Aunt Jimmie bought the incredibly ugly ceramic dog in 2007 as a gift for the annual Conwill Christmas gathering. Cousins, aunts, and uncles have been getting together each December for longer than most of us can remember, with the Dirty Santa gift exchange a highlight of the day. I’m not particularly fond of the game’s name, and the more I think about it the less certain I am of the actual appropriateness of the very un-Christmas-like behavior the gift exchange encourages, but it’s a tradition, so by golly it’s going to be played every single year, come hell or high water. If you can’t play the game, or you can’t take a joke, then you’d best not come.

Everybody who participates brings a wrapped gift to place under the Christmas tree, with no tag and no indication of what is inside the box or bag. Most of the gifts are actually things that one might want, although my dad once eagerly unwrapped a set of bright green Grinch boxer shorts that he probably wasn’t nearly as excited about as he let on. He has an excellent poker face. Inevitably a guy will hilariously unwrap a set of fuzzy pink house shoes, while his female cousin might get stuck with a super cool flashlight or set of wrenches. Gifts are selected according to numbers drawn, with each player either taking a wrapped gift or “stealing” an unwrapped item that he or she fancies. I’m pretty sure the art of stealing is not in the Christmas story but it’s definitely in ours.

The whole game is one big strategy, with kids stealing for their parents, who agree to then steal something for the kids when their turn comes around. I know for a fact that family loyalty and caring is woven throughout the Christmas story so we’re not far off the mark there if you just don’t count the whole stealing thing. My branch of the family tree has its own sub-strategy, to bring gifts that each of us would really like to have. We wrap them in an easily recognizable print and then angle for those gifts. That way, you get what you really want even if you do gift it to yourself. But that works only if someone with a higher number doesn’t appreciate the item as much as you do, which happens more often than not. And we’re not afraid to hurt feelings.

As the family is in a bit of a lull right now with no one under the age of 18, the whole stealing thing seems to work out for us, good sports that we are. There was a time, though, when the young ones chose from their own stack of gifts to unwrap or take away from someone else. Family cheer was severely tested more than a few times by a sulled-up face or all-out tantrum. Those were some trying years that we finally outgrew. And I miss them.

At any rate, Conwill the dog made his appearance under the family Christmas tree more than a few years ago. Aunt Jimmie thought the dog was cute. She must have been a bit squinty eyed on the day of that purchase, as I’d describe Conwill the dog in a lot of ways, with none of them including the word “cute.” That is, unless you perversely count something so ugly that it’s pretty. He’s a very generic, blasé, mottled sort of forgettable tan color with bloodshot bug eyes and a somewhat angry face that suggests he’s been on an all-night bender at the Top Dog Bar and Grill, with a hangover to prove it.

So the year he debuted, we weren’t sure whether he was a gag gift or not. The fact of the matter was that no one knew what to make of him. Was he a tabletop figurine? Was he a toy? Then someone–I wish I could remember who—suggested that he serve as a sort of perpetual trophy or a prize egg that had to be returned under the tree each Christmas. Whoever opened Conwill was the winner for the year. And whoever that was had to sign his foot or chest or any available area, dating the signature as well. That way, he would become sort of a family historian, documenting his travels through our various homes and reminding new recipients of those who had come before them. His paws, underbelly, and tail are now filled with our invaluable scribbling of names and years. Uncle Wayne took him home in 2009, with Angie following up the next year. Ashley, Naveed, Johannah, and Bob have recorded their time spent with Conwill. Even Aunt Jimmie got to sign a paw once. Drake angled for him each Christmas, scoring 2008, 2012, and 2013. We finally had to disqualify Drake just for hogging him, as enough was enough. He became quite the popular gift, popping up in oversized bags or disguised as other more desirable items. He was, and is, the star of the show now.

Which is why this past year was so disconcerting for me. He is not only a very valuable family record, but he is incredibly breakable and a huge responsibility for whoever takes him home. In fact, each year he only becomes more priceless as the signatures and family history mount up. That’s not something I should be trusted with. And yet, I agreed to foster him for the year, as Angie didn’t want to risk taking home her prize when she would just have to return him to the same location for the next gathering at the same place. No point in transporting him needlessly, which made all sorts of sense at the time. So I put him on a far back shelf, out of view and out of range of danger, and promptly forgot the entire exchange.

Months of this strained COVID-19 year then passed, with nary a thought of Conwill, until Aunt Jimmie became concerned about his whereabouts. And when Aunt Jimmie becomes concerned, we all get very responsive. Early in December, an anxious group text among the cousins revealed that we had no idea where Conwill was. I was probably the most vocal in denying any involvement. Anyway, we weren’t getting together for Christmas during this ultra-weird year, so we had time. But Aunt Jimmie was losing sleep over it, which wouldn’t do at all.

Fingers began to point in my direction even as I continued my vehement denial. Dixie searched her closets after I suggested that one of her boys had surely claimed Conwill the previous year. Dee Dee worried, as Dee Dee does, but had no idea where to begin to look. Anyway, Drake had been disqualified so she was certain he hadn’t been the culprit. Others were too busy or just too certain of my guilt to even attempt a search.

And they were right. A brief search that I was sure would end otherwise, actually unearthed Conwill, to my dismay. His year on the shelf had done nothing to improve his attitude, as he looked just as out of sorts as always. Elf on the Shelf is one thing, but I’d never suggest scarring children with Conwill on the Shelf. And I’m stuck with his safekeeping for at least one more year. Yay.

Several years ago, when his body began to run out of space for signatures, Dee Dee creatively attached a large bone-shaped collar tag with the dog’s name on the front and space for signatures on the back. Bob, ever the family historian, made me promise to have my dad, who is now the family patriarch, sign the “collar bone” this year. Dutifully presenting both Conwill and a Sharpie, I asked Daddy to sign his name. “Both my first and last name?”, he asked. “Sure. Why not?” I responded.

So he did, John Hancock-wise, across the entire width of the bone. “Lawrence Conwill, 2020.” For all that the year represents to us, for all that we denounce or grieve or regret, that one signature from a 92-year-old family blessing is a reminder of what really matters. It’s family and love and connection and shared experiences that one shaky year shouldn’t be allowed to overshadow.

Conwill still has a bad attitude, but each year, with each new signature, he gets a bit more attractive. I’m actually sort of pleased to co-exist with him one more year. I might even find a corner to add my name, because why not? This year definitely deserves a double dose of family.

My daughters call it the Mom coat. It’s an L.L. Bean design that is so well made it will probably last forever. I may even leave it to one of them in my will. Most likely, that would be our youngest as she is the one most in awe of it, although she hides that fact well.

