Now That I Know Your Backstory, I Love You Even More

It was early on a frigid day, one in a long string of ‘em. The house was cleaned and polished; the walks and drive were shoveled. The afternoon stretched ahead, as untrammeled as new snow.

The boyos, who had been avoiding the face-freezing air for several days, were restless. They decided to pack up and drop off the recycling; then they would go out to lunch. They stomped up and down the basement stairs and gathered things together, sliding boxes and bins out onto the little back porch, bundling themselves into bulky jackets, pulling stocking caps down to cover their exposed and tender ears. They hugged and waved and slammed out the door, and the house settled in.

And, oh the quiet! I put the teakettle on to boil; I would infuse a pot of rich decaffeinated coffee. I lit the fire, and pulled my old fuzzy blanket from the TV watching chair. I gathered up my books and put two cookies on a plate, and I placed all that on the table next to my reading chair.

The teakettle whistled. I poured steaming water over freshly ground beans, swirled a wooden spoon to start the alchemy. I wrapped a towel around the French press, and I went and warmed myself in front of the fire while I waited.

Finally, I slowly, slowly, pushed down on the infusing filter, and then I poured rich, dark, fragrant coffee into my special Christmas mug. I wrapped my hands around it and I lowered myself slowly into the reading chair.

Books and quiet and a crackling fire. I lifted the cup and bent my nose to pull in the wonderful scent.

“You and me,” I whispered to the coffee as its warmth spread through my palms. “I can’t think of anything I’d rather spend this time with.”

We go back a long, long way, me and coffee. Coffee knows all about my history: how I started drinking it when I was twelve or so; how I turned to beer and cigarettes in my fast and furious college days, and coffee became the taken-for-granted reliable friend who always picked me up on the mornings after, who provided a soothing counterpoint while I puffed foolishly away.

Coffee was with me in times of midnight worry and when a baby cried in the deep of night. It prepared me for long journeys and revived me on the way.

Coffee stayed with me, even when a cold, hard doctor dropped the word, “Decaffeinated,” from his uncaring tongue.

Yes, coffee knew all about my past and my present. But, staring into its chocolate-brown depths, I realized how little I knew about coffee.

“We’ve been together 50 years now,” I murmured. “Don’t you think it’s time I learned a bit about your past?”

The brew was unforthcoming. I sipped and sighed, and I decided I’d have to do my own research. I had come to a point where I needed to know more about this old companion’s roots.

Turns out a lot of folks on the Internet were eager to spill the beans.


Long, long ago, “About Coffee” ( tells me, a goatherd named Kaldi pastured his flock on a plateau in an ancient Ethiopian forest. And he noticed, Kaldi, did, that the goats would nibble on the berries of a coffee bush, and then they would be so bouncy, so energetic, that they could not settle down to sleep.

Kaldi took this revelation to a local abbot, and the holy man brewed a drink with the beans and drank it. And, oh the joy for the abbot! Now he could stay awake during evening prayer!

He shared the brew with the other monks, who hallelujahed its praises.

The bracing story of coffee, from its simple beginnings of buzzed up goats, would percolate ‘round the world.


The Arabia peninsula, the website tells me, is where the mindful growing and trading of coffee began in the fifteenth century. It started in Yemeni; it spread to Persia, Egypt, and Syria by the sixteenth century. And everyone who tried coffee, it seems,  wanted coffee.

Coffee houses sprang up in the Middle East; they became important social enclaves where essential information was exchanged, and where dynamic discussions took place. The coffee shops were known, says “About Coffee,” as schools of the wise.

And pilgrims came to Mecca, drank coffee, went home, and spread the word about it. By the 1600’s, coffee was in Europe, and a furor was taking place. The clergy in Venice didn’t like the new coffee-drinking trend; they didn’t like it one bit. (They must not have had any trouble staying awake for evening worship.)

Venetians were not inclined to listen to their pastors on this account. A controversy brewed, and the Venetian clergy decided they’d call in the big gun, someone their flock would not dare dispute. They took the question of whether coffee was wholesome and proper to Pope Clement VIIII.

