The Tapestry We Share

Each day when I awaken, my taste buds are already up, looking forward to the morning coffee. I am eclectic in my tastes, not confined to one or two brands. So part of the fun is deciding what the flavor of the day will be.

Coffee brewing was always a point of conversation with my former son-in-law. We would go back and forth between how much or how little should be used to brew the perfect pot; whether or not the coffee should be kept in the freezer, the refrigerator, or on the counter in a sealed canister; and should it be black, sweetened, or white. Admittedly, I was an "under-scooper," using less than I should. Because of those many years of bantering, each morning as I brew the perfect pot and season it just for me, I think of the part he played in that moment in time.

Sometimes in the late evening, a flavored hot tea sounds just perfect and although I don't keep many selections in the house, I still have some wonderfully soothing choices.

Tea brewing went on around the clock in my childhood home, not for my mother, but for my father. He never took to coffee, but he loved his iced tea and a one quart Pyrex pitcher was always on the counter with steaming water and multiple tea bags to make a tea concentrate.

My father came by his love of tea honestly. My grandmother always had a cup of hot tea at her elbow no matter what she was doing. When she came to visit on weekends, I ran to be the one to brew the tea for her. Why do I think of her in particular when it comes to tea? Not because of the tea flavors or the addiction, but because her kitchen had a thin clothesline strung over the sink and it always had tea bags hung up to dry. So too did our house. One use was wasteful, my grandmother would warn, and I am certain long before I came along, my mother had been properly indoctrinated. I stop each time I brew a cup, smile for a moment, and set the bag aside for the refill.

I have always hated splinters because I seemed to be a prime target and "splinter magnet" as a child. I spent as many months of the year barefoot as possible and paid the price.

If I had to have a splinter, it was best to have it when my grandmother was near. She'd take a good look at it, use tweezers if it seemed it might be fruitful, but more often than not, she would disappear into the house and return with a bottle of iodine and a roll of vinyl "easy tape," better known as adhesive tape. She'd pull a short strip and press it firmly over the splinter.

"Leave it there for a few days," she'd admonish, "and when you pull it off, yank it fast and hard." The solution always worked - the wooden splinter was stuck to the tape having been drawn out by the adhesive. Whenever I have a splinter now, out comes the tape.

The threads that tie us to the past, to people in our lives, and just to life itself, are woven almost imperceptibly. When we catch ourselves repeating a truism as we know it, or performing an action that brings a moment of recognition, or saying a phrase we know we've heard before, we clearly acknowledge what connects us all.

My mother would say "oh gad" when something amazed her. My grandmother would welcome me into her home with a hug and "wie geht's," a German greeting. "Jeez oh peetz" was a familiar exclamation and I have been known to emphasize different words in that phrase to deliver maximum impact.

Plastic bags were washed and hung to dry for reuse, role modeled by family recyclers. I serve myself a dish of cottage cheese and without conscious thought, drop a dollop of apple butter in the center as my great aunts did. When pomegranates are in season, I buy one and sit it on the counter - because that was tradition in my childhood home. Often, the fruit dries and is never eaten. I always smile when I make that yearly purchase.


I am going to be thinking about this over the next few days, probing my memory for those links to others which are the tapestry of life. I invite you to share some of yours in the comments, perhaps as a "hat's off" and a bow to similar influences. I'd enjoy hearing your stories.