Quiet Places

Away from Home

(A Flash Fiction Ekphrastic Challenge inspired by the painting called The Poet. And although my grandpa never wrote poetry, he read mine from the time I was in high school. He was my hero.)

The Poet, by Lily Prigioniero (Italy, b. USA) 2021

Grandpa often came to the diner before people hustled to their jobs or after they finished their chores on their farms near Rush or Pickerel Lake. Most mornings he arrived before the sun rose over the sleepy town of Laurens. His eyes twinkled when he shared fishing news with other grandpas—men with little hair—while women served them coffee as black as Iowa mud poured from a glass pitcher.

He said he’d introduce me to his friends if I could wake early and be ready to go to town. Vacation at Grandma and Grandpa’s helped me collect extra sleep for when I had to return home, but the excitement kept me awake all night.

It was tough for a ten-year-old to sleep when Mom and Dad fought.

Grandma could make coffee at home, but I think Grandpa needed quiet time too.

I ran past his rusty pickup truck to the new air-conditioned Cadillac they bought after the farm auction. I climbed onto the leather seat, snapped the belt closed, and drank the cool silence with him the twelve blocks to town.

Main Street was empty except for two cars and a bright blue pickup with a load of straw in the back. Someone turned on a light at the Ben Franklin Store, but most owners were probably sleeping.

Grandpa flung wide the heavy door and motioned. “Ladies first.”

I giggled. He made me feel ten feet tall.

A bell chirped overhead. Hanging from a wire string, the tarnished bell screeched like a violin someone forgot to tune.

A woman with a flowery embroidered apron greeted us. “Hello, doll. You like our canary?”

The tiny café smelled like Grandma’s kitchen when she’d baked chocolate chip cookies and cinnamon rolls on the same morning.

She motioned to a table near the tall windows. “Take a seat and I’ll be right back to take your order.”

“Are you Daisy?” I said.

“Why, yes.” She glanced at Grandpa, then at me. “Now, how did you know that?” The woman’s voice sang, and her hands swept across the room. She twirled, and in one sweeping motion lifted the coffee pot, hung two cups on one finger, and glided back to our table.

Mini packets of sugar beckoned. The menu had flowers matching Daisy’s apron. “Whoa. Ten cents for coffee?” I said.

Daisy winked again. “Five cents for you two.”

“It’s a lot more expensive where I live.” I shouldn’t have said that out loud.

Grandpa patted my arm. “Shhh.” He put his finger to his lips. “Don’t tell your grandma.” He blinked both eyes, pressed his lips together, and made his expression that meant, And that’s that. His eyes twinkled and brightened the room.

“Can I just have sugar cubes?” I searched Grandpa’s face.

His laughter filled the room.

Daisy pocketed her order pad. “Sure thing, sweetie. One box of sugar cubes coming up.”

He scraped his fingernails on the tablecloth and gazed through the huge wall of windows framed by checkered black and white curtains that matched the floor.

“Do those red chairs spin?” I pointed to the tall counter near the sweets.

He looked away from the window, blinked twice, and nodded.

I stepped on the black squares, pretending the white ones were water, and climbed on a tall round stool and spun in a circle.

“Be careful, doll,” Daisy warned.

I grabbed the table to stop, but my head kept spinning like I was on the teacup ride at the Iowa State Fair.

Grandpa’s worry lines appeared. He was tapping his fingernails on the fabric and hummed a tune I didn’t recognize. He saw me staring and the lines on his forehead softened. Wrinkles spread from the corners of his eyes. Just like that—he stopped tapping. Like a beautiful sunny day, the blue sky sparkled in his eyes.

Grandpa and the tiny bell greeted the men one by one as they arrived. A grunt or two, sips of the muddy coffee, and the gurgling pot blended with the chatter of friends. Conversations hinted at family. Most had a wife and kids, but all voices rose in a crescendo when they shared their fishing tales.

I wanted to save every word and pack them in my suitcase. To ask why each one gathered here every morning. To know if the other families fussed about each other. And to listen to sad accounts of having to sell their farms and land.

Peace graced Grandpa’s face. He told me that many men came to America through Ellis Island, just like he had, from places all around the world. From Sweden, Germany, or other countries across the ocean, they came to the farmlands of Iowa. They dug ditches, laid tile, or plowed fields to earn a living until they could buy a farm.

This land required back-breaking work, he’d said, but work offered rest each night, with a wife who’d worked as hard in the kitchen as he had in the fields.

Maybe that’s why Grandma scolded him. Maybe she felt unneeded in town. Or unloved.

Filled with breakfast and stories, I closed the box of sugar cubes.

Grandpa held out his work-worn hand. “Well, Grandma’s waitin’. Better git goin’.”

My hand in his sandpaper grip, I felt warm and safe. Loved.

***

I’m married now, and older than Grandpa was that summer. But I know better why he went to the diner after I had children of my own.

Sometimes silence feels right. Some days I need to escape. And I, like Grandma, sometimes nag my family.

“I just went to the grocery store,” or “I can make you a mocha Frappuccino for much less than Starbucks.” I wish I hadn’t said those words out loud, either.

The din of small talk buzzing beyond my earbuds at Café Diem helps ground me. That’s worth more than any price for a cup of coffee.

And if time travel were possible, a million, billion dollars wouldn’t keep me from a trip to Grandpa’s quiet place.

To sit once more and not say anything at all.

To see blue skies twinkling in Grandpa’s eyes.

~ by Patricia Tiffany Morris

First published at THE EKPHRASTIC REVIEW, August 13, 2021.

Revised on June 5, 2023.

Flash Fiction based on The Poet, by Lily Prigioniero (Italy, b. USA) 2021.

Patricia Tiffany Morris sketches ideas in her sleep, that is, when she finds time to sleep. She gravitates toward inspirational messages, encouraging others to find hope in Christ. An eclectic creative with a geeky-tech affinity and a poet with three names, Patricia adores Pinterest, Instagram, and hashtags, but finds Twitter quirky. She owns Tiffany Inks Studio LLC, the publisher of Journaling Scribbles, artwork, and custom logos. TISLLC provides tech troubleshooting, tutorials, and specialty services for writers.

Patricia wrote her first short story as a weekend writing challenge by the University of Iowa in February, 2020. UI Flash Writing Contest is held every winter online for 48 hours. Find other contests online by searching for genre.

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Additional Flash Fiction & Short Story Awards:

BRMCWC FOUNDATION I AWARDS for 2020. 2nd Place in Short Stories..

FLORIDA TAPESTRY AWARDS for 2021. 1st Place in Short Fiction.

2021 Florida Tapestry Awards by Word Weavers International

Check out the Critique Groups and the Word Weavers International Blog for other stories by Patricia Tiffany Morris and members of Word Weavers International. I have also attended other critique groups such as ACFW and CCFW.

Redeeming Love: a poem published at the WW blog

Cultivating Intentionality: Part 1 of a 3 part series at the WW blog

Discovering Intentionality: Part 2 of the series

Creativity and Intentional Praise: Part 3 of the series

Coloring Scripture: How to shade & highlight using Prismacolor pencils with My Artsy Tribe