Sun Days on Orcas | Good Morning: Teezer’s Episode 1 by Frank Loudin

||| SUN DAYS ON ORCAS BY EDEE KULPER |||

Happy 92nd Birthday to my friend Frank Loudin, a wonderful painter and writer – our own Norman Rockwell. In honor of him celebrating his first several days into his 93rd year, I am honored to publish his first of ten episodes about Orcas Island’s beloved coffee and goodies store, Teezer’s, which is now a place in our memories and in island history. (The other nine will be on my blog, one week at a time – lifeonorcasisland.com.)

Without further ado, take it away, Frank…

Teezer’s Twists

There are famous seats of higher learning around this old world. You are perhaps thinking, The American University in Cairo or maybe St Andrews College in Edinburgh, or maybe just PLU. One of the great seats of learning that I know of is right here in my hometown – Teezer’s.

Of course, if you wish to confer with brainy old guys who can expound on the mating habits of the Arctic muckhog, then you should go to Krakow A&M, or if your interests are in the origin of the square hole in some ancient Chinese coins, then you should take the slow boat to Shanghai Polytech.

But if it is just everyday stuff you are curious about, then Teezer’s is your spot. On any given day there will be, in residence, experts on a constellation of matters from alpha to zeta, from the most common to the obscure. If the question remains, then someone will fabricate a perfectly logical solution unsubstantiated by facts.

Teezer’s is just a small place in a really small town that doesn’t even have a parking meter or town marshal, or even a street sweeper. Well, it does have a street sweeper, but it belongs to the county, as do all of the streets, so the town gets street services through the capricious whims of some folks in an office over at the county seat, on another island.

Originated by four sisters with the last name of Ortiz and armed with their mother’s cookie recipes, they adopted their nickname for their shop and Ortiz became Teezer’s.

Teezer’s sits on a busy corner that everyone passes on their way to the post office. There is one handsome shade maple and a garden-like patio out in front with four tile tables where there is usually at least one tethered dog and maybe an untethered companion, usually black labs, plus some small kids playing chase. The patio is decorated in accordance with the season – orange pumpkins among the red leaves for Halloween and Thanksgiving, colored lights and snow flakes, real or plastic, for Christmas, etc. On a nice day, there might be a silver-haired woman reading a poetry book and taking notes, or a young man too well-dressed for our town, filling out an order on his laptop. Sometimes there will be a family with backpacks and a border collie, or maybe a cluster of bikers clomping around in their tight little outfits of matching colors.

Inside, there are seven tables with seating for maybe twenty-four close friends or eighteen perfect strangers. The only time there are that many strangers in Teezer’s would be on a rainy Fourth of July when all of the regulars are out on the street watching our famous parade while the tourists gather inside, out of the wet.

You can always tell the locals from the tourists. Locals have all been trained to bus their own tables. In fact, if a stranger leaves his cup on a table, one of the regulars will usually pick it up and take it to the dirty dish tray.

Mark, the co-owner/baker, starts his day at 4:30 AM. By seven, when he allows the first customer in, he has the display case filled with seven flavors of scones – cinnamon, pecan, blueberry, raspberry, raisin, pumpkin, and chocolate chip, plus breakfast egg sandwiches, pumpkin bread, brownies, cinnamon rolls, bran muffins, various chip cookies, quiche, several gallons of coffee – regular and decaf Starbucks, a big crock of cold water, and the espresso/latte machine is all cranked up and ready to go.

By the time the early crowd gathers, Carolyn, Mark’s wife and co-owner, will be there presiding over the roaring espresso machine, turning out everyone’s special desire as Mark hands her pink Post-It notes at machine-gun speed, with orders such as venti nonfat, quadshot, caramel mocha with whipped cream, and 1% foam on top.

While Carolyn talks to a friend, she doesn’t even look up but operates the machine like a mad chemical engineer.

Tony grabs a coffee to go. “I gotta catch a ferry,” he says over his shoulder to a gathering of regulars at the three favorite tables in the corner. Favorite because from there you can see everything that goes up and down the street as well as everyone that might come through the Dutch door.

“Catch a ferry? What are you using for bait?”

“Yeah, I hope you are using a mighty big net.”

“He thinks he’ll get the first spot on the ferry.”

“I have never gotten the number one spot on the ferry.”

“How do they load the ferries anyhow?”

The comments run around the group like a game of Button, button, who’s got the button.

“Well, it’s my theory that vehicle color is the primary guide,” Frank poorly imitates the raspy voice of an old man. “One loading master, or mistress in this case, was overheard asking for two more reds, a silver and a green to complete her ensemble on the port mezzanine.”

