The Clover Café opened at six, or thereabouts. The faded red sign, where a black felt-tip wrote in the hours, had fallen behind a case near the door years ago. These days the hours seemed to be, “We’re open when we’re open – not when we’re not.”
Brooke walked in later, always by 7:00, unless her run had been longer that day.
Customers who had been coming for years understood. After all, they operated on the same “give and take” schedule, never putting too much of a premium on exactness. As for new customers, like the bankers who worked uptown, or the developers who were always on the prowl in this changing part of town, well, that crowd could use some of The Clover’s attitude, the twins would often mumble to themselves, loud enough for anyone close by to hear.
On this morning, like so many mornings lately, it was the sound of the door closing to her small apartment upstairs and her footsteps on the metal fire escape that told Blair it was time to start Brooke’s usual breakfast. She’d be walking in the front door any second now.
Brooke was only a few years older than Blair’s oldest granddaughter, and he liked waiting on her, the same way he did when his kids were little and ate breakfast in this same cafe. The same way his mom had done for him, now that he thought about it. Funny how, with so many other changes in the world, some things seem just the same, Blair thought.
“Mornin’ Brooke, how’d ya sleep?” Blair said, walking over to her table with the raisins and granola already on top of her steaming bowl of oatmeal. “Hand me your cup.”
Before she could pick up a spoon, he was back with her coffee. “No sugar, no cream. Right? Oh, and here’s the ground ginger you like.”
She had started drinking coffee when she went off to school. At first, it tasted bitter. That’s why her classmates added sugar or cream, a few added both. Brooke used them both until an older girl told her how, if she’d do the math, adding those two simple things to coffee took time. It might not seem like much, the girl said but pouring in the sugar, then cream, stirring it in, all added together, over a lifetime, would use up more than a year. “A year of your life wasted,” the girl said. Brooke smiled as she thought about college and how much she’d learned there.
“Good Morning, Blair. You’ve sure got my breakfast routine figured out,” Brooke said. “I slept fine, thanks. I’m sure one lucky girl to be in the apartment upstairs. Did you hear the train come through last night? I think it was behind schedule a bit. Did you hear it?”
Not expecting an answer, she continued, “I just love it when that old freight train comes through, its lonesome whistle makes me snuggle even deeper under the covers and sleep better, somehow.”
“Yep, it’s a nice sound when it’s far away like it is now. But it wasn’t so nice back in the day when it was right outside the door. Ya know, back then, most mornings, I’d hand the brakeman a cup of coffee as he leaned out the side of his red caboose rumbling slowly past.”
Brooke wasn’t sure if that was a true story. She knew Blair could get carried away in his storytelling.
“Say Brooke, there’s something I’ve been meanin’ to ask. You always carry your own cup, tucked in the side of your backpack,” Blair observed. “Not many do that, do they?”
Brooke told Blair how the cup had been with her since a family trip to the San Juan Islands, an archipelago offshoot of British Columbia and Washington State. That’s when her oldest brother, Bobby, fell in love all things Pacific Northwest.
He even loved the weather. Bobby said the weather helped everything grow and he must have been right. “The plants and trees in Cascadia are nothing like any around here,” Brooke said when they got home.
“I picked out this mug in a shop. It came with a lid but I’m not sure where it is anymore. I liked this red one because it matched the color of my pack,” she said.
“But what do all the markings mean?” was Blair’s next question.
Brooke wondered why some older people were so curious. Her dad was like that, but many of the older people she knew didn’t seem all that interested in her, or any her age. They just huddled together, talking in their small groups about who was sick and their own most recent ailments.
“Those are eagles, Blair. My dad explained them to me in the shop that day. He told me about the Tlingit Indians and how their beliefs were different from what we believe.”
“How so?” Blair asked. He did seem interested, Brooke thought.
“My dad told me how the Tlingits were one of the First Nations tribes in Canada. How Canadians use that term out of respect for their heritage.” Her dad had told her about our northern neighbor treating their original residents differently. She knew the stories, and never liked them much. There were others she remembered from her history classes, she didn’t like them either, those stories made her sad.
