Even though Daylight Saving (not savingS) Time started last weekend, don't kid yourself about the quality of daylight we're getting, because we're not. I get up at night, in the wee, small hours of the morning to start on a day that, for the next few months at least will conclude for the most part in the light. And I am very grateful for that.
Not so grateful that I get all swoony about the necessity of getting up well before the chickens and any and all other livestock to earn my wage. When I was just a kid, it took all of my effort to wake up when I'd hear stirring downstairs as Mom and Dad started their day with breakfast together in the kitchen before my father drove to the train station to go to New York and mom worked on a dozen projects or more until it was time to get us all up for school or life or something.
I had no idea what being a grown up meant except you got to drink coffee, which I didn't like, and to drive a car, which I knew even before I did it, I would really like. I'm not sure I gave any thought to whatever else was involved but I don't recall it if I did. All I really remember was how long the days were when I got up to watch Mom and Dad get ready for the world.
Now, when I get home from work, I have barely enough energy to get out of the car, much less do any of the projects as a kid I assumed my dad was home to do with me. And yet, I carry on as do we all, perhaps more from convention than conviction. If you don't do it, who will? Assuming, of course, anyone would notice whatever it was got done, or was left undone, in the first place.
And here's the thing, not one word of what I've written so far has anything to do with what I will write next. I was just tuning up, like maybe eight plus years of this stuff on a daily basis every day wasn't enough of tune-up? Or a turnip? Even a trollop, or perhaps a trolley. A herd of Winnebagos, hell, we're giving 'em away.
In the afternoon daylight Thursday driving up Washington Street in Norwich, just beyond the Sweeney Bridge more on my side of the road than on the other was a pile of fur and what looked like strawberry ice cream with hair. I have no reason to believe it actually was. You guessed it. It was road kill.
But it wasn't until I had almost driven past the Driscoll House I realized it was probably the remains of the woodchuck who lived in the rock wall behind the church which bordered the Heritage Trail on the bank of the Yantic River. I have to tell you, I'm pissed that somebody took the time in a 25 mph zone that none of us ever pay attention to, to run down this animal down. Actually, I'm not sure why I'm pissed and that pisses me off even more.
I've seen him (her? it?) about every other time I walk the trail to the harbor (I never walk Washington Street because of the traffic) and he was always in a hurry to get to or from wherever it was he was to wherever he was going. Or vice versa. And now all his (or her) rushing is over. Bigly.