The Pope asked to have some coffee brewed.

He drank it.

He loved it.

He approved it.

The Venetian clergy were vanquished; the faithful of Venice rejoiced at the holy sanction of their java.

(This makes me think, for some reason, of that sassy papal rejoinder to obvious queries, as in…

“Do you enjoy chocolate?”

“Huh. Is the Pope Catholic?”

From now on, I’m going to replace that. When a silly question is posed, I’m going to snap back, “DUH! Does the Pope drink coffee???”) tells me that coffee shops appeared in Damascus and Constantinople and Vienna in the 1500’s. The Viennese were the first to add sweeteners to their brews.

Coffee shops appeared in England in 1652, and by 1700, according to my friends at Driftawaycoffee, there were somewhere between one thousand and eight thousand coffee shops flourishing in Britain. Coffeehouses were GOOD things, say the authors; they promoted sobriety. Water was not very potable in the days before public sanitation. To avoid the germs and illness available drinking water provided, people drank beer and ale instead. That, of course, led to its own set of problems.

Coffee’s brewing process also eliminated the unsavory ingredients in drinking water. But, instead of promoting drunkenness, it promoted thought and conversation. English coffee shops became business hubs, public houses where clearheaded commerce could take place.

But what England’s coffee houses were NOT, back in the day, was female-friendly. Women were not allowed in coffee shops unless they worked there. Their “Women’s Petition Against Coffee,” says Driftawaycoffee, was “mostly tongue-in-cheek, but does provide this lively description: ‘…the Excessive use of that Newfangled, Abominable, Heathenish Liquor called COFFEE.’”

Maybe excluding women from the coffee craze is one reason many English still prefer their tea.

On I find a section called ‘Coffee Chronicles in America.’ This notes that the Tea Act of 1773 pushed colonials to consider coffee as a serious hot beverage contender. Before the Act, Colonists mostly used coffee for medicinal purposes; it was pricey and rare.  But by 1793, coffee beans were roasting  in New York City, and the beverage had taken hold in the USA.

According to the Coffee Chronicles, a Coffee Exchange was established in New York City in 1882, and coffee quaffers were then guaranteed a certain standard of bean. The Exchange was a response to the great coffee crash of 1881, when unscrupulous sorts tried to corner the coffee market. They were unsuccessful, and we are still the beneficiaries of healthy competition among coffee-growers, insuring all tastes are amply provided for.

Satori Tato, a Japanese-American chemist, developed instant coffee in 1901, I learn from Two years later, German coffee trader Ludwig Roselius was stuck with a batch of ruined coffee beans. Roselius decided to experiment. His staff noticed that the water that soaked and ruined the beans also leached away their caffeine. They deliberately repeated the process, coming up with Sanka. The first commercially available decaf was born.

And coffee laced itself through United States life, bolstering business discussions and card parties, becoming a morning ritual for millions of folks. When Prohibition became law in 1920, United States citizens turned to coffee (in addition to their bootleg liquor) for beverage stimulation. It heartened soldiers and fortified those they left behind. It was a staple in break rooms and private kitchens.

Starbucks placed the coffee shop in the mainstream of United States society in the 1970’s; its own shops, and responses to them, proliferated.

The tells me that decaf coffee, my brew of choice, has had its challenges. It’s been embraced; it’s been rejected. A quick internet search offers a cacophony of competing decaf views. I read about health benefits and I read about the dangers of decaf. I read that decaf coffee still contains caffeine. I read about different processes, some of which are healthier than others, the writers report.

I think about the 60-point drop in my blood pressure, and I think about my ability to have a steaming cup of joe every morning, and I stop reading.


I write this on another cold morning, and as I write, I steadily drink my morning pot of medium roast decaf. And I realize there’s an awful lot to learn about my old friend, Coffee; my Internet ramble has not even scratched the surface of its depths. I remember, for instance, learning that coffee was used to treat hyperactive children in the 1970’s, before other drugs were identified; I remember reading that coffee may be one effective tool in individual arsenals that help people deal with depression.

