10 “Open Book” by Evan Mantler

“Because coffee, the first cup of coffee, is the mirror of the hand. And the hand that makes the coffee reveals the person that stirs it. Therefore, coffee is the public reading of the open book of the soul.” 

–Mahmoud Darwish in Memory for Forgetfulness

My grandmother always says I make coffee too strong. She takes a sip, and her eyes go wide. She smacks her lips and gives her head a little shake. “My, that’s strong. That’s some strong coffee.” If my mother is there, she’ll ask loudly, “Do you want me to put some hot water in it?” and my grandmother will agree. If my mother is not there, I’ll take the mug back and do it myself.

“Here. Let me fix that,” I say. I stand by the sink and run my fingers through the water, waiting for it to get warm. Sometimes I remember to water down the coffee before I give it to her, but I’m never sure how much to add; any extra water is too much for me.

I haven’t made her coffee since my grandfather died.

The last time I made coffee for them both, it was too strong. I stood at the Keurig at my parents’ house and prepared it as I would for myself. I reached into my mother’s cabinets, full of amaretto and salted caramel flavored grounds. I rooted around for the most plain-tasting variety I could find (hazelnut) and filled a reusable pod, its hinge worn through and tiny bits of plastic flaking off at the corners.

When he tasted it, my grandfather gave a chuckle and boomed, “That’s some strong coffee!” My mother asked, “Dad, can I put some water in it for you?” really yelling this time so his hearing aids could pick up her voice.

“No, no. It’s fine,” he said and laughed again. I added water to my grandmother’s cup without having to ask.

My grandparents drank Folgers at home, the coffee of working America. My grandfather was a dairy farmer used to waking up early to milk the cows. He got up each morning and went to work caring for the lives that depended on him while slowly going deaf from the noise of the machinery. Coffee took too long to brew in the morning, so he drank it when he came back inside after the first round of chores.

After he retired, my grandparents sold their farm and settled in Blair, Nebraska. In the last decade or so of his life, my grandfather would spend most weekday mornings at the Burger King in town chatting with a group of men, many of them retired farmers like him. Small town life didn’t allow for much exposure to difference. The men spent their mornings talking about the news and the people they had always known—who was married, who was moving, who had a new grandchild, who had passed away.

My brother and I drove to Kennard, Nebraska for my grandfather’s burial. A town even smaller than Blair, one of the primary landmarks is the little dip in the road. We left home early because of the heavy snowfall the day before, which had prevented us from attending the funeral and delayed the burial.

With half an hour to spare before the family was to gather, we passed the little dip in the road and stopped into the Dew Drop Inn, where my grandfather had met with another coffee group for years before the move to Blair. The interior was different than I remembered from my childhood and had imagined in the intervening years. Much more a bar and grill than the bright café of my recollection, it was difficult to picture my grandfather sitting at the laminate tables and talking over a pot of coffee.

I considered asking the waitress, or “the gal working,” as my grandfather would have referred to her, how long she had worked there and if she had known him. When she came to take our order, my brother and I asked for a cup of coffee each. I would have loved some caffeine comfort to get me through the graveside service, but more than that, I wanted to taste an echo of my grandfather’s life through the coffee and conversation he had treasured.

The coffee was done for the day. It was just before two o’clock on a Wednesday during the pandemic. We got mini pretzels instead.

I still don’t know if the coffee is strong at the Dew Drop. What I do know is that it was enough to sustain my grandfather and kept him coming back for years.