Mother's Day coffee, and flowers

Flowers for Mom

I sat down on the grass and had a cup of coffee with my Mother Sunday.
After making my annual Mothers' Day pilgrimage to see her, planting real flowers on her grave stone, washing it off, I got out my thermos, poured a cup, and we talked.
For as long as I knew her, she had always loved coffee, and now that's she's been dead 40 years, it just seemed the natural thing to do.

We talked about my brother and I,  about her grandkids all grown up now, by name, and about her great-grandchildren, who she never got to meet.
The hot coffee was more delicious than ever in the warm sunshine. The faint memories of having coffee with her came back. I wish I'd spent more time drinking coffee with her though.
I've lost track of how many years I've brought flowers to her grave in the Waurika, Oklahoma, cemetery, 120 miles from my home, and it occurred to me  that there will come a time when I'm no longer able to make that trip. 
So I told her that this fall, God willing, I'm going to come down and plant some daffodil bulbs that will come up every spring, after I'm gone. 
But when I come back, we'll have another cup of coffee.

Coffee with Clark

"Coffee with Clark," 5 x 7 watercolor, 300 lb. d'Arches cold press paper

Morning means coffee in our household, and it has as long as I can remember, even as a child growing up. The folks were coffee drinkers.
It's no accident that this blog is so named.  I once had a newspaper column by the name and a short radio program on what is now KUCO-FM.
My reputation at work was always making strong black coffee, and having a coffee cup in my hand, no matter the time of day, either in journalism or professing...or today, in painting. I'd joke that I wouldn't need to be embalmed...my veins would be full of caffeine.
I've written about it many times on this blog. Just search "coffee." The first was from 10 years ago, on this link: "The First Time I Tasted Coffee."

When I think of coffee, my soul drifts away to the mountains, especially in New Mexico, or in camping out, when you roll out of the sleeping bag early in a chilly morning, and start a pot of coffee on the old Coleman stove.
Ah, the smell of coffee, sizzling bacon, and of the mountain forests and the sight of mountain peaks on the horizon...especially the Manzanos.
So here is today's watercolor, and my old metal coffee pot that inspired it, along with a coffee cup, (what else?) that we gave away long ago as a subscription promotion.

Relaxing Flight of Fancy

"Flight of Fancy," 5" x 7" watercolor

What is more relaxing in the morning that a good cup of coffee, sipping while, perhaps, cats perch in your lap? Blood pressure goes down, quiet time, think time, relax time before the chores of the day's "To-Do" lists and obligations sink in.
It seems to be my routine--more cat time than coffee time. Savoring the moment time, enjoying the aroma of coffee, the warm touch of petting soft felines, their pleasing purr of contentment.
Those thoughts came to mind in a flight of fancy for today's #WorldWatercolorMonth daily challenge prompt, "Relaxing."
Here 'tis, 300 lb. d'Arches cold press paper.

Coffee with Clark kind of morning

Sophie and Snoops demand attention

The taste and smell of "Happy"

"Coffee with Clark," 5 by 7 watercolor, 140 lb. d'Arches cold press paper

Coffee runs in my veins.
Any time is coffee time, whether it's the smell and taste of fresh-brewed in the morning, or poured from a thermos on a long road trip, or in the afternoon of a cold winter day while trying to paint, write or read.
Coffee brews memories, from my parents buying chicory coffee from the Jewel Tea truck in Fort Worth long ago, or Mom drinking it every day in the warmth of our kitchen, or the first time I tasted it on an overnight road trip with Dad from New Mexico to grandmother's funeral in East Texas, or with special people in special times and places over the years.
"Coffee with Clark" is not an accident, for a blog, a radio show, a column.
Paint "Happy"-- Daily #WorldWatercolorGroup #watercolor challenge. What makes me happy? Even painting today's watercolor.

Coffee spoons and life...wondering

"I have measured out my life with coffee spoons." 

"The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," T. S. Eliot

 Hmmm?

What to do about stale coffee on a blog's birthday?

Coffee with Clark was born as a blog on this day, May 3, 2009, with no idea about where it was going or if it would survive. 

The future blogger, Paris

After its seventh birthday, now beginning its eighth year, that is more true than ever. 
Judging from the declining number of posts this year and the past couple of months, it must be getting stale. At least the aging blogger is.
It's remarkable that it's stayed fresh as long as it has, because most blogs cease to exist after only a short time. But...
The blog has changed and aged, with the blogger. Is it time to just  throw out the dregs, rinse out the pot, and put it away?
I said last year at this time that I was wondering why I blog and the purpose of the blog. I'm no closer to answering that than then, but I know it's time for a change...it's time for fresh coffee or no coffee at all.

