Καλημέρα
Καλημέρα. Kalimera. Good Morning.
Entering the small coffee shop, customers were greeted each day by its owners, this mural, and the casual comfort of the morning-lit seating area. Located nowhere near a sea or even a river, this modest café had a formal name, “The Morning Emporium” but most of us just called it Adam’s. It was an extension of our own home – part kitchen and part family room.
We moved to Saginaw in 1998, when our children were 10 and 6. Shortly after we arrived Adam and his wife, Helen, opened the shop as a retirement project. It was close enough to our home that we could walk there, and on most Saturday mornings for at least a decade we did just that- rain, snow, heat, cold. It didn’t matter. Our kids loved the thirty minute walk and even more, they loved the hot chocolate and almond poppy seed muffins at the end of the journey. Al loved the mochas and scones; I am more of a black coffee girl, but sometimes indulged in a sweet hazelnut latte. At various times, Adam and Helen tried to expand the menu to include ice-cream or soup, but it was the coffee and pastries that endured.
The small shop may have seated 30 people if they were close friends. All orders came from behind an L-shaped counter that that housed the espresso machine and a display case for the baked goods on one side. On the other side, was a mechanical cash register and another glass cabinet to showcase hand-made jewelry and ceramics, by local artists. Greek cookies filled jars on the counter, home made by Helen, of course.
Adam and Helen got to know their regular customers, greeting us each week with genuine smiles, sometimes getting our order ready when they saw us coming down the street. They took time to learn about our kids, their activities, our work and our lives. One morning, we left in a hurry, forgetting to pay our bill. We realized our error when we got home and immediately drove back to pay up. Adam just laughed, “I saw you leave, but I was busy with another customer. I knew you’d be back.”
We cherished those mornings, slowing time to be with with our kids and really listen to them talk about their lives. The weeks passed. The years passed-elementary school, middle school, high school. Eventually, marching band and other activities encroached on our Saturday mornings, and far too soon, they left home for college. Still, whenever we could – semester breaks, weekends home – we made that trek for coffee and a muffin. The passage of time was reflected in their shifting tastes from hot chocolate to mochas and lattes to black coffee and espresso shots.
Καλημέρα. Kalimera. Good morning.
My dear friend, Betsy, and I had coffee together at Adam and Helen’s almost every Friday for years. The café au lait and blueberry scones were her favorites. Our relationship was initially forged from the fierce friendships between our children – friendships that still thrive 25 years later. We were an odd couple, unlikely friends. She was a Lutheran pastor; I was a chemistry professor. We talked about everything – the unfathomably goofy things our kids did, the challenges of raising strong daughters, our annoyances with the public schools. We shared our professional challenges, often surprisingly similar.
We also talked about the biggest of the big things. Why do we exist? Do we have a purpose? What is it? Where do we, as individuals, fit into humanity and where does humanity fit into the universe? Our currency was absolute honesty and our friendship grew deeper with every conversation. Despite our radically different starting places, we found much more agreement than dissent—the urgent needs for humility, compassion, dignity, and generosity. Betsy reminded me, time and time again in word and in deed, that whatever our beliefs, we are called to stand up and help in difficult times. Our time together at Adam and Helen’s was set apart from the ordinary- it was sacred – holy.
The years of Kalimera drew gradually to a close. Betsy and her family moved to the west side of Michigan. Our kids grew up, graduated from college, and moved away. We moved to a different house, too far to walk to Adam and Helen’s. About a year into the coronavirus pandemic, Adam and Helen decided to sell the business, ending that era permanently. Their building now houses a body-piercing studio called “Holeybody.” Not long after our holy place became a Holeybody, Betsy died from ovarian cancer.
I loved those Kalimeras spent beside that seaside mural, drinking coffee, talking about the things that really matter with the people who mattered most. I loved that feeling of family and home that pervaded Adam and Helen’s. There are other family owned coffee shops and restaurants that provide great coffee and food with kind and friendly service but they are just not the same.
However, there is one place in town that seems to be a reincarnation of Adam and Helen’s. This modest venue in Old Town might seat 30 people if they are close friends. It is an extension of our own home — part kitchen and part family room.
It has a formal name, “Artisan Urban Bistro” but most of us just call it Lonnie’s.
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