The Wink And Nod
Turning left onto Mill Street, I parked the Jeep in the familiar public parking lot that sat between the Coffee House and the local park. Two days had passed since our soft opening, and I was just getting ready to start the third. Two days, and already almost 40 hours put in. I was tired. Although, this morning I had a little extra something to look forward to. Grandpa was coming in. It’s not just that I don’t often get to see Grandpa between my busyness trying to open the business, and he and Grandma living over an hour away in Fond du Lac. No, the extra excitement was because he allowed us to let the business bear his name… and today he would take his first step into the place. Only a few weeks earlier we still didn’t have a business name. I mean, we thought about calling it “Main Street Coffee House” because we were on Main Street, but that just didn’t have the oomph I was looking for. We needed something. We need more. We needed a name. Something historical. Something that spoke significance and longevity. We had already signed our business loans, demolished the old structure that preceded us, and had finished most of the build out. Still, no name. Nothing I can say I was proud of anyway. One night after working on the build out we sat around my father’s dinner table. We being my wife, Erin, my two brothers, and my father. My mom sat in the other room pretending to watch TV, but really she was just listening in. Discussing our frustration about the name, I had mentioned, “this has absolutely got to be more difficult that picking out baby names! I mean, they make books for baby names. You can look up the origin of baby names and find the meaning to see if it fits. You can look through books about meaning to find names that match and see if they fit. But… but… but, no one makes a book of business names.” Then my dad said it. “You’ve already named your corporation with Main Street Coffee House, why not just add a preceding name? A person’s name… How about Grandpa’s?” We ran it through some quick tests. My wife, the graphic designer, broke out her laptop and quickly doctored up the logo. “Yep, looks good” I was thinking. Then, as he looked at the logo, my brother said the name out loud: “John Harbor’s Main Street Coffee House”. That was it. It fit. It had personal significance, and it sounded great. Finally, with just a few days before our soft opening, we were set. ------------- Grandpa always had fondness for coffee. No reason really, just liked it more than the average person. He passed that fondness onto dad – some sort of personal connection they had. It was silly really, kind of like an inside joke that I was never let in on. There was always that quick wink and nod between them when they passed a cup. I never thought anything of it. Didn’t expect to be let in on the joke. Mainly because I hated coffee. I know. You’re confused. A few lines ago I said I opened a coffee house. Let me explain. I hated what most Americans called coffee. But, after joining the military and getting stationed in various places, I became adventurous. I didn’t drink (alcohol), so I ended up looking to coffee houses as my respite. My sanctuary. The places where I found peace of mind. Cheesey?… well, let’s just say they were the only places I liked to hang out. A few years earlier… early in my military career, I soon started taking on additional jobs on top of my military occupation to make some extra money. Coffee houses were a natural fit. I mean, I loved the smell. Who wouldn’t? Who couldn’t? It was just the taste that threw me off. “How could something so rich and beautiful in aroma taste so absolutely horrible and disgusting,” I would think to myself. Well, one day while working at the Riverside Coffee House, I must have been thinking out loud. The guy that did our roasting heard me. I didn’t know him very well. He mainly worked days, and I worked nights, barely ever overlapping our schedules. He didn’t talk much. He was always focused on roasting. Hours on end, just roasting. During the middle of a batch of Tanzanian Peaberry, he called me over. I wasn’t intimidated or anything, the guy was quite a few years younger than me – late teens, early twenties maybe, and besides, “I was an Airman in the United State Air Force” I always tell myself imagining myself speaking out loud with a puffed up chest. “Have you ever had coffee?” he asked. “Of course. I tried some during my travels,” more out of necessity than anything else. “The stuff the hotel puts in your room. Oh, and a friend of mine made a pot of Foldger’s Special Blend during a long night of training when I was stationed in Osan. I had some, but quickly switched to Mt. Dew. Sorry.” “No. Have you ever had coffee that was fresh roasted? Not pre-ground and out of a can,” he replied. That conversation and the subsequent cups of coffee during days of work at the coffee house turned my disdain for the stale old mountain grown to a love of fresh roast. “The taste does match the aroma!” I was pleased. And the nameless roaster turned me into an enthusiast. ------------- As hour 47 of our soft opening ticked by, we closed up shop. Grandma and Grandpa had been in for a while with a few other family members. They had just finished some sandwiches and were enjoying conversation. I was kind of proud of myself and Grandpa looked generally happy. As I finished sweeping the floors, I looked over at him. He gave me a little wink and a nod. “Let me count out the drawer and we can all enjoy the rest of the day,” I said looking forward with tired excitement to just finishing our first weekend in business. Erin, who clearly had more energy than I did, had taken a few minutes after we closed down to hang another piece of art. This one was more her idea than mine. It was a map of the coffee growing regions and she had just matted and framed it. She'd purchased it on eBay because "all the other coffee houses have one" as she put it. So apparently that meant we needed one too. She hung it in a decent spot, a small connector wall that jetted out from the back of the coffee house near the corner of the bar area. I counted out the drawer, dropped the money in the safe, and sat down at the far corner of the coffee house bar. My feet were tired. I was tired, and I needed a rest. I sat in the chair and peacefully sank my head into my hands. My whole body ached from the hours of non-stop running around. I couldn’t believe I was just on my feet for nearly three days straight with barely 4 hours in between for sleep. Sleep, did someone say sleep. I must have dozed off for just a minute. Grandpa had walked up and tapped me on my shoulder - the gentle nudge that reluctantly pulled me back to consciousness. “You know,” he said, “that’s my map.” He spoke with the shaky voice of an 82 year old man. I looked up from the counter. “Grandpa” I said. “Good to see you.” Pointing at Erin’s newly hung décor, he repeated the same sentence. “You know, that’s my map.” Completely confused and over tired, I had no idea I was about to be let in on a family secret. The wink and nod. | 
