A Jar of Honey and a Cup of Coffee

Awhile back I wrote a blog about how many of my neighbors (and I) feel isolated and alone, even though we could have each other to be neighborly with. I mentioned an Elder who I have often thought of taking a pie to, and never did. Let's call her Mrs. Heints.

Last Friday, my Bee friends graciously shared 12 pints of beautiful honey with me. At Mrs. Heints' yard sale, she mentioned to me that her Dad kept bees, and she had fond memories of him in his Bee suit, puffing plumes of smoke around the hives. So naturally, the first person I thought of to share my honey with was Mrs.Heints. I scoped out her house this afternoon, trying to see if her front door was open. It was. I went into my house, pulled out a nice jar of honey from the Mason jar box, and walked on over.

I pressed the doorbell, and her little dog came barking up to greet me. Mrs. Heints had a big smile on her face when she saw the jar of liquid gold that I was holding. "I brought you some honey from my Bees, the first of the year," I told her. "How wonderful!" she exclaimed. "Say, do you drink coffee? Would you like to come in and have a cup with me?"  "I would love it," I said, and followed her into a tiny, quaint kitchen.  Mrs. Heints filled her Mr. Coffee carafe with water and poured it into the reservoir. She then took a red plastic container of Folgers Coffee from the cupboard, scooped out just the right amount, and placed the dark grounds into the basket. A flip of the switch and the coffee started brewing.

"How long have you lived there?" she asked me.

"I bought the house in December of 2005, and moved in early January of 2006," I said.

"Well I guess it is about time we had coffee then," she replied.

"Yes, it is time," I said.

Once the pot was half full of the dark brew, Mrs. Heints took a couple of coffee cups out of the white cupboard and filled them to the brim. She sat down with a carton of half and half  and for the next hour we shared stories of the Great Depression, my Grandma's life and death, her husband's death, the economy, and pondered why our neighbors don't know each other.

"That Korean couple across the street, I've talked to Mike but I have never spoken to his wife. She must be shy or something, I have never seen her outside. I think it is a cultural thing," she said. "I did see inside their house once, it was a mess. I think it is a cultural thing."

"I would have to disagree," I told her. "My friend Nahnie is half Korean and she keeps the cleanest house I know."

"Well then maybe it is just them," she said, sipping her third cup of coffee. "Hey, let me show you this," and she got up and pulled a maple leaf-shaped glass bottle down from a shelf. "It is maple syrup, a friend gave it to me."

A thin layer of mold floated on top of the syrup, barely noticeable in the narrow neck. "Nice," I said. And I thought of the shredded cheese Grandma put on my salad one day, covered in several shades of green. The eyes are one of the first things to go, you know.  Not wanting to embarrass her, I remained silent.

I said my goodbyes and walked back over to my house, feeling happy. I had an Elder in my life once again. I could travel back in time through her stories, I could take her cookies and give her a hand once in awhile. I could listen to her wisdom, gleaned from living 85 years in this world. I could learn all about the neighborhood, who died when and how, who divorced who and when, what happened to so and so, and on and on.

All because of a jar of honey. Isn't life grand?