I remember reading that agricultural coffee workers are victimized. Does coffee production harm the environment? There are sustainable, organic, free trade products I can buy. And there is much I still don’t know about my lifelong companion.

But my relationship with coffee emerges from my brisk study undamaged. We are still tight, coffee and me; we still share our mornings, our social times, our after-dinner dessert moments. I know that I’m not the only one; coffee has helped millions of people over hundreds of years enjoy and savor, and stay awake for, life. I can live with that. I can share.

Knowing coffee’s history just makes me love it more.





Willie, Without Her

Willie Heart 2In the realm of true love, there is no ‘one size fits all’…

Willie’s bare cheeks are glowing by the time he walks into the Oleander Center.

“Mr. Randolph!” says Janice, at the receptionist desk. “You shaved your beard!” There’s an older nurse working with charts behind the desk; she turns sharply and gives Janice a severe look.

Willie stops and smiles a good morning at the nurse, says to Janice, “How kind of you to notice! It’s a big change for me.”

The nurse relaxes.  “Well, it looks very nice, Mr. Randolph.”

“How’s Miranda this morning?” he asks.

She shrugs.  “Happy,” she says.

Miranda, once the queen of the sassy, biting retort, once a woman buffeted by any emotion but mildness, is always happy these days.

Willie makes his way back through the shining maze of hallways. He greets most of the staff by name; they have become friends,—some are almost like family.  Willie has been visiting the Oleander Center for two years.

“She’s in the music room, Mr. Randolph!” says a dark-haired nurse in brightly patterned scrubs.

“Thanks, Sandy,” says Willie.

Miranda is in her chair by the floor-to-ceiling picture windows.  Her wispy white hair is pulled back in a bun. She wears a  long-sleeved white t-shirt and yoga pants: dancer’s clothes.  She has not danced in many years now, but her feet reveal her vocation.  Even in the stretchy terrycloth institutional slippers, they are the broadened, overworked feet of one who taught and plied a dancer’s craft, for a living, and with passion.

A small group of residents is clustered on the other side of the room with a young aide he’s never seen before.  He waves to the group; hands flutter back at him, and the aide breaks away to come and say hello.

“Your mother is having a good morning, Mr. Randolph,” she says, cheerfully.

“Not my mother,” Willie corrects, but gently. “My wife.”

The young aide turns a deep pink.

“Well,” she says. “Assuming just made an ass of me, didn’t it?”

Willie smiles.  “An understandable mistake,” he says.

It is.  Willie is 65.  Miranda is 87.


They met when he transferred to Calamette University; he’d finished his two year degree at a commuter college in his hometown. He couldn’t wait to test out life in the dorms. It was 1967. Anything was possible, and most of the possibilities were happening on college campuses.

By the luck of a draw, Willie (who’d been plain ‘Bill’ at home–he was re-inventing himself)  had a dorm room to himself.  The pleasant roommate with whom he was intended to share space was there for about four hours, and then he and his stuff disappeared.

Gone back home, someone told him. Something about a girl.

Willie supposed a new roommate would be assigned, but, apparently, there was no pressing need for the space.  He was the sole lord of two single beds and two built in desks.

He liked it, the room to himself, but it slowed down his social entry.  And Willie was not a bluff, hail-fellow-well-met, kind of guy.  He made friends, but slowly; always, as people got to know him, Willie found himself firmly woven in to the fabric of whatever culture he was part of.

But it took time.  He was lonely that first week, listening to the thuds and thumps and bass undercurrent of the established social life in the dorm.

So he spent a lot of time with his books at the campus center cafeteria.  He refilled his coffee mug endlessly, diving into his advanced history texts.  This was the payoff, academically, for those two years of required courses: now he was in the meat of his program, in the courses he was dying to take.  His parents were pushing him to decide: was this pre-law?  Or was he planning on teaching?

Willie ignored the need to choose.  For now, he was submerged in the study of history.

