Mornings were never her favorite, but they became difficult forty-nine years ago, well maybe fifty if one counted the first year of marriage. As a university student, she would drink coffee until well after midnight, sharing philosophy with her mother, who never graduated high school yet still knew more about life than Nietzsche.
Avoiding early morning classes like they were syphilis, she would awake by ten, reluctantly leave the sanctuary of her bed, drink more coffee and head to the University of Illinois, Circle, as it was labeled in the old days. After lectures, studying, volunteering at local Chicago schools, came work. During the week, two jobs. Weekends the third, waitressing at the Copper Mug, where she wickedly spilled beer in the laps of groping admirers. Mary, the bar's owner, gave her slack, mostly because she fancied her as a potential daughter-in-law for her Shit -for- Brains son who went to Florida State.
Her teacher’s license came with a" bye-bye" to Shit-for-Brains and a "Hello," to Mr. Right. Both the teaching career and Mr. Right meant an early morning alarm. Drinking late-night coffee and ten am wake-ups were memories. Balls to the wall, baby. So much for philosophy.
Pregnancy surprised everyone, especially her. How did that happen? Seemed like an odd question for a teacher especially, but that’s how it felt to her.
Morning sickness gave daybreak a new meaning and then morphed into AM contractions. Neither her mother, Lamaze or Nietzche truly prepared her for the birth “experience.” She remembered the morning after. Swollen breasts, ice on the happy place and the words, “I’m never doing that again,” which were followed by an emergency hysterectomy a year later, the morning before Thanksgiving.
Years and years and years of requirements fulfilled. Kid raised, grandchildren, check. Thousands of students graduated. Many happy returns of hundreds of days. But always early mornings.
Today, she fetches coffee and scrambles back to the adjustable. No sense reading about the state of the world or the weather. Neither ever bode well. Comics in hand, she snuggles under the duvet eager to read what Dear Amy has to say.
“Mom, is everything okay? Why are you still in bed? Can you drive your grandson to school today?”
She wants to shout, “Hell no, unless classes start at 10:00 am!” But she says, “Sure, all is well,” and once again, sanctuary aborted.
— Mugsy
Avoiding early morning classes like they were syphilis, she would awake by ten, reluctantly leave the sanctuary of her bed, drink more coffee and head to the University of Illinois, Circle, as it was labeled in the old days. After lectures, studying, volunteering at local Chicago schools, came work. During the week, two jobs. Weekends the third, waitressing at the Copper Mug, where she wickedly spilled beer in the laps of groping admirers. Mary, the bar's owner, gave her slack, mostly because she fancied her as a potential daughter-in-law for her Shit -for- Brains son who went to Florida State.
Her teacher’s license came with a" bye-bye" to Shit-for-Brains and a "Hello," to Mr. Right. Both the teaching career and Mr. Right meant an early morning alarm. Drinking late-night coffee and ten am wake-ups were memories. Balls to the wall, baby. So much for philosophy.
Pregnancy surprised everyone, especially her. How did that happen? Seemed like an odd question for a teacher especially, but that’s how it felt to her.
Morning sickness gave daybreak a new meaning and then morphed into AM contractions. Neither her mother, Lamaze or Nietzche truly prepared her for the birth “experience.” She remembered the morning after. Swollen breasts, ice on the happy place and the words, “I’m never doing that again,” which were followed by an emergency hysterectomy a year later, the morning before Thanksgiving.
Years and years and years of requirements fulfilled. Kid raised, grandchildren, check. Thousands of students graduated. Many happy returns of hundreds of days. But always early mornings.
Today, she fetches coffee and scrambles back to the adjustable. No sense reading about the state of the world or the weather. Neither ever bode well. Comics in hand, she snuggles under the duvet eager to read what Dear Amy has to say.
“Mom, is everything okay? Why are you still in bed? Can you drive your grandson to school today?”
She wants to shout, “Hell no, unless classes start at 10:00 am!” But she says, “Sure, all is well,” and once again, sanctuary aborted.
— Mugsy
All that work and fulfilling of obligations! You'd think that JUST ONE LEISURELY MORNING would be allowed! Soon, perhaps, SOON. ---Macoff
ReplyDeleteWow. A lot of this sounds like my life, except I never reverted to sleeping late again. Maybe, it's the dogs.- Opelikakat
ReplyDeleteA wonderful full character with time passing her pleasures by.
ReplyDelete