Posts Tagged ‘Valentine’s Day’

Mine, All Mine

February 14, 2015

We share a coffee cup. We never used to. At one time I drank my morning caffeine from the ceramic mug Bruce bought especially for me. I still have it. It’s white and decorated with pastel colored conversation hearts, those little valentine shaped candies that began speaking in text before texting came about,  “Luv U”, “4 ever”, “T-4-2”, “B Mine.”  He gave me that mug, not on Valentine’s Day, but for no reason at all. It sits far back in the dish cabinet now next to its mate.

His mug, the mate to mine, is also white, but with a larger handle to fit the width of Bruce’s hand when he holds it. The mug sports a blue oval with the Ford Motor Company logo across its middle. Bruce’s first truck, his first love, was a Ford.  The mug came from a box and contents he bought at a local auction sale. I still remember the grin on his face when he held it up, having just been named high bidder.

For years, the mugs sat side by side on the counter each morning waiting for the pot to brew. Two spoonfuls of sugar and a dash of cream waited in each. One teaspoon stirred both mugs. I would set the coffee maker the night before, and Bruce would bring me my own cup of coffee in bed the next morning to help wake me.

I can’t remember the exact date we graduated to the one cup, but I know where we found it. There’s a thrift store called the Green Olive Tree half a mile from our house. We visit there on occasion for treasure hunts. Both of us spotted the mug at the same time and reached for it, a piece of handmade pottery, signed on the bottom by its maker. The colors, graduations of blue, green, and brown, drizzled in rivulets down its side. The mug was taller and bigger around than each of ours, the handle, a nice wide rectangle.  Bruce weighed the pottery in his right hand, testing it. He held the handle, examined the lip for chips. Then, he offered it to me. I cradled the piece of art, running my left hand over the colors, feeling its perfect weight balanced in my hand. I pretended to drink from it.  We placed the prize, an original, in our basket and bought it for a dollar.

Not long after, Bruce brought the new mug to me one morning in bed. I took the cup, drank from it, and closed my eyes savoring that first taste of the day. When I opened my eyes he was looking at me smiling. “That’s my cup you know,” he said. “I saw it first.”

“No you didn’t,” I said. “I saw it first. It’s mine.”

“You can’t have it,” he said.

“Yes I can,” I said with force. “But I’ll share. Here, you can have a taste.” I handed the mug back to him for a sip.  He took the mug from me, drinking from it as he turned to leave the room. 

“Hey,” I called after him. “My coffee!” 

He laughed, then placed the mug on the dresser as he left the room.

I carried it with me to the bathroom, taking a drink before brushing my teeth. Bruce came in to shave, and I handed him the mug so I could go get dressed.

I was in the hallway, headed to the kitchen when Bruce handed me the newly filled mug. “Take care of my cup,” he said laughing before he kissed me goodbye. He tasted of coffee.

I stood on the porch watching him walk to the truck. As he opened the door, he turned and looked at me. I raised the mug in a toast to my husband and smiled. “Possession is nine-tenths of the law,” I said, looking from Bruce to the mug and back to Bruce again. “And that means, it’s mine,” I said, “all mine.” And I could hear his laughter over the truck’s motor as he drove away.

Jeff and Me

February 12, 2011

Jeff and Me

      He was five days older than me, and my best friend.  Two doors separated our apartments and we came and went as we pleased without knocking.  Our parents worked and we had keys on strings around our necks that let us in after school.  Lemon Cooler cookies and milk didn’t taste the same unless Jeff was sharing them with me at the table.

     We were ten, and planned our lives in a hideout under the steps in the basement storage room of our building.  We stacked milk crates to display our rock collection and kept a paper bag to fill with glass soda bottles. The nickel deposits on each one added up to purchase forbidden bubble gum and chocolate bars. Every day we opened the secret cigar box and selected a treat. Jeff taught me how to blow a bubble. I showed him how to whistle with a blade of grass between his thumbs.

     Our Mamas were friends.  They were both single and went out on Friday nights sometimes. I sat on the corner of my Mama’s bed, watching her at the vanity, applying mascara and lipstick, brushing and curling her hair, fussing over which blouse to wear with what skirt and how high her heels should be.  She twisted and turned at the mirror trying to see all sides, making sure that everything was tucked in and perfect.  It seemed like a lot of work to me. I liked my jeans, t-shirts, sneakers and hair in braids.  It was hard to ride a bicycle in a dress, and I knew I’d poke my eye out with the mascara wand.  

     Jeff and I shared a baby sitter.  It was cheaper that way, and fun for us.  We got to stay up late, and watch cowboy movies on TV.  While Cindy took over Mama’s bedroom, locking the door, to talk to her boyfriend “privately” on the phone, Jeff and I pulled sheets out of the linen closet and draped them over the kitchen chairs we dragged in front of the television, making a tent. We pulled pillows and blankets off my bed to create a prairie pallet, camping out in the open range of my living room, and cooked a cowhand’s meal of popcorn and chips.  We turned off the lights, kept warm by an imaginary fire, star gazed, and listened to the cows in the distance.  We planned to drive our cattle over the plains and through the river the next day. We both knew how to swim.

     We must have fallen asleep before our Mama’s got home because when I woke up the next morning, Jeff was still under the tent, curled in blankets beside me.  I poked him in the ribs before turning the TV to cartoons.  He sat up blinking and rubbing his eyes.  His hair stuck up all over his head and I laughed at him.  He punched me in the arm.  Our range breakfast was two bowls of cereal and orange juice.  We sat Indian style and watched the Roadrunner outsmart the Coyote over and over again.

    Jeff went home to brush his teeth and change his clothes.  We met in the storage room where I scratched around and found a piece of rope.  Jeff knotted a loop in its end and we practiced lassoing a broken mule ear chair in the corner.

      Outside on our bicycles, we drove cattle all day, down the grasslands of Berkshire Road and through the river of Cedar creek at the foot of the hill. I slipped climbing the creek bank  and Jeff caught me by the arm, pulling me up onto the grass.  We reached the apartment building patch-of-grass-Ranch  by late afternoon.  We were tired, having driven five hundred head a hundred miles in one day. Our knees were grass stained and scraped. Our sneakers were muddy.   The saddle packed peanut butter and jelly sandwiches from lunch were long gone and our stomachs grumbled.

     We flopped down in the grass and stared up at the clouds waiting for our Mamas to call us for supper.  

“Look at that one,” I said. “It’s a turtle.  See his shell, and his little tail?”

“Where?” Jeff asked, putting his head closer to mine.

“Right there,” I said, pointing. “See?”

“That’s not a turtle,” he argued. “That’s a heart.”

“How does that look like a heart?” I asked him, turning my head closer to his angle.

Then he sat up, leaned over and kissed me on the mouth, just like that, right on the mouth.  My eyes opened wide and I sat straight up.  “What did you do that for?” I asked, pushing his shoulder so hard he fell over.  I jumped up, wiped my mouth on my sleeve, and stomped home.  Jeff Hentslie sure did know how to ruin a perfectly good day.