"It's time for fresh coffee or no coffee at all."

The aging blogger, Edinburgh

I planned to work on this during the summer, having sat in on webinars and more, trying to find  new directions, perhaps a new blog. My wife suggested this week that I should perhaps switch to a different blog.
Part of that is life stage, I know, some is laziness because I have plenty of ideas and stories to tell (for instance, I'm in the middle of reading about five books right now, all that need to be reviewed) but find myself just not wanting to sit down and spend the time it takes. This shows in the decreasing number of my posts, and the fact that I'm posting more paintings and less writing.
I have continued for several reasons, including teaching a blogging for journalists class at UCO. That pretty well demands that I be a blogger too. I don't believe you should teach something you can't do or haven't done.
And, I'm still a journalist--this is part of who I am. As one friend said, "You've got your newspaper column back." I don't want to give up the Coffee with Clark moniker because it's established, but there have to be some new directions. I'll probably try to keep it going through the summer, until I've met with consultants and others on taking my blogging to something that will be a pre-retirement and retirement effort that brings in some income and has a specific purpose.
So, on this birthday, here are the facts this year, and so far--the coffee is stale. Facts this year, and so far:

• 33--number of posts this year, counting this one
• 2--Month with fewest posts, June last year
• 4 and 4--number of posts last two months
• 144--number of countries where I've had readers
• 203,000+--number of page views since beginning
• 1,966 posts since beginning, almost all original
• 339--number of posts from May through December, 2009
• 76--number of posts in August, 2009 
• 11--number of posts in August, 2011

 And yes, I'm open to suggestions. In this insane political year, I'm desperate to have a voice that's heard, because it is so essential as Oklahoma education and everything else in the state goes down the toilet. But party politics don't belong in Coffee with Clark. So, I don't know. Will the blog survive another year?

Sunday morning porch time

A crisp, bright fall morning, coffee and the Sunday newspaper. That's when I need a porch.
I'd prefer a front porch, a wooden rocking chair, where I could sit and muse, read, watch people walking by, but alas, they don't build them any more, like the one we sat on at Turtle Rock Farm a few Sundays ago.
But we do have a back porch, tucked into the corner of the house, where I can sit at a round table, drinking coffee, spread the New York Times out in front of me, listen to the chatter of birds and squirrels, ignore the weeds in my herb garden and other yard work desperately needed. Instead, here I sit and relax and enjoy every moment, as the cats watch me through the window and door.
Today's paper was a treasure of stories and information spurring thoughts and wonder and ideas to write about, as time flitted away with the dappled sunlight through the trees. 

Front porch at Turtle Rock Farm

A porch is a church of sorts, with nature all around, with time for quietude and the music of wildlife, and the communion of coffee and the written word. To me, that's not sacrilegious, but just the opposite...connecting with the wonder of spirit and creation and life.
I decided I'd write more about those ideas from today's paper later. For the time being, I just enjoyed the back porch.

Sophie checking up

Coffee with Clark, perking away

The sounds of coffee perking is invigorating. The the unique smell fills  the house.
Ah...memories of growing up as a kid when Mom and Dad put the coffee on in Fort Worth and Albuquerque. More memories of making coffee in the cold mornings at my Uncle Mike's in Santa Fe as the sun comes up over the Sangre de Cristos. You'd get the pot ready the night before, so you could just turn on the burner. Yes, this is his coffee pot, may have been my grandmother's.
Today in Oklahoma, we are out of the fancy new xyz-cups at a time, and the drip thingy is long gone. Alas, real coffee.

Perking coffee kind of day

Morning snowfall.
20 degrees outside.
Fire in fireplace.
New York Times
brings the world inside.
Leather couch.
Two cats in windows
watching birds on feeder.
Doves, cardinals, juncos, wrens, titmice.
Out of fancy coffee maker cups.
Grinding the beans.
Uncle Mike's
Percolator perking.
Reading Huck Finn,
Sipping real coffee.
That kind of February day.

A magic walk of Thanksgiving

Walking to the magic garden in November.

