216 Cups of Tea

April 25, 2024

It's been 216 cups of tea, give or take a mug or two, since my Dad died.  

216 cups of tea since I drove the 7 hours to his house in January, to go through his things, close his accounts, hire a lawyer and a realtor, clean out his house and make friends with the feral cat he'd adopted.  That poor cat still hasn't forgiven me for winning him over with tuna and laser light games, only to be grabbed and stuffed into a carrier (and then into Dad's car, with bald tires and a snow storm) for an 11 hour drive to get to his new home with my brother.  Well?  Dad would never have forgiven me for leaving him behind - he was so proud of winning that cat's trust.  The cat loves his new home, with his two step-brothers (Dad's two chihuahuas), fields to roam, and a woodstove when he comes home.

216 cups of tea, in the new box of tea, the last box of tea Dad ever bought.  My brother asked if I wanted it.  Just looking at that box broke my heart.  It's funny the things that make you cry.  Like picturing your Dad picking up the big box of tea, along with the boxes of chocolates he told me he bought for 'the girls at the bank, and the doctor's office'.  A few days later I walked through his grocery store, followed his ghost down the aisles as he picked out tangerines, sausages, crescent rolls, rotisserie chicken for his little dogs.  Tea. 

I brought it home, packed in with all the other little memories and things stuffed into his little car.  I put it in my own cupboard, knocked sideways by the thought that those bags would diminish, that one day, the last tea Dad ever bought would be gone. 

My whole life, tea has been a constant in my life with Dad.  Whenever you stayed with him, the mornings started with "would you like a cup of tea?"  If it was after 10:00am, he'd offer you a rye whiskey and ginger ale, but earlier hours called for tea. 

Growing up on the farm, Grampa always had a pot of tea on the woodstove - steeping all day, so that when you poured a mug, it was as dark as strong coffee. There was always honey or brown sugar for in it.  We went without a lot of things at the farm, 'luxuries' like white sugar (or white bread) but there was always tea.  When we were little, Dad even had special ones like "SleepyTime Tea" - I found a box of it at the store recently, and 50 years later, the same sleepy bear with nightcap, nightshirt and slippers is still on the label.   Grampa had little white mugs hanging under the cupboard by tiny cup hooks.  Mugs so tiny, I always found it funny as a little kid to watch my Dad and uncles wrap their big hands around them, the tiny handles useless.  Somehow, I ended up with one of those mugs - the only keepsake from that old life - since most of the dwellings down that long laneway have been lost to arson. 

My Dad's house is sold now.  It's far enough away that I will never make the trip to drive by it - never check to see if the hostas he split to fill in the entranceway flowerbed flourished.  I knew when I backed out of his driveway with his loaded car in January that I would never be back.  He always talked about returning home, to the Island - our childhood farm land where most of his family's remains have been scattered.  We'd brainstorm about how he'd manage that:  renovate an old school bus, build a smaller version of his log cabin lost to fire,  purchase a tiny home and fit it completely off-grid, now that the alternative energy movement has made his original style of living so much more achievable, more affordable.   Since that was how Grampa lived until his 90s, I thought we had another 20 years of Dad.  Impossible to believe he's just a memory now.  I drank the last tea he ever bought, in Grampa's tiny white mug.