It’s a dull red, sort of oversized down-stuffed contraption, with four large Velcro patch pockets on the front, along with a slit pocket on each side. A sad little detachable hood dangles off the back so that I don’t even need an umbrella on rainy days, bringing to mind a very cheerful Grim Reaper’s mom when I choose to pull it up. For items that shouldn’t get away from me, like a debit card or a grocery list, those front Velcro pockets are a must. This morning, as I stepped outside to feed the four dogs currently in residence, I slipped my hands in the side pockets only to find a can of cat food in one and a lawn-sized garbage bag in the other. And there was still plenty of room for my gloved hands. I have no idea how or why those items got in the pockets, but if I’m ever in need of either, I’ll know where to look. That is, until they’re replaced by some other easily forgotten necessity.

Metal riveted snaps, strong enough to secure the ropes of a parachute in flight, adorn the front, along with a thick heavy-duty zipper in case I want to zip instead of snap. Or I could do both if I feel like it. L.L. Bean knows coats.

I’m not really sure when I came into possession of it, but from early photos, I know I’ve had it since our girls were very small. At that time, the pockets served as containers for just about anything of value to any of us. It was perfect, as nothing could escape the Velcro pocket closures and all our treasures were close at hand. Those pockets have held seashells collected on winter beach trips, zip-loc snack bags, dog collars, paintbrushes, loose change, and leftover Halloween candy. If pressed, I could probably fit a hot air balloon in just one of them.

And to top it all off, I could easily be spotted in a crowd, red Mom beacon that I was. I’m thinking the security of having an easily locatable mother to whom you could toss just about anything for secure storage more than made up for the fashion faux pas of it all. We could even pack a lunch in there if needed. Before it morphed into a travesty, it was quite the source of security for the family. But years and experience tend to lessen the immediate necessity of both moms and red coats, at least temporarily, which is why my beloved coat collected a bit of dust in a closet filled with more fashionable and acceptable alternatives for a while. They were the more muted choices with inconspicuous pockets and very little utility. But at least they weren’t embarrassing.

And yet, to the dismay of all involved except me, the red coat never made the final trip to the Salvation Army bin. I just knew the time would come when it would be needed, which is why I recently retrieved it from obscurity. Some items I could easily part with, some I’ve even taken to dry cleaning and forgotten for a year or two, but the Mom coat is irreplaceable.

I don’t keep everything, nor am I necessarily a follower. After a season of Mom jeans, I swore off that trend, and I never fell prey to the requirement that all moms have to drive a minivan while the kids are in grade school. I came close, with a sporty little SUV, but I could still apologetically offer space to only one additional child when a field trip came up, significantly lessening my popularity as a class transport.

And now, since the Mom coat has made its second debut, it has become the farm coat. The yard coat. The dog coat. The grocery store coat. Its sturdy construction and oversized bulk let just the right amount of air in under the hem to build heat that could probably bake a meal. It is very much the outerwear equivalent of comfort food. Except for the bothersome fashion thing, it’s quite the bomb.

Before it became so fashion-challenged, it traveled with us everywhere. It’s in early photos of rainy days spent in Gatlinburg doing a bit of Christmas shopping and marveling at the horseshoe crabs at the Ripley’s Aquarium. It kept me warm while we shoved a four-year-old and her younger sister down a snowy slope on a kitchen baking sheet and a makeshift metal sled. It’s evident in photo ops featuring a background of the frigid Grand Tetons and others fronting the deserted Alabama Gulf beach in January. It was, and is, a real trooper.

And it’s even made in China, which is just weird. Nothing made in China should last this long. It must be the care I’ve given it.

This past Christmas season, I saw a coat almost identical to mine, being modeled by a most-likely homeless woman on River Street in Savannah. She might have been very needy, or perhaps she was just a hustler, but her coat is what caught my eye. We almost passed by her before my conscience and peripheral vision got the better of me. She was sitting on a low set of concrete steps just off the walkway, flanked by a couple of gray cats who appeared to be hers. She held some sort of cardboard sign with print that was impossible to read at more than a few feet away, but that really didn’t matter. It was the cats and the coat that got me. I would never miss the few bills I was about to give her. Even if it was a gimmick. Even if she really didn’t intend to feed herself or her cats with my money, what mattered is what I did, not what she might choose to do with my good intentions.

“Take care of yourself and those cats, too,” I said as I handed her the cash.

“Oh, they take pretty good care of me,” she replied with a grin that was missing more than a few teeth. “I keep ‘em  fed, and they keep me sober.”

She managed a chuckle before stuffing the cash into one of those massive Velcro pockets and turning her attention to others who might also contribute to her maybe worthwhile cause. Regardless of economic standing, we were sisters in coats.

So now I’m cleaning up the Mom coat. That’s because I’m so excited to learn that it’s about to be the rage. A true original. A 1960 VW in a world of VW-wannabes. Amazon has recognized its style and devoted an entire Instagram page to trendy wearers of the Mom fashion. Simply called The Amazon Coat, Oprah is even endorsing it. And that’s as good as it gets.

It’s available in four new metallic shades and is apparently the reason Amazon will earn fashion cred in the upcoming year. Photographed on happy young “weekend warriors,” the coat can be found everywhere from Lake Louise to the Brooklyn Bridge. Several generations of the same family are shown happily shopping and strolling and stuffing treasures into those massive Velcro pockets.

“Power momming at its best.”

“Into the woods.”

“Comin’ in hot.”

Who knew? Actually, I think I did. That’s because I’m apparently a power mom who’s comin’ in hot. But no one has a coat with as much scuffed, stained, timeworn character and elegance as mine. Well, maybe the homeless hustler on River Street does. But this is MY coat. And finally, the world, and Amazon, agrees with me. I KNEW it.

In past years, Northwood United Methodist church has always recognized its veterans on the Sunday before Veteran’s Day. On those days, Daddy always dressed in his best gray suit with a maroon speckled tie and a shiny American flag pinned to his lapel. All of the veterans, a noticeably smaller lot each year, gathered in the vestibule at the head of the stairs just outside the sanctuary and waited for their song to usher them in. Anchors Aweigh, the Marines’ Hymn, and the Army’s field artillery tune each accompanied the march of veterans of WWII, Korea, and Vietnam. Joining them were some who had served in the Air Force, stateside, or in more recent conflicts.

From the Halls of Montezuma

To the shores of Tripoli…

Even now, the ceremony continues each year as the veterans walk down the church’s center aisle, two by two, to seats reserved for them that are marked with red, white, and blue ribbon. Their numbers are never great, but the reverence sure is. Everybody dutifully stands and claps until the procession is complete, which seems a bit hollow given the sacrifices they each made, but it’s the best we can do and beats nothing, I suppose.

