Category: writing

A Noble Coffee House

I’ve been coming to Noble’s for a few weeks at this point. It’s a damn fine place. Larger community tables have outlets nearby, what we regulars (yeah, I’m a regular now) call a power table. Besides those tables are many tables that seat two to four. Conversation pits with sofas, easy chairs, and rockers offer comfortable options for chatting with friends.

Located among a few other businesses on the bottom of Fourth Street where it meets A Street at the bottom of the hill, still downtown but away from the Plaza, Noble’s is larger than other Ashland coffee shops, with space for fifty to sixty without too much problem (and there are days when it’s been packed). Large windows along one wall deliver delightful natural light but well-placed and assorted light fixtures (no fluorescent, thanks) help minimize shadows. And, for those who wish, several outside tables (on the sidewalk) give more seating and visiting options.

Coffee is very good to excellent. They offer two fresh options every day. My preference is a dark blend called Daydream. It’s all those thing you hear about in coffee commercials, like smooth, robust, and flavorful. I might have had an orgasm the first time I drank some.

Not surprising. Nobles uses fair-trade, organic coffee. The owner/operators go on buying and picking trips a few times per year. See that glass door in the corner? If you look in it, which they encourage, you’ll see their coffee roaster. Yes, it’s all roasted and ground on site.

Besides appealing, fresh coffee, tasty pastries like scones, muffins, and croissants (savory (like ham and cheese) or sweet (like chocolate)) will satisfy your peckishness. I’ve had the gluten-free pumpkin scone (baked in the kitchen in the back) three times (for quality purposes, of course), and tried the blueberry gf muffin twice. Now I need to talk myself out of buying one (or something else) every time I come. They’re addictive, I’m telling you. You’ve been warned.

Friendly baristas serve it up, the final touch on a proper coffee place. Come along. It’s a good place to meet with friends, take an energy break, study, read, or write a book.

 

1

Not the One

I am not the one in love

and I’m not the one pursuing a dream

I’m not the one questioning my life

or looking back on choices

I am not the one missing you

wondering where you’ve gone

I am not the one in a bed alone

never falling asleep

I am not the one with too much time

to do too little every day

I tell you,

if you see me, I’m not the one

it’s not me

2

Enough

He ignored the man in the crosswalk, almost hitting the guy, not laughing about it, but feeling smug — hey, what’s the problem? I didn’t hit you, you’re fine, so you had to wait two seconds. Big deal.

Speeding up, he cut across lanes, scaring and angering other drivers, shrugging them off, pulling into the parking lot with a little squeal of tires. A space was there to the left, the car just finishing backing out, so he pulled in, cutting off another who was waiting. “Sorry, you snooze, you lose,” he told the woman giving him the finger, giving her the finger back.

He walked straight across the street, making cars stop — what were they going to do, hit him? As he reached the curb, he heard a ding. It wasn’t his phone, he didn’t know what it was, so he shrugged it off, turning right to go across another street, not looking, expecting the others to stop —

The truck driver couldn’t see him. “The sun flashed in my eyes,” he said. “I didn’t expect anyone to be crossing the road, anyhow, because I had the green light.”

The wayward pedestrian was crushed under a wheel, almost like a fluke accident, he heard the police say as his spirit departed his body. Only then did he realize that the ding had been a warning.

Karma had said, enough.

0

Monday’s Theme Music

Today’s song came out of yesterday’s apres writing session. Striding along, thinking about what had been written and what was to be, a conservation was struck up between a character and her aunt. Her aunt told the younger character, “Oh, honey, your mother won’t dance. No anymore.” Which implied to the young one, something had happened to her mother, or her had changed, because of how it was expressed (but the aunt wasn’t saying anything else).

From that, though, came a song from my childhood, Loggins and Messina with “Your Mama Don’t Dance), a lively 1972 song with a throwback sound. Most people probably know it because it’s been around close to fifty years.

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