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Dyre
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Commentary by Arnold Dyre
I do not remember each and every morning of my 67-plus years, but a morning has arrived every day.
I was born on the morning of Halloween around milking time. I figure that I was aware of mornings as they occurred during most of my early existence, but I do not actually remember any of them until I reached maybe the age of three. My memories of those first mornings involve mostly sounds and smells. The sounds were those my mother made in the kitchen preparing breakfast, and the smells were of her cooking.
Sometimes, I would wake before the sounds or the smells, and I would wait quietly for the sounds to begin. If I woke up very early and did not succumb quickly to more sleep, I would hear my father get up and light the fire. Not long after the first sound my mother made in the kitchen, opening a cabinet, slightly rattling a pan (she was not noisy), or speaking softly to Daddy, I would hear the first sizzle of bacon or sausage in the skillet and, soon, the smells would start. I could smell the biscuit dough, the bacon, and the sausage. I could smell the coffee. I could tell exactly when Mother broke the eggs and started them. If I were going to eat with my parents, I had to get up when the eggs started, but often they ate alone, and I waited for the second round.
I remember roosters crowing. Sometimes, I heard rain. On rare times, Mother would excitedly come and tell me of snow.
I almost always got up before my sisters. I liked to go to the barn with Daddy. By the time I was seven, I had chores that I did even before breakfast. When we lived on the Keeton Place and Daddy milked Mr. Keeton’s dairy herd, we did not have breakfast until the milking was done. I would have already helped feed the calves, slopped the hogs, fed the chickens, and closed the gate after the last cow left the dairy barn and headed to the day pasture.
I have experienced mornings that broke clear and cold with heavy frost glistening in the morning light. I remember mornings so gray and gloomy that they were almost not worthy of being called mornings.
I have had mornings with full-blown college days hangovers. There have been humid, hot mornings and other mornings that promised to get hot quickly. I have heard mornings arrive with a bugle playing reveille or announced with the shrill sound of a Navy boatswain’s pipe. I have awakened to the sound of gunfire!
I have seen mornings arrive through office windows when I have worked all night. I have seen mornings unfold in the woods, upon the sea, from mountain tops, and in my own backyard.
adrye@comcast.net
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