The cafeteria had a huge banquette, built into a circular half wall. It rimmed the room. Small, two-seater tables flanked the banquette every three feet or so; a medley of chairs scattered around them, swelling into the traditional table arrangements.  By day three, Willie had his regular spot–on the banquette, just past the bustle of people grabbing noshes.  He was close enough to easily refill his mug, far enough away that the crash and mutter of the cafeteria was pleasant background noise for his reading.

Miranda entered his life before he’d been there a week.  One afternoon, Willie vaguely registered a tight passel of faculty marching into the cafeteria–slumming, apparently; there was a Rathskeller on campus for the graduate students and college faculty. They were debating something, though he never did find out what it was–campus politics, Viet Nam war, civil rights, women’s movement– it could easily have been any one of those, or maybe just a disagreement over whether homemade sangria was de rigeur. Whatever, a tall, regal woman, tight-fitting tank top, flowing cotton skirt, broke away from the group with a dancer’s flourish.  She swirled and turned and posed, one shoulder arc-ed toward the ceiling, her other arm, almost touching the floor, palm up toward the group.  They stared at her for a moment. Then one of the undergrads  began to clap, and that was sporadically taken up by people at a few surrounding tables.

The dancer laughed, shook herself back into lay-person’s posture, wiggled a hand in the air, and walked away from her colleagues to disappear into the food service area.

Willie went back to his book.

In a moment she towered over him, tray shading his light. He looked up, startled, from deep reading.

“You’re an anomaly, young man,” she said. “I’ve seen you here four days in a row.  There was a catfight the first day, a tray disaster the second, and a streaker on the third. You never looked up.” She put her tray down on the small table adjacent to his. “I want to know what you’re reading that’s so compelling.”

And that was how Miranda Quincey met Willie Randolph.

Their courtship was rich and textured; they circled around physical love, the difference in ages both compelling and offsetting. Their reluctance and restraint seemed, in the late sixties, downright counter-cultural. But after weeks of intense talk, which moved from the cafeteria to a local bar, and finally to Miranda’s trendy loft-style apartment, they gave in.

For Willie, who was vastly inexperienced, it was life-changing.  (He suspected that for Miranda, who was vastly experienced, the sex was more of a comfort.)


He shakes himself out of the reverie, smiles at the aide, and goes to sit with his wife. He steels himself for what he knows will come: the pleasant, vacant look of an old lady who has no idea who he is.  The dementia took its time moving in, creeping so slowly they could almost tell themselves nothing had changed from day to day.  But its spread, though slow, was inexorable.  It was like, Willie thought, a wine stain on a linen tablecloth, lazily sending fronds into new territory, the ruby stain seeping, seeping, until the tablecloth was completely compromised.  No good for its former use.  That was Miranda’s mind–the dementia seeped into all the nooks and crannies; he could picture it, dark, bubbling, almost–making her vulnerable mind completely unlike the brilliant tool it had once been.

Willie pulls a dining table chair in front of Miranda’s chair and sits; he puts out his hands to draw in each of hers.  But she surprises him.  There is a flash in her eyes, and Miranda, who has become completely non-verbal, says, with clear, great effort, “Woo.”

Willie’s tears, which seem always ready these days, well.  “Yes, baby,” he says. “It’s me. It’s Willie.”

She reaches one hand up to lightly graze his cheek.  Her eyes cloud.  “Gaw?”

“Yes,” he whispers, leaning in to catch every second of awareness. “My beard is gone. I’ve shaved.”

But in the time he took to answer, she is gone too; that tiny glimmer of Miranda is snuffed.  He realizes, Willie does, that that may be the last time he ever truly talks to her. Miranda has advanced stage four cancer.  When she still had her wits about her, she’d been very clear what she wanted should this circumstance occur.  No extra measures.  Plenty of pain alleviation.  But no chemo, no radiation.

At his last weekly meeting, the doctor confided that the disease was racing through her system, like, he said, she was encouraging it to hurry up.

Well, of course she was, thought Willie; wherever Miranda’s conscious mind existed, she did not want her body stuck in this in-between hell.

