Through the Looking Glass: 18. Coffee

Friday, November 30, 2012

18. Coffee

My addiction to coffee has been, until recently, simply smiled at or joked about by those who know me. However, I reached the point where I decided that it was necessary to remove myself from the agitated, stressed, caffeine dependent state I found myself in.

I was aware that extricating my self might involve headaches, short tempered outbursts and sleeping for seventy two hour stretches but I threw myself fully into my new undertaking. After suffering the various pains of withdrawal I answered the glowing letter from the ibuprofen manufacturers association, apologised profusely to the nuns at the convent down the road and begged for my job back after oversleeping 53 times. I look back and wonder how I ever survived myself.

The change has not been without other, albeit minor, difficulties. I still have a hard time waking up and seeing an alarm clock next to my bed rather a coffee-pot. There is little joy in going to sleep remembering I will not wake to the smell of fresh coffee. I worry what I will have to do about regular meals, as all the dishes in my house are coffee cups. My bank has returned several cheques because my signature has changed so dramatically since my hands have stopped shaking.

There will be things I miss in my 'new' life. The celebration of my birthday by half the population of Columbia will be sorely missed as will the cash that being Starbucks official 'Poster Boy" generated. I cannot envision changing my dog's name from Nabob into something that holds no memories.

There are some memories that will forever warm my heart even as I continue to embark into this new, decaffeinated world... reminiscences of carrying my coffee cup into the morning shower... the joy of never having to blink due to the surge of caffeine in my veins... the bonding that took place as I taught my sons to dip their own espresso beans will forever create a warm smile.

Life today is different if not better. I do manage to get at least three hours of sleep every night and the coffee bean storage locker has become a nice little study. Most importantly I am now able to make my mortgage payments with the extra money I have found in my budget. Even though I am relegated to a mere dozen shots of Java a day, life has improved.

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Introduction

Having moved at least twenty-five times in fifteen years has opened a world of learning to me. In six decades, an education ranging from the coldness of large cities to the isolation of remote rural locations to the busybody gossip of small towns and the wonder of the prairie and it's ocean of grass have all left their impressions on me.

Recently I relocated to a small city in British Columbia. It touted itself as a historical, cultural, educational and, over-all wonderful, place to live. Once I was past the trees and the rocks, the heights and the hills, the water and the wind, I calmed down and was ready to look at the people I was sharing that space with.

Every location I have ever squatted has had it's share of characters. Players in the cities along with the wide range of tinfoil hat wearers and baggy pants skaters were a given. Pop up strangers at odd hours surprised me with their appearance in the middle of nowhere. Rumours of my serial killer past from neighbours I had never met never swayed me. The wonder of gazing on the effects of wind on the grass ocean interrupted by a landowner enquiring why I was leaning on his fence was oft forgiven.

In this new locale a variety of characters as I had experienced elsewhere was a given. The density and variety of them however gave me more surprise than I would have expected.

I had heard comments about this place being a time warp to the sixties. However I only saw few that , by their appearance, I could say lived through the sixties. What apparitions appeared were younger and more colourful than I remember from that vague decade.

Purple haired strong armed accordionists, heavy head shaved violinists clutching tiny instruments, winter coated scarf wrapped individuals in shorts and oddly calm people with large coffees wandered the streets.

They wandered in and out of new age crystal shops, expressed opinions on local radio, bought nothing but organic food. They played jazz on squeeze boxes, made strings and wood sing in ways not intended, talked to themselves as they tightened their scarves and became more serene with each sip of coffee.

Characters here are more concentrated than in any other locale I have ever lived. It is a point of interest as well as point of concern.

It remains to be seen whether I will be mugged with organic carrots, side swiped by hooligan mountain bikers, be harangued with advice on dressing warmly or kept awake nights by jazzy sounds from an errant squeeze box. Whatever the outcome I am certain I could find it in no other place on earth to explore these particular uncertainties.

Until I am transplanted again, I extend every new-ager and boarder, every subculture economist and spiritualist, every would-be and wanna-be my deep thanks for extending me the opportunity of educating myself one measure more.