I can’t remember the last time I had a cup of coffee in my own house. It’s been at least two months. I’m never home and conscious (not asleep) long enough to want a cup in the morning. If I’m not taking a shower, I can lurch out of bed at 4:35 am, brush my teeth and turn on the computer at my airport museum office at 5:-05. Coffee at home wastes time.
My fixed base operator host enterprise — the company that refuels and repairs airplanes — provides free coffee to its employees, flight crews and passengers connected to airplanes “dropping in” and to me. One of my treasured “perks” at the museum is that I could drink ten cups a day out here with their consent. The only reason I need to buy my Folger’s Instant at all is to have some on hand at my employer “on the edge of the world” on Springfield’s far northeast “side.” For years I’ve kept a small jar at home, maintained from the more economical big jar at my employer. Today I brought the little jar to work with me.
When I am home, my purpose is to do one of three things: to go to sleep as fast as I can after a modest dinner, to do laundry or to get the hell out of the house to the museum and then to work. I’m okay with this: no dog, no love life . . . you do the math.
I know good people who would consider themselves blessed with less than this.
I am a married mother’s lucky son.
Live long . . . . . . . . and proper.
