Note: This post is part of a #500words challenge issued by Professor Brad King on his Geeky Press blog: write a daily 500 words. A lot of what I’ll be writing this month is part of my classwork, so it may not always be posted. But, I’ll try to write every day possible this month, and post what I can. Today’s mini-essay is reflections on “springing forward” and an early morning in my local coffee shop. Editing is minimal on this piece. The exercise, as I understand it, is to write.
The coffee shop is starting to buzz. The golden light of morning is tinged blue by snow and ice as it tumbles in through the northern facing wall of windows. Brown tables, with matching wooden chairs, stand silently along the windows, waiting for the Sunday morning crowd.
Today is slightly different. The rhythm and cadence of the normal Sunday broken by the advent of the twice a year phenomena: setting our clocks back. The schedule of regulars and rushes is different, slightly off from normal. Daylight saving time has crept up. Spring, officially still a few weeks away, begins it’s arrival with the annual ritual. Some will participate after they rise today. Others, the more meticulous, did so last night before bedtime.
I ran the race last night, setting each clock ahead an hour right before I stumbled to bed. Coffee Maker – filled with water, fresh grounds waiting to brew at the predetermined time – move the digital numbers ahead an hour, and activate timer. Microwave, done. Stove, done. Wall clocks, dials turned, hands moved. Done. Bedroom. Not done. Wife is sleeping.
Not to worry. I remembered when I woke to mentally adjust time an hour. I smelled the coffee brewing in the kitchen, at what would have been an hour earlier, yesterday. Two cups drank, showered and off to sit next next to the windows at the coffee shop.
The smell of eggs and toasted bagels slowly seep into the air. A few regulars are there for their breakfast, before heading off to church. Small talk, greetings. The noise of the 8 a.m. rush is subdued. Sleeping in? Where are the others? Smiles exchanged, more regulars drift in and nod at one another.
Through the windows I see the yellow sunlight striking part of the parking lot. The vehicles lined up along the edge catch full benefit of the warming rays. Sunlight is breaking winter’s icy grip on our landscape.
Despite the light, a thick path of ice – formed from the melting and refreezing of a crest of snow, pushed aside by a plow truck – gleams quietly in the still blue light of the shade from the building. The yellow lines of the “No Parking” section appear to weave and wave under its glassy, yet milky, sheen.
The staff at the shop toast another round of bagels. More regulars, and some fresh faces have arrived. A woman grabs three brown packets of “natural cane sugar,” aligns their tops together, and waves them briskly. The sugar settles to the bottom. She rips the packets open. The brown crystals tumble into her cup. She slides the white ceramic cup under the carafe’s spigot. Her hand bends the black handle, down towards her cup. The smell of hazelnut spreads in the air as she watches the brown liquid stream into her cup. She tears open another paper packet and reveals a thin wooden stick. She drops the torn paper into the trash, and the stick into her cup. She spins it idly as she pours in milk. The liquids mix. Colors lighten. She spins the stick a moment longer, then tosses it into trash as well.
The line of customers at the counter has shrunk again. A single couple dressed in jackets lighter than I’ve seen in the past several months, stand and look at the pastries. The icing drizzled across the cinnamon rolls glistens slightly, while nuts dance across the surface of other pastries. Their minds made up, they order.
Across the restaurant, a manager, his green apron wrapped loosely around his tall, skinny frame, bends slightly as he wipes down the brown tables along the wall of windows. He hold a black plastic tray in one hand, catching the crumbs swished away by the white towel in his other hand. The towel leaves behind a sanitized, wet trail as he glides it across the brown and black speckled laminate tables.
Tables stand ready for another batch of customers. A man in a rusty red sweater carries two paper cups of coffee toward one. Steam wafts lazily from each cup, as his wife, her black winter coat open to reveal a bright pink blouse, joins him. Outside, the sun warms the cars in the lot. The golden rays erode the piles of snow. The patch of ice in the shade, however, still shines, daring the sun to hit it. Protected by the building, it will stay a bit longer. A day? Two, perhaps? Spring is coming. The ice will melt.
One more cup of coffee for me. Then I will head home. I still need to set the clocks in the bedroom ahead. Spring forward.