Good to the Last Drop

 

Good to the Last Drop

Noel Laflin

10-16-20

I broke my leg shortly following my fifteenth birthday, spent the night in the hospital, had three parts of the left tibia realigned the next morning, watched as a ten pound cast was woven from toe to crotch, and then sent home straddling the entire length of the back seat of my dad’s station wagon.

No sooner had I been laid to rest in my hastily made makeshift bed then I told my dad that I really needed to pee – as I had not done so in the last twenty-four hours.

Since the bathroom was just too far away, and we had not even procured a set of crutches as yet, my father yelled to my mother, “Vi, we need an empty coffee can, pronto!’

Scavenging beneath the kitchen sink where such items were bound to reside – being good for storing bacon grease, etc. – my mom rushed one to my dad, who had by then gotten me to my feet and propped me up.

A true gusher ensued.  As the can was rapidly filling, I whispered to dad, “I’m not done …”

Dad yelled to my mom once again, “Vi, we’re gonna need another can!”

Mom rushed in with reinforcements, a well-timed swap on the part of my father played out, and the second can was nearly filled.

When all was said and done and I was gently laid back to rest, my father gingerly walked the coffee cans to the bathroom.

He started to laugh when he read the labels, yelling out to my mother one last time, “Hey, Vi, God Bless Maxwell House – “Good to the last drop!”

My mom switched to Folgers shortly thereafter.