My Grandpa’s Thermos

If Grandpa was there, his thermos probably was too.

My grandpa carried an old green Stanley thermos pretty much everywhere.

And I really do mean everywhere.

If he came over to help paint one of my kids’ bedrooms, the thermos came with him. If he showed up to watch one of their sporting events, it was there. Birthday parties. Holidays. Family gatherings. A regular afternoon when he stopped by to help with something.

Somewhere nearby was that green thermos, filled with black coffee.

Always black.

And apparently, there was no wrong time of day for coffee. Morning, afternoon, evening—it didn’t matter.

Maybe that’s how he made it well into his nineties. Who knows.

I don’t remember ever thinking much about the thermos back then. Why would I?

It was just Grandpa’s thermos.

It was one of those things that becomes so associated with a person that you almost stop seeing it—like the jacket someone always wears or the chair they always sit in.

You notice it only when they’re no longer there to carry it.

Now, when I look at that old green thermos, I can picture him showing up.

And I think that’s the part that means the most to me.

He showed up.

For the big things, sure. But also for all the little things that probably didn’t seem particularly important at the time.

A bedroom that needed painting.

A kid’s game.

A birthday.

A holiday.

An ordinary day.

He was there.

Thermos in hand.

It’s scratched now. The green finish is worn. The metal shows its age. You can tell it wasn’t something that sat carefully on a shelf.

It went places.

It lived a life right alongside him.

There are other things of Grandpa’s that I’ve kept: his little Mead pocket notebook, a UAW pen, his old car keys, his flannel. Ordinary things that probably wouldn’t mean much to someone passing them at an estate sale.

But they mean something to me.

Especially this thermos.

Because when I look at it, I don’t really see an old Stanley.

I see Grandpa coming through the door.

I see him standing in a half-painted bedroom.

I see him on the sidelines.

I see him at a family gathering.

I see that thermos sitting somewhere nearby while life happened all around it.

And maybe that’s why we keep these things.

Not because they’re rare.

Not because they’re worth anything.

But because sometimes an ordinary thing can hold a thousand ordinary moments.

And those are the moments we don’t realize we’re going to miss.

Until next time,

Cerise

What do you keep?

There is probably something in your home that wouldn't mean much to anyone else.

An old recipe card. A well-worn jacket. A chipped bowl. A letter tucked away in a drawer. Something ordinary that became anything but ordinary because of the person, place or moment attached to it.

Things We Keep is a collection of those objects and the stories that come with them.

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THINGS WE KEEP

Ordinary things. The stories that made them anything but.

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