A Glimpse

The old guys (and a wife) visit in the front corner of the coffee house, watching all who come through the door and greeting most by name. In the voices jovially undulating from the cluster of chairs (too many for the small table), I recognize an accent like the old farmers at my mother's church. They discuss the current tax debate in congress.

"They shouldn't tax the rich."

"It doesn't fit their lifestyle."

"Tax the workers--we're used to it!"

They laugh.

"What will you guys talk about when this is over?" a woman asks, taking a table across from the group.

"Oh, there will be something," one replies. "There 's always something."

And today there is plenty of talk. Some is mundane--like the sight of a man driving his van through a snowy field: "I was working to get through in my four-wheel drive truck, and he was out in a van!"

The conversation even turns briefly apocalyptic: "In Revelation it talks about 'the mark of the beast,' you know. Someday we'll all have a chip."

But for now, they sip coffee and hail those going out the door. One pauses, his shoulder against the glass.

"The only time I was high," he says, "is when I slept in a tent full of people smoking marijuana. I woke up the next morning outside. It sure stank." Twin sleigh bells jingle as the door swings shut behind him.

Another enters, pausing by a member of the group. The man looks up at him, pretending defensiveness: "What do you want?"

"I missed ya'," the newcomer replies.

Yes, and so have I. For me, the gathering savors a bit of my grandpa's elite world where men in dusty rubber boots hovered around mythic beasts of tractors. He would let others do the talking, but I can almost picture his grunting assent and bit of smile, his wry "I reckon," and--if he was very put out--his disgusted "well, gee-mo-nee!"