Backporch Stories - A Good Cup of Coffee

by George Wiley

​This story is dedicated to our former executive director, Dave Tosch.
 
Old Joe Hankins angrily stomped out of the ophthalmologist’s examining room, through the office, and tried to walk through a closed door. He stepped back, fumbling for the doorknob and loudly declared, "Nobody is going to cram me in a blankety blank hospital bed for a month!" Wes and Claire Johnson followed Joe out to the sidewalk urging him to reconsider, but he would not.

The young eye doctor had explained to Joe that in this year of 1960, a person losing their sight to cataracts could have them removed. Unfortunately, it then entailed a month in the hospital. Joe refused even to think about it.

Wes took his arm and said, "Car’s this way Joe."
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"I can find it myself," Joe snapped. There wasn't much truth in this state­ment, his cataracts had blocked out most of his vision, and certainly hadn't sweetened his temper.
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Joe resented the necessary stop at a market even though they needed supplies. Restless and unhappy away from his mountain cabin, he followed the Johnsons through the aisles, more of a hindrance than a help. Finally they got everything they needed and were ready to drive back to the little mountain village they lived in.

Back in his cabin a few hours later, Joe happily rustled up a fire in the old cook stove as the Johnsons brought in his groceries. They had long since learned where to put each item so he could find it. Joe added ground coffee and water to what was already in the big coffeepot, and put it on the stove to heat. Wes and Claire turned down his offer of a good cup of coffee, saying they had to get home. Joe rightly suspected they, like others, considered his coffee the world's vilest concoction.

There was just no way of figuring out some people’s tastes.
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He could hardly believe the weak-kneed stuff he was served elsewhere. Why, even his wife used to keep a separate coffee pot. Joe made his coffee, pot after pot, adding water and ground coffee until the grounds nearly filled the coffee pot, then threw them out and started all over again.

Pouring himself a mug of this brew, and making his way carefully out on the porch, Joe sat down in the rocking chair with a contented sigh. Thirty years ago, he and his wife had built this cabin. Retired and widowed now, he still considered it the most desirable place in the world. All his cronies and friends lived in the little sawmill town nearby. He firmly put out of his mind the thought that a month in the hospital would enable him to see it all again. He snorted at the very idea.

That night Wes got together with a couple of his friends. “We’ve got to do something," he told them.

"First thing we know, old Joe is going to get lost in the woods or fall in the Pitt River Canyon,” Mack suggested.

"Maybe we could maroon him in Redding, you know, get everybody that knows him to refuse to bring him home. Be hard to get him there," said Wes.

“It was like pulling teeth to get him to town today, he might be suspicious,” Bill spoke up. “We could hogtie the old rascal, maybe."

"Now you’re talkin’," Wes said. "Are we all agreed? Okay, I’ll call the hospital tomorrow and make the arrangements."

Two weeks later Joe was eating his breakfast, but not enjoying it. The bacon was burnt, and so were half his flapjacks, the other half were underdone. Only the coffee was up to his expectations.

Hearing a car outside, he went out on the porch. His friends gave him a cheery greeting, and told him they were going to town together. Joe rather indignantly turned down what he thought was an invitation, and was surprised when strong hands grabbed him. His wrists were tied together before he realized what they were up to. Then a rope was wrapped around him, and he was bundled into the back seat of the car between Bill and Mack.

Joe swore at them, imaginatively and at length, bitterly questioning their ancestry and legitimacy. Their cheerful acceptance of his opinions only made him madder. When he ran out of breath and adjectives, they told him just how things were going to be. He could forget about getting a ride home until he got his eyes fixed. Everybody he knew was in cahoots with them, and the local sheriff wasn't about to force them to return a man going blind back to a mountain cabin.

Never did a patient enter a hospital with more reluctance. He endured the operations and tedious hours with his head immobilized, plotting revenge upon who he considered as double-crossing former friends. He was not appreciative when they visited him, and their obvious amusement at his indignation didn't help. His grown kids, who had moved to jobs elsewhere, showed up too, and he found out they were indeed in cahoots with the others.
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Ordinarily a friendly easygoing type, he found he liked the doctors and nurses, despite himself, and cooperated with them. Finally, there came a day when he was fitted with glasses and he could see again. Now it seemed almost worthwhile, but by then he was perishing for a good cup of his own coffee.
Wes, Claire, Mack and Bill were there to help him check out of the hospital and drive him home. When he tried to turn down appointments for future eye exams, Mack laid a friendly arm across his shoulders and pointed out they could hogtie him again if necessary.

Joe had a lot of friends and received a great homecoming party.

After the hospital's food, it was great to have a good old fashioned potluck in his yard.

Later, Joe walked around in the twilight, noticing how well his place had been taken care of after his eyesight started to fail.
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But, there was one serious problem. He’d poured himself a mug of coffee, looked at it distastefully, and gave a melancholy sigh. Somebody had washed out and scoured his coffeepot! It would be quite a while before it was seasoned enough to give him a good cup of coffee!

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