The Musings of a Latte Queen: Narratives of Everyday Life

Life is about connections. I thought of this as I was sitting on my family room floor, savoring the memory of a special moment at the coffee shop. On this Saturday morning, as usual, I woke up, showered, gathered my books and headed to the local meeting spot for a little peace and quiet. I ordered my vanilla latte and was prepared to settle into a morning of reading. The atmosphere was buzzing with the after-holiday noise of friends getting together. I was deep into my reading and was just making a transition when there was a glow that surrounded my table. My new friend breezed to my table with her kilowatt smile and sunshine hair. I was so surprised and delighted to see her, I jumped up and we hugged as if we were lifetime soul sisters and not two women, different races, opposite life circumstances, who had just met earlier in the month. There was such joy to see her again and she to see me. We were connected in a unique way that will be a delight to discover and explore. She is a con...

I've been thinking about my mother a lot lately, perhaps it is because I am 43, close to the age she breathed her last breath. She was so young and beautiful when she closed her eyes and entered eternity. She left behind a husband, three sons, and three daughters. I am the youngest daugther, a mere four-years-old, a time before I remember her. My younger brother and her youngest son just emerged from babyhood to toddler hood with his third birthday just 17 days prior to her death. I think about what she must have thought when her beautiful eyes closed for the last time. There was so much she tried to pour into me like a neverending stream. I have her hands, her face, her writing, her thoughtfulness. She taught me to be precise in folding my clothes, did I know at three and four what she was really teaching me? I wonder. I have daughters now. My youngest daughter just turned four years old. I will be 44 next May. I look at these legacies of foremothers, my six-year-old twin soul and...

I went to bed in the wee hours Saturday morning, the result of a rare night out with my husband. The frigid night had chilled me through to the bones and I just wanted to get warm and cozy under a mountain of comforters. My muscles ached for the treasured ritual of sleeping in, my reward for a week of home management and at-home-mothering. The flurescent-bright morning peaked through the windows, assaulting my eyes with the white-whiteness. I was roused from my drowsy, caffeine-deprived sleep by the excited chatter of two little girls ready to go "snowing." They scurried out-of-bed, their room across from our room, and ran to the balcony door. "It's SNOWING!!!!" They ran into my room and jumped on the bed, helpless to contain the youthful joy of the first snow of winter. The legs connected to my body wouldn't move fast enough for the two balls of energy that lit up the hallway. They ran into their room and quickly dressed in layers of clothes. I had ...

We sat across from each other in a trendy restaurant downtown. The converted loft-like atmosphere and soft lighting was perfect for an after-concert vibe. It was frigid last night, a silent night, the kind that lets you know it is really going to snow. It is snowing this morning, big white fluffy flakes falling like a blanket from the sky. We will stay in today and bake cookies with the supplies we picked up at 2am. He sat to my right, we didn't assume our usual across-the-table positions. It was a telling moment. He looked quite handsome in his tuxedo, fresh off the stage from a performance with the St. Louis Symphony Orchestra. His singing voice is beautiful, reminiscent of Luther Vandross at times. His range allowed him to sing the Latin celebrations of Mary and the high performance of the INUNISON Choir Gospel Christmas. We perused the menu, it was 10:30pm on a Saturday night, a time we rarely know to ourselves. He decided on the chicken salad and I ordered a mango chicken s...

I just found out a cousin passed away a year ago. He was a dear man and committed to our family legacy. I am sitting here at my computer remembering the time he and I spoke, the time we met, the joy in our voices. This cousin lived in California. A lot of black families have "California Cousins" as if they were some foreign entity. My extended self on the west coast has been there since the 1940s. I live in the St. Louis area, the coast is a country away, too far to drive on a whim, another world. The thought of this cousin doesn't leave me this morning as I sip the remaining warmth of a Tanzania Peaberry French Press. He was instrumental in doing the genealogical research and legacy dig that unearthed interesting family facts. My cousin was a tall, creamy caramel-colored man, his smooth skin was kissed by the California sun. He had thick, curly dark hair, and a welcoming smile. I remember the bear hug he gave me on a trip out to Diamond Bar back in 2002. I fe...

I watched with delight as my daughters twirled and twirled in their new holiday dresses. The satin and tulle was like a cloud of gold as they sashayed and pranced around the living room. Their sparking shoes picked up the glint of light in the room and their squeals of laughter were contagious. They were excited and gave a show to Diana Ross's , "I'm Coming Out" The occasion for the new dresses was that their father was singing with the St. Louis Symphony Orchestra, a black tie affair. My fashionista and style conscious six-year-old declared new dresses were in order. They joyfully tugged their father to the van as they went out on the clear, dark night of winter in December. The trio, accompanied by their brother, would spend the next two hours reviewing the glitter and glamour of little princess adornment. My girls are delightful to watch in their wonder of everything. The newly minted four-year-old always looks to her big sister for guidance, but isn't ...

Have you ever wondered if you really know someone? I wonder this as I sit here in my office, gazing through the glass doors at my husband. He is in the laundry room, just off the family room, the door is open. The cream colored dress shirt he is preparing to iron is laying across the washing machine . I catch glimpses of his arm, his shoulder as he does this pre -work ritual. I watched him and wondered what he was thinking this morning. We have started and ended our days together for the last ten years. There have been up moments and down moments and sad moments and happy moments in between. I watched him finish his ironing, unplug the iron, and leave the laundry room. He closed the door and glanced up at me staring at him. He smiled. I sit in my quasi-office, just tucked away in a little corner in the dining room. I am still getting used to this smaller house we moved to when we relocated. My back is to the open floor plan that leads to the stairs and the living room. I ca...

Have you ever stopped to do a quality of life report? Have you ever stopped to assess your current life situation and ask yourself about its worth? I am doing that now. I think I decided to look at the quality of my life as I sat among the other middle school parents, waiting for my middle child, my last son, to step on stage and sing in his soft tenor. I was sitting in the audience, on hard school-issue chairs, trying to keep my very squiggly four-year-old still. As the various choirs sang with their lovely, angelic voices, there was a silent war raging inside me as a stay-at-home mom, harried from all the running around of the day. I raced from one end of town to the other because my six-year-old had Daisy Scouts and welled up with puppy dog tears at the very mention of missing her monthly meeting. I can thank her troop leader for rescuing the night and offering to play chauffeur to my daughter after the troop meeting. I quickly jumped into the drivers seat, interior warm agai...

I stopped by the county library last evening to return an overdue book. I looked around, this library is always pretty active and that night was no exception. While I waited for the librarian to take my money, I noticed a table of uniform-clad teenagers engrossed in conversation over a laptop. They looked like the tony, silver-spoon, privileged children from the couple of big money suburbs that were nearby. I just looked for a moment and turned to the librarian when she returned with my change. The moment almost went without a thought until I prepared to leave. One of the young ladies - uniform short skirt, requisite privilege private school sweater, and leggings to belie the fact that her skirt was really too short on this misty evening - walked out ahead of me, her arms laden with big books. She looked to be about 16 or 17 years old. I was a few paces behind her and again, the moment would've gone without a thought until I went outside. She was a few paces ahead of me and somethi...