The Prairie Spy

Alan “Lindy” Linda

Someone reminded me the other day that I should put the following tale down in writing. It goes like this: Way back in the early seventies, when we had just moved up here to Boatville, I worked for the local Co-op. (Yes. So long ago that it was still abbreviated.) I wanted to get experience working on furnaces and appliances and plumbing, which at that time the Co-op Hardware was still doing.

And so I was out with W., an older employee who at that time was the main go-to guy for working on customers’ furnaces, plumbing, etc. We loaded up at the crack of about  9 a.m. or so, (A pretty normal occurrence.) and headed out to the customer’s rural home, where we were to add some ductwork to an existing system. And we arrived there almost exactly at coffee time. Did W., my boss, plan it that way? If you think not, then you knew neither the forward velocity nor the behavior of most Co-op employees back then.

We were invited in, invited to sit down at the kitchen table. I remember the table even. It was one of those that had a kind of linoleum top, with chrome around the sides. I, being the newest, and youngest, was crowded back into the corner, back up against a three-foot tall potted plant of some kind.

The farmer-owner, whose wife was working at a job in town, turned to the 12-year-old daughter and said, quite brusquely, “Coffee!”  Again, back then, real men didn’t pour coffee in their own home, of course. Twelve, being newly saddled with the huge responsibility of this coffee tradition, stumbled around in the kitchen, and shortly arrived with a coffee pot. She poured each of us a cup. I of course, not a coffee drinker, could not deny the overall sacredness of this tradition, and held my cup out. Back then, any visiting worker of any ilk was expected to have coffee morning and afternoon, and also stay for lunch. A tradition lost long ago.

Twelve poured the coffee a bit shakily. I could read the uncertainty in her eyes as she did so. She finished and got the heck out of there.

My boss and the farmer were busy discussing the likelihood of rain, price of crops, availability of fertilizer and such, and so ignored their coffee.

I did not drink coffee then, and barely do so now.  I looked at the utter blackness of this stuff in my cup, decided I should at least fake a swallow, held it up to my lips to do so.

Ugh! It was cold, probably what was left from breakfast. I said nothing, watched the discussion a bit, waited for one of them to discover the coffee’s temperature.

Dad–the farmer–did first. He shouted: “Twelve! This stuff is cold!”

Twelve was no dummy. She was gone. Dad fumbled around with everything, obviously had very little experience with any part of this coffee tradition,  including making it, and finally poured some fresh.

“Not for me, thanks.” My cup was empty, because while all this was going on, I poured it into the plant behind me.

We were there for two more days. (Like I said, forward velocity.) Each time, I surreptitiously poured mine into that plant.

We came back a couple of weeks later. At coffee time, of course.

The plant was stone cold dead.

I gave it more coffee, just in case.