My Dad and Coffee Shop Guy

Planting Seeds: Belonging and Letting the Light in

I check to see if he’s there, each time I walk into our dad’s building. I block out the glare, if it’s bright outside, by cupping my hands around my eyes, as I peer into the floor to ceiling coffee shop windows. I know now to peer through a space between the bold, blue, block-lettered logo announcing the shop’s name. I scan the several, seated, mostly chatting, customers on bistro chairs, as well as the few baristas behind the counter where the food is displayed under glass. I don’t see him there, but his wife sees me, and I wave to her. She waves back enthusiastically, and I make my way in through the automatic door of our dad’s place. My key fob opens the stairwell door and I head up the three flights of stairs. I always take the stairs. Our dad was a stairs guy, too, back in the day. These days, he and his walking stick take the elevator. 

Photo by Robert Bye on Unsplash

Our parents never lived in an apartment before. It took them a while to get used to the stairs, the long hallways (especially when mom was needing oxygen on occasion), and the lack of a garden, for our mom, anyway. The missing garden and lawn was actually what our dad missed the least. He was glad to be rid of that responsibility. 

When they (our dad) decided that they needed to move, the lawn and hedge care was his number two reason. Number one, was that our mom was starting to have difficulty with the stairs, as they had two floors in their townhouse. We didn’t argue with that one. We saw the difficulty, too, and we suggested a stair lift, rather than them having to move. We knew how hard leaving their family home would be on our mom, and even, although he couldn’t see it then, on our dad. 

The stair-lift idea was dismissed right away. Too expensive, and we’d still have the lawn, dad said. My sister and I assured them that between the two of us, and our husbands who were both handy, we could take care of those kinds of chores. They (our dad), being fairly single-minded (stubborn), had made up his mind and insisted we start the process of looking for places.

They moved in about five years ago, just months before Covid started to spread. Covid caused them to miss their old home, and resent this new one, even more than we expected. Like everyone else, they experienced the subtractions from life: fewer visitors, fewer outings to stores, fewer laughs. They also experienced the additions: the worries about “catching it”, the persistent news of it on tv, the disinfectants, the vaccines, the masks. Another subtraction due to their multi-storied building, was there were very few circumstances in which they could interact with neighbours, even outside, as many of us did during Covid. Our parents were now on the third floor. Even the elevator in the building had a two-person limit. 

“Civilization is a stream with banks. The stream is sometimes filled with blood from people killing, stealing, shouting and doing things historians usually record, while on the banks, unnoticed, people build homes, make love, raise children, sing songs, write poetry and even whittle statues. The story of civilization is the story of what happened on the banks.”

Will Durant

They used to sit in their carport, tea (mom) or ginger ale (dad) in hand, around a white resin table with a blue floral plastic tablecloth, and be able to wave or even make small talk with neighbours passing by. These interactions built relationships, albeit superficial ones, but relationships enough to make them feel a little safer, a little connected, a little part of something.

They quickly began to hate their new place.   

Like most people with ageing parents I’m sure, we worried how the toll of isolation would affect them. We called often and because of our mom was needing to be driven to dialysis three times a week, we at least got to see our parents at those times – my sister on those mornings (as she took her there on her way to her school), and me, on those afternoons (as I picked her up on my lunch breaks from my school). 

Back when we finally accepted that they made their minds up to move, we pushed for this ‘downtown” area of our city. Even though they had only lived in single-family home neighbourhoods before, we thought having all of these services and resources right in walking distance would prove to be so handy for them. Dad had agreed to stop driving by this time (reluctantly, of course, but he had finally heeded our pleas and “what-if’s”), as his memory was worsening and he had recently gotten lost while driving to the bank. 

We convinced them to move to this very walkable neighbourhood, but due to Covid, they never really went out. Our mom was not mobile without her walker, and she felt embarrassed to use it, and our dad grew more and more anxious about his safety. His daily walks became shorter, and he kept his head down, both literally and figuratively. They mostly just stayed inside, and besides our pick-ups and drop-offs of mom, they only saw each other.

“If you meet a loner, no matter what they tell you, it’s not because they enjoy solitude. It’s because they have tried to blend into the world before, and people continue to disappoint them.”

