#49 The Adventure To Great Soap & How To Find It: Learn to Love Life's Gentle Rituals

I remember when I was a little kid, feeling so comfortable at my grandparents’ house. That kind of comfort that comes from things always being there, from life having a rhythm you could count on.

They lived in a nice but modest home, filled with small things that made them happy. Nothing fancy—just familiar, lived-in pieces of life that told you exactly who they were.

My grandfather kept a small clear-top case on the coffee table, filled with little things he found along the way: an arrowhead, a polished piece of obsidian, a small model airplane, a mouth harp. Things that didn’t really belong together, except that they all meant something to him.

My grandmother kept a paint box always within reach. Little bottles of blue, white, purple, and more—well used, well loved. She painted with them like they were tire treads on a long road, marking time, memory, and miles of life lived.

I tell you that to share in the comfort and warmth of their home. The magic for me was in the sounds and smells that, to them, were just the gentle rituals of everyday life—but to me, they meant so much more.

Early mornings I could hear my grandfather swing his legs out of bed with a quiet groan, shaking off the stiffness of the night. Then his voice, soft and familiar: “Good morning, Rosie.” That’s what he called my grandmother.

He’d shuffle into the kitchen, start the coffee, and get bacon and eggs going on the stove. Soon the kitchen would come alive—the cast iron skillet being set down, the sound of coffee bubbling through the filter, the steady rhythm of a morning already in motion.

Things in their home rarely changed. You could recognize that skillet just by the sound of it. Without seeing it, I knew when it was the big one coming out—so he could make eggs for all of us.

And once the bacon hit the pan, I knew it wouldn’t be long before I was being called awake. I would stay in bed a little longer, waiting for the smell to reach me. There’s something about a warm bed and the scent of bacon drifting in that makes it almost impossible to get up quickly.

I’d wander out in an oversized shirt and head straight for my grandmother, who by then was at the sink brushing her teeth or washing her face. She always used Pears soap. I can still see it—the soft golden, translucent bar, the way it lathered, the way it smelled. It was the only soap I ever knew her to use, and she had the kind of skin people notice without even trying.

Once her face was washed and her teeth brushed, she would turn to me and smile, saying, “Ahh! no more gator breath.” She’d say it with a grin, wide and playful, showing her teeth. To this day, I still laugh at her description of morning breath as some kind of swamp creature.

Over breakfast, there was the crinkle of the newspaper and quiet conversation about local stories. I was always waiting for the funnies and horoscopes, impatient for my turn. It was an unspoken rule that you didn’t pull sections apart before Pop had finished his favorites. Unlucky for me, he liked the comics too.

I’d try to sneak a hint, asking what happened in Garfield the day before, hoping he’d hand it over early. Most times, I got a glance over the top of the paper and a reminder that yesterday’s was still by his chair.

So I waited, listening to the rustle of pages, the slow chewing of toast, the sound of coffee being sipped a little too hot.

Looking back, there are so many sounds and smells we don’t realize we’re storing away in the moment. They feel ordinary then—just life happening. But years later, they’re the things that bring everything back.

We measure life in big events, but I think the real weight of it lives in the small, repeating moments. The daily rituals that don’t feel important until one day they’re the only things you can still hear.

Learning to love your morning coffee, your face washing ritual, evening routines, pancakes on a slow morning, walking the dog at sunset—those are the quiet little anchors. Not newsworthy, not dramatic… but deeply meaningful in the way they hold a life together.

Sidenote: I am now the proud owner of one of my great-grandmother's cast-iron skillets. Sadly, it's not the one in this story. Neat to have nonetheless to have a small piece of family kitchen history that exceeds 100 years old.

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