Morning Routines

I started to download a blog entry early this morning and couldn’t.  A note came up on the computer screen saying, “Blogger is not available”.  Further explanation—temporarily shut down for maintenance.  Frustration!  Not that I mind the concept of maintenance, it’s always a good idea.  It’s merely that I like to start the day with a blog post.  It’s my routine.

Oh well!  I go downstairs to get the newspaper and anticipate reading it, fragrant dark coffee in hand.  I brave the early morning wet and wind to search the mailbox.  The paper isn’t here.  It’s late…again.  Hmmm, I wonder if the newspaper printing plant is down for maintenance, too.  It is so often.

The sky is odd looking, a rippled low ceiling of clouds, whites and greys; like a freshly-ploughed field, all furrows and ridges, and a weak whisper of pale blue sky.  The wind is gusty, carrying the scent of rain and a deep chill.

A steady drone of car traffic on the street below is punctuated by the throaty rumble and vibrating down-shifting of motorcycles at the traffic lights.  Everyone is hurrying to work or appointments or coffee shops.  The early morning freight planes are low down today, reverberating thunder over the roof top as they leave airport runway number twenty-four, roaring out, on their way to everywhere.

Nicholas vocalizes kitty-chirps and tiny mews as he keeps me company and watches for this morning’s birds to arrive at the feeders.  We each have our waking rituals.  He sits hypnotized, meditative and waiting.  The other two cats are staked out on the floor, near the kitchen sink in hope of the clatter of their food dishes.

The house is quiet.  The clock ticks.  The world starts to wake, birds are trilling, calling to each other.  Nicholas is attentive.

The tall lanky paper boy comes trudging up the steep front driveway, bent over slightly from the weight of the Thursday paper with its heavy ads.  His blue hood nearly covers his face, sheltering him against the unpleasantly cold dampness; all that shows is a piece of his thick black hair.  The metal lid clanks as he wrestles and squeezes the thick paper into the mailbox.  He turns and plods out the even steeper upper driveway and over to the neighbour’s house.

Ah, morning routines!