Mr. Gene Pickard, who was my 8^th grade Sunday School teacher, had served in WWII and was my dad’s best friend at church. They each answered the call when it came, Mr. Pickard in Europe when Hitler was acting up, while Daddy helped stem the tide of communism a bit later in Korea. As the years progressed, so did Mr. Pickard’s dementia, so my dad would always choose to be his Veteran’s Day buddy. They walked the aisle together, Daddy steadying Mr. Pickard and making sure he got where he needed to be, with the dignity he deserved.

At least one Air Force veteran, the same Lt. Col. who piloted the SR-71 Blackbird in a coast-to-coast air speed record, usually makes the walk down the aisle alongside a WWII bomber pilot, preceded by an Army private who almost froze to death in Korea. The service of each, with or without national notoriety, is honored in that little church each year. The ladies make sure they receive a token of remembrance and then life goes on as usual.

Each Memorial Day, many years ago, a similar group of veterans donned their best and marched in remembrance of another cause. My grandmother once described for me in detail the annual event she attended as a child in Mississippi, watching the lineup and camaraderie of aging Confederate veterans for which the day was set aside. Wearing whatever remnants of a uniform each man possessed, or his Sunday best if he had no uniform left, the meager procession wound along the walk at Bay Springs in Tishomingo County and then enjoyed a dinner on the ground with family. The long-lost cause was no doubt still fresh and fragile in the minds of those hardscrabble hill farmers for which home and family and state had been worth fighting for so many years ago. At the time of their service, most could barely afford to feed themselves, much less own another human being, but they had dutifully defended those they loved, albeit in the context of their times. And each year they were honored by those they loved, no doubt mourning the many they had lost, just as we continue to do today. Far be it from us to judge their sacrifice or intentions. They loved and they lost and they believed, which we really do in every war, regardless of who wins on the scoreboard.

For most of us, respectfully recognizing the service shown a country or cause is just at our core. Even now, when my dad wears his cap with the U.S. Army insignia on front, he often gets a free coffee in the McDonald’s drive-thru line. Occasionally, someone who recognizes the emblem opens a door for him or maybe even buys his lunch. Once, it was an entire Cracker Barrel meal. We just feel obligated to do something—anything—that shows appreciation. We’re desperate to return a favor that can never be repaid, but still we try. I hope we always will.

I don’t think the tide of WWII had given much indication of turning in our favor when my father-in-law posed for the grainy black-and-white photo we found recently. In it, he leans on the hood of an Army truck, appearing at ease and unconcerned. His combat boots are loosely tied and his cap sits atop his head at a slight tilt. One of his uniform pant legs is partially tucked in a boot. He looks every bit the slightly cocky young man that he probably was, long before I knew him. It’s impossible to know precisely when or where the photo was taken, but there is no mistaking the soldier. If for no other reason, I’d recognize the tilt of that cap so many years later, when the Army insignia had long been replaced by that of the Morgan Farmers Co-op.

He never asked to join the Army and he certainly never made it a lifestyle, but for a few interminable years he toughed it out, probably never really expecting to come home. His assignment to Patton’s 2^nd Armored Division ensured an unobstructed view of goings on in the theater of WWII, including a tour of North Africa, Sicily, Omaha Beach, France, Belgium, and finally a march into Berlin for the final liberation. His unit constructed river crossings and transported heavy equipment to the front. He was a farm boy, accustomed to driving tractors and pulling trailers and working with the land, so I guess he was well positioned for his skill set. No doubt, he was competent.

In the short time I knew him, I asked him only once to tell me something about those years, and all he said was that he vividly recalled watching trailers being lined up and stacked several layers high with bodies of soldiers, “like so much cordwood.” They were mostly just boys who had been hoping to return home to families, preferably breathing.

We found my father-in-law’s old uniform in a closet, a bit moth-eaten, but still sporting the easily recognizable Hell on Wheels shoulder patch worn by those in Patton’s army. Other patches and shoulder cords identify his rank and regiment as a member of the U.S. Army Infantry in WWII, as well as his participation in the D Day invasion.

We brought it home to share closet space with my grandfather’s more nondescript WWI uniform that he wore as a member of the 605^th Army Engineers, also assigned bridge building duty in Europe, but during an earlier conflict—the one called the “Great War.” That one wasn’t numbered at first because it was to be the war to end all wars. We were pretty optimistic as a country there for a while, or maybe just incredibly naïve. Nobody expected Europe to be a revolving door.

The postcard of the Statue of Liberty that he sent the home folks after his discharge from the Army in 1919 simply read, “That old gal will have to turn around if she sees me again because I’m coming home.” Lady Liberty apparently doesn’t face Mississippi, as she never again caught sight of him.

In the same dog-eared candy box where I found the postcard and other war memorabilia, is a yellowed letter carrying the American Expeditionary Forces letterhead and dated February 28, 1919. It is signed John J. Pershing, Commander in Chief. Copied for every service member, the letter conveys his gratitude for their “splendid service to the army and to the nation.”

He continued, “By willing sacrifice of personal rights; by cheerful endurance of hardship and privation; by vigor, strength, and indomitable will…you have inspired the war-worn Allies with new life and turned the tide of threatened defeat into overwhelming victory…In leaving the scene of your victories, may I ask that you carry home your high ideals and continue to live as you have served–an honor to the principles for which you have fought and to the fallen comrades you leave behind.”

Not many of us could say it any better than that, but I’m betting a simple heartfelt “thank you” to a veteran of choice would suffice. It’s not nearly enough, but it’s a start.

The sun came up this morning in brilliant fashion, showcasing the azure blue sky and the golds and browns of this fall season. It wasn’t supposed to be that way for some of us on this of all days, after a very contentious election. About half of us were supposed to be sad-hearted losers, which will likely happen in a few days or weeks. It has to. Well actually, it doesn’t. It could be that recounts and court battles take up much of this season or maybe even the entire next presidential term. In fact, I really don’t see the problem with some sort of interim presidency. Maybe a joint assignment where a Democrat and a Republican share the White House until they die or come out friends. It really wouldn’t matter. Just whichever comes first. That way, the recount really could take up much of the next presidential term, giving us time to reconsider before doing this thing again in four years.

But today, even for those of us who will eventually find that our votes just weren’t enough, the sun came up this morning and the world kept turning. I’d suggest that even today, we’re all winners who belong to a country that also makes it possible to lose. And yet, the expectation is that we lose gracefully if that’s the way it has to be. It’s that graceful part that worries me.

