Woke this morning well before dawn and smiled at the double-meaning (especially for an old guy) of “well before dawn.” Quickly decided to stave off (for as long as possible) the politically miasmacal, MAGAtical meaning of “woke,” and luxuriated in the warm-blanket dawdle of the cool breeze making its way across my face from open window to my left, open door to my right. ‘Twas the first morning after the first 2025 night of sleeping with them open to cool the house by o’nite cross draft after yesterday’s 76-degree afternoon on Black Bart Trail.
The turkeys and Nick, who live in standard suntime, sleep still. I rise undisturbingly in man-made DST and light-step into my wake-up routine of old-guy minor indignity + Rodin-thinking thoughtlessness, postponing what my boarding school chaplain would—on gray days—call “the real and serious business of living.” The cold water face-splash was so bracing I indulged in a second one, then approvingly look at the empty space beside the sink where, for a week or more weeks than I care to confess, the cold water tap handle wasn’t. It’s where it should be, in functional position since yesterday when I took enough time from taxes and their pal to figure out how to repair the stylish post-modern fixture. Not the simple, 30-second 20th century phillips head screw process. Now, which day on my pill box am I in?
No shave this morning. Stubble’s the style these days…for white guys and the homeless.
Grab my t-shirt, think of my dear friend Wayne Knight (first of my cohort to die, so way too soon) and placed my bet. Wayne was artist, teacher and with his wife Karen spontaneously helpful in my hardest (so far) of times. Long before it was a civil necessity, Wayne required all guests at his annual neighborhood party to park their politics at the head of the driveway. He also posed deep questions, almost ancient Greek philosophical questions: “Why is it that every morning I get my t-shirt on backwards?” Today my T pulls on right. I win my bet, but I’d rigged the selection by choosing a T whose folding revealed its provenance (Jockey) visibly inked just below its neck hemming. Downward and onward! Trousers, shoes and sox are a good idea. It’s baseball season, so that’s how I’ll spell socks until probably November, though in the way back copy-reader and proof-reader, by law and tradition, would segregate sox in the Sports Section.
DST cuts short morning chore time. Nick needs his breakfast. We both need our 2-mile walk. My morning stroll down the hall toward the rising sun points the way to the thick cobwebs in the high gable of the great room, as RE brokers call it. By sun clock Nick and I would be half a mile from the cobwebs. Later for them. Right now it’s hard-boiled egg, pro-biotic, kibble with a tablespoon of heavy cream as garnish. I’ll grab a bite later.
Having followed Thoreau’s advice to anticipate the dawn, I’m on our way up the driveway. Nick sniffs, scratches a mole hole, digs and sees me ahead of him, races past to the next mole hole. A pick-up closes too fast, sees us, slows. Still a good day though, alas, I know I’m headed toward John Adams’ letter:
Remember Democracy never lasts long. It soon wastes exhausts and murders itself. There never was a Democracy Yet, that did not commit suicide. It is in vain to Say that Democracy is less vain, less proud, less selfish, less ambitious or less avaricious than Aristocracy or Monarchy. It is not true in Fact and no where appears in history. Those Passions are the same in all Men under all forms of Simple Government, and when unchecked, produce the same Effects of Fraud Violence and Cruelty. When clear Prospects are opened before Vanity, Pride, Avarice or Ambition, for their easy gratification, it is hard for the most considerate Phylosophers and the most conscientious Moralists to resist the temptation. Individuals have conquered themselves, Nations and large Bodies of Men, never.
We top the hill. May it continue to be a fine day on this private road which has become a public way.
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