The relatively new coffee maker leaked ten cups of brew across the counter and on to the floor while Todd was out getting the morning paper from the mail box and setting two of the three groups of sheep up with fresh hay and I was moving laundry forward and despite the fact that Kohl’s opens at 7:00 am, who knows where the receipt is, so the battle with customer service will have to happen some other time. For now, I use caffeine deprivation as an excuse to pack up my laptop and head to tuckerbox, a corner cafe in a row of brick 1890’s three story buildings that seem ever on the verge of being the very hippest place to be, but not quite yet. Empty storefronts, artisan upholstery, second hand junk store, groovy jewelry, downtrodden hotel, and a rarely open U.S. post office keep tuckerbox company on S. Main Street in White River Junction. The Amtrak station and tracks are right outside the front door and a muffled, deep honk of a train and ding of the road crossing fill the cafe. This time a freight train has pulled into town and stands still for who knows what, engine rumbling and vibrating through the chair I sit in. Weather reports on the drive down the hill threaten snow and lots of it, but it’s just grey skies and balmy air for now. A broken coffee maker turns my morning around. Sometimes it feels so right to be here.
Peggy
