My father always got up early. He still does, actually. When I thumb through my childhood memories, I can’t think of a time when I rose before him. The man always woke up first. I remember the smell and sounds of a gurgling coffee pot as he pulled on a cigarette, blowing smoke out the back door and staring into the early morning darkness. My eyes hurt as I wandered in a stupor, anticipating getting back to sleep in the truck. I always took stock of how terrible I felt and wondered how he seemed impervious to the torment of early morning hours.
At eighteen years old, I stood in the quad of my basic training company and remembered Dad in the early morning darkness. My eyes stung in a familiar way as I felt the weight of sleeplessness on me. Looking out across the tire rubber-filled pit, I saw a fully awake, professionally dressed, and stern-looking drill sergeant standing with a coffee cup in his hand. At three-thirty in the morning, he presented an image of professionalism and confidence that I admired. I felt nothing but exhaustion and the shame of not being like him.
Not long after, I found myself standing on a desolate airfield, taking a knee and turning my face away from the helicopter that kicked bits of snow and sand into me. As the OH-58D’s rotors coned and popped, I watched its red flashing beacons disappear into the night sky. My first night shift had begun. Walking into our office, I shed the layers that protected me from the -40 degree air and listened to the gurgling coffee pot on the desk.
The shift NCOIC offered me the first taste of coffee I ever drank in a small styrofoam cup. He yammered on as I looked into the dark liquid. I remember seeing my reflection mixed in with the oily haze that seemed to float on top of the black, bitter substance produced when three huge scoops are placed into a filter and then subjected to heated, unfiltered tap water from the sink down the hall. A bitter smell poured out of the hot cup. Raising the heat to my lips, the smell intensified, and my lips burned on contact. I didn’t care, I knew the caffeine in the wretched black substance offered a way out of the fatigue setting in.
That was the first of many cups. Every morning, three overloaded scoops produce a dark black substance that stains deeper into a petunia sporting coffee cup, proof of its service to my early morning routine. Each sip dulls the sharpness of the early morning darkness and ushers in the dawn. Every cup a tool in kit to overcome the day’s affairs by getting, yet another, early start. Each gurgle of the coffee pot pulls me deeper into a fraternity of those who have gone before me, conquering the early morning hours and mastering themselves for service to others.
At three in the morning, I pulled into the gas station and got the largest black coffee I could find and the gas pump filled our car up with the cheapest unleaded gas the route offered. My baby slept peaceably in the backseat, and my wife dozed in the passenger. As we started on our way to Alabama, I drove faster than I should through the pouring rain. My goal was simple: get half of the drive done before they both woke up in the sun at 0700. That placed half of the drive behind us and allowed frequent stops when the car seat caused Murphy to wail.
As I penetrated the darkness, I thought back to my father. Early mornings, coffee in hand, driving while I slept. I had taken his place. Along the way, the journey offered many sleepless nights and even more early mornings. Each one stung, each one pulled me from the sweet arms of my bed. As the hot coffee stung my lips and my tongue welcomed the bitterness of the old drug, I realized that men are made in the morning. As I glanced up to see my daughter peacefully sleeping as we pushed our way to the beach, I realized somewhere along the way, I had become a man. Coffee and all.
Hone the Edge.
Love this.