He sits with the gentle shell, the happy, vacant old lady who still smiles at taped classical music, for two hours.  Then Sandy comes to wheel her off to what lunch she can ingest and a rest in her crib-like bed. Willie stands and stretches and makes his way out.

He has an appointment, and then he’ll stop and see Victoria, their daughter. Victoria, who was born when he was 21: there are fewer years between Willie and his daughter than separate Willie and his wife.


They had had to be careful; the college had rules about faculty dating students, although of course the rules had been made for older men preying on pretty coeds.  They’d kept the secret pretty well, he thought; he told  elaborate stories to his dorm-mates about where he went on the weekends and every Wednesday night, weaving in just enough of the truth to be convincing.  It was an older woman, he told them, someone local.

“OLDER older?” asked Skip, his pot-head next-door neighbor. “Like, not like OLD older, right?’

“Old enough,” said Willie, “for the French to think she’s sexy.”

His friends sighed.  Anything French reeked of musky sex.  They admired Willie for his glamorous mystery woman. His  time apart from Miranda was spent studying; he was becoming known–unjustly, he realized; anyone could immerse himself in his books–as the resident genius.  The other guys treated him with something like awe.

That was the first year: he went home for an abbreviated Christmas break, told his parents he had a mid-mester project and returned to spend a decadent two weeks wrapped up in Miranda.

By then he realized very clearly she was not perfect. She could be waspish and stingy; she wanted, always, to be the center of attention.  Her wit was acerbic; and sometimes, it was plain mean.  She didn’t hesitate to vent it on people–salesclerks, wait staff, Willie–who didn’t meet her expectations.

Her expectations were high.

But Willie was distracted, immersed in his books; he was happy to worship her if she was happy to give him free rein for his studies.  She didn’t think he was perfect either, but she did, she said, think he was delicious.

She called him ‘BT’, for Boy Toy.

He did NOT call her his ‘old lady.’

He had a perfect 4.0 his junior year, and by summer, Miranda was pregnant. He took her home to meet his family.  They were appalled.

His sister Katie: Okay, screw her, but don’t MARRY her!

His mother: Are you NUTS?  She’s four years younger than I am.

His father offered to send him to a college on the other side of the country, a fresh start–somewhere ‘that woman’ would never find him.

Willie laughed.  He loved his college. He loved Miranda.  And while an instructor couldn’t date a student, there was no reason she couldn’t be married to one.  In fact, he said, if he was married to Miranda, he could attend school free.

It’s a hell of a way to get a free education, muttered his mother, and his sister added darkly, You know it will never last.

Five years later, as they crashed into their early fifties, Willie’s parents announced they were splitting up. Each remarried; each of the new marriages floundered, too.  Both died alone, in nursing homes.

Katie married her high school sweetheart in a fairy tale wedding.  They lasted seven years.

Willie and Miranda drove to Pennsylvania, got married in the parlor of a JP’s home, with the justice’s wife and son as witnesses. They ate their wedding supper at a McDonald’s.  Pregnant Miranda lost it on the way home.

Just as well, she said, we didn’t pay for anything fancy.

Willie got a part-time job at the local newspaper; she took a sabbatical year. They settled into the loft apartment. Willie studied and worked; Miranda exercised and bloomed.  They stayed in town and had a lovely Christmas in their nesting cocoon.

Victoria was born early in March.

From the first she was a sturdy, placid baby.  Willie expected a mini-Miranda; but Vic was not that.  She looked in fact, like his father, built sort of like a barrel.  Solid, even, dependable.

Miranda surprised him.  There was no disappointment that the baby–clearly their one and only baby–was not a dancing swan.  Miranda accepted Victoria just as she was.  No, it was more than that: she loved Victoria for whom she was, loved every second of the unfolding of her personality.  There was never any jealousy between the two women; there was no traumatic teenaged mother-daughter conflict.  Victoria always knew clearly what she wanted; in high school she told them that, while she would go to college, she wanted to do a cosmetology course at the career center instead of the traditional college prep. She did; she excelled.

