A Mug Full of Memories

Every morning I enjoy a nice steamy mug of coffee rendered with a good splash of coconut creamer. It’s one of my favorite parts of the day. I do enjoy the coffee, but my favorite part of the morning ritual is picking out the mug.

I don’t have a huge selection of mugs. I’m not the kind of gal that keeps every mug that comes in a gift basket or who picks up arbitrary mugs at thrift stores or garage sales. I have a random selection of about 8 mugs and each one has some significance to me. For instance, take the colorful “Secret Pal” mug decorated with a bunny and spring flowers. When I use it, I am reminded of my dear friend, Bonnie, who gave it to me several years ago at church. Sometimes I use the red hand-painted mug with white paw prints on it that says, “The Cat Needs a Snooze Button.” That one is special because Bill snuck out during intermission at “Cats” and bought it for me. Perhaps the oddest mug I use is the one that has small coffee mugs painted on it. It intrigues me. A mug with mugs on it! But then there’s my favorite mug. It’s not the prettiest, or the biggest, or the most expensive. It’s old, it’s small, it’s chipped. In a nutshell - it’s ugly. But there’s more to a mug than meets the eye.

My favorite mug is almost 4 inches tall and is kind of a chocolate milk brown with small dark brown spots sprinkled all over. The smooth dark brown rim is interrupted by three small random chips. There is a bigger chunk missing on the bottom edge just to the upper left of the word “JAPAN” which is reverse stamped in raised letters on the bottom. So far you may be thinking “well, it sounds a little beat up, but it doesn’t really sound ugly.” But I haven’t told you the “best” part. With the mug sitting in front of me with the handle to the right, there is what I would call a “decal” of yellow, orange and purple flowers with green foliage. If I hold the mug at an angle, I can clearly see the outline of the decal, which I must admit, is in nearly perfect condition with only one small pock marring a thin green flower stem. This mug was probably hip back in the seventies - but today, it likely wouldn’t even make it to the Good Will shelf.

I could never let this mug go, anyway, despite my love/hate relationship with it. This mug used to be my mom’s. Somehow, after I moved out into the world, it ended up in a box that mom probably dragged to one of the many apartments I inhabited. Now it has settled into a permanent home on the top shelf of my kitchen cabinet. I ignored it for a long time. Then one day, all the other mugs were dirty. I took down my little ugly mug and stood there at the kitchen counter, mug in hand. I examined the mug briefly, and then, as writers often do, I stared out the window. I was taken back to our little house on White River, on a typical Saturday morning in July.

My bare feet are wet from running through the dew-covered grass. There is still a touch of cool night air lingering, but it’s starting to mix with the sweet humidity of summer. I’ve already been down to the creek, where I paused on the small wooden bridge just long enough to see if a defiant frog had stayed ashore or if they had all jumped in the safe havens of the water upon hearing my footsteps. I’ve visited my dad in the garden and felt the mud ooze through my toes as I walked through the tall, staked rows of lush green tomato plants, passing my hands along the velvety leaves, enjoying their fragrant, almost piney smell, and occasionally popping a sweet red cherry tomato in my mouth. Now I’m waiting for my neighbor, Jennifer, to come out of her house and cross the gravel road so we can plan our adventures for the day. In the meantime, I’ve got my nose pressed against the screen door window looking at mom and our neighbor, Bessie, sitting at the kitchen table. Their chatter is peppered with hearty laughter, sometimes sending Bessie into a coughing fit. In the background, Barbara Mandrell is singing about putting peanuts in her coke. The fresh, cooler outside air battles through the screen with the warm air inside the house, and I catch the curly aromatic mixture of fried bacon, coffee and cigarette smoke. On the kitchen counter is an army of quart-sized Mason jars filled with freshly canned green beans topped with shiny gold lids. Though mom is caught up in conversation, I know that she has one ear turned to the jars, waiting for the intermittent “pops” telling her that the jars are sealing. Mom raises her coffee mug to her mouth. And it’s that god awful ugly cup. I didn’t like it then, either. My cat, Spot, is weaving her black and white furry body around my legs. I reach down to pick her up....and it’s not Spot anymore. It’s Frankie, the cat that I have now, almost thirty years later. I pick him up, kiss the top of his head, put him back down and see the mug sitting on the counter. I pause, grasp its handle, and smiling I set it in front of the coffee maker. I pour hot, fresh black coffee in it. But not too much - I have to leave room for the splash of coconut creamer - and lots of memories.