As serious as the outcome of this race may seem to some, the good news is that presidents aren’t in place for life and we’ll have the chance to think it through and, I suppose, yell louder next time. That seems to be what we do best. No one leader has totally wrecked the country yet, and I suspect this next one won’t either, whoever he turns out to be.

Actually, I’m thinking that today would be an excellent day to take a hike. Literally, not figuratively. I’m just tired of thinking. I’d choose a solitary trail I know of, winding through a shaded wood carpeted with brittle oak leaves, ending up beside a rushing creek that empties out to the river. That’s really all I want to hear today. Nothing else. No commentary and no speculation on voter fraud and no dire predictions of doom. Nobody calling names. Nobody calling foul. No in-depth analysis. I just don’t need that today or any day. It’s done. And the sun actually did come up, as it will each day as long as the world exists.

And seriously, even if my favorite candidate, and I use that term very loosely, turns out not to be the winner, I know that God remains in charge and works through leaders with all sorts of fallacies and foibles and not so great abilities. That being the case, either incredibly flawed candidate stands a chance of being successful. What I want the most is peace for us all and wisdom for whoever is the last man standing. That’s my prayer.

I’m obviously not a politician or newscaster. I’m also not a spiritual leader and most definitely not a social worker. I don’t have the cunning or the patience for any of that. It’s not that I don’t care and most days I do keep my head a bit out of the sand. It’s actually that I care very much; I just try to remember when to let it go and how to keep things in perspective. Mostly I choose to be kind. It’s the way most of us were raised, even if we’ve forgotten that somewhere along the way.

Disagreeing is one thing. Spewing hatred is another. That’s just plain scary and uncivilized and totally unacceptable. A close cousin to hatred is intolerance, which apparently shares the same living quarters. In response to a recent post intended to bridge a gap between those on opposite sides of an issue, a commenter wrote, “The hate, misinformation, and selfishness is not equal on both sides. One side is functioning adults dealing with harsh reality and the other is made up of entitled racists who value their own convenience and opinion over the lives of others and the opinion of experts.” I sure do wish she’d let us all know how she really felt and how to achieve the same level of tolerance.

What worries me the most about this election—the reason I need to take a mental break—is the level of vitriol and fear throughout. Grace, dignity, and even kindness didn’t have a seat at the table this year. And yet, I take a bit of consolation in the fact that almost every election in the history of this country has been a bit, or a lot, contentious. Nobody could have been any more bitter or mudslinging than Thomas Jefferson and John Adams, and that was early in our life. This is the same Thomas Jefferson who enjoys a serene view of Washington D.C. from a dignified marble memorial. We forget that each and every one of our leaders had faults. Abraham Lincoln’s election split the country in two, causing him a bit of trouble in knitting it back together. He’s right there within spitting distance of Thomas Jefferson. Neither one is a saint and neither one is a villain. The same could be said for all of us, as well as for each one of those jockeying to be in charge today. Let’s just face that fact and maybe lower our expectations. Lightening up on the blame wouldn’t hurt either.

Protests for racial equality, wars, assassinations, bitter Supreme Court decisions, disenfranchised citizens, undocumented immigrants, economic woes, pandemics, fear. The list is long. There’s nothing new under the sun, except maybe the ways we choose to react. That’s what I think about a lot when I’m not out hiking. It’s the ways we choose to respond, which is really up to every single one of us individually.

What I know is that at the end of the day, all I really have control over is myself. I can choose to be bitter and hate-filled and fearful, or I can listen to better angels and choose the battles worth fighting and step out in faith. Most importantly, I get to choose the way those battles will be fought. I really hope I can always choose respect and kindness. Definitely not fear and hatred, for that’s a wicked combination.

I may not know it all—in fact, I’m certain of that. But I do know that the sun will come out tomorrow.

You can bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow there’ll be sun.

Jenny Johnston carried a cane with seven notches, one for each of the murderers she and her sons tracked down and killed in a spree of vengeance. Jenny and her family eked out a living deep in the forested hills and hollers of North Alabama until the Civil War disrupted the peace, forcing neighbors to take sides and disputes to flair. And that was the problem. She and her husband were considered Union sympathizers. Word was they had even sheltered Confederate deserters and it was for certain that her able-bodied husband and oldest son had refused to join the ranks in support of the Glorious Cause. And that was unforgivable. It was just something that couldn’t be tolerated.

So one dark night in 1864, eight members of the Home Guard paid Jenny’s family a visit, intending to make an example of them. Dragging her husband outside, they slung a noose over his neck and prepared to hang him, first gunning down one of Jenny’s sons who got in the way. She and her remaining family were left to pick up the pieces, minus a husband and son, and stew on how best to seek vengeance. That’s exactly what the determined young widow did, making a blood pact with her remaining sons to hunt down each of the eight murderers, no matter how long it took and no matter the cost. Over the next few decades, they did just that, at the expense of every one of her sons’ lives. With each payback, she notched her cane, making seven fresh scores down the staff. By the time that was done, she was a lonely old widow, still pursuing the eighth murderer. She had room for one more notch and she would never give up. She even kept the skull of one of the hunted Confederates on a table for the rest of her life, using it as a soap dish and a reminder of the evil she swore to eliminate. And yet she died with one transgressor still out there somewhere.

Most of those who knew her feared her. I’m sure I would have. Some swore she was as mean as a snake, while others declared she was a fine Christian lady. Whatever she was, she knew how to keep a promise. For most of her 98 years, she was known simply as “Aunt Jenny.” No doubt, a very respected Aunt Jenny who was given a wide berth and no talkback.

At least that’s the way the story goes. They also say that if you visit Aunt Jenny’s deserted homeplace after dark, she’ll come to life in an eerie green glow, shrieking at you to leave her be or she’ll kill you, too. She’s a bit testy because she has one life left to take and she’s a woman of her word. Until that happens, she can’t rest. So she’s in perpetual limbo deep in the gloom of the encroaching forest, occasionally hanging out in the remote cove where she’s buried along with several nameless souls.

Hers is a classic story of murder, intrigue, and passion, best shivered to on a hayride through the inky blackness of a forest alive with silence and solitude. And maybe a few stumbling wild hogs, stealthy panthers, and a Sasquatch or two. The night sky was barely illuminated by a half moon slipping in and out of the cloud-filled night we had chosen for the pilgrimage to her grave—perfect for the gloomy spook-infested evening we had in mind. Aunt Jenny is the reason we piled up amid those hay bales in the back of the lawnmower trailer hooked to the 4-wheel drive, venturing into the wooded abyss. Well, actually the group of friends amongst the hay, enjoying the fresh air and scenery, didn’t include me. I chose, instead, to help navigate from the safety of the truck cab. I was necessary there. I was also the designated survivor, according to our youngest daughter, who was safely ensconced several states away in sunny Oklahoma, but still calling the shots.

