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Cof���� BY MICAH WILLIAMS 65 years, 23,725 days, 6 cups of coffee per day. 142,350 cups of coffee. That is a conservative estimate of how many cups of coffee Lluanna Williams has consumed in her life—not including the cup she will drink while you’re reading this story. I am one of 17 grandchildren who shared a good third of those cups with her. Some were had under the carport, some in the living room. There was the backyard cup, the once a year front porch Thanksgiving football game cup, the walk around the garden cup, the get caught up in conversation and have to re-heat in the microwave cup, the bird watching cup, the afternoon Oprah cup... The majority of cups, however, were in the kitchen—elbows propped up, feet resting on those spindles of wood so perfectly placed on her old kitchen chairs. Right there, no more than six years old, is where I became a full-fledged coffee drinker. It’s why I catch myself making an entire pot of coffee at 8 o’ clock at night, when I’m the only one in my house to drink it. It’s why when a pot of coffee is brewing, I am at such peace that I don’t want to move. I want to talk. I want to listen. I want to stop the day and embrace that moment like I did when I was young. I am writing a story in glorious honor of my grandma. She is the essence of life to me, and how she lived is a beacon for our wandering generation. My attempts to her as the most gracious,kindhearted, peaceful, godly will fall short. However, this story to be a bridge—over troubled waters. My may not have had the Cloud, or Starbucks, or a way to connect 17 hours of every day to every single person she knew, but when you were with her, you lacked nothing, and your heart was full. I didn’t need an alarm when I was a boy. I just shot out of bed at daylight, ready to catch or shoot the biggest whatever needed to be caught or shot that day. And, of course, a young boy with those ambitions needed a hearty breakfast from... Grandma’s. I would run down the hall to my parents’ bed and whisper, “I’m goin’ to Grandma’s.” No answer would come. “Mom, I’m goin’ to Grandma’s,” I would repeat. All I needed was a loud exhale, and I was off. Across the dirt road, past the old crab apple tree, and up those old brick steps I went. The door was always open, leaving the glass storm door as the only barrier between me and the best oatmeal ever made—Quakers with milk and brown sugar and cooked about one minute in the microwave. Now, before all the foodies of the world start itching or feel they may pass out from the thought of high fructose corn syrup, right here is the essence of Lluanna Williams. Take the simplest ingredients you can find in your pantry, sit down, and eat. Today, either the food is made or ordered and eaten so fast that you don’t have time to even lock eyes with a person in fear a primal growl may slip out. Or, the effort and money exhausted to make a simple grilled cheese puts a strain on the family budget because the 47 organic ingredients it took to make that grilled cheese could have been better spent on whoever was unlucky enough to partake of that grilled cheese, which more than likely tasted like soap. To this day, I can buy Quaker oatmeal from the exact store my grandma bought it from, put the exact amount of brown sugar and milk, nuke it for exactly one minute and still not even come close to her bowl of Quakers. The older I get, the more I realize I’m not missing some secret ingredient. I am missing the part where my grandma sat down and ate with me—those conversations about absolutely nothing. Time was her secret ingredient. I began this story about coffee, which is a perfect medium for connecting two generations of coffee addicts. The coffee I grew up drinking with my Grandma was an extremely rich and bold bean, roasted to perfection and placed in a tub that could double as an excellent dog food THINGS TO CHERISH Grandma’s s to portray s, kindy woman I want —a bridge y grandma Cloud or 38 Toombs County Magazine


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