By the time I was 6 or 7 years old most of my Shipley relatives had moved to someplace other than Mt. Moriah. Even so, they often returned on weekends, and certainly for every holiday. On these occasions we would all come together at my grandparents place; on the farm in the early years, and later, at the little retirement house they had in town.
Some would drive down from Des Moines, some would drive up from Kansas City, and some would drive in from points even further away. Most would arrive late in the evening. There were never enough beds to go around, so me and my cousins would sleep on pallets made of blankets on the floor. As we drifted off to sleep the grownups would sit around the dinning room table and talk. The women would talk about family news: births, deaths, sickness, and who was doing what with whom.
”Making good time”, was an endlessly fascinating subject for all my uncles. Grandpa Joe took an interest in it, too, even though he rarely drove more than a few miles in any one direction at any one time. “Making good time”, was a matter of honor – much like a Medieval Knight’s quest for the Holy Grail. The ultimate goal was theoretically unreachable, but a satisfactory performance was possible. Any uncle who got to Mt. Moriah in less time than last time was confirmed as having, “made good time”. However, this would not count if another uncle had driven the same route previously in less time. Making the trip in the same time as the prior record was acceptable, but not very satisfying – who, after all, is happy with just making par.
In the morning we would wake to the sound of a griddle running at full throttle. The air would hang heavy with the mingled smells of bacon, sausage, eggs, biscuits, pancakes, and more. As we rubbed our eyes and wandered into the kitchen we would see spread out on the table before us a feast of magnificent proportions – enough food to fuel a small army of field hands all the way to lunchtime. And there, in the midst of it all would be Grandma Ollie, still cooking.
Oh Mom! My aunts and uncles would say, ”Why are you cooking all this stuff”? All we want is some coffee. Then Grandma Ollie would reply, “Well… someone will eat it. You’ll be hungry later, I’m sure”.
Nonetheless, her children were adamant. They wanted coffee, just coffee, and they wanted it strong, black, and hot. The bonding sacrament of their generation was coffee – strong, black, and hot. It was almost unthinkable to drink it any other way. The popularity of coffee in America reached its apogee with them.
Powered by caffeine and grit their generation fought and won a world war while still in their teens. After that they were through with that, they went on to forge an America that was more happy and more decent than it had ever been before or since. They capped it off by somehow hanging on to enough nickels and dimes to pay off their houses and send their kids to college.
You can’t do that on café au lait.