In my lifetime, I’ve been in only two places where cell phone reception is nonexistent. One is Wyoming and the other is Aunt Jenny’s Bankhead forest. There appeared to be only one way in, which called into question plans for the return trip out. Just the way Jenny would like it. We had flashlights, though, and a full tank of gas, and a knowledgeable guide who had grown up in and around the forest. Nobody there but just us and the occasional coon hunter. Or at least I hope the pickup truck parked alongside the gravel road with the box in the back belonged to a coon hunter. I choose to believe that.

I’d like to say the forest was eerily silent, but that would be a lie. The contagious belly laughs and wobbly flashlight beams cascading from the hay pile on the trailer behind the truck would have awakened the dead. So I’m guessing Aunt Jenny was well aware of our approach, especially as the fearless, or at least flashlight-armed, group of ghost hunters trekked the few yards to the clearing at Poplar Creek Cemetery. And there she was. Or at least there’s where her marker says she was. “Aunt Jenny” Elizabeth Margaret Jane Bates Brooks Johnston. Weathered pink plastic roses adorned her well-marked stone, while most of the other dozen or so gravesites sported plain knee-high rock slabs, arranged willy-nilly and at all sorts of odd angles, appearing to have just sprouted from hastily-scattered graveyard seed. Almost none of them were etched with anything, or if they had been at some point, weather and time had worn away all record of their existence. It occurred to me that if our small crowd were actually spooked into a stampede, those rock slabs were at just the right height and spaced at just the right distance to take out every single one of us at the shins. Flailing around in a deserted—at least by the living—forgotten burial ground for those with no name was not on the agenda but suddenly entirely possible in the murky stillness of that night.

As we stood beside Aunt Jenny’s grave, someone suggested turning off the flashlights and just staying quiet for a minute. I’ve never known silence to be so palpable as it was in that graveyard of nothingness. You could reach right out and touch it. No engine sounds, no hum of transformers, no barking dogs or chirping crickets. Just total stillness of life amid intense blanketing blackness, as it really should be in a final resting place. And it was unnerving. Not exactly spooky, but well on the way.

In its ageless simplicity, time has stopped at the Poplar Creek Cemetery, with no real reason for change to occur. It’s just a tiny clearing in a remote wilderness that was and is and will be pretty much the same, I dare say, in another hundred years. In fact, I’m betting that if Aunt Jenny does haunt the hills, she finds her way around pretty easily.

For about three hours, time stopped for us, too. And that was perfectly OK. For one Sunday night in October, all that mattered was friendship, fun, and caramel corn. Jenny didn’t join us and that was perfectly OK, too. Because in truth, she’s not really the reason for the hayride.

But she’s welcome anytime.

I’ve had the recipe book open several times this past week, trying to work up the courage to actually bake the bread. To my chagrin, I found that I had all the ingredients on hand, so not even a grocery run was necessary. How convenient is that? I love to bake biscuits; I can do that with my eyes closed and they usually turn out pretty well. But yeast bread is another story. It’s not foolproof and too much can go wrong. Still, as I sorted out and measured, I was hopeful, as you just have to be when working with yeast. Life is short. Take chances.

The bread in question is focaccia bread, something that is readily available at Panera, which is probably what I should have considered before beginning this process. It looks like a really large pancake of crusty bread, sprinkled with rosemary and sea salt. It also looks like something that should accompany a sparkling glass of Riesling and artisan cheese, arranged on a tablecloth-covered table under a leafy arbor in an Italian vineyard. So I was duly intimidated, no matter how simple the recipe promised to be.

Any type of yeast bread scares me. My success rate is about 65%, but I’m far more aware of the failures than I am of the successes. I recently baked a very nice loaf of sandwich bread, though, so my confidence level was a bit better than usual. You just can’t begin a recipe that calls for yeast and hand kneading without a healthy dose of hope. No matter the track record, this time could be different.

I started early, shortly after sunup, mixing the yeast and warm water. I’ve found that If you begin a bread recipe early, you have a whole lot more confidence. Nothing in the day has gone wrong yet, so optimism is high. Surely starting at sort of first light would help. I followed directions to a T, timing all with a kitchen timer and adjusting oven temperature correctly, and even covering the dough with a fresh tea towel. I left nothing to chance.

And I hoped. Without hope, there’s really no need to try. I didn’t even open the oven door during the rising time for fear of deflating both the dough and my confidence level. It’s a bit like Christmas for a kid in that you know, or at least you hope, you’ll get what you want but you’re just never certain until that fateful moment when all is revealed.

Which happened about two hours later when I gingerly removed the tea towel.

I suppose the opposite of hope is disappointment. If you want something badly enough, it’s going to be one or the other. Absolutely. Hope is confident expectation while disappointment is the failure to meet a hope. Sort of the glass half full or half empty thing, except that there’s not much middle ground. An optimist hopes. A pessimist expects disappointment.

“You hoped me up.” That’s what my potential father-in-law whispered to me from his hospital bed several decades ago. There are moments in life that you remember forever, picturing the setting completely no matter how much time has passed, as if the details were preserved in a book to which you can return any time you like. That late afternoon at the UAB hospital, with the Birmingham skyscape visible through the single window of his hospital room, was one of those imprints.

He had been admitted for treatment of late stage bone cancer and there was little reason to expect that he would ever leave the hospital. Still, I stood beside his bed and encouraged him, telling him things even I didn’t believe. Like that he’d be home soon and that I was looking forward to his prize-winning—at least in my estimation—strawberries that next spring. Having not been privy to the dire prediction of his doctor, I could be much more optimistic than the situation warranted. In my 26-year-old mind, I’m sure I thought that maybe putting a timetable on his recovery would encourage him to make it til then. Mind over matter, you know. He nodded slightly, held my hand, and told me I had “hoped him up.” I‘m pretty sure he didn’t believe it in the least, but on that day he humored me by letting me think I had helped. Or maybe he actually felt a glimmer of hope just by hearing the words. Who knows.

“Hope springs eternal.”

“Hope is the last thing ever lost.” That one is an Italian proverb, probably formulated over a perfect loaf of focaccia bread in the vineyard.

The bottom line is that hope is powerful. Much more so than disappointment. If things don’t work out, you just make a plan and try it another way, until all is definitely lost and then there’s acceptance. But I really don’t like to go there too often, which is why making bread is such a gamble. I really hate accepting failure and that’s a very real possibility in bread making. Disappointment is just not fun. Winning is.

