Coffee in the Morning

I will speak to you often of coffee to be sure.

I wake in the morning to the sound of a flute. Gentle melodic tones cresting over the hill and trees to settle in dreams and fitful rest. No real sleep it seems just quite darkness between the light. A distinct voice in the night hollering out familiar refrains. Five minutes, just five minutes.

Clothes laid out from the night before makes getting dressed for the day much easier. Impossible to see in a tent in the pre morning light. Amazing though is the times the tent is filled with light in the darkness. Waking to full light. Strait up and out and then stumbling in the darkness a good full hour before the flute even begins to play.

Up and out. Brushing teeth and relieve the bladder over the side of the hill. Toes and shoulders cold in the early morning chill. To the truck and slide out of camp without stirring those who can afford the luxury of sleep.

The cook shack is quite. Empty in the pre morning light. The headlights of the truck reflect back into my eyes and I shut them off. Wishing there was no need to such a beast. This truck who is a friend and gallant steed. We all have our ponies it seems. Gary gave one away once a thanksgiving. Really knowing that we own nothing. Our possessions just transfer. Impermanent.

Routine. Four days of routine. Not enough time to get it down. Just a start. Struggle again. New order to things and manner of setup. Everything ready the night before works best. Coffee from overnight still warm but stale. Firemen need warm coffee throughout the night.

Now nobody really likes the way I make coffee. Coffee is meant to be dark. Black. The Turkish saying, “strong as death, sweet as love, black as night.” Res coffee is typically a light brown. Really if you were to spill a cup on the front of a white silk shirt it would be okay the coffee is so light it would not stain the shirt. So my dark supped up sauce is hardly the thing. However, the coinsurers amongst us kind of like it. These coffee pots are old. They have the old glass tubes showing the depth of the coffee left in the pot. There is no way to clean those tubes. So they sit with caked on coffee from the year before. I wonder how that works. Maybe it just adds a bit of flavor. Twenty year old coffee melding with today’s brew. A memory of coffee the occurrences and events from years and days pasted stored there, Waiting for the heat to release that essence once again.

So the coffee is on. Folgers. People bring coffee. I think it is that Dances with Wolves thing. Hey lets bring a gift. What do you think is needed? Coffee. Easy. Pick up a five or 10 lbs. plastic can of the cheapest bean available. Now the dudes from Salida know coffee. Too bad we can’t get the Bongo Billy’s contract for providing coffee to the Res. So there is coffee. The grounds basket filled about half way with beans ground for a paper filter. Water. Plug. Relax.

Watching the events unfold in front of me now. Perhaps the only time I have to myself in connection with this whole place. Just me in the early morning dawn standing on my hill with my cookshack behind me. The possessor of my is important here. Not for me but for others it seems. It is not mine. This place belongs to a family. They have been gracious in allowing me to enter into their circle and providing for me. I will say that nearly the only requirement I have for doing anything is to feed me. The first time Madonna gave me a piece of fry bread strait from the fryer she had my allegiance for life and I am dutifully bound to her and this place.

The dancers are lining up. Silhouettes really, black figures against a blueing sky. Vast distance, really between us and yet like a weird Hollywood film scene I am pulled right next to them. The Chiefs with headdresses flowing. Men standing in line holding wings of eagles and the Chanunpa (a pipe of peace). Movement. Warmth found only in movement. The cold of the morning against my thick canvas jacket and jeans and boots hardly a bother except at the neck. These people standing in but a piece of cloth wrapped around the waist. Naked really. Sacrificing in pre dawn air. Firekeepers moving around the fire. Larger now. They have added stones and wood and the heat there is building for the day of sweats that is to come. Dancers uncertain of the cold huddle close together sharing a blanket by that fire. My fire has not yet started. A couple hours still before it is time to begin the cooking the evening dinner. Firekeepers, an interesting lot. Kindred spirits. Next to Madonna the reason I stand alone on this hill. I needed a fire. I could come here and help Vine and Sidney and Pete. I could through wood on and stir the meat. Provide a service and in exchange no ego. No conversation. No judgment. No questions. Just do as I am told. Do the next right thing that I know it to be. Just men sitting around the fire doing this thing. And so I found this fire. Halfway across the camp. Few willing to make this sacrifice necessary to keep this fire burning. That sound conceded now. And that is not my intent. I love that sacrifice. I did not at first. And did not understand it at first but now. I love it. I live for it. These few days.

The sound begins. Like a ghost in time with the events unfolding in front of me. A soft gentle howl. Low and far away. Steady. Soft low pitch. No one here but me. A question to something or an answer? Bernard just checking in on how things are going over here? Chills up and down the spine with that thought. It would not be beyond him I think. Louder it is becoming. The drum beats. Movement in the line. That howl. That howl. Drum beats louder and stronger. Matched by the howl.

Where is it coming from, but the coffee pot.