My Mother’s Coffee Grinder

Tomorrow morning I’m moving. Again.

A ?month ago, I started a new position as a copywriter, (not teacher, ironically), in a city about 45 minutes north of where I currently live. So, most certainly not wanting a slow moment or any down time in my life, I bought a home three weeks ago in the city where I’m now working. I requested the lender make it a rush. And here I am, surrounded by brown boxes once again. Headed into an all-night packing fest.

One very important thing I did this evening, while packing, was to get coffee ready for tomorrow. My alarm is set for 4 a.m. All I have to do is find my way to the kitchen and hit the sleepy red button on the coffeemaker. Actually it’s me, not the coffeemaker, who will be sleepy.

Since moving to Oregon, I’ve used my Mother’s coffee grinder every day to grind beans for my morning wake-up brew. Years ago, when packing her apartment after she passed away, I really wanted this coffee grinder. It’s a simple, streamlined white Krups model – and very possibly one of the longest lasting possessions I may ever own.

The most beautiful thing about this coffee grinder is the paint splattered all over it. Paintbrush swipes and fingerprints of dried oil paint, in a rainbow of colors, accent my coffee grinder. My Mother loved coffee. Each day, when I look at this coffee grinder, I think about her passionately painting late into the night. With the irresistible canvas holding her close, she’d stop for just a moment to make coffee with those inspired hands – and perhaps, a paintbrush in her mouth.

It’s so funny. I’m writing this little coffee grinder story while wearing a ?Nike hoodie splattered with yellow paint. Sometimes it’s just hard to put down the brush.


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