Aj Schwanz

I love my coffee mug. Itís big and pretty - oversized, black, with two faces etched on it. Itís a mug that says, ìOooh, Iîm artistic! Creativity flows about me like honey.î (See how artistically I can write? It must be the mug). Funny thing about it is that it doesnít usually hold coffee: itís so large that by the time I see the bottom, the coffeeís cold and less than appealing. Generally it holds water, because for some reason I find lukewarm water more palatable than lukewarm coffee.

Each day I get up, fix my breakfast (low carb eggo waffles, cottage cheese, and fruit as of late), and warm up a mug full of water. A friend of mine once told me that caffeineís not what wakes people up - itís the warmth of the beverage. While I canít completely get on board with that theory (I know Iíve gotten quite a few buzzes off of iced mochas), I have found that a hot drink certainly helps start the day off on a right foot.

The mug is a gift, perhaps one of my most prized gifts, from my brother. He got it for me while on a high school field trip to Ashland, Oregon, home of the well-known, artsy fartsy Oregon Shakespeare Festival.

In my experience high school was a real drag - not a lot of redeeming aspects: state winning water polo and wrestling teams (a sport that you canít really see whatís going on, and a sport that you probably donít want to see whatís going on), national attention for the senior prank involving filling the gym with road kill, an open building facility in the ever-soggy Northwest . . . you get the picture.

But one redeeming activity was Mr. Plantzís annual trip to Ashland. He taught sophomore English (the highlight for him being the baseball unit. How does baseball fit into English? Thatís one I still ponder). Each year heíd load up a bus of 40+ people to head down to southern Oregon for three days of plays, wandering the town, and general merriment. Priority was given to the upperclassmen, but sometimes the humble sophomores could sneak in.

Weíd see three plays: usually one was blah, one was okay, and one was fantastic. Thereís nothing like sitting in the second row, getting spit on as actors from ìTwelfth Nightî engage in their witty Shakespearean banter that pretty much went over our heads but weíd laugh with the audience accordingly to keep up the appearance of ìyouthful sophistication.î Watching Tom Stoppardís ìArcadiaî I felt . . . smart: like a secret door in my noggin had been opened that held a bounty of treasure and knowledge . . . but then it closed after we made a Safeway trip and almost sent ourselves into a Fun Dip coma. I loved going to Ashland because for the first time I caught a glimpse of what it might be like to be an adult - not to be ruled by your hormonal emotions, to engage in substantial culture, to experience freedom and fun and be an individual.

When the time came, my brother too took advantage of the lucrative perk of attending our high school. As he took off for his trip, I told him what a fantastic time he would have and, of course, that he should buy me a gift. I donít know that I ever got him anything when I went to Ashland; but at the time of the request, I was in college and believed that Copernicusís theory should be revoked, because in fact, the world actually revolved around me. It was mostly a joke (getting me a gift; not the world-revolution thing) because what high schooler really wants to spend money on his bratty college sister? But he did: he got me my mug. And it was the best present ever.

See, my brother and I didnít do a whole lot together as kids. We shared the same parents, occupied the same address, ate at the same table (occasionally before we wore down Momís will to eat at the table and instead moved to eating around our glowing friend television); but really my brother and I lived separate lives. We didnít share friends; personally, I got the distinct impression that he would prefer I didnít talk to his friends. Much as the high school quarterback father expects his son to follow in his footsteps, I assumed my brother would like to do the activities I enjoyed: youth group, newspaper, yearbooks, etc. I wasnít respecting him as an individual, that he had desires and interests of his own. My brotherís not one to do things because others want him to, so donít worry that I oppressed him: heís far too stubborn to be oppressed (a ìproudî family trait).

Going to Ashland mightíve meant more to my brother that it did to me. In high school I worked in theatre doing backstage stuff (didnít have the confidence or belief that anyone would want to see me attempt to act), but my brother is an *actor*. He had parts - major parts - funny parts: he was *good*. Heís acted, heís directed, heís sang in a musical and had to dress up in womenís clothing (I think thatís the sign that youíve made it in the theatre world). Heís won awards and the praises of countless folks: people still tell me how funny he is . . . and that was over five years ago!

Going to Ashland was one thing that we shared, that we both enjoyed. He too had his own adventures with his friends, wandering in and out of too many shops, feeding the swans, drinking the nasty water at Lithia Park, being amazed at the sets and actors and scripts and all that goes into putting on a play. And while he was there, he took the time to think about me, to get me a gift - a thoughtful gift, not some free hotel soap, something that he thought was cool and that Iíd like. And he was right: I love my mug, not so much for how cool it is (it *is* awfully pretty and holds an excellent amount of liquids), but because it came from a time when my brother and I shared something. Danke, Bubba.