We don’t live south enough to suffer much from hurricanes. The night Ike passed left us a surprise, though, the common calling card of storms.
The most surprising thing about it was that somehow, a tree could fall on the door to my coffee without me knowing it.
Since our stove is electric, the electricity was out, and it was coffee-time, I calmly felt my way through the dark to our guest house, where the stove is propane, where we always solve the electric problems. Lugging an old-time drip-through which I’d loaded with grounds in my dark kitchen, slipping down the hill on flip-flops through the wet world, hardly able to see yet always knowing the way, I bumped smack into bunches of limbs. Heh.
Could the woods that always so lovingly envelope us actually have thrown branches at us in the night? Perhaps.
Back up to the house for a flashlight. Back down to the guesthouse where the door should be. Zowie!
An entire tree.
In the way.
Of the coffee business. Heh.
Back up to the house for my trusty loppers and a discussion with Husband. Back down to the guesthouse for some pruning.
In the dark.
Finally I found space to get the door open just enough for me and the pot.
Tea kettle filled.
Promising sizzles from the wet bottom of the kettle.
Husband descends. “How do I get in?!”
I pass the loppers through to his bulkier self. It doesn’t take him long.
Shivering in the morning cool in this secret hideaway, we mumble through our personal morning fogs the slight chat of people who are comfortable with saying nothing. In their jammies. By candlelight.
Whistling. Pouring. Bubbling. Dripping.
Aromas of Colombian dark roast tantalizing.
The first sip. We smile.
Are we bizarre to grope and fight for such a small pleasure, while ignoring the storm damage all around us? I don’t think so. Pleasures worth having usually are worth working for. The adventure of wrestling them out of the wilderness is part of the pleasure, don’t you think?