A morning person, I usually hop out of bed about 3:30 a.m., curious about how the new day might unfold. Most offer interesting experiences in one way or another.
For example: Two afternoons ago a snow-white, really hairy, mustached dog with cascading fringe over its eyes hopped out of a BMW. His toenails flashed; silkily blanketed legs flowed along the sidewalk. He looked regal. Probably a show dog, I mused. That sort of grooming isn’t cheap.
The four-legged Dumbledore was connected to a tallish man of about sixty. Both sauntered down bustling Front Street, enjoying the lovely afternoon.
A young child and three admiring adults, including me, fussed over that pooch. The youngster daintily shared her ice cream cone with His Majesty, to much laughter. The animal’s delight was contagious. It was a special moment.
How could I make my own at the outrageous hour of four a.m.?
A gentle trot around the block fired up the circuitry. Ideas fought for dominance as I ran. Why not bike downtown? It’s weirdly wonderful when lamp-lit and empty—but, this early, the police might stop me for a chat. Chuck that.
I could stir up sleeping park ducks…Nope. Been there. Done that.
It was that second time around the block that did it. I kept passing leaf piles. Huge ones, parked at curbs. The child in me whined, wanting out.
Ha! I’d choose a whopper pile and dive in! But, before leaping, I’d look. I’d thoroughly poke it, just to make sure nothing un-leaf-like lurked underneath. (When I was eight, I’d jumped into a mountain of wind-blown leaves that had completely blanketed a pile of stacked lumber; my aching shins wore the cuts for weeks.) I found a stick and prodded. Nothing. I looked around. Naw! Who’d be out at this hour? With a muffled whoop I hurled myself into the mountainous, billowy heap—Lord, it was fun! For just a second, I was a child. I burrowed in, becoming invisible. Leaves clung to my hair and socks.
Buried in someone’s hard work, I registered the distinct odor of doggy doo somewhere close. Oh, well. Pleasures have their price.
I allowed myself one more silent charge, and then carefully rebuilt the pile, using my hands and feet as scoops. The repair wasn’t perfect, but still, it would pass muster.
Snick. A porch light went on. Oh, NO! How could I explain this behavior away? Who’d be up so early? Should I bury myself until it was safe? No, that would be way too suspicious if they’d already spotted me. Should I run? Nope. No time. So I just stood there, knee-deep in leaves, looking extremely foolish.
The door opened halfway. A disheveled, night-gowned lady sleepily ejected a cat. The door closed. It stood on the step staring at me, meowing its amazement. Sighing with relief, I crept away. Death would have been less hideous than an explanation.
It was the homeowner’s fault: she’d made the pile so inviting it was practically an engraved invitation.
The sensible side of me whispered that a huge pile of leaves sat on my curb; why leap elsewhere?
I dunno…because it wasn’t mine?
Anyway, getting away with leaf naughtiness put a spring in my step. Honestly, I hadn’t flung myself into heaps of crunchy red and gold for simply ages. Time to turn over a new leaf. I’d make it an annual ritual.
Wandering home I mused that as we age, we give up things we used to love to do…No, that’s not right. I think we age faster because we give up those things.
Hmmm. How old would I be if I didn’t know how old I was? Now, there’s a thought.