Grandfather's Roof

On learning about warmth from my grandfather's cold coffee, which he only took under a Sumatran roof.

Images by Time Be Creative & DJV Stock via Getty Images

Friends-

Whenever I’m around coffee, I’m looking for my grandfather’s roof.

Here’s what I mean.

Growing up in the super-volcanic lands of near-extinct Sumatran tigers and coffee beans, everyone drinks coffee. 

My grandfather would have all of us sit on the floor along the inside perimeter of his house. Up against the wall. There were dozens of us. But everyone sat on the ground. I don’t even remember if there were chairs. And his house was probably no bigger than a regular Starbucks.

In the middle: The Meal.

Which looked something like this:

Sumatran foods are known for its no-fuss attitude. They’re not afraid of meat and fresh ingredients. [Photo: Thalia Toha, 2023.] 2.7861° N, 98.6161° E

Grilled “arsik” fish, roast “saksang” pork, rice, and humble vegetables.

Near every three to five people, there was a small silver bowl. Each filled with clear water and a slice of lime. It’s not for drinking. We wash our hands in it. Sometimes few people would share a bowl. Now that I think about it—how I didn’t get sick more often is really a mystery. But then again, I wash my hands numerous times here in the US now—and I’d still get sick.

So maybe there’s something to those bowls.

I remember he’d always take black coffee after our roast meals.

No sugar. No milk. Just black. This is how many elderly Sumatrans do it. I wish I have pictures of it. But this was pre-digital cameras.

He’d take a sip. I’d peek into his mug. It’s full. Hours later, he’s still talking. The mug was still full. I could tell that the steam was gone. It’s not even warm anymore. But he’d take another sip. Then another sip. For what felt like hours. 

From one cup.

When it’s close to 11 pm, I’d lie down on the ground. Sometimes with everyone around still talking.

There was no bedtime. We kids just decided when to keep going. And when to pass out. The sound of the tropical night would overpower everything else. Crickets there aren’t shy about making their presence known.

Sprawled on the ground, I’d look up at my grandfather’s ceiling. By the time I was born, most houses had terracotta roofs. 

But just one or two generations before my grandparents’, in the super-volcano regions of Lake Toba, the roofs looked like this.

This is how some of the endangered Sumatran “Batak” roofs look like in the Huta Siallangan conservatory. The angled roof and raised platform construction are designed for earthquakes. [Photo: Thalia Toha, 2023]

I never really thought much about these pitched roofs until I came to America. Where all the roofs are made of asphalt shingles and steel. If there is one word to describe American roofs, I’d say it’s utility. It’s a tool strictly made for use. Just like the coffee we drink today. Straightforward. 

Compared to Lake Toba roofs, modern American roofs probably serve my daily needs better. 

But they don’t speak to me.

When I think about my grandfather’s roof, I could almost hear the low murmur of my family talking at 11 pm. And the rhythmic anthem of crickets trying to put everyone to sleep. I could smell the cold coffee still left in my grandfather’s mug. Fighting against the smell of damp wood furnishings.

I could even feel my family’s unbothered spirit.

The spirit that stares life in the face as if to say: As long as we have each other, we’re good.

When I close my eyes at night, I could also take myself back to the minute when I was laying under my grandfather, as he turned to look at me. Never saying much. Just keeping a distant watch.

I’d remember again how he just never finished his coffee. And didn’t seem to mind that it turned cold. I never really got why he did this. He’s gone now. So I would never know for sure.

But maybe grandfather never looked at his coffee the same way we do. 

To him, coffee is something that his grandfather gave him.

• Something that his grandfather’s father … grew … on the lands upon which he stood.

• Something that traveled across the seas.

• All the way from the molten-lava underworld beneath his childhood roof.

• It is something more than just lifeless beans …

• That now sit in most of Starbucks’ flat-roofed stores. 

It made sense now. 

To him, coffee is time. And his roof is a timekeeper.

He doesn’t really see coffee or anything he owns, including his own house, as something that needs to serve him. But rather as living, breathing bearers of meaning. Something that needs his custody. Not the other way around.

I wish I could talk to my grandfather now. Ask him questions. 

But when I lay down to sleep, sometimes I still think about what hangs above me. And about these forgotten roofs that inhaled the vapors of his coffee. I think about how, even in his 80s, he stayed up to make sure everyone went home safely. When the crickets were done singing, I could still see his tall figure, hands behind his back, looking out the door—saying goodbye to the last of us.

Most of all, I think about how he taught me how to see … that strength has little to do with what’s inside of us. But it has everything to do with being a keeper of what’s around us. 

He never finished his coffee. But he knew how to finish the black night.

With strength.

I suppose in the end no one will remember fast coffee-chuggers. 

But everyone will remember those who taught us how to see. 

-Thalia

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