A Tea Reader by Katrina Avilla Munichiello Read Free Book Online Page A

understood, all of his classes were in the mornings, so he would be home when we returned from school. But he would still be “at work” in his office. Long before homes were built with “home offices” for people to stow their PCs, in fact, long before PCs, our dad had an office that was exclusively his work zone. Found off our parents’ bedroom, accessed from the dining room, dad’s office holds a huge wooden desk, multiple file cabinets, and bookshelves on every wall loaded to the ceiling with books. And always on the desk, at the upper left hand corner of the blotter, is what I always thought of as his tea-holder: a shallow, round ceramic piece, the likes of which I have never seen anywhere else, which perfectly cups the bottom of my dad’s regular tea glass, keeping the sweat off his papers. The office doesn’t get much use these days, my dad having retired 20 years ago. The blotter rarely sees the light of day, papers piled atop it, forgotten.
    In the afternoons of our childhood, until dinnertime, my dad worked at his desk, grading papers, writing letters, reading. Occasionally rising to go to the bathroom or to make tea or refill his tea glass, he was otherwise ensconced there, not to be disturbed. At dinnertime, the tea glass accompanied him to his spot at the table; after dinner, it went to his spot on the couch. Sometime during our teenage years, the dining area changed from the dining room to the living room, as Americans learned to watch TV during all activities, even meals. The tea didn’t change, however: brewed, unsweetened, cold but un-iced, unadorned tea.
    As we grew up, we were sometimes asked to refill the tea glass. Occasionally we’d be asked to go in search of the glass if my dad had worked in the garden and left the tea glass out back, for instance. We had to be tall and strong enough to be allowed to pour the boiling water from the kettle into the pot. We had to be coordinated enough to be allowed to pour the cooled, steeped tea into the refrigerator jug.
    Birthdays, Father’s Day, Christmas, we always knew we could gift my dad some tea—though we eventually figured out he preferred the strong classic flavors of Irish or English breakfast teas. Teapots also became an easy gift and began to accumulate around the house; not ones he would use, mind you, they were just interesting specimens of the art of the drink he drank. When his teapot collection became unruly, he hired a local carpenter to build him shallow shelves around the dining room wall, near the ceiling, to display his pots. Later, when his collection reached into the hundreds, shelves were added around the perimeter of the kitchen too. Some homes have plate rails; ours has teapot shelves. The pots themselves were made in England, Ireland, China, Germany, even “Occupied Japan.” They range from functional pots that look like standard-issue, restaurant serving-ware to whimsical pots that appeared to be made by artists with no interest in tea to a pot shaped like the classic teapot, only apparently made of grass.
    Of the four kids, I am the only one who returned to our hometown, eventually buying a house a block away from our parents who still lived in our old family home. As our parents have entered their 70s, I find myself spending more and more time at their house, helping with daily tasks. I helped clean out our grandfather’s house when he died. I walk our old dog every day, help my dad unload the groceries from the car, and help my mom file her taxes electronically. Sometimes it frightens me when they don’t recognize one of their old friends or seem not to be their old selves. The constants are reassuring: teapots keep accumulating and tea keeps getting brewed and consumed. But the lemon has me worried.

A Tea Cup of Friends
    BY S TEPHANIE L EMMONS W ILSON
    It was Halloween and a pregnant moon hung in the sky. We were entering the dreary time of year, and the hubby and I were