Bob interjects, “That one loading master, that really tall blond guy with the bad posture, doesn’t seem to really care. With a lackadaisical flick of his bony wrist, he guides innocent islanders to indiscriminate spots on his precious Elwah which, in the big picture, could seal their fate to some gruesome catastrophe which might occur on the high seas between Shaw and Lopez.”

“Well, if you just hang back a little when you get to the ramp, they don’t seem to know what to do with you, so they just put you down the middle,” George informs the crowd in a low voice, like he is sharing a state secret.

“Do they really call them ‘loading masters?’” Jannie asks.

“I’ve heard them called other things,” Frank replies.

“In Anacortes, how come they let the latecomers for Shaw and Lopez just drive right in and get onboard?”

“How come they let the Island Hardware Truck drive on anytime he shows up, while the rest of us have been sitting there for hours?”

“Why don’t they open more ticket booths on Fridays?”

“Why do they have the air conditioning on in the winter and the heat on in summer?”

Why, oh why? Since all – rich or poor, young or old, islander or tourist, Republican or Democrat – have to use the ferries, they all have there horror stories and theories.

“Just wait ‘til they build the bridge. You’ll all have to go live in Ballard,” Steve, the perpetual skeptic, growls.

There is a pause. Some folks have to go to a board meeting, or up the street for teeth cleaning while others get refills.

They all sip and look out the window as our town’s own demented street character hustles across the street to stop and stare at some distant figment that only he can see.

“I wonder where he sleeps at night,” Jannie asks.

“Well, I bet he sleeps by himself.”

“Except for his pet bugs.”

“Maybe in someone’s garage or crawl space in one of those summer homes on the mountain.”

“I sometimes think we should try to help him but he seems to get along okay. Don’t you wonder what is going through his mind?”

“Nothing. He went to WSU and is on the board of directors that set up the loading system for the ferries.”

Everyone snorts and sips.

Both Bobs get up to leave. Two telephone guys come in and take the one remaining table in the corner.

“Do you guys have cell phones so that headquarters can get in touch in case there is a communication emergency?” Frank asks.

“What’d you mean? We are headquarters!” Rob answers.

There is general laughter until two well-dressed strangers come in, look around, and check their oversized wrist watches and leave.

“Boy, do those guys have government written all over them,” Jannie observes.

“Yeah, who else wears gray slacks, blue button-down shirts, and blue blazers with red ties?”

“Yeah, and where do you get a haircut like that?” Al rubs his hand over his bald head.

“Maybe at the police academy.”

“Maybe at Les Schwab.”

“How about Stalag 17?”

“They could be Republican congressmen or FBI, or maybe even the CIA.”

“Or maybe even military intelligence.”

“Naw, they don’t have that anymore. If they ever did.”

“The big one had a Marine Corps pin in his lapel buttonhole.”

“Hey Frank, they want that landing barge back.’’

“Yeah, you were supposed to turn that thing in when you came home. And what about all of your green skivvies?”

They all sip on their coffees and watch a young mother give a huge blackberry scone to a toddler, who immediately drops it on the floor.

“Quick! Three second rule!” four people shout.

The little girl looks around with saucer eyes, takes two steps backwards, and sits down on the scone.

Mom picks her up, with not too much damage done – except for the scone. Mark whips over in his usual efficient manner and cleans up the floor. One of the tables takes up a collection to replace the terminal scone. The little girl hiccups a couple of times and takes a big bite out of the berry side of the new pastry.

There is always a sampling of tiny tots around because Teezer’s is a family-run place. Mark and Carolyn are the owners/managers with lots of help from two of Carolyn’s sisters and one daughter. A few years ago, during the summer, three daughters and an assortment of nephews were behind the counter most of the time, while Mark continued to do the baking, banking, and carrying out the trash.

There is a gallery of black and white photos on the walls that covers a slew of grandchildren who show up from time to time. Carolyn, a great hand with her new digital camera, provides a continuous sampling of her family on the walls. They all have wonderful dark eyes, so the walls seem to be watching all the goings on.

By eleven o’clock, the crowd thins and a quiet settles over the place. The espresso machine is down to a timid gurgle, Mark has wiped off all the tables, taken out the trash, washed most of the dishes, and gone to the bank.

Anyone who shows up now is of another vintage. Not so prone to conversation or lingering discussions. Tomorrow, there will be the same faces…with some new twists.

Author’s Note

Every small town or neighborhood has a place like Teezer’s – a little spot where folks of all persuasions gather early in the morning to discuss the weather, ball game scores and other mundane things, carefully avoiding anything that might be so controversial as to disrupt the tranquility that folks need to start the day off properly.

I only wish that everyone who reads this already has or can find a similar enjoyment somewhere to what I found in the twists down at Teezer’s, thanks to Mark and Carolyn Bledsoe and their superior coffee and goodies.