Coffee, Ten Cents a Cup

The pool and hot tub do wonders for everyone's spirits. And a glass of red wine does even more for me. Not long after, we are in our jammies, showered and ready for bed, and excited about the days to come.

The next morning, I get the bright idea that we are going to take our complimentary continental breakfast in a to-go carton onto the battlefields and soak up the sun and the sense of history while soaking in a few bland muffins and dry bagels.

But first, I have to soak in a few gallons of coffee.

I make the one weak cup that accompanies the "in-room coffee maker" every hotel is so proud of. I have news for you. I'd pay double the cost of room service for a bigger, better, stronger cup of Joe with more cream. They should not be so quick to think otherwise.

I down the rotten coffee while I apply makeup and get dressed for the day in the confines of the bathroom. I don't want to disturb the kids. I have waited more than a decade for them to develop normal sleep patterns and am not about to go interrupting the routine now.

Finally, I turn off the bathroom light and the dreaded automatic fan and schlep out into the room to get my cowboy boots on. I pull the first onto my right foot. Something is not right. I take it off. There is something stuck in it.

I shake the boot. Out falls a dime.

I go to put on the left boot next. Same thing. A dime is in the shoe part of the boot.

I am completely flabbergasted.

Ever since Scott's Dad died, he has found dimes. Everywhere he looks. In random places. Seemingly appearing out of nowhere. His sister does too. She has even started saving them in a dime jar. I am not sure of the significance, but it is a strange coincidence. Not unlike certain songs that make me snap to attention and look for signs that Dad is near. That he wants me to see something. To know that he is there.

And now, out of the blue I find a dime in each of my boots. Which were folded over in the closet all night and had no way of being showered by random pocketfuls of change. A dime. In each shoe.

Thinking there is some significance, I text Scott. I tell him about the dimes. He sends me back a little smile emoticon.

I tell him that I think his Dad likes that we are here. As I've mentioned, Scott's parents and sister and brother-in-law all attended Gettysburg College like me. Scott used to visit with his family often. And now I am with mine. I am sure Mr. B. is paying attention.

Scott sends back another couple of smileys.

I finish dressing, go downstairs, get my coffee and peruse the continental breakfast. It is not just muffins and bagels and instant oatmeal. No, it is eggs and bacon and taters and waffles, too! I hurry back to the room to tell the kids. We are scrapping breakfast on Little Round Top and dining in. Get up and get dressed!

We eventually do make it to the battlefields, but not before returning to the hotel to get warmer clothing. It is crisp and clear but very cold in Gettysburg. We spend the day running around all corners of the town. We tour and we dine and we shop - and shop some more.

In one artillery shop (that Pat was not allowed to enter without a reasonable, sound minded adult person) we learn that the little pot by the antique register is to collect small change for wreaths. The shop owner is participating in a Memorial Day celebration whereby the local shop owners will lay wreaths on the war dead of the area.

Scott's Dad was a decorated Army officer.

I remove the dimes from my pocket, hand each one to Hil and to Pat and ask them to place them in the pot.

And as they do, I silently say, only to me, "Thank you, Mr. B., for your service to your country, for sparking my interest in this remarkable place and wonderful school, and for sending Scott to me." I throw a few dollars in the pot myself when we leave, breaking the "small change rule" but feeling like it was a small price to pay for so much in return.