The Sounds And Sequences Of Morning
Yet before this bleak hour, the first morning sound had already greeted me: a persistent clattering of the bedroom blinds. Maudie Nell insisted that I let her out. But I fiercely ignored her until she uncharacteristically stalked back to bed.
My cell phone (which I now use as an alarm) squawks with increasing irritating intensity as wooden fingers stab at its tiny buttons. I arise.
Then shambling to the kitchen in darkness, I gladly shoo Maudie Nell into the back yard, chugalug 20 ounces of cold water and flip on the coffee maker. A welcome gurgling ensues.
Sluggish blood, droopy eyes and aging bones deny morning. But a few minutes of movement and stretching battle residual lethargy. Gurgling stops; coffee's ready, so I pour.
Thus bolstered, I sit in the living room for an hour's prayerful, reflective quiet broken only by sounds usually unnoticed in the house. The barely-perceptible ticking of a nearby clock. Fluttering birds on the power line outside. A peculiar rubber-on-rubber squeak as air flow from the heating unit grates two birthday balloons together. The hiss of the gas log's pilot light.
Maudie Nell furiously paws the glass on the back door, thumping and scratching. Whenever I delay, she claws vigorously at the empty space where the now-destroyed weather stripping once did its job. I crack open the door to admit the furry bullet with fluffed tail.
She pads furtively in the dark, the jingling of the tags and bell on her collar betraying her position. She anticipates what will happen next in the regular morning sequence and prepares herself.
Suddenly, another being asserts himself--as Brudderman endeavors to initiate what we call the "morning rip." He aggressively jiggles collar hardware by swift jerks of the head, enticing her to chase him through the darkened house. He darts hither and yon with clamorous, thundering paws, hoping she'll follow. If she doesn't, he asserts his manliness with vigorous rips at the couch and rug--as in the old days when he actually had claws. But I nonetheless recognize the rhythmic, telltale swishing of clawless paws on fabric.
At precisely 5:55, the wall clock chimes twice, a peculiar alteration in its usefulness effected by a plummet to the floor ten or more years ago. But my mind now effortlessly interprets the perverted sequence: 6:00 (two chimes), 7:00 (three chimes), 8:00 (eight chimes), 9:00 (one chime). Then normalcy reigns--until 6:00, that is.
Breakfast preparations begin as both household and world officially awaken with first light.
The TV news warns of traffic delays due to construction and accidents. I contemplate the marked improvement in my health from not having to leave at precisely 6:40 every morning for an hour's commute. There was no time then to appreciate the sounds and sequence of morning.
Just as the key to a puzzle lies in attention to its many individual pieces, so familiarity with life's details imparts order to the whole.
Copyright 2005 James McAlister
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