Iced Coffee with Mom

          It's iced coffee season, the days when the temperature can climb over 100 and a little caffeine over ice with milk verges on a milkshake.

            As I take a large heavy glass from the cupboard next to the sink, I look again at the sunflowers towering above the glass birdbath that sits on a stand low to the ground in the garden. This morning after the sprinklers ran, water was dripping into the bird bath, causing the tiny rubber duck to swim around. I looked at the sky—no clouds. I imagined the four sprinklers on the drip system now running—no way they could reach the bird bath. Its water had grown still, but then another plop and then the widening circles. Finally it hit me: the slight breeze swayed the sunflower stems enough to knock drops of water off the large leaves and the orange and rust flowers. I smiled, imagining the private little world with its own rain shower.

            The water system in our refrigerator has not worked for as long as I can remember now, but the ice crusher still functions. So we make ice in trays and twist the cubes into the bucket inside the door. I push the glass against the lever in the freezer door and the ice grinder noisily chops and spits out pieces of ice. I add milk, 1%, filling the glass about half-full. The warm stream of coffee from the thermos pot crackles and melts the ice. Back to the door for a few more ice chunks, then I carry the glass back to the counter by the windows, admiring the tan floating on ivory around the ice cubes. I open the silverware drawer and pull out an ice tea spoon, a little pleasure to have, dip it down the side of the glass, watch the colors swirl together, and remember again sitting with Mom at a table by a front bay window at the West End Bar & Grill in Cambria, on the Central California Coast, about ten years ago. I'd ordered iced coffee, a novelty to the waiter/owner, who asked if we were from Boston. I said no, but we were from the east, Pennsylvania. He brought a pitcher of the milk I'd requested, along with the glass of ice and coffee, uncertain how to blend the concoction.

            On a recent hot, humid afternoon during a trip to Panama, I walked the hotel/restaurant staff through the making of iced coffee. Neither my Spanish nor their English quite covering all the bases, first they steamed milk. I picked up a tall glass from the coffee bar, and a waitress brought an entire bucket of ice. They watched in amazement as I put ice cubes in the glass then poured coffee over them. The milk issue clarified, the waitress handed me a small pitcher of cold milk, which I poured into the glass. I requested una cuchara for stirring. My offer to taste was universally declined by the small group that had gathered round.

            The drink was about on a par with a cold Balboa beer on such a hot day, and as I sipped it, I thought, as I had so often during my trip, of how much Mom and Dad would have loved Panama, a trip they had planned but been unable to make due to health reasons.

            My mom would have been ninety-three tomorrow. My nephew, one of her four grandsons, is thirty-one today. They traditionally celebrated their birthdays together; this is the second year they won't be doing so. Heading to my computer to write this, sipping my iced coffee, I recall how these days, when I order iced coffee with milk at cafes and restaurants, I rarely encounter surprised or confused looks, but I usually feel a bittersweet tug at my heart, remembering that day in Cambria with Mom.