I just popped awake this morning at 4:15 and I knew, the way you know about a good melon, that I wasn't going back to sleep. (Can you name that obscure reference?)
There is something different about the pre-dawn when I'm hitting the road. Even the lamp light on the street looks different out the darkened windows.
When I was little and the long road led through Texas to Oklahoma, I wasn't nearly as bright-eyed at the 4:00 wake up, but I do recall how the the lone light here and there through the house changed the shape of everything. I'm sure it was because as soon as Mom and Dad saw us (me and my grandparents) off, they wanted to crawl back in bed. So only the bathroom light would be on when Mom rubbed my back to wake me up, just enough to zombie walk out to the backseat of the Oldsmobile, where I would curl up with my little pillow and blanket and stuffed animals, and get kisses goodbye, and watch from the rear window as my parents got smaller in the distance from the driveway, waving from the kitchen window. It wouldn't take very long for me to drowse back off, but I remember, lying across the dark red velour upholstered seat, looking up out the windows at Houston whizzing by in the dark, how the lights of the city looked.
My stirring has roused three of the five animals who've rallied around the lone light of the laptop this morning, Evan at my feet, Fisher on my lap, Bruiser in the chair nearby. Faith and Katy remain asleep with Sam downstairs for another hour. I'm thinking coffee-making and a shower are in order soon, but for just a little while longer I'm basking in the lone lights, inside and on the quiet street, listening to cat purrs, snuggling under a blanket, hearing the call of the open road.
There is something different about the pre-dawn when I'm hitting the road. Even the lamp light on the street looks different out the darkened windows.
When I was little and the long road led through Texas to Oklahoma, I wasn't nearly as bright-eyed at the 4:00 wake up, but I do recall how the the lone light here and there through the house changed the shape of everything. I'm sure it was because as soon as Mom and Dad saw us (me and my grandparents) off, they wanted to crawl back in bed. So only the bathroom light would be on when Mom rubbed my back to wake me up, just enough to zombie walk out to the backseat of the Oldsmobile, where I would curl up with my little pillow and blanket and stuffed animals, and get kisses goodbye, and watch from the rear window as my parents got smaller in the distance from the driveway, waving from the kitchen window. It wouldn't take very long for me to drowse back off, but I remember, lying across the dark red velour upholstered seat, looking up out the windows at Houston whizzing by in the dark, how the lights of the city looked.
My stirring has roused three of the five animals who've rallied around the lone light of the laptop this morning, Evan at my feet, Fisher on my lap, Bruiser in the chair nearby. Faith and Katy remain asleep with Sam downstairs for another hour. I'm thinking coffee-making and a shower are in order soon, but for just a little while longer I'm basking in the lone lights, inside and on the quiet street, listening to cat purrs, snuggling under a blanket, hearing the call of the open road.
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