Wednesday, May 12th

A sweet pungent odor filled my my nostrils as I stepped into the cramped confines that was “The Cove” coffee shop on the outskirts of Richfield. I was pleasantly greeted by the barista, a young amiable man wearing a flannel shirt and a baseball cap who wore the air of one who was as comfortable reigning in steers as he was pulling shots. Smiling, he explained to me the menu; espresso drinks- here. Juice menu – here. Same with sandwiches and wraps. Pull your own soft serve yogurt, and here are your toppings. What will you have?


I inquired as to the possibility of getting a decaf latte; Carrie is still breastfeeding, and we've seen the consequences of giving the kids breastmilk with traces of caffeine. 


I didn't tell him that last part.


Oh – I'm sorry, we can't do that.


I smile and nod. I'll just have a cappuccino with four shots.


Four shots? Whoa – you like it strong.


You betchya. And some vanilla syrup.


Syrup? You mean flavoring.


Yeah.


He prepares the drink. Another man looks at me. This one could be the Bishop in charge of the Ward were he not standing here with me in a café. He still could be – I haven't actually seen him partake of any caffeinated beverages, just oversee the sale of such to the gentiles. Which technically I'm not.


I digress.


He asks me where I'm from. I say Seattle. No – wait. I say Maryland. I live in Seattle. He says Richfield is a small town. Nothing wrong with that. That's my contribution. I'm visiting my in-laws. That's also my contribution. Some more stuff is said, but it's all inconsequential. Small talk to fill a large void in time.


My drink is ready. I pay the man. I leave the ample change as a tip for the guy. I like this place. But I have to go back to Katie's Cup for the Latte. For today, The Cove is not a one stop shop.


After I drop off drinks, I spend a few hours with the family before I go to pick up some lunch. I drop off the lunch and then head to the Family History Center to do some research into my maternal grandfather's side of the family. I find a 1930 Madison Parish census record that indicates that he was raised in a house headed by a single mother alongside eight other siblings, two of them twins. I reach a dead end here because I can't find his birth certificate. But I do find out that he enlisted in the Army in 1941, rose to the rank of Staff Sergeant, and was buried in a national cemetery.


An older Elder, fulfilling his calling, is helping me. He asks me if I am a member.


I fess up. I am inactive, though.


He cheerfully encourages me to continue to do research so that I can do some temple work. In his mind, at least ten additional people with the last name of Skinner have just been posthumously baptized and are awaiting their bounty in the Terrestrial Kingdom. I don't dissuade him of the fantasy.


We - Carrie, Gaboli, my mother, father and sister in law, and both of Carrie's grandparents, go to the local Wingers, where we get decent enough food delivered by inadequate service. Both Bev and Carla want the all-you-can eat wings and fingers special. Bev gets only fingers; Carla gets only wings. I get nothing, and Carrie gets soft chicken tacos with barely enough pico de gallo to call a smear.


Carrie and I both order refills on our iced teas; I request vanilla syrup. The waitress returns with two iced teas, both with vanilla.


Carrie orders water to drink. She never receives it.


To close out the night, we, with the sole exception of Carrie's paternal grandmother, go to her maternal grandmother's house to play Tripoli. I win one poker hand and three kittys. It's past ten when we finally get home and retire. The kids are grumpy; Gabe is only taking his food straight from the source, and Ollie is extra hungry, thrashing about until I prepare an extra bottle for him and almost force an ounce down him. He then calms down enough so that he can sleep in the bed with the rest of the family.


Tomorrow, we'll be heading to SLC. The day after, we begin the long trek home. Great.