Whoever wrote Looney Tunes cartoons knew a lot about hope, and even more about persistence. Tom never wins but he’s ever hopeful. No matter how many times Jerry outsmarts him, no matter how many times he’s blown up or ripped to shreds or launched sky high, he’s always back for another day, devising another plan. And that Wile E Coyote guy REALLY never gives up on having a Road Runner snack. Dynamite is usually involved but it just never goes his way. Or maybe it does. But he just climbs out of the canyon, dusts himself off, thinks a bit harder, and calls Acme for some more dynamite. And he hopes for a different outcome next time.

Hope is not knowing but expecting. Maybe not with full confidence, but more than a little. That’s what I told myself as I peered into the mixing bowl to check on how high the bread had risen. This time—this time it would be perfect. I was prepared to accept defeat; the day was young. Yet there it was. High and puffy and completely filling the bowl, almost to overflowing. This was my day.

I doubt I’ll be on the British Baking Show any time soon, but I’m feeling pretty confident with that killer loaf of focaccia bread. Even Paul Hollywood would be impressed. Now if I only had a husband who appreciated it as much as I do. Instead, I’m sure he’ll admire it momentarily and then ask if I have ingredients for cornbread.

Well I certainly hope so.

I’m usually a sound sleeper, hardly ever waking up too early. But last night, I woke up and couldn’t go back to sleep. I couldn’t sleep because my right hand, between the index finger and the next, was awash with poison ivy symptoms. If I could have ripped off the hand, I’m sure I would have. The more I scratched, the more it itched, and so the vicious cycle went.

The worst part is that I know exactly when I contracted the poison ivy thing. I even looked the plant in the eye as I was pulling the nearby weed from the front bed and dared it to invade. I took great care not to touch it, but apparently it doesn’t really matter. I guess they just spit at you, evil little things that they are. As I lay awake, I berated myself for not making the trip to the store to pick up poison ivy itch cream, as I had seen this coming on. But miracle of miracles, this morning as I rummaged hopefully through the bathroom drawer, there it was. Extra Strength Double Relief Poison Ivy Itch Cream. Pink and crusty and probably expired by a few years, but no matter. That’s the closest I think I’ve ever come to being a drug addict. No matter the cost, no matter the quality, I NEEDED it.

Much earlier this year, I noticed those nasty little poison ivy vines emerging and I should have sprayed them then. But that would have meant a trip to Lowe’s which I really hate to do, so I vowed to simply avoid them. A master gardener would have made quick work of them, no doubt, but that’s not who I am.

I do, though, have great appreciation for those who devote so much time to the art of gardening. In fact, last week, my daughter’s fiancé’s mom and I meandered through the Huntsville Botanical Garden, for no reason other than that we both needed to get out, and we share an interest in enjoying plants, even if not nurturing them well. She plans to relandscape her garden beds and I just like to dream. We also take great delight in the discomfort our friendship gives our altar-bound children. The damage we could do…

At any rate, we found ourselves wandering around a collection of themed herb beds, cared for by the Herb Society. One of the herb ladies emerged from the Victorian potting shed, clomping toward us in high black rubber boots. The wide-brimmed straw hat shaded her face which was protected by a plexiglass shield, and she smartly wore gloves, no doubt to ward off any stray poison ivy intrusion. The shield was intended to ward off the Covid virus, I guess. It turned out that she was responsible for the Bible-themed garden and was eager to show it off. The Balm of Gilead shared space with Coriander, behind which grew a Crown of Thorns plant, which she admitted most likely wasn’t used for the crown of thorns but made the point well. No pun intended. I wondered about the Cedars of Lebanon, but I guess they would take up too much room in a raised bed. Other areas contained plants for medicinal purposes, or for tea, or even those mentioned in Shakespeare plays, like rosemary for remembrance and pansies for thoughts.

We asked about how the plants in the Botanical Gardens were managed and she explained that in the beginning there were several plant societies involved, all offshoots of the Garden Guild. The Herb Society had its space, as did the Rose Society, the Hosta Society, the Camellias, and the Daylilies. When an Eagle Scout put in the miniature train village, the Bonsai Society got involved, and so it all grew into the fantastic place it is now.

But the society with the greatest longevity is the Herb Society, barely edging out the Daylilies. With just a hint of satisfaction in her voice, our Bible garden guide pointed to the barren hillside where the Rose Society had met its demise.

“After the plague hit the roses, they had to drop out. That’s all that’s left of the rose garden. Sad.”

We rounded the corner to find the Daylily Society hard at work in the open field in the blazing sunshine. It was apparently time to cut back the foliage, backbreaking clipper work that it was. Under the single shade of a pagoda rested one of the only male gardeners we had seen, fanning his flushed face with a paper fan. He was happy though, clearly energized by the daylily care.

“You should join us!” he guffawed. “It’ll turn your hair white!”

No, thanks. We headed for the Shade Garden instead.

But if there’s ever a call for an Ivy Society, I’m pretty sure I’m qualified. I can grow that well. And it requires nothing at all.

Until today, I never even wondered how chess pie got its name. If pressed, I would have had to assume it had some connection to the game of chess. Maybe it was a pie that didn’t have to be refrigerated so it could hang out by the chess board, saving chess players engaged in a long game from having to keep dashing to the refrigerator for refreshments. Instead, they could just lean over, grab a piece, and eat it out of hand, without even requiring a fork. It would definitely bump up brain activity, or at least contribute to enhanced short-term energy, given the high concentration of sugar in each slice.

This pie really is that good and that easy. It’s great picnic fare, as within reason, it doesn’t have to be kept icy and is technically a hand pie, if you define a hand pie as one that can be eaten utensil-free. It has cousins we’ve all heard of, named Egg Custard and Buttermilk Pie, each of which is a slight variation on the basic recipe but definitely in the same family.

Local lore debunks my assumption that the pie was named for the game of chess. Instead, the story goes that a cook on a plantation made up the pie recipe from ingredients she had readily on hand in the kitchen. When asked what the pie was, she replied, “Oh, it’s just pie.” When delivered in a deep southern accent, though, it might have come out as “Oh, it’s chess pie.” This, though, is not just any old pie.

Even so, it was not my favorite pie growing up. Kids typically shy away from the milky yellow gooey filling, but I think we all mature into chess pie lovers if given the chance. This is the pie, in fact, that you pass right by in the rush for the whipped cream topped strawberry confection, much like adolescent boys skip past the freckle-faced math whiz in the mad dash for the cheerleading squad. It might not be the prettiest pie at the bake sale, but for purity of taste and just downright satisfaction with no fuss, this one takes the cake—or pie. So does the math whiz, usually, which most boys grow to fully understand and deeply regret later in life.

