My Childhood Memories of Grandmother

Scientists tell us that our sense of smell is the sense most closely related to memory. I have to say I agree. It only takes a whiff of freshly brewed coffee to transport me back to my childhood. Yes, my olfactory sense works better than H.G. Wells' time machine. One moment I am comfortably seated in mid-western suburbia; the next moment I am sitting in the kitchen of Grandmother Randel's house in Tampa, Florida.

Grandmother Randel, like most Southern Belles, was a marvelous cook, and an even better cook-supervisor. A steady supply of cheese grits, collard greens and fried chicken flowed out of the kitchen under her discerning eye, but when it came to coffee ? Grandmother reigned supreme.

I remember Grandmother fussing around her electric percolator in the mornings. She never measured the ingredients ? freshly ground coffee, chicory, a pinch of salt and maybe an egg would be deftly placed within the gleaming appliance. Rich delicious coffee came out of that pot but the catch was, it wasn't for me. Friends and neighbors would come by the house to gather in the large, comfortable sitting room and sip the steaming hot coffee while they discussed the problems of the day whether of the community (this was never called 'gossip') or of the world.

Coffee was only for grown-ups; however, on special occasions, Grandmother would turn to me and say, "Leah, baby, how would you like some coffee-milk?" Coffee-milk. The nectar of the gods should be so sweet. For the price of a big smile and a nod, I would watch carefully as she lifted the chrome-covered coffee percolator and gingerly poured a small amount of its coveted contents into my mug. A small carafe of warmed milk sat on the back of the stove waiting to fill the cup to the rim....

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...t change any, but he does give me a brief nod of his head. I've seen that same movement before and recognize its hidden meaning? recognition. I am honored and pleased to have made his acquaintance.

My cup is just about empty, and I'm wondering if I can afford another. My memories and I are not ready to leave this place yet. A quick inventory of my wallet tells me that I just might be in luck. There are four one-dollar bills in there, so I shift my weight forward on the sunken sofa and push-off to rise. As I move toward the counter to get a refill the door opens and the entry fills with the noise and conversation of more customers, or perhaps I should say visitors.

The friendly barista smiles at me and his dreadlocks move lightly as he turns to hand me my latte. I can see the attraction of Lola's ? coffee, comfort and company. Now if only my budget can hold out.