Tuesday, February 22, 2005

(Too) Early In The Morning

Unusual duties found your humble Contributor up and out the door too early for decent folk this morning. Arising in darkness, long before the promise of anything like the day.

It might have been worth it to see rose-fingered Dawn, stretching and throwing open the shutters; but, she slept or, at least, dozed in her bathrobe and fuzzy slippers, sending, in her stead, her first cousin Pall. Gloom yielding to semi-gloom; black resolving to gray blending to the darker gray of the hibernal horizon. How hard to be a friendly hue this morn, with shades of slate governing the available light. "None knew the color of the sky." Aye, mate. The prospects look dim.

Only milkmen used to be up at the hour your humble Contributor arose. Creeping down alleyways in the dead of morning, delivering their clinking dairy dailies. Who knew then that these were little more than beverage atrocities: creamy loads of cholesterol and fat, funneling down the gullet, squeezing through the gut's fleshy portals, and, at length entering the blood stream: searching out some comfy nook along an arterial wall, gathering there in small colonies with like-minded globules. Today, one can only shake his head and gulp down the grayish liquid of what were once soybeans.

Yet, it was not so much the gloom, or the fatty fluids, or even the subjugation of the bovine masses, but the hour. Too early.

5 Comments:

Blogger Gone Away said...

There are the Day People, those who choose to keep to the natural order of a diurnal species, chattering and fussing as they hurry through the familiar day. And there are the Night People, a smaller group, pasty-faced, dark ringed around the eyes, muttering in the quiet of the night. But it is the Early People who are the elect, the milkmen and newspaper deliverers, the shopkeepers and split-shift men, the ones who straddle day and night, who see dawn as the mid-point of their working hours. In England they survive.

The milkman, especially, is that symbol of morning whose extermination the English will not countenance. Brussels may decree that the sea be open and Spanish fishermen may fish British seas dry, that a pasty is not Cornish unless made in Cornwall, that Britain shall give oil money to Europe until the pips squeak but have no voice in European direction, and the Englishman hunches closer into his overcoat and says not a word.

But lay a hand on the English milkman and you will know the wrath of a nation pushed beyond endurance...

2/22/2005 09:26:00 AM  
Blogger Remainderman said...

England -- a land flowing with milk, if not honey.

Yet, how many English hunting scenes have we seen and now .... Will the English milkman be next (I tell you, that would drive the cows mad.)

2/22/2005 04:02:00 PM  
Blogger Ned said...

The early morning hours are the best of the day. The air is never fresher or cleaner than before sunrise. The world is more respectful of your desire for peace and there is quality time with your coffee before the sounds of the day and waking children interrupt. On a clear morning, one would have to be Mad to miss rose-fingered Dawn.

2/27/2005 12:45:00 PM  
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