Still another naming legend suggests that since chess pie filling is so similar to the English lemon curd pie that the word “chess” is actually a mashed-up form of “cheese,” which stems from “curd.” It would be a cheese-less cheesecake, basically. I think that’s a bit of a stretch, but it is the front-runner in the set of chess pie naming hypotheses. The suggestion that we would mispronounce cheese pie as chess pie, however, is the slightest bit insulting and way too far reaching, so I’m going to disqualify this one.

To be perfectly honest, the pie should just be called Sugar Pie, because that’s really what it is. And how can you top a pie made of sugar, eggs, and butter? That’s a rhetorical question of course, because we all know you can’t top that combination.

For this is not just any pie; it’s Chess Pie. Preferred by smart, chess-playing people, I’m sure.

Here you go!

Packaged pie crust

2 cups sugar

2 Tbsp. cornmeal

1 Tbsp. flour

¼ tsp. salt

½ cup butter, melted

¼ cup milk

1 Tbsp. white vinegar

½ tsp. vanilla extract

4 large eggs, lightly beaten

Powdered sugar for garnish

 

Fit packaged pie crust in a 9-inch pie plate. Line pastry with aluminum foil. Fill with dried beans or pie weights and bake at 425 degrees for 4 to 5 minutes. Remove weights and foil; bake 2 more minutes or until golden. Cool.

Stir together sugar, cornmeal, flour, salt, melted butter, milk, white vinegar, and vanilla extract until blended. Add eggs and stir well before pouring into pie crust.

Bake at 350 degrees for 50 to 55 minutes, shielding edges with aluminum foil after 10 minutes to prevent excessive browning. Cool completely on a wire rack. If desired, garnish with powdered sugar.

I really don’t like where we are right now and I’m not alone. What we all thought would be a relatively short season of dealing with a worldwide pandemic has stretched to over half a year, and we’re not done yet. We’re all tense, some more frightened than others, and everybody is taking sides. Those wearing masks glare at those who are barefaced, declaring that they just don’t care for others. Those who don’t wear masks refuse to be dictated to by those they blame for fanning the flames of panic and paranoia, declining to give in to what they see as government control and a misleading media. With no clear end in sight, we distance ourselves from others, both physically and philosophically. Everybody is right and everybody is wrong.

And that’s not good.

Not only is a pandemic raging, but so are protests over racial injustice, some leading to violence and hatred spewing from all sides. In the meantime, there are necessary demands for more accountability and unbiased reporting and collective wisdom and shared empathy. None of which is likely to happen immediately, if at all. The best I can report is that so far, Chicken Little hasn’t arrived, and the sky hasn’t fallen. Not yet, but it’s early.

And that’s good.

We stay behind closed doors as much as possible. We conduct business remotely. We hoard toilet paper and all-purpose flour and dog food and whatever else will ensure our individual continuance on this earth. Schools and churches have been closed for months, gingerly reopening only with strict distancing requirements in place. No hugging, no shaking hands, not even much eye contact, although that last one is not required; it just seems to pair well with the whole distancing thing. Nobody knows how it will all play out, but we do know we have very little control over it.

And that’s not good.

If I had more energy and less apathy and a whole lot more expertise, I’m sure I’d develop a treatise on the damage this whole situation is wreaking. I’d suggest that physical distance enables us to also mentally distance ourselves from the discomfort of caring for others and acknowledging their presence. It gives us a pass. It makes it far too easy to close ourselves off from what we really should be seeing and being moved by. A closed door, a six-foot distance, a mask—they’re all pretty good methods of dividing us, of separating us, of hiding us from one another, even if that is not at all the original intent. Separation encourages self-isolation and self-preservation, and whatever other “self” related activities can calm our fear and ensure our individual longevity. I’d suggest that all of that might be necessary in the short run,  but I pray that it never becomes a habit or lifestyle in the long run.

Because that would not be good. Not at all.

But then, I’m really not capable of such sweeping socioeconomic and somewhat judgmental analysis. I’m not trained in the medical field and I’m not a politician and I’m not a sociologist and I’m not a preacher. I do have convictions and I do have opinions, but I’m not going to argue them here and you won’t find them on any social media feed. I just know what I know.

And it troubles me.

At some point in the hopefully near future, we’ll work our way out of this. Maybe we’ll remember how to greet one another. Maybe we won’t feel too lost without a facial covering to shield us from others. Maybe we’ll learn how to hug again and shake hands and mean it when we say, “It’s good to see you.” Doors will swing wide, welcoming us in without reservation, without arrows pointing us in the direction we are to go. We might even get to leave through the same door that brought us in. Newscasts won’t constantly center on dire statistics and people will learn to trust again. We might never completely trust our politicians or national news media, and I’m sure we’ll be more careful in a lot of ways, but it is my deepest hope that we’ll once more trust one another and feel free to share our happiest moments. And I really hope we don’t forget one another.

Because that would not be good.

For lives are built around those shared experiences and traditions. Families and friends thrive together, but that’s going to mean stepping away from fear and isolation. Everybody wants to live for as long as possible and I don’t blame anyone for taking precautions. But we mustn’t forget to live while we’re trying to live. Days will pass, regardless of how we spend them. Let’s just make sure we treat each day like the treasure that it is.

Several years ago, my daughter shared a piece of literature she was required to read in her English Lit class. For some reason, it touched my soul although I can’t recall the title or author. It really is quite depressing, but it makes a stellar point. The story revolves around a young man who has an intuition that something remarkable is going to happen in his life if he just waits for it. So he waits. Each day, he stays in his house, refusing to join others for parties or celebrations or walks or conversation. He refuses because he fears that he will miss the “something remarkable.” So friends stop calling as the days drag by. Then the days become months, and months become years. He ages and finally dies, with only a neighbor in attendance. He dies while waiting on the remarkable thing, never realizing that the remarkable thing is a life well lived. He squanders his life as he waits to live. If that’s not depressing, I don’t know what is. But it’s literature and it actually does make a valid point.

Let’s not do that. Let’s not hide from life as we seek to save it. Let’s be aware and cautious, but not fearful. For when this is all over, we’ll look back and see several months—hopefully not years—spent in seclusion and behind plexiglass and in drive-thru lines, safe from the discomfort of unnecessary contact and conversation, perfecting our skill at avoiding others, keeping our distance, and preserving our longevity.

Let’s just please not forget how to live.

Because that would not be good.

“You can’t buy happiness. But you can buy coffee. And that’s pretty close.”