Jodi Picoult

By the time it was evident that Covid was waning, mom had worsened and dad had retreated even more. It was quiet and dark in their place – always – even at midday. Our dad was convinced people on the streets below, as well as those in suites across from them in the adjoining buildings, could see into their place, so their blinds were never open more than a sliver. Mom also slept a lot, partly due to her rapidly declining health and partly due to what we were sure was depression, so darkness was what she wanted. Dad was always checking on her to see if she was alright, and mom, who only wanted to sleep, would get irritated with him, and then he retreated further. Feeling rejected, he would play the piano, which, besides sports, was his only true lifelong hobby. Dad’s piano playing, and mom’s desire for sleep did not coincide very well, so the piano, too, began to gather dust as mom slept more and more hours of the day.  

Of course, dad had to be the one to do the laundry, the tidying, the shopping and the cooking for the two of them. With cooking, he had his small repertoire of items: grilled cheese sandwiches, toast and scrambled eggs, frozen chicken pot pies. Mom felt so sick and unhealthy that she would complain about whatever he made, and his feelings would be hurt and again. He would turn even more inward. 

Then, one day, he couldn’t figure out how to turn on the oven. He also now struggled, mom said, with the elements on the stove; he couldn’t discern which dial connected to which element and the whole process of meal-making became a huge frustration for him.   

My sister and I began taking meals over there a couple of times a week. Our parents were thankful but just as their apartment remained dark behind their blinds, their moods and outlooks sank into darkness, as well. 

“We believe that the most terrifying and destructive feeling that a person can experience is psychological isolation. This is not the same as being alone. It is a feeling that one is locked out of the possibility of human connection and of being powerless to change the situation. In the extreme, psychological isolation can lead to a sense of hopelessness and desperation. People will do almost anything to escape this combination of condemned isolation and powerlessness.”

Brene Brown

I feel strange just lightly touching on this part, but my mom passed away about a year after this, in February 2023. That process and time in our lives deserves its own story, not just several lines amidst this one, so let’s just say that at this time, we ramped up care for our dad. A few months before our mom’s death, he had been diagnosed with Altzeimers. We couldn’t really imagine how he would make it there on his own.

This is where the Coffee Shop Guy comes in. 

For reasons of which we are not quite sure, our dad began to become more animated and more interested in life.  Although he clearly missed her, we assumed it was likely because the strain of worrying about, and caring for, our mom, was now gone. He could also play the piano more freely, and soon it became part of his daily routine.

Dad continued to walk each day, as he had for years, doing his several block loop around the main street and back home. The loop always included stopping by one or more of these places: the little grocery store to pick up one of his mainstays: blueberry muffins, orange juice with pulp, Kleenex and of course, ginger ale; the hair salon on the corner (not the trendy new barber shop beside it which seemed to intimidate him) for a haircut and brow trim by one of the ladies; the Dairy Queen for his beloved Dilly Bars and then back to his building for the most important stop: the coffee shop. 

Photo by Andrea Leopardi on Unsplash

Why was this his most anticipated stop on the loop? Dad said Coffee Shop Guy was so friendly. He said he would wave at him and then dad would wave back. He never went into the coffee shop on his own, but he'd stop and peer in, hoping to see Coffee Shop Guy. My sister and I began to wave at Coffee Shop Guy, too, as we had begun a routine of one of us seeing our dad every day. We took turns, and on those visits we’d bring him dinner, either do a crossword or watch a bit of the golf on tv, do a few chores for him, ask him to play a few tunes on the piano, make sure he took his pill and accompany him on his walks. 

"Imagine what our real neighborhoods would be like if each of us offered, as a matter of course, just one kind word to another person."

Fred Rogers

I think he actually started to look up – literally. He started to physically raise his eyes and head and begin to, and want to, notice.  My sister and I both saw this new curiosity for what was around him, and she and I, while accompanying him, would make conversation and comment on anything we passed by: items in the store shop windows, landscaping in the manicured City Hall gardens and cute babies in strollers. We noticed a regular cast of characters on the loop, and we would greet each other (my sister and I took the lead on saying hello, and then dad would shyly join in) with a smile and a nod or wave.

I love talking to strangers and my dad knows I do. He would almost cringe, at first, when I would begin a chat with a friendly smiler we passed by. If we got chatting, I would always ask their name and then I’d repeat it to dad (he wears hearing aids but still seems to struggle to hear sometimes) and he’d say hello. I’d introduce myself and my dad, and we’d wave and be on our way.   