Blair was still listening and since there wasn’t anyone else in The Clover, she continued, “Tlingits believe humans are like all living things – everything is on the same level.”
Her dad told her about reincarnation and how a whale or eagle could be a Tlingits’ grandmother. “Allowing your spirit to honor the spirit in animals, plants, rocks, sky, water, even ice can make this connection – a connection that is part of our collective experience. Everything is part of the total of God’s creation; not separate from, but part of the universe.”
Maybe it was like John Muir saying “When we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the Universe.” Brooke loved that quote, and used it often.
It was a whole lot for her dad to say in the small San Juan Island gift shop on a rainy morning, but she remembered all of it. Brooke wondered if she would ever think about things that way.
“The Eagles are prettier now that you know their story, aren’t they Blair?” she concluded, realizing she was getting as bad as old people with her answers dragging on so.
“But you asked why I used my own cup, right?” Brooke remembered.
“Yeah, that’s what I wanted to know,” said Blair, patiently.
“So it’s kinda like all the time people would save with no sugar or cream. Think of all the paper cups that would be saved if everyone realized how silly it was – pitching a good paper cup.” That reply was clear to Brooke; not so much to Blair.
“But if the cup is made of recycled paper, and then thrown in a recycle bin…” Blair started, until she interrupted, wagging her finger from side to side.
“There’s a lot of energy wasted in all those steps Blair. Better to just rinse out a reusable mug and move on.”
Brooke was smart like that, Blair thought. She won’t have any trouble finding a job. She had a degree, and she was cute. The banks would snatch her up in a skinny minute. But he knew better than to say it, she’d warned him before, “Qualified and cute aren’t the same thing, Blair!”
Just then Dorothy burst through the door, dragged in by her excited black dog, Brunswick.
Dorothy was an artist from across the tracks and often went out early to paint. She once shared a studio with Da Major, but the constant in and out traffic was too much for her. And she prefers to paint landscapes anyway.
Now she just loads Brunswick and her easel, with boxes full of brushes and paints, into her small Toyota truck and goes in search of the perfect studio for the day. It might be in the woods, by a stream, or all the way to the island on the North Carolina coast where Brunswick got her name; both up front, the easel with all the rest in back, safely under a tarp if it looked like rain.
Brunswick was a Lab/Shepherd mix, easy to spot with one flopped-over ear. She was the perfect companion for Dorothy. When they were alone painting, Brunswick was a Shepherd. Back home, by the fire, she was a Lab.
“Can you go with us today, Brooke? I think we’ll head west to Rutherford. It’s pretty this time of year and we should find some great spots. Want to go?”
There weren’t any interviews on Brooks’ schedule for the day, “Sure, let me finish my oatmeal and grab some stuff upstairs? Should I pack a lunch?”
“Nope, I made enough. I was hoping you would join us,” the painter said slyly.
Maybe her new neighborhood wasn’t about being “historic” or “run down.” Maybe it was just about people being warm and friendly somehow.
Off they went, all three of them up front. Brooke loved it when Brunswick sat on her lap, sticking her head out the window and letting the wind blow back her ears. Maybe Brooke would start a line of high-end fragrances to sell in one of those stalls the mall had begun using where the salespeople could grab just anyone as they walked by. She thought about all her favorite pet smells, and how her signature scent would be called, Dogs Sleeping On A Hot Summer Afternoon.
While Dorothy was setting up, Brooke went for a walk with Brunswick and returned later to find a new painting underway. When it was time, Dorothy unpacked pimento cheese sandwiches. Dorothy and Brooke ate sitting on the ground with their backs against a tree, often closing their eyes on this warm midday sun.
Brunswick wasn’t as formal and ate faster. Soon she was off swimming and splashing after fish in the creek.
As they finished lunch, Dorothy talked to Brooke about some of Brooke’s paintings.
“Brooke, I love your work, you should do more. The animals and flowers and people you paint are alive. They’re so real. Each makes its own statement. Bold, yet easy for folks to understand. Most people don’t see things as boldly as you, and they should. Keep painting your way. Okay?” Dorothy said with encouragement.
Brooke wasn’t so sure. She had to resort to tears just to get her art teacher to add a plus to her otherwise average “C.”