I’d agree with that. I found that truth on a wall canvas at a local coffee shop and I really couldn’t agree more. I’ve grown to like coffee in all forms. I like hot black coffee, iced coffee, artisan blended coffee, café au lait—you name it. I’ve learned that the best iced coffee is cold brewed, and my brother has convinced me that excellent coffee begins with the whole bean. He’s become a bit of a coffee snob in his post-retirement leisure time and I fear I’m not far behind him. I’ve already become super selective, even in the ground variety, preferring Mr. Gene’s Beans Southern Pecan selection for hot brew, while Blueberry Cobbler from Strange Brew is my absolute favorite base for iced coffee. Folgers and Maxwell House are just blasé, and store brand is never on the grocery list, even in a tight. I might make an exception for Eight O’Clock, but that’s just because it’s a sentimental favorite. I can say all that now, because Pampers and private school tuition are also not on the list.

There’s a fine line between being selective and being a coffee snob, or being any sort of snob for that matter, which is why our youngest daughter was mortified when she inadvertently cut off another driver in the Starbucks drive-thru. She was painfully aware of her apparent privileged status as a young, white girl in a late model white Lincoln, in a hurry for her daily latte. She threw off her Ray-Bans and avoided eye contact until the incident passed. I wouldn’t call her a coffee snob. Yet. But I’m working on it.

Being a coffee snob is OK. Being a snob is not. Know the difference. Maybe that should also go on the wall. It covers a lot of territory.

In my infinite coffee shopping wisdom, I also know that a local coffee place trumps a chain setup any time. Dunkin’ and Starbucks chains are predictable stops. They’re consistent, convenient, and color coordinated. Nothing fancy and nothing shabby. Just totally middle-of-the-road to satisfy the greatest number of choosy, but not very creative, coffee connoisseurs. Fourbucks, as my friend Roger calls it, is as non-quirky and personality challenged as coffee places come, as bland on one extreme as it is expensive on the other. Its bare, advice-less walls don’t inspire but don’t offend. It’s a place where nobody knows your name.

On the other hand, my husband and I recently happened upon the Olde Coffee Shoppe in Huntsville, tucked away on a shady side street and nestled beside a low perimeter fence lined with overgrown shrubbery that makes the place seem literally rooted to its surroundings. Fronted by a narrow plank porch, the tiny eatery features all variety of coffee and deli sandwiches, with fresh-baked pastries and artisan chips available at the checkout. A sign above the door advises hippies to use the side entrance, so we came in the front. We may be a lot of things, but hippies we’re not.

I placed my order of a café au lait with almond milk, and chicken salad sandwich, while he predictably stayed in his lane with a plain coffee with cream. He’s such an adventuresome soul. Before vanishing behind the floral curtain-lined doorway to the kitchen to make my sandwich, the proprietor quizzed me on my selection.

“White, wheat, rye, or sourdough? Or maybe a croissant? We have one left.”

“Wheat.”

“Toasted or not?”

“Not.”

“Lettuce and tomato?”

“Just lettuce.”

“Mayo?”

“Well, of course.”

“Classic or baked chips?”

“Classic.”

It might have been easier just to order a plain coffee with cream.

“Be Curious. Not Judgmental” is the first piece of wall-mounted advice I glean from the visit. I like it. It sort of takes the edge off of what would be a negative and gives it a positive spin instead. I’m not judgmental, I’m just curious. I’m already glad we came.

A great coffee shop, one that is connected to place and secure in its quirky character, welcomes you with a heady aroma of fresh coffee beans and old leather and homey disarray as soon as you walk in the door. Worn out club chairs snatched up at the thrift store are grouped in cozy clusters alongside the threadbare couch that was no doubt similarly selected. The girl at the Java Jaay checkout knows my order before I place it because I do the same thing all the time and she remembers me. It’s going to be an iced Milky Way. Always. At Java Jaay, you slow down…relax…exhale. Get swallowed up by the club chair and read the morning paper. It’s a place where maybe not everybody, but at least a few know your name.

“Believe in the power of music, equal rights and opportunity for everybody, chicken fried in a black iron skillet, a free and independent press, the beauty of red dirt and blue skies, a woman’s right to her own body, tomato sandwiches and peach ice cream, the resilience of the human spirit, trap beats and banjo twangs, the power of the ballot box, a more just and humane society, mercy, forgiveness, a better tomorrow & a better South for all.”

That framed piece of wordy sentiment just about covers it, I think—especially the peach ice cream bit. A good credo for a well-lived life. It’s as simple as the coffee shop that promotes it.

Berkeley Bob would definitely agree. He’s the owner of the coffee shop by the same name in Cullman. A former hippie and Berkeley college student, he makes regular solo appearances on the band stage, banjo in hand. He can do that because it’s his place. On the day we were there, he sang his original Colonoscopy Blues number to the coffee crowd, drawing more than a few empathetic nods. That would never happen at Fourbucks. I’m sure it would offend someone. Berkeley Bob doesn’t care.

“I love coffee. That’s all.” Succinct advice from the California hippie turned coffee shop owner. Not bad. That one must have been an epiphany for him on some dark sleepless night. I’m betting he loved more than coffee in his younger years but learned the value of greater simplicity and clean living later on. And then he bought a coffee shop.

Rivertown, in Florence, is a favorite hangout for college kids, hipsters, pastors, free spirits, and downtown professionals. Located on the same block as the historic Shoals Theater and just across the street from Wilson Park, it has a front-row seat to just about every city festival and outdoor concert and theatrical production in town. On a scale of 1-10, with Berkeley Bob’s being a 10 (far out) and Starbucks hanging at a 1 (cookie cutter), Rivertown is about a 6. It’s creative but consistent. Predictable but still fun.

Most days, you’ll find Larry sweeping the sidewalk in front of Rivertown or stocking the coffee shelf. Larry is a semi-homeless middle-aged Florentine who works part-time at Rivertown. You’re just as likely to see him sitting out front eating ravioli out of a can as you are to see him doing anything productive for Rivertown. He needed a job and Rivertown gave him one, although I have a sneaking suspicion that he needed the job more than they needed him. Most great coffee shops are as kind as they are quirky.

“It’s strange how drinking 8 cups of water seems impossible, but 8 cups of coffee go down like a chubby kid on a see-saw.” Another truth. Probably too politically incorrect to make it on Java Jaay’s wall, but Strange Brew or Brewpolo would snatch it up in a hurry, fun-loving places that they are. They’re both about a 7 on the Starbucks to Berkeley Bob scale.

I think that’s really what makes me prefer the offbeat coffee place to anything attached to a bookstore that sells S’mores frappuccino freezes. It’s personality, comfort, and a sense of humor. It’s a coffee bean fix in a world that only does packaged ground. It’s an exhale when you need it the most.

“Black as the devil, hot as hell, pure as an angel, sweet as love.”

Approved by Berkeley Bob. And entirely inappropriate.