Shortly after I moved to the Irvington area of Indianapolis, I took a stroll around the neighborhood. One evening, I heard music coming from a business that identified as a coffee house. That music served as an introduction to Joseph Kilbourn and his bride, Jennifer Delgadillo (and the cider that Joseph brews,) the jazz musician Charlie Ballantine and the “Black Magic” brew at Coal Yard Coffee. When I was selected to be the weekday caretaker for my youngest granddaughter, I prammed her to the Coal Yard, where we would dance on the bandstand to the musical offerings from the baristas’ Bluetooth speaker and music streaming services. And at the Coal Yard, dancing on the bandstand is Myah’s great delight.
I have not been Myah’s caretaker for a while, but am currently a fill-in, and we two, “Clop” and Myah, have been revisiting our old stomping grounds. (Myah calls me “Clop,” a conflation of “Cool Pop.”) Just before Thanksgiving, we bundled up and Myah climbed into a wagon her mother sometimes uses to drag her about the Pennsy Trail and went to the Farmer’s Market at 10 Johnson. As we headed back home, we passed Coal Yard. When she saw the building, Myah asked if we could get a muffin. We went in, wagon and all, and Myah enchanted the patrons.
My youngest granddaughter is unabashedly social and interacts with people in a free-spirited way. At the Farmer’s Market, she got into an animated conversation with a woman waiting for service at one of the tables, asking her if she had kids — a 15-year-old grandson — and after the woman admired Myah’s headband, she was told that it was “very fuzzy.” When we entered the Coal Yard, Myah looked for our favorite barista, Kate, who was not there. I ordered our blueberry crumble and the man behind the counter offered to warm it up. Myah’s eyes lit up when she saw a partly trimmed Christmas tree on her bandstand, and boxes of ornaments. She asked if she could dance, and I assented, cautioning her to avoid knocking over the tree. She freestyled for a stint, and across the room, I saw some observers and some smiles. The man from behind the counter asked me if he could let her place an ornament on the tree; I assented, and she did.
Not everyone appreciates the presence of children, and chatty 3.6-year-old girls can irritate. But my girl was causing creases in faces, and the man from behind the counter, apparently understanding how to interact with little ones, always quietly and respectfully asked me if he could involve Myah in some activity. In addition to hanging an ornament on the tree, she helped him water the plants, and correctly pronounced “Calla Lily.” Between bouts of “meow-meowing” as if she were a kitten, and unrestrained dancing on the bandstand, I managed to get warm blueberry crumble into Myah, and she sipped the chocolate milk gifted to her by the man behind the counter.
Pre-pandemic, I spent a lot of time with my oldest grandchildren, Xavion and Imani. Imani would sit at my feet and handcraft books for me, one of which was “I Love My Cool Papa.” Her brother used to climb from his bed and come to me to ask me to rub his back, so that he could sleep. Their cousin Myah now asks me to rub her back and has Imani’s unrestrained singing style. And an unrestrained dancing style. And where she goes, she sparks small brushfires of smiles and delight.
Those are, indeed, the small delights.
cjon3acd@att.net