Encountering the Unexpected.

The metal handle was still cool from the morning mountain temperatures. A small silver charm that hung on the entry hinge, tinker belled above me.

The portal was narrow. Like a camera lens rotating open, September and October allowed mere mortals in for the wide angel view of autumn’s seasonal magic. Mark and I were among those humans who answered the beckoning call. We had set off early. Wanting to avoid the masses because we knew that too many touristy taillights would ruin the sacred.

A skinny cloud hung in the pass. Yet it was weighty enough to trigger the silent swish of our left-to-right automatic wipers. As the narrow red rocked canyon expanded, our car climbed in altitude and out of the mist. Cold nights, but not cold enough to bring in weather that coated Pikes Peak, had started the cessation of chlorophyll. The thick, deep green forest was under assault. Fall was winning. Summer was in full surrender. Heart shaped leaves, no more than a half dollar in size had begun to lay down their arms to the ancient Edenic rhythm of seedtime and harvest. Life was giving way to dormancy.

I needed a coffee. There was a place whose dark roast was admirable. It was only a few miles ahead. My cranky tastebuds were already imagining the cheery, caffeinated nuttiness. Mark remained in the car since he had already had his pour over upon waking. It was to be a quick stop.

Closing the red Jeep door behind me, I passed a lady standing on the shop’s sidewalk whose blue-eyed husky was testing his leash. Ever the non-dog lover, my short steps swung wide enough to avoid the canine. I reached for the door. The metal handle was still cool from the morning mountain temperatures. A small silver charm that hung on the entry hinge, tinker belled above me.

“Good morning.” A female voice without eye contact called out from behind the counter, “welcome in.”

I took my place behind the only other customer.

“Two BLT bagels.” The man in front of me said, “make that for the road.”

He wore jeans and an old flannel and was in his seventies. His baseball hat bill had soil marks. Probably from his greasy fingers as he worked on his tractor or changed the oil in his truck. He looked fit. My guess was that he was a road warrior who sought the season too.

“Oh, one more thing and I hate to bother you,” he said, dropping his head slightly. “And I’ll pay whatever you need to charge me - but could you also cook up half a pound of bacon on the side?”

The barista looked up. She was confused. Eight strips of bacon ala cart was not on the menu.

My taste memory went back to the recent eight weeks that Mark and I had spent in Israel. Jewish Old Testament law forbade consumption of pork. Ham sandwiches and American breakfasts were absent from all restaurant menus. Thus, the unusual order caused my recently deprived mouth to water. Half a pound of fatty, crispy cured belly of an unclean creature sure sounded delicious.

“It’s for that guy out there,” he swung his left arm toward the front door in the direction of the husky I had passed. “He’s kinda spoiled. We’re not in a hurry and I know that meat will take some extra time. We’ll be outside. No rush.”

Clearly a dog lover, the barista smiled and assured the man that his request would be granted. He took out his wallet from his back right jean pocket. She asked, “what’s your name?”

“Oh wow, uggh.” He said, pausing slightly as though he had forgotten. “It’s Phil.”

Her question changed everything. His body, that had only seconds earlier showed a lack of consumer confidence and even a little bit of shame for asking such a thing, straightened up. She wanted to know his name. How nice of her, he thought. His backbone grew in stature, causing his chin to lift. Shoulders that had slumped with age, suddenly looked young again.

“Yeah, it’s Phil.” His voice cleared and grew stronger, “thanks for asking.”

He smiled at her.

My eyes wells up.

I stood behind him. The man had no idea that she was merely following retail coffee shop protocol. A name on an order was utilitarian. She didn’t actually want to know his name. Customers with a name attached to a product got what they paid for in a timely manner. And time, was money.

He turned to look at me. Then he gave a little affirmative nod. Phil wanted to share the moment with me too. Clearly no one had asked what his parents Christened him in a very long time. Now I too, knew his name.

