Here I am, once again, in my regular coffee shop (alas, not the one that sells wine at 6 am. I save that one for special days š .)
I do my best writing in coffee shops. Not so much in recent months as home construction projects and travel have nudged their way to the front of my schedule.
It was the brilliant suggestion from my husband years ago that because I work from home — Iām a consultant to nonprofit/government organizations in real life — I āget outā a bit each day and work in a coffee shop for a few hours. That made sense to me, so we budgeted a daily coffee (and an occasional bagel) into our expenses, and for the past decade, most of my mornings, save those where meetings and appointments interfere, are spent in a nearby coffee shop.
The ambient hum of murmured conversations from my fellow coffee shoppers does indeed provide a productive backdrop for getting some writing done.
What I didnāt expect was to build my own little community here in this caffeine palace. Living in an urban/suburban area, one would think community is right in front of you at all times. Sometimes, above and below you, too. But, in our now over 14 years here, we found that isnāt necessarily the case. Perhaps, itās because those close-dwellers seek out ways to disappear into their homes more quickly precisely becauseĀ they are bombarded by humanity all damn day long.
Our home, and those around us, have garages, and as such, people drive in with their cars, close the doors, and vanish without so much as wave at the errant neighbor getting their mail or bringing in their garbage cans. Even on my daily walk along the wooded paths adjacent to our home, people have in their earbuds (as do I. Pod Save America is the only thing that keeps me moving some days!) Or, they are taking Fido out for a quick walk before heading off to work with no time for idle chit-chat. There doesnāt seem to be the same community-building I remember growing up in Philadelphia and Akron.
–OMG! Did I just āwhen-I-was-a-young-whippersnapper-things-were-differentā myself?? Yikes.
But, it is kind of true that, whether you are 18 or 80, or somewhere (cough-cough) in between, itās not easy to build community these days.
A year ago, tired of feeling that lack of community, I put a call out on our neighborhood listserv for people who might want to gather once a month as a book club, but also, as a way to get to know each other in our little neck of the woods. Books just happen to be the carrot, but I fully intended this group to be something more, even though I didnāt exactly know what that something more would look like. I was astounded when 13 people immediately responded.
I purposely chose not to screen for gender, age, or anything else for that matter, except location. We wanted to be in mostly walking distance from each other (because, you know, wineā¦)
Early last year, the group gathered to set the ground rules (we would rotate hosting duties and moderator duties) and we would meet monthly for two hours. Those two hours quickly became three hours, and sometimes more. We collectively thought we would have attrition if people decided the group wasnāt for them or if life got in the way, but after nearly a year, with the occasional work/travel/illness absence, we almost always have a full house as folk have rearranged their schedule to be a part of this neighborhood group.
Our ages range from 73 to 33, we are all female, one is a recent widow, one is recovering from breast cancer. We have a lawyer, a veterinarian, and a schoolteacher. We have two scientists, a couple of consultants, and two retirees.
I donāt know why it works, why these women agreed a year ago to come to a perfect strangerās home (though the wine and far too many sweets certainly added to the draw I am sure, at least initially!)
I do know that when we are together, we talk a lot – sometimes about personal stuff going on, sometimes simply about the news of the day. We check in with each other about recent trips or procedures or projects and for those escaping the barrage of mother/daughter/wife duties, we also purposefully check out for a few hours.
It has been an awe-filled experience, an unexpected coming-together. It restored this way-too-controlling-type-A girl to someone who is learning that sometimes standing back and letting fate have a little fun makes it seem like it was all meant to be.
But, back to my coffee shop communityā¦
Visiting this establishment several times a week has allowed me the privilege of getting to know the other regulars. They are, like me, early risers. I usually arrive by 7:45 a.m. and they are already on their second cup and reading or quietly chatting. Almost all have a newspaper opened in some state of disarray in front of them. If I am seated next to them, I inadvertently overhear their conversations about the dayās news. Thankfully, they are as horrified by the state of the union as I am, otherwise, Iād probably write a snarky coffee shop musing about themā¦
What I love is that we have built our own little neighborhood among these Formica tables. Elizabeth and Paul, retirees, say hello as I pass each day. Sometimes weāll stop to chat about our most recent visit to Ireland, other times, just a quick wave.
Mike and Dana always stop by each table for a quick hello before taking their seats. He has retired, but Dana gets up from their table around 8:30 am each day to leave for her office.
One lady in her late 70s or early 80s, usually by herself, is typically here way earlier than the rest of us. The regular gang always stops by to wish her good morning as they stroll in. Today, she walks in late, but looks surprisingly spry and like she could take on the world.
Then there are the āsemi-regulars.ā The gentleman who desperately needs a hearing aid, but who, in his early 80s, is still working, dressed in fashionable loafers and pressed jeans. He runs some sort of business that fixes things. I know this because he holds court at a table and makes all his phone calls to clients. Let me tell you — he would not cut it as a spy. I not only know his entire schedule, but because his clients have to holler through the phone so he can hear them, I also know his clientsā problems, too. That said, I would miss the curmudgeon if he didnāt show up. There are the schoolteachers, too, who commandeer the corner table a couple of days a week, popping in early for a cup of caffeinated courage before facing their classrooms.
The point is (and I realize Iāve found the longest way possible to make it) that this coffee shop serves a purpose far beyond the writing-ambiance or mediocre coffee or even the scenery-change for me. When Elizabeth and Paul donāt show up for a week, I assume they are on holiday.
When they donāt show up for two weeks, I start to worry.
When I came in with a cane last year following my knee surgery, I learned they feared the worse for me, as well, as I hadnāt been in my normal spot for over a month. The concern is not intrusive, nor is it time-consuming. The community vibe may only be a wave, maybe a hello, maybe a chat about the weather. But it somehow seems important. Impactful, even.
This morning, at 7:45 a.m., the place is unusually packed. Elizabeth and Paul are at a table instead of their usual booth. Another couple, whose names Iāve never gotten (though Iāve probably known them longer than Iāve known a lot of friends) are displaced to the banquette. Everything seems a bit a-jumble, but it also gives us a chance for more animated conversation as we snake our way around tables instead of just homing in at our regular perches.
My day has been lifted and itās barely 8 a.m. Now, if I could stay away from my Twitter feed with as much determination as I did finishing my third cup of coffee, I might keep that high going for a few more hours š.
Christine Anne Scott 