Starbucks at the Safeway

Olivia and Wendy are usually the baristas on duty at the Starbucks when I am in Safeway during the week. Because I see them more than any of the others who work there, I asked them to pose for the photo I took when I decided to write about Starbucks. You might wonder, why write about Starbucks? It’s a completely commercial coffee house that is as responsible for the decline of civilization as Wal-mart, strip-malls and mega-plex theatre chains. They sit in nearly every grocery chain and mall and sometimes on multiple street-corners on the same city block. Starbucks is not the real deal but a pretense and so is not unique or special. But that is precisely why I want to write about it. Because they are everywhere. And for that reason, to me, they are special.

My step-daughter, Jordan, refuses to step foot in Starbucks (or its Canadian equivalent Second Cup) because she believe that the company is immoral and exploits poor coffee growers in the third world countries, although this isn’t true of Starbucks - according to what I have read (I don’t know about Second Cup) - I acknowledge that a cup of just about anything at Starbucks’ is priced well over it’s actual value and that what one is really paying for when one does stop and go with the logo cup in had is the stamp of privilege because only those with the time to burn and the cash as well, run into the nearest Starbucks for their morning latte fix. People who are press for time and money, or are too sensible to pay too much money for hot flavored water, stop at the corner gas-mart for the paper (those who are sensible because they read) and a cup of whatever is brewing. I began my chai days with occasional trips to a mom and pop coffee house at the Valley West Mall in West Des Moines. Will loved the mochas and he could talk football with the owner who was a Bears fan but that was okay with Will, at least the guy was devoted and knew his NFL. The little trips made shopping and running errands more palatable for Will and I can’t remember when he got me the first chai latte but I don’t remember taking an instant liking to it. It was too hot. I have never been a fan of anything I had to swallow quickly in order to avoid burning my tongue. I am like that about most foods and beverages really and Will’s standard question during a meal would be “Is that cold enough for you yet, babe?”

The coffee shop eventually moved out of the mall to a strip mall not far from where we lived and it became a Sunday ritual for us that continued until Will went into the nursing home in October of ’04. After that Katy and I would stop there to pick up a mocha to take to him when we went to visit and eventually help with feeding him on weekend mornings and whenever I was on vacation from school. After Will died, I couldn’t bring myself to go there anymore. The couple that ran the place had been so kind to Will when he was still able to go there himself which was a rarity. So many people would pretend he wasn’t present because the didn’t realize he had dementia and his behavior was so odd, or they would give him rude looks and when he failed to notice they would direct them at me. I stopped trying to explain early on. It did no good. I can remember a police officer who overreacted to Will’s agitation once and when I explained what the real matter was, he told me that he didn’t care - just keep my husband back. Will could barely see or walk without assistance at the time.

So, when I moved up to Fort Saskatchewan, I was quite happy to discover that the local grocery, Safeway, had a Starbucks. Just like the Hy-Vee grocery back in Iowa. It was comforting because despite the Canadian version of service (slow) it was the same. The same menu. The same baked goods. The same tastes and smells. The same rotating holiday items for sale. And, if you went often enough, the people would start to know your usual order and eventually ask after you as though they knew you. Amid all the unfamiliar, here was Starbucks - predictable and known. Kind of like the Catholic mass. You go anywhere in the world, walk into a Catholic church and the mass will be pretty much the same everywhere. The same holds true with a non-fat chai latte.

Rejection

I received my first rejection email the other night. It was from an online poetry magazine called Blue Skies. I believe that it is run by a member or former member of the Fort writing group. I had gotten word of an open call for submissions from the leader of the Fort group and submitted three poems before the first of the year. They were about Alberta places: the Fort, Edmonton and a range road near our home. The rejection was short and to the point, which was “sorry, but I don’t like your poems”. At least that is how I read it.

Poetry, in my own opinion, is one of the most subjective forms of written expression, and for the most part I don’t enjoy reading others poetry or even listening to them read it. I think that is because many poets are pretty ordinary writers and it shows in their choice of topic, theme, word choice, comparisons and structure. By far the most common has to do with emotional upset, particularly of the romantic variety, and consequently it reads like the bad poetry of a heartbroken 15 year old. Plaintive and cliche. Of course there are those poets who write about things - like their cats - or are “landscape” artists who drone on about flowers and meadows and the brilliant blue sky.

I didn’t really love the poems I submitted because I was tied to writing about Alberta as a place. That was the theme. The work was a forced and I guess it showed too much. Oh well, I am not a poet by nature though I can write it and an ever inspired to do so spontaneously on occasion, but I really just consider poetry a writing exercise more than something to do on purpose day in and day out.

Since I haven’t much invested in these poems, I am going to publish them myself here and on my Anniegirl1138 site.

Prairie Canopy

Sitting atop the earth like a crown
A canopy covering
Cloudy or crisply stark
Close enough to touch
Where far off rains occasionally drape its horizon
And the moon might hold a mid-day chat with the sun
A clean blue awning over all I can see
That darkens gradually from the prairie to become a backdrop for the clouds


Range Road 213

East past the tracks in Josephburg
Right at the gymkhana field
Forest lined but for acreage drives, canola fields and ponies grazing
Rolling and narrow it leads to the Yellowhead
From there, anywhere

Edmonton Skyline

Just past the Camrose exit
Heading west on Yellowhead Trail
And nearer than it looks
Sits Edmonton
So much like a cutout,
A child’s toy,
Waiting to be reached for
Scooped and carried
Away from refineries
Hazy obscurity

That the problem with writing to order. It’s soulless.