Sleep, where art thou?
Beats the hell out of me. Knowing the bliss of sleep will remain elusive and outside my grasp, and with one blurry eye on the digital clock, every day begins – always – with the same words said aloud: “Let’s do this.” It’s kind of my readiness rigamarole. That, and coffee.
Truth be told, there are worse things than jumping – okay, hobbling – out of bed at some unGodly hour, even on a weekend morning while other mortals enjoy the gift of shuteye.
Really, I can’t wait for my walks in the calm morning darkness. In a weird, odd way, there is a certain excitement at the privilege and honor as steward of my path for the roughly 90 minutes I beat the pavement.
So it was my bag, go-cup of French roast and I were out the door at 5:35 a.m. The birds were already raising Cain and some distance away, probably over toward South Blvd., the horn of a heavy train blared before it crossed Tyvola or some other arterial (it reminds me of my college days at Nebraska when I’d hop into an open boxcar on the occasional west bound train out of Lincoln just to see where it would take me. Usually to nearby Crete or sometimes as far as Holdrege.).
Sticking in my head as I mosey along is a lovely sing-a-long melody by Ivy: Edge of the Ocean:
Ooh, we can begin again
Shed our skin, let the sun shine in
At the edge of the ocean
We can start over again
As trash days go, this was a lightweight. I can’t remember the last time there was nothing to pick up in the first 10 minutes. It’s a helluva thing to walk in peace and thought for such a long trashless stretch. The first plastic bottle didn’t turn up until the 30 minute mark as I reached the entrance to Phillips Place.
The major retrievals were a shoe box-size chunk of polystyrene and a flat of poly along Sharon Road that was destined to be crunched beneath car wheels if not corraled. There’s a good feeling about that.
Of all the years of Saturdays of this chore, today’s bag was by far the lightest and least filled in memory. Hardly the stuff of a bin-buster. The normal and expected volume never materialized. That’s said in a positive way.
So now I’m plopped down on the couch writing this. But not for long. Just heard was the thump of the Saturday New York Times hitting the front porch. Time for real news and more coffee.