COFFEE

Recently I joined my daughter and her family at a vacation rental house near Waldport on the Oregon coast for a few days.  In my hurry to pack, I forgot to bring any coffee.  When I arrived at the rental house and started unpacking I realized I forgot the coffee.   We proceeded to search the kitchen cupboards for coffee.  We found a coffee maker and a coffee bean grinder, but no coffee.   Panic started to set in thinking of no morning coffee.  How would I ever make it through the day?   The only alternative was to drive into Waldport or stop at a nearby small convenience store thinking they might have canned coffee.   Inside the store were aisles of beer, soda pop and the usual stuff you find in a mom and pop's store.    Finally, I located some Folgers coffee containers, but next to them was small bags of whole bean coffee sold under the label, Elk City Coffee Company for $10.  With no hesitation I took one making sure it was not decaf.    The next morning while it was brewing in the coffee maker, the aroma brought a sense of hope to this old man and it tasted just as good as it smelled.  It maybe the best coffee I have ever had and worth the $10.  Not sure where Elk City, Oregon is, but it might be my next vacation destination.  

THE ENCOUNTER - NOVEMBER 1, 1997

His figure slightly bent against the incline of the brushy hillside, a man with a large black dog at his side made his way up trail #3 on Mt Pisgah.   To his right, off the trail, a group of five or six people cutting scotch broom, some seven or more feet high along with black berries.   The early fall day was pleasantly warm, the sunshine felt good on my back as I worked with this group, known as the Friends of Mt. Pisgah.  

The man and his canine companion passed quickly by.   I remember a glance our way and a reserved "hello" from him, addressed to no one in particular, before he disappeared around the bend in the path.   Soon my thoughts returned to the task at hand, for I was in my element.  Only for a brief moment had my mind registered some impressions of the encounter.   If translated into words, my tumbling thoughts probably ran something like this:

"Hmm, cute man.  Looks somewhat reserved, or maybe a little lonely?  Oh, probably married like all the good ones, or maybe in love with a woman who's a cross between Demi Moore and Cleopatra.  Oh well, I'm going to be a mumbling old woman anyway...back to work!"  I attacked more scotch broom with a missionary zeal.  

Soon the black dog, plume tail waving gaily and amber brown eyes dancing with joy, returned along the trail.   His master followed a few steps behind.   Both man and dog stopped, the dog to sniff our outstretch hands and the man to ask what we were doing.   I replied that we were trying to eliminate as much of the "exotic" (non-native) vegetation from the hillside as possible, to give the native plants a chance to flourish.   One thing led to another, and before long he asked if he could help sometime.    Never one to turn down a volunteer, I tumbled down the hill to where he was standing and took the card he offered.    I smiled at the prospect of someone's actually wanting to join us--usually hikers wanted to know what was going on when they saw us working, but when informed that we needed more helpers, would look embarrassed and mumble that they must be on their way.   While I was taking the man's card, he said he was available.  (Hmm!)   I observed that his eyes were a keen blue, with a kindly expression.   He was somewhat on the shy side, I thought, but friendly enough.   I wanted to talk to him further, but all I got to say was that we had another work party coming up soon, and that I'd call to tell him exactly when, for at this point our president, Stewart, collared him.   Stewart is in his eighties but very active  (and, I might say never at a loss of words), and Mike (for this was the man's name) got the full rundown on the Friends of  Mt. Pisgah--all he wanted to know, and more.  Gamely, he stuck with it and even managed to look fascinated with Stewart's monologue.  Meanwhile, I petted Jack the black dog, until finally I thought it would be overkill to hang around any longer.   Back to work I went with Mike's card in my pocket.    It would take about a week for me to get up the nerve to actually call him.  I did, though, and he joined us for a work party.   That was the beginning of the end.   Little did I know then, however, that in the weeks and months to come, Mike and I would become very close.   The encounter on a brushy Mt. Pisgah hillside was to have fateful consequences, indeed.

Celia Scott

PS:  I found this filed under documents in the computer and was unable to download or copy it, so I transcribed it into the blog.

Mike