so good when I quit.” My curiosity with tobacco smoke was satisfied in short order and forever since I’ve never, ever been tempted to repeat that folly.
On the other hand, drinking coffee can sneak up on you. It smells good to begin with and part of its appeal is that little hint of ‘bitter’. Still, if I wanted it hot and dark then hot chocolate was preferable; until one cold December day in 1958. I was in Basic Training (U.S.Army) at Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri. It was our final week before graduation. We were in the field for several days and nights, putting all of our Grunt-training to a final test. It was cold but we were dressed and they kept us busy. But the second or third night it plunged down into the 20’s and there was a lot more waking up cold than there was sleeping. The next day was gray and windy and the temperature stayed stuck down in the (cold as a witch’s tit) zone, or maybe a (well digger’s ass)? Whichever is colder, that’s how cold it was.
We marched a while and navigated the obstacle course which put us at the rifle range. Until then we had been moving which helped but on the range it was a lot of ‘Hurry up & wait’. When your turn came it was shooting in either the upright or prone position and the cold wouldn’t leave you alone. No hot lunch, only cold C-Rations but they had plenty of hot coffee. Portable heaters hung on the sides of galvanized, 50 gallon barrels like outboard boat motors. I don’t know how they brewed it but the closer to the bottom of the barrel there were more grounds to chew up or spit out. We walked by in line with our empty canteen cups for a fill up and if you came away with more than half a cup you were lucky. It was steaming, too hot to drink. So on cold days I went through the line and used that steaming cup to warm my hands and face. On a subfreezing, windy day; hot coffee in an aluminum cup doesn’t stay hot. So you take your gloves off and switch hands until it cools a bit, then when the steam subsides you press it to your cheeks and move it across your mouth.
On that frosty-cold day in 1958 my bias against coffee gave in to another conditioned response, the one to sip from the cup’s lip and it was good enough. It crossed my mind even then, “For something I don’t like it tastes pretty good.” I went back for a second cup, repeated the steam first, bare hands, cheeks and mouth in that order but had to chew & spit more coffee grounds than with the first cup and it didn’t matter. Now it’s been sixty five years and I don’t like coffee cups at all. If I can’t hold a proud mug (even a large insulated paper cup) of steaming ‘Joe’ in both hands, elbows on the table, up close to my face; I feel cheated.
For me, those three years in the Army were like the extra but critical last few minutes for a loaf of bread in the oven. The Army didn’t need me but I was a warm body with feet on the ground and they needed that. My part from the mutual benefit was, I stayed out of trouble and out of debt while I browned in the oven. Whatever else I learned in those short years was that the alcohol buzz isn’t worth the hangover. I learned that I could only spend my dollar once and that hurt me once, shame on you; hurt me twice, shame on me. The Army put me in the right place to mix airplanes with parachutes, which turned out to be the catalyst for a true sense of self worth. I became very good at something that others respected. In the end it translated out to be (if not great then) good enough: And (Good Enough) has been the needle on my compass ever since. So here I am a content old man reflecting on my (coffee from a mug) experience and the rewards of living well and knowing when squat and when to move my feet.
On the other hand, drinking coffee can sneak up on you. It smells good to begin with and part of its appeal is that little hint of ‘bitter’. Still, if I wanted it hot and dark then hot chocolate was preferable; until one cold December day in 1958. I was in Basic Training (U.S.Army) at Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri. It was our final week before graduation. We were in the field for several days and nights, putting all of our Grunt-training to a final test. It was cold but we were dressed and they kept us busy. But the second or third night it plunged down into the 20’s and there was a lot more waking up cold than there was sleeping. The next day was gray and windy and the temperature stayed stuck down in the (cold as a witch’s tit) zone, or maybe a (well digger’s ass)? Whichever is colder, that’s how cold it was.
We marched a while and navigated the obstacle course which put us at the rifle range. Until then we had been moving which helped but on the range it was a lot of ‘Hurry up & wait’. When your turn came it was shooting in either the upright or prone position and the cold wouldn’t leave you alone. No hot lunch, only cold C-Rations but they had plenty of hot coffee. Portable heaters hung on the sides of galvanized, 50 gallon barrels like outboard boat motors. I don’t know how they brewed it but the closer to the bottom of the barrel there were more grounds to chew up or spit out. We walked by in line with our empty canteen cups for a fill up and if you came away with more than half a cup you were lucky. It was steaming, too hot to drink. So on cold days I went through the line and used that steaming cup to warm my hands and face. On a subfreezing, windy day; hot coffee in an aluminum cup doesn’t stay hot. So you take your gloves off and switch hands until it cools a bit, then when the steam subsides you press it to your cheeks and move it across your mouth.
On that frosty-cold day in 1958 my bias against coffee gave in to another conditioned response, the one to sip from the cup’s lip and it was good enough. It crossed my mind even then, “For something I don’t like it tastes pretty good.” I went back for a second cup, repeated the steam first, bare hands, cheeks and mouth in that order but had to chew & spit more coffee grounds than with the first cup and it didn’t matter. Now it’s been sixty five years and I don’t like coffee cups at all. If I can’t hold a proud mug (even a large insulated paper cup) of steaming ‘Joe’ in both hands, elbows on the table, up close to my face; I feel cheated.
For me, those three years in the Army were like the extra but critical last few minutes for a loaf of bread in the oven. The Army didn’t need me but I was a warm body with feet on the ground and they needed that. My part from the mutual benefit was, I stayed out of trouble and out of debt while I browned in the oven. Whatever else I learned in those short years was that the alcohol buzz isn’t worth the hangover. I learned that I could only spend my dollar once and that hurt me once, shame on you; hurt me twice, shame on me. The Army put me in the right place to mix airplanes with parachutes, which turned out to be the catalyst for a true sense of self worth. I became very good at something that others respected. In the end it translated out to be (if not great then) good enough: And (Good Enough) has been the needle on my compass ever since. So here I am a content old man reflecting on my (coffee from a mug) experience and the rewards of living well and knowing when squat and when to move my feet.
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