Fill it Up Again

Coffee. The most popular drink in the world.

Its intoxicating aroma, it pleasurable taste, its mood lifting effect.

Students, artists, businessmen, elderly widows, lovers-- people love it.

Perhaps the most significant appeal throughout the centuries is neither the pick-me-up it gives nor the palate-satisfying benefit it delivers, but rather the warm conversational community it somehow creates.

In the Fall of 1993 I was a Sophomore in college. Knoxville, Tennessee. My friends and I loved spending time in the section of town known as the Old City, an historic artsy district filled with shops, eateries, bookstores, and what quickly became our favorite hangout: The Old City Java House. At one time, long ago, I imagine that the building was a factory of some sort. The floors were creeky, uneven, distressed and darkly-stained wooden planks. The tables and chairs were also made of wood, and appeared to be hand-made by a skilled craftsman with an eye for beauty. The walls were weathered bricks, the ceiling was high, and the lighting was dim.

It was a magical place.

We would gather there at least once a week. Wearing frayed and faded jeans, flannel shirts, and Birkenstocks, we would each order up something different, and would sometimes share our drinks-- not because we wanted each others' germs, but because sometimes it was a struggle to scrape together more than $7.85 between all of us. We felt close, warm, and confident that we could speak freely with each other and still be safe and loved.

I loved that year.

This morning as I sit enjoying my morning cup of Whole Foods Pleasant Morning Buzz Blend-- spritzed with a tad of cream and a sprinkle of stevia-- I think of them.

Many are living in the Midwest, a few are overseas, several are still in the South, a couple are in the Rockies. Many have since married, several have children, and more than a few have gone through intensely painful divorces and have gradually picked up the pieces and begun to experience the healing of their emotional wounds.

I smile as I think not only of them, but of the space we shared and the atmosphere in which we lived; little rooms in large dormitories with red bricks and white Corinthians columns. The breathtaking beauty of the Fall in East Tennesee-- the mountains covered in leaves more yellow than Big Bird, more red than Kool-Aid, and more orange than the flames that flickered on the candles my roommate and I would light during the power-outage of that year's snowstorm.

I think of the long nights of laughing until our abs looked like Stallone's when he fought the Russian guy, listening to the Indigo Girls, Phish, and Edie Brickell, worrying about our exams, and talking about sex.

I think of the September morning when I first saw a girl with sandy blond hair, a white t-shirt, jeans, and a Jansport backpack walking up the main hill of campus to the 100-year-old building where she would have her next class. I was dazed. One month later we had our first date at Old City Java. Fifteen-and-a-half years later we are still in love, with two daughters, and every morning we drink coffee together and talk about what's new, what's good, and what we are worried about.

And we love this year, this time, this moment, this space we share.

Emily Saliers, one of my favorite songwriters, penned these words: "The new road is on old friend. Fill it up again."

Yes, we're all on an exciting new road, and it is paved with the fond memories of old friends. And while were traveling on it, let's drink down a cup of Java and then fill it up again.