It's a foggy autumn morning, and even after my bike ride to work which includes an uphill climb at its very end, I am chilled as I enter my office. At six thirty, the place is deserted, quiet and unfriendly. I flick on the lights and gather two pitchers from the coffee machine in the corner. Once filled they look like two water bubbles, and I again think of the water spider who gathers bubbles of air to create a comfortable, livable space beneath a lake's surface. Comfortable spaces are important.

The one pitcher is placed on a burner to prepare it for tea; the other is pored through the brewer--already set up with coffee grounds from which the aroma of hot Java quickly fills the quiet room as the black liquid streams from it into a waiting, third pot. In my office I switch my radio on to my favorite classical station and choose a mug from my collection hanging on the wall.

I always use a mug. Styrofoam is an abomination to the tactile sense of the mouth. Even at faculty meetings I bring along a mug (if I remember). Today I choose a bright, shining, metallic red one given to me with a matching heater for Christmas. Its sheen reminds me of red glass ornaments from holidays past. By now the coffee is made. Pouring in the black "nectar of the gods" and then adding cream and sugar, I cradle the now warm ceramic base, sit back in my chair with Mozart playing in the background and give thanks. Tomorrow, I'll follow the same pattern except, since I'm teaching science fiction literature, I may use my Star Trek Command mug or maybe my So Many Books, So Little Time mug. But I'll always have a mug. Mugs represent me and the culture of which I wish to be a part.

If you want to score with me, give me a mug. All my relatives and friends know this, though few understand it. My sister-in-law doesn't see it. To her mugs are clunky, tacky things, usually with some inane comment or stupid yellow smiling face (I've got several of those). She's much more inclined toward delicate bone china. And while my wife admits that one or two mugs are useful, she does not understand my continuous acquisition of mugs.

"Enough is enough!" she says, even while bit by bit, year by year I continue to bring home MORE mugs. She's begun to pray for shattering accidents.

There's a rack of mugs in my office and a wall sized collection hanging in our kitchen. Besides those on display all through the year, there are also whole collections of seasonal mugs: orange and black Halloween mugs; red, green and gold Christmas mugs; and pastel blue and yellow Easter mugs-- all with a variety of patterns and images. Right now I'm secretly on the lookout for red, white and blue mugs appropriate for the fourth of July.

I really can't tell you why mugs appeal to me so much. I started collecting them when my family went on regular vacations to York Beach, Maine. Every other year, for a week at a time, the Cubie family stays in rented cottages. These cottages always come furnished with pots, pans, glasses, dishes and mugs, but I soon found that I disliked drinking from a stranger's mug each morning. Initially I often adopted a mug, cleaned it regularly, and set it aside as my own. But I often got attached to the darn things which sometimes led to the temptation to take my chosen favorite home. (Hey Mom! Look what accidentally got packed in with the cereal!) It never happened. Mom checked the cooking ware too closely, and there was no way I would be able to explain a mug stuck in with my boxer shorts. In time, and as my cash flow improved, I started buying from local souvenir shops, one mug per vacation. So my collection began.

So, perhaps mugs were my first personal space. Inside each mug was a small enclosed environment which was mine and mine alone. And maybe that's why I'm always looking for mugs which reflect my personality. I have two mugs impressed with the face of Charles Dickens, the author about whose novels I did my doctorate. I've got a mug for every school I've ever attended or worked at (including MVNC). There are mugs on my wall from the hospital where my son, Andy, had surgery and the Ronald McDonald House in Rhode Island where my wife and I stayed after he was born.

In spite of her exasperation over my mug gathering tendencies, my wife must bear some responsibility for some of the mugs I value such as my "You Knock my Socks Off" mug, my "I love my Husband" mug, and the "Someday I'll be like Daddy" mug which I received for father's day last. Yet, possibly the strangest mugs of all in my collection are those which have little obvious value-- those that do not overtly mean anything or those which are in some way damaged. There's a mug I saved from the trash which no one wanted because of the inscription about "I Love My Nana". (I never have nor probably never will call anyone "Nana.") I've got a Pizza Hut mug given to me by an unknown cash register operator, who went and dug it up after I had admired the one at her cash register station being used for collecting tips. And there's one hand-made mug that I keep for no other reason than that it feels as if it were made for my hand.

Many of my mugs are cracked, but unless it is possibly unsafe because of internal leakage, I can not bear to throw a mug away. Many of my mugs have chipped handles and one had all of its external paint washed off when it was accidentally put into the dish washer-- but they are all still functional and so are still part of my collection. Mugs are never overly attractive anyway, and throwing one out because it has become a bit marred seems to me to be a contradiction to why one drinks from a mug to begin with.

Personal space, personal expression, personal value: through this writing it's becoming clearer to me why mugs are special to me, but where do they fit in the broader American culture of which I am a part? Although I drink and enjoy coffee regularly this is not about Java. I also drink hot tea, hot chocolate, and even hot cider in mugs. What is important are the mugs.

Mugs represent for me the part of our culture which recognizes comfort as a virtue. This is not as universal as some might think. There are some members of our culture who do not follow this.

Anyone who wears tapered shirts, uncomfortably tight pants or high heeled shoes has chosen in some way to be a part of the American culture which emphasizes style and appearance above comfort. I will not lie. I admire their appearance, but the sub-culture that I wish to be a part of wears warm, oversized sweat shirts, loose comfortable pants and roomy shoes.

There are some offices and some homes which are wonderful to look at, with matching fabrics and carefully chosen wall hangings. Certainly in such places one gets the sense of elegance and professionalism, and for some this is intensely important. But who can feel comfortable upon a white couch on white carpet (especially while balancing tea in bone china)? And how relaxed can one be in an office whose decorations could have been chosen by any competent decorator rather than the office's occupant?

The culture I connect with makes me less concerned about whether all the furniture in my house matches than whether there is a comfortable wing-back chair in which I can sit and read. When I have people in my office, I want them to feel comfortable seeing a bit of me not be impressed by my stylish decor.

There are some who have chosen a culture where formal ceremony and proper behavior are a code not to be broken and where a respectable distance is expected. I understand this. Such living is graceful to behold, and keeping a distance can be far more comfortable for all involved. But the culture that I choose values frankness and warmth above ceremony, and the lonely cost of distance is too expensive for me to pay.

Bone china is beautiful to look at and elegant to touch, but it's impossible to get enough to drink in such small cups. I would much rather be a part of a culture which, while giving me a mug with a chip in its handle and a silly face on its side, also gives me a truly satisfying quaff. I hope my set of mugs which hang ready to use sends a message to visitors that here a place to sit and drink comfortably. A drink from a mug may not have style, but it is full and hearty. And if you come to my home or my office, that's exactly the kind of drink and fellowship I hope to offer you.

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