I went for a walk in a magic garden today, with a friend from long ago who lives there.
Every time I go there, I find him healthy and happy, and we have long talks.
Even though it seems I do most, if not all of the talking, he always seems to give me new perspectives and ideas and inspiration.
Today, I found him cooking breakfast on a Coleman stove, bacon sizzling in an iron skillet, coffee perking away, hot oatmeal ready to serve. 
Nearby a brook gurgled and I could see the movement of trout in the shadows. 
Ponderosa pine, fir and blackjack bordered most of the garden, which was alive with sunflowers, bumblebees buzzing, hummingbirds  and meadowlarks.
In the distance, blue mountains, dusted with snow, rose in the crisp autumn air, but the morning sun warmed the garden where we sat down to chat.
Hawks soared overhead, as grey clouds began changing the blue sky.
We sat on camp stools by the little morning campfire, savoring the smell of woodsmoke, bacon and coffee.
Sipping that coffee, I told him that tomorrow was Thanskgiving Day, and while it is a family day, it is also a day of memories for many, and of loneliness for others. The "holidays" are like that--a two sided coin...one side warm with comfort and joy, and the other cold to the touch.
Then he just looked around his magic garden, and I followed his gaze, drinking it in like another sip of coffee.
He didn't utter a word, but I know what he said.
Every day is a day of thanksgiving.

What's "perking" in my coffee pot...literally

Literally,  in my uncle Mike's old coffee pot...Real coffee.

Life is like coffee

Shared by friend Sherri Ward.

Drink deeply.

http://www.flickspire.com/m/iaaw/lifeislikecoffee

Coffee with Clark Saturday morning

Thinking, with the help of coffee in my granddaughter's Katherine Emerson Clark art designed coffee cup

Moving spirits on an Easter back porch

"The wind blows where it wants to. You hear its sound, but you don't know where it comes from or where it is going. That's the way it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit." --John 3:8 Back porch Sunday morning ritual: coffee, New York Times, shafts of sunlight, gathering clouds, buzz of insects, birdsong, rustling leaves--the sounds of silence. Time to think, to observe, to be alone, to enjoy fresh air and the outdoors. The workaday world and worries and wrongness  are far away. Then I'm disturbed by this large rushing sound, more than wind. A flock of more than 50 birds descends into the oak trees, the sound of their wings an unexpected joy. They spot the red berries on a bush, investigate, perch in the tree limbs. I freeze, barely moving, wondering. Something spooks them and they leave in a resounding and erratic rush of wings, only to return in a few seconds.  They're robin-sized, but I can see a dark streak around their eyes. I think they're Cedar Waxwings, but we've only had one or two occasionally at the house before. I edge indoors quietly to get my binoculars and bird book. For a couple of minutes they sit, like they're meditating, or somehow communicating, yet they're silent. Then they move, a few at a time, to the adjacent yard and another big tree. In five minutes, they're gone in another tumultuous rush of wings.  Why here? They view our red-berried bush in the back yard. Later in the day, the berries are gone, as they are. but I think they came for another reason. How will I remember this Easter morning? A huge rush of wing sounds from an unusual visitor, reminding me of creation's greatness, and life's wonder.

Sacred and secular...flags of readers

You can get in a fight in America, and sometimes arrested, for dishonoring the country's flag. Misuse or disrespect of the flag is a political issue. A sure way to anger Americans, protesters in other countries know, is to burn it. To those who have served in the military, it is almost sacred.

But there is at least one flag of regular readers of this blog that is religiously sacred--that of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. Adopted in 1973 with white inscription and sword on the background of green for Islam, the flag carries the Islamic creed, the "shahada." In Arabic, it's pronounced "lā ʾilāha ʾillā l-Lāh, Muḥammadun rasūlu l-Lāh."
"There is no god but God and Muhammad is the messenger of God."

The sword stands for the house of Saud, the founding dynasty of the country. The kingdom was founded by Abdul-Aziz bin Saud in 1932, though conquests began in 1902.
Saudi Arabia is the birthplace of Islam and is sometimes know as the "land of the Two Holy Mosques," in reference to Mecca and Medina, the two holiest places in Islam.
Saudis take their flag religiously. It is never lowered to half staff as a sign of mourning, or hung vertically, because that would be blasphemous. In another instance, in the Olympics, an attempt to put the flag on soccer balls was reversed after protests, for the same reasons.
Another flag of frequent readers of this blog has a longer, but more secular,  history, that of the Republic of Colombia, Adopted in 1861 after winning independence from Spain in 1823, the flag is unique in that its stripes are not of equal width, and German philosopher Johann Goethe inspired it, telling the designer:

"Your destiny is to create in your land a place where the primary colors are not distorted,"
The colors represent the gold of the country, the seas on its shores and the the blood of heroes who gained the country's freedom.
Colombia has been a land of turmoil and long rebellions, and most recently drug cartel violence, but violence and danger are decreasing and tourism and the economy  increasing. After Mexico, it has the largest population of any Spanish-speaking country. It is one of few countries  to have shores on two oceans, the Pacific and Atlantic.