She went to the local college, free: Miranda taught there just long enough for Vic to graduate. Victoria got an early childhood teaching degree, uninterested in working, like her mother did, with college students , or with the middle-schoolers her father enjoyed so much.  She got a job at a day care, married a nice guy named Charley, moved away, and wound up doing hair at a salon. Charley was killed when Vic was 32. They never had kids.  Vic moved back to town, got a job in a store that sold women’s wigs and hairpieces–their most reliable clients were drag queens–and soon moved into a manager’s position.

She had friends, a  cozy apartment; she went to church (which was more than Willie and Miranda had ever done) and taught Sunday school; she volunteered at the library.  She had a rich life, and the fact that it might not have been one that Willie and Miranda picked for her did not diminish it.

Willie, who’d started teaching right after graduation, was able to take an early retirement not too long after Miranda left the college.  They did it all–they went to Paris; they saw Broadway shows. He took her picture as she danced at the lip of the Grand Canyon. She took his picture as he peed into it. They ran a 10K together. They rode the train through the Canadian Rockies.

Willie went bald. He grew a beard.  He never tried to look more youthful.  He was never, not once, tempted to stray.

When Miranda, in her late seventies, showed clear signs of failing, Willie was glad they’d had that time, glad Victoria was near.

Inch by relentless inch, he lost his wife.


Today, he gets in the car–a little two-seater they’d bought ten years ago, so they could feel the wind in their hair in the summer–and drives twenty miles to the city, to a shop that sells toupees and hairpieces.  They have his hairpiece waiting for him. He goes in for the final fitting.

He is sitting in front of a mirror, seeing himself clean shaven and with hair on top of his head for the first time in 20 years. The toupee is not outrageous; it’s an ordinary, older middle-aged man’s haircut, peppered with gray.  It looks as if he’s grown it.  The woman who fits him is silent for a long moment. Finally she says, “It’s perfect.  You look ten years younger.”

Willie, again, begins to cry.


Later, he drives to Vic’s shop.  She is alone when he walks in; she turns to look, and then looks again, and she, too,  begins to cry. It is, thinks Willie, a day for tears.

That afternoon, they visit Miranda together, and then they go out to dinner.  He thinks about explaining to his undemanding daughter–but she doesn’t ask, doesn’t wail, “Why, Dad?” She simply says, “It’s just this, Dad: Mommy stopped, but we keep going.” They eat a comforting meal at Bob Evans; afterwards, Willie drops her off at her apartment.  He squeezes her hand and she smiles at him.

Miranda dies a few weeks later, quietly, softly, just slipping from one realm into another. They have a memorial at Vic’s church; Willie is touched and gratified by the number of mourners–current friends, former students, Katie and her son, several of Vic’s flashier clientele (Miranda would have loved that)–who come to express their sympathies.

There’s a lovely sermon; people speak.  Willie, though his legs feel leaden, gets up and shares a story he has written out about traveling with Miranda.

That, Willie tells the crowd, is the line he’s having engraved on Miranda’s tombstone: Some things just can’t be scripted.

He sits down with relief; he has never been the performer in the family.  As people exit the church, they shake his hand, hug him.  One of the nurses from the Oleander, all teared up, thanks him for the story.

Finally, it is just Willie and Vic, left to pick up a few last things in the church hall–a triptych of photos, a thick stack of cards.  They carry the stuff to Willie’s car; Vic uses her remote start to get hers going, warm it up.

They are exhausted, but wound tight. They meet at the diner and get coffee, cradling the mugs in their cold hands..

“Vic,” Willie says to his warrior daughter, “I don’t know who I am without her.”

She gazes at him, at his new look, the new shirt and pants he’d bought for the service, her loyal, hurting father suddenly morphed into an attractive, mysterious man. She knows what it means to re-invent a life, and she takes his hands in hers and squeezes.

“Daddy,” she says, though she hasn’t called him that in 42 years. “Daddy. It’s your time to find out.”