Small Comforts

Each morning on my commute, I drive through a small farm community just south of the Chuckanut mountains. The road winds past dairies, hundred year old farmhouses, and “the eagle tree”. In the not-even-one-stop-light town, I come across a tiny diner with a dozen pickup trucks parked outside and inside sits a group of older gentlemen in a circle having their mid-morning coffee. I assume they’ve been up for hours tending to morning chores, but they still find time to break and gather with one another in a routine they’ve probably had for decades.

I’d see them and think of pictures of my great grandpa, who was a farmer in a place not so different from this one, back home on the other side of the country. Though I didn’t know him, I see the resemblance my dad carries and it makes me feel like I did. When I mentioned this group to my dad, he said his grandpa did the same thing. Every morning.

In what has been a time of great upheaval for me, between the move to a strange new place, a new job, and let’s not forget the pandemic, I find comfort in knowing that some things remain the same.