Like some early risers, coffee is an important part of my morning routine. After five or twelve cups, I’m ready to greet the new day. Having done this for many years, I’ve grown rather attached to the vessel that holds the brown elixir of life.

It was purchased on a lark in 1977 at a store in Ithaca, New York. The name of the store has long since faded from memory, as have so many other things from that era. But the mug remained. It was the mustache shield that caught my eye, a way to keep the bristles dry while sipping. Ironically, it’s a right handed mug, and I drink my coffee with my left hand, but that didn’t matter. It struck me as a cool cup at the time.

No one else around the house, whether fraternity, apartment or single-family, since would drink from it. It was my mustache mug, and there was no mistaking it. It’s not that anyone else particularly wanted to drink from it, but it was sufficiently peculiar that it was reserved for me.

The mug remained intact, but for some fading to the blue field of Old Glory and some darkish stains in placed where my cleaning fingers couldn’t fit, for many years. Then my daughter reached her teen years and was ready to share in the dishwashing duties. On her very first night at the sink, there was a sound of a small crash. Nothing huge, but enough to be heard from the next room. We smiled. This was to be anticipated, as the feel of soap suds through one’s fingers gave rise to rookie slips.

When I walked in to sooth her, I saw in her eye a tear, and in her hand, a mug. It was my mug. There was a chip in the rim where once there was only the remnants of coffee. I told her it was okay, it happened to everyone and not to worry about it. She looked at me, doe-eyed, and said, “but Dad, it’s your mug.” I kissed her forehead and told her it was fine. She smiled and went back to work.

I walked in the other room in shock. For decades, I drank from one mug. One. What would I do now?

The next morning gave me the answer. I drank from the sides of the mug without the chip. More chips, and a crack, developed since then. I had to be more cautious about where the mug and my lips met, but I was up to the task. Dr. SJ thought I was ridiculous, using this broken down old mug every morning. I added it to the list. Until a suitable replacement could be found, it would have to do.

A package arrived at my office about a week ago. I wasn’t expecting anything. It was from Colin Samuels of Infamy or Praise fame. Inside was something he thought I would enjoy.

I can’t bring myself to throw out the old mustache mug. I know it will eventually wind up in the earth, but not today. But my morning coffee comes to me in a new vessel. Thank you, Colin.