Inhabitants of our planet had stopped talking to one another. We had unwisely traded chit chat for thumb typed texts. Clicks and likes replaced spoken words shared among people.

Stifling a sigh of sadness, I leaned forward and said to him in my best fake-canine-lover accent, “That doggy of yours is really living large, isn’t he? He’s gonna love that bacon!”

More conversation followed. Then he went outside to await his special order.

Phil wasn’t needy. He wasn’t inappropriate. He wasn’t creepy. He was just confused by the isolation of the new world order. Only last week he had taken his grandkids out to the local diner. Poppi wanted to hear about their new school year. Unlike those around him, he had never considered putting headphones on them and dealing out screened devices like a deck of cards. He looked them in the eyes. He asked them questions about their teachers and their classmates. Then he told them about his school days of old. Grandpa knew how to tell stories that mesmerized the grandchildren. And they loved him deeply.

My order was up. The to-go cup warmed my chilled hands as I walked back towards the car.

Waiting patiently outside as promised, Phil now held the dog’s leash. His wife looked through the big plate glass window keeping an eye on their order. Dressed not unsimilar to Phil, her face gave hints of her ancestry. My guess was that her genealogy lay many time zones away, across the vast Pacific Ocean.

“You have a great day, young lady.” He said to me as I passed, raising his right palm towards me in a modest wave.

“You too, Phil.” I responded. “It’s a gorgeous day for a drive.”

Back in the car, the weight of my paper cup with its two ounces of rich espresso swirled with two ounces of hot steamed milk, promised that the cortado hidden under the white plastic cover was going to be perfect. But my heart was heavy.

“You won’t believe the convo I just overheard,” I told Mark, peeling off the lid for my first sip.

I enjoyed the coffee and relayed the story as we made our way higher towards the historic 1890’s town of Victor. The curvy two laned course was empty. We had indeed beaten the traffic. The trees lived closer to the road in this high place. We slowed. A brown gravel shoulder provided a parking place.

Dressed in tuxedo white, a family of aspens stood proud. We got out and walked among them. They were a tight knit group. Mark wandered to the left. I went right, each of us in quiet amazement. A closeup revealed dark perpendicular ridges and bumpy black knots on the white pencil sketched bark. My fingers felt the chalky coolness. Their bark held a secret.

Very soon the snow would come, burying the fallen leaves. Then the bare, sneaky trees would get to work on their concealed recipe. Thin bark allowed the low but close winter sun to seep in and cook up a gummy goodness. The bulls and cows knew about the clandestine candy store, but most humans did not. The animals needed the sugary nutrition to stay alive until Spring.

In the same way our son Daniel removed the round chocolate cookie of an Oreo, scraping off the creamy filling with his teeth, hungry elk and deer did much the same with the aspen trunk. They too, used their teeth to peel the bark. The payoff was a light green sugar crystal paste. However, in the scraping they scarred the tree. They carved out the equivalent of, ‘Harry loves Sally’ into the trunk. Magically, their initials left hints as to where elk couples might one day find one another again.

Shades of pale whites and super soft greys lead my eyes upwards towards a sky of ridiculous blue. Above me a bright yellow panic ensured among the aspen leavens. A prophetic whisper had blown in and announced that winter was coming. Exceptionally thin stems that were now too dry to hold the weight of their leaf, pulled the emergency escape chord and let go. Leaves fell all around me. The mob that remained, quaked in fear. It was as if the whole chorus sounded, no, they begged for more time.

“Not yet,” they called out in a desperate crispiness to those of us pulled off roadside in hopes of the perfect photo. “I’m not ready to let go. I don’t want to fall.

I loved the Creator. I loved creation. And I really loved that I could be a part of it all today. My soul was solid. It felt firmly anchored. But amid the aspen grove’s glory, I thought about coffee shop Phil. Was the same true for him? Was his soul anchored in God? I didn’t know. I knew nothing about him so, I prayed for him.

“God reveal yourself to Phil,” I whispered. “Call his name, he so longs to be known.”