It
was the liquor of choice for all adults in the 1950s, but not for children. We
were dirt poor farm folks, so grown-ups drank coffee, and children had to drink
fresh-from-the-cow, right-from-the-bucket, lukewarm whole milk at every meal.
Yuck.
I
suffered through years of the icky stuff three times a day with little relief
until I hit the wise age of five. Sitting across the table, I noticed my Dad refilling
his third mug of black coffee. He learned over to refill Mom’s empty china cup.
She stopped him, “Just a touch, and then hand me the cream and sugar.”
My
mother stirred in spoon after spoon, after spoon, after spoon of sugar. When
she poured cream to the rim, I held my breath waiting to the white caramel
liquid spill over the edge of the too full cup.
She was an experienced pro, not a drop
fell off the spoon or in the saucer as she slowly motioned her spoon round and
round. With perfect balance, the full cup touched her pursed lips as she sipped
delicately.
“Mommy,
can I have a drink of your coffee?”
“’May
I have?’” she corrected me automatically.
“May
I?” I batted my big brown eyes slowly and looked at her hopefully.
“Oh,
baby girl, you are too young. It will stunt your growth,” she sighed at me.
“Please,
Mommy. I like your coffee. It’s pretty and doesn’t smell bad, like Daddy’s. I
won’t drink much.”
“Your
eyes will turn brown if you drink coffee.”
“But
Mommy, my eyes are already brown.”
She
let me taste the elixir of the adults, my mommy’s form of coffee—sugary cream
with a hint of mocha. I asked for more, but the gods giveth and taketh away.
Mommy had crossed the invisible line of keeping me on plain milk. Now that I
had sipped, I was not going back quietly.