My sister and I always check in by texts, after our visits. We give each other a run down on what happened: how dad’s mood was, how clear or muddled he seemed to be, what we brought him for dinner and an update on which of the cast of characters we saw.

The loop is now a joyful one. It is an energizing one. Besides my sister and me, and our monthly extended family dinners, these folks play the most prominent roles in our dad’s daily life. We stop and say hello. We notice when one of them hasn’t been around for a few days. Dad comments that he hopes that they are alright.  

“If you could only sense how important you are to the lives of those you meet; how important you can be to the people you may never even dream of. There is something of yourself that you leave at every meeting with another person.”

Fred Rogers

We now know Coffee Shop Guy is called Fred. He doesn’t look like a Fred. In the months in which we first got to know him, my sister was sure one of his staff told her that his name was Antonio. When I asked him his name shortly after that, following one of our check-in chats, he told me it was Fred. I started to laugh as I thought he was joking, but then quickly felt embarrassed when he told me that it was indeed Fred. He said that it was short for something more Greek – he told me but I can’t remember. Most days, as we make our way down in the elevator to begin the loop, dad will say, “I wonder if Fred/Antonio is working today?”, with a little giggle.  

Fred doesn’t just wave at our dad, he hugs him. He always looks as though he is greeting a long lost relative when he embraces him. He now hugs my sister and me too, and always asks how we are, comments on the beautiful day and tells us to make sure we come in next time he has the piano player in (he has him come and play in the shop once or twice a week). We say we will try and we thank him for letting us know. We never go. Dad doesn’t want to, but he sure likes to be invited. We know a little bit about Fred’s life now, and he knows a bit about us. We know he and his wife own the shop, they came from Greece, and that they work everyday except for Saturdays and Sundays (they have their younger staff work on the weekends). Fred knows we are a family of teachers, that our dad plays the piano, that he likes sports, and that our mom has passed away. 

Others in the neighbourhood cast are Pedro, another favourite, who is a twenty-something young man, working at the grocery store. He greets my dad with “Hey man. How are you doing?” We know Pedro went camping last week with his girlfriend and got a ton of mosquito bites, even though they had a tent with mesh. “It was crazy”, he said, as he rolled up his sleeve to show us the cluster of bites. Also, working with Pedro, is a young girl named Autumn, and another woman whose name we don’t know yet, but is very friendly with nice manners, dad always says. 

Photo by John Moeses Bauan on Unsplash

There is John, the Bench Guy. He is always on a certain bench, down by the hair salon. He is a very large man, in height and girth, and he sits back, arms splayed out to the sides and along the top of the bench back. He simply nods as we go by, says a quiet, “How you doin’?” and maybe makes a comment about the sun. He then goes back to his business of watching and sitting.  

Others are Ree (that’s short for Marie, she tells us, but she hates the name Marie, so please always just call her Ree), who is from Norway, originally, and lives in dad’s building. Ree’s friends are Carol and Ila ( also in the building) and the three of them, with their walkers, go weekly for lunch at the pub on the ground floor of the building. There is the Lotto Store Guy (whose name we don’t know, but again, his manners are excellent, dad says), and the Optical Store Guy, Jim, super friendly and kind, as well as the Dairy Queen staff who are so patient with dad, as he approaches the counter (we go every other day) and announces the same order. They smile and listen attentively, acting as though they are hearing this order for the very first time. He says the exact same phrase every time we go in: “A box of Dilly Bars please, and that’s it.” (And yes, if you did the math, he eats two or three Dilly Bars a day.)

There are several other folks, with whom we exchange smiles and waves. I don’t think they are suddenly friendlier than before, I just think dad never noticed them before. His looking up has made his world bigger, and more light has come in. 

“Our relationships are a source of healing and well-being hiding in plain sight—one that can help us live healthier, more fulfilled and more productive lives.”

Dr. Vivek Murthy

I point out to him that he is noticed by people. I’ll say, “Dad, that man just smiled at you.”, or “Dad, the ladies in the hair salon are waving at you.”. It’s important that he realizes he is being seen by others. He is greeted with smiles and kindness. 

Photo by Johann Walter Bantz on Unsplash

We know that Fred, and Pedro, and Ree and John and Jim, will look out for our dad. His presence in the neighbourhood matters to these people, and their presence matters to him. 

He has reason to look up. He is part of a community. 

He belongs, and we all need to feel we belong somewhere — and that we matter —even if it's at the coffee shop.