Important to me and this blog, in addition to its readers, is its huge coffee crop, which was once second largest in the world. Now, thanks to climate change which has decreased production, it ranks third behind Vietnam and Brazil.
Oh, and by the way, as Saudi Arabia gets its name from a person and family, Colombia does too, in a way, named for Christopher Columbus.

Room for coffee

http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10151236631623900&set=a.280080888899.177622.81232738899&type=1&theater

Aboard at the White Pass summit

Three thousand feet up, at the White Pass summit, you reach the Canadian border. Deep snow greets you, along  with five flags, U.S. Alaska, British Columbia, Yukon Territory and Canada, virtually where the borders meet.

The narrow gauge keeps going, into Canada

You don't need a passport unless you're on the train going to Whitehorse in Canada. The train cars go on a siding, the locomotive unhooks, slides by and attaches to the other end for the trip back down to Skagway. Shoulda brought a coffee thermos, but the sky has cleared and it's bright, almost glaring. I know why it's called "White Pass."

By the way, this is "Mountie" country--Northwest Mounted Police.

There's time to look and chat, but you don't get off the train. Then since you were in the car closest to the locomotive, you're at the end of the train, which means a great view back down the line. The seat backs are flopped forward-reversed, and you switch sides with the people on the other side so they can have the same views you had coming up...left, looking down, way down, through two tunnels, across a trestle with a 1,000 foot drop, with the ocean and Skagway shining in the distance.

The turnaround

I think the wind blows up here.

And then you start down.

No weak coffee, please

“Don’t knock our coffee. You may be old and weak yourself some day.”

That printed sign hung on the wall behind the counter of the All Nite Café in Comanche, Oklahoma.

Sign in the home of daughter and son-in-law, Dr.
and Mrs. Todd Bell, he a champion coffee drinker too.

Long before statehood, Rock Island changed trains crews there, and kept the café on Main Street in business. It was owned by ancestors of mine, who first moved to “The Nation” (Indian Nation) from Texas.

My grandfather soon followed his relatives to the little red clay town in south-southwest Oklahoma, located on the still fresh ruts of the Chisholm Trail. He owned a grocery story, sold coffee, and painting houses for a living.

And coffee’s been on the burner and in my genes ever since.

Granddad always drank coffee in the mornings, after he’d put on a white shirt and tie and lit his first Camel.

Dad and Mom drank coffee for as long as I can ever remember. When I was a kid, the Jewel Tea man’s truck used to pull up in front of our house on the outskirts of Fort Worth, and they’d buy strong coffee with chicory from New Orleans. Later, when visitors like my Uncle Mike would come visit, they’d stay up all night talking, having eggs and bacon and coffee well after midnight.

I started drinking it as a teenager. It developed into an addiction during all-night college cram sessions and in working on newspapers at all hours of the day and night.

Now that I’m getting close to being old and weak, I’m trying to cut back—not quit mind you—just limit myself to less than three pots a day—no matter what time of day. That's part of the price of being a journalist. Put out a weekly newspaper like we did at the Waurika News-Democrat, and you have to have coffee all Tuesday night long.

But when I do get old and weak, you can be assured—as the folks who know me will tell you—my coffee won’t ever be old and weak. It’ll be strong, 24 hours a day. And like me, no fancy stuff, or sweetened or weakened with milk. Just straight, thank you.

It's not by accident I like the rap song, "Black Coffee, No Sugar, No Cream," and that we have more coffee mugs than ever needed.

When I die, they wont have to embalm me—my veins will be full of caffeine.

The folks in the All Nite Café in Comanche, Oklahoma,  100 years ago, would understand.

Saturday morning, long ago--poetry

In a crowded coffee shop
on a drizzly Saturday morning
I sit alone
sipping on my thoughts
as my coffee and muffin grow cold.

My friend
must have missed our rendezvous
so I’m hungry
for the crumbs of chatter
that scatter off nearby tables
where companions
drink of each other.

“Warm your coffee up, Mister?”
asks the waitress.
Yes, but I’d rather see my reflection
in my friend’s brimming eyes
instead of the shallow, soon-depleted liquid.

She once wrote: “I know this:
the amount of time you spend
with someone doesn’t necessarily
relate to how important they are to you.”
Like caffeine, there are a few people
you can never get enough of,
because even a sip is
a stimulant for present tense.
Her absence makes me brood in past tense.

Suddenly a bell tinkles as the opening door
nudges it back and forth.
I look up to see her distinct form
silhouetted against the light,
and I exhale with relief-joy.
“How about a cup of coffee?”
I ask, expectantly, already knowing
the unspoken answer is, “Of course.”