tim’s thought property

The joys and trials of the last ten weeks are now fading away, into the back of my memory.
It was a long piece of time, something that removed me from all the coffee I served; all the winter snow; all the bleakness of paying off debt - three months that gave me some kind of bigger purpose. Or at least a purpose that was specific. I had to learn how to adapt to a new position, how to manage a role of responsibility. I had to cope with having to talk to parents of campers who didn’t shower all week; or had lost their toothbrushes. I had to wring my hands and stand achingly awkward at registration, with my little plastic name-tag, waiting for parents to ask me questions. I had to listen by as campers with lice had to get checked and instructed how to get treatment, so they could return to camp. I had to manage an activity schedule, with no set formula - a different allotment each week, with each group hopefully getting to go swimming three times a week.

Every morning I’d awake at 6:40 or 6:45 and grind up some coffee beans to make some rich, french-press coffee. By mid-July, I would not even recall that I had once done this thing each day - made coffee. Well, made it for people and pay. Nowadays, it was to cope with being up so early. I would just stare as the beans ground into smaller pieces, emptying out into a removable tray that I could then mix with hot water and trudge back upstairs to have morning devotions.
I’m never one-hundred percent in the morning, not even close to nine percent. I need my time to wake up, and I’m even less of a conversationalist at 7:00am. So in my seat I would sit, with my press next to me, and my coffee cup in hand, staring out in front of me, trying not to think of the bed I had just left. When my press was ready, down the plunger would go, and into my cup I would pour it. A few other souls, namely Tim C and Rachelle would take the remainder of coffee, or else I’d be nursing a french press all to myself until 9:00am.

Each summer, the staff have a chance to make a statement of unity and each summer it is different. One year it was fimo bracelets; last summer it was custom buttons, for the benefit of cool name tags. This summer the leadership had concurred to have unique coffee mugs be the staff unifier. Whatever was left over from the summer would then be donated to the camp for their year-round use.
I had amassed a small collection of mugs throughout the summer, and continued my daily vigil on the balcony each morning, sipping from the various ones in my possession.
I had bought two steins from the MCC relief sale earlier in the summer, so Tim C and I had impressive water mugs to use. I found two of the flaming red mugs at a Goodwill store, and so purchased them with the hope that I would be able to claim one during the summer. Mid summer, I found a real gem - a mug with a moustache protector. Being the only summer long staff with any semblance of a moustache, this one also became my own. By the middle of August, during a time where I had lost my red mug, I acquired the “I-lost-my-Ass-in-Las-Vegas” mug, which I unassumingly brought to breakfast one morning. It was all well and good until a seven year-old asked what it meant. Being slow on my toes in the morning, I mumbled something about it being a novelty mug from Vegas, where many people lose their donkeys. The final mug to grace my cupboard at home is a small flowery tea-cup, which has been used only for tea. …Which means it hasn’t been used too often.

These days, I’m still grinding a press each morning, although it’s only half of one. I can’t justify a whole eight cups to myself. I still use the red mug, whose bottom is never cleaned. The dregs stay put until the next morning and mingle with the fresh beverage. I have no balcony to look down from, to decide where to sit each morning, but I do get to hold on to that little cup of comfort each morning…and that’s still pretty good.