Early Morning Sounds

On school days my mother used to play the piano to wake me up and let me know it was time to come downstairs.  That got me through my elementary years until I was given an alarm clock and then a clock radio.  These days I wake up on my own, well before dawn, and hear the chirp of the cardinal mixed with the rumble of the train.  Saturday it was the sound of the cat throwing up (which is preferable to not hearing it and finding the result of that in the dark with my bare feet) that awakened me at 3 a.m.

In each new home it has taken time to learn the normal creaks of the building and morning routines of the neighborhood.  I’ve been in big cities, rural farmhouses, and campgrounds, on a plane, cruise ship, and bus at the break of day.  Seen the sun rise over the ocean, prairie, and mountain top.  Heard the thunder and the wind and enjoyed the beat of the rain on the roof and against the window while huddled under the covers.  Felt engulfed by the silence of fog or blizzard of white while straining to hear signs of life in the outside world.  Talked first thing with a newborn and the dying.  As a guest I’ve heard the sound of someone showering in another part of the house, the coffee dripping into the pot or tea kettle whistling in the kitchen.   

All of these are treasures, but the sweetest memory of early morning sounds are those long ago piano tunes. 

What brought that time to mind was when I had one of those experiences that maybe you’ve had or need to know is in your future. The other day as I was typing I looked down at the keyboard and wondered when my mother’s hands got attached to the ends of my arms.  Along with her wedding ring I saw wrinkles and a brown spot that surely was not there last week.

Comedian Milton Berle said, “If evolution really works, how come mothers only have two hands?”  I never saw my mother’s hands at the chalkboard in the one-room school house where she taught or at a comptometer which she studied nearly one hundred years ago.  But I think of those hands – Lois’ hands – and of what I did see them do.  A lot was in the kitchen.  Kneading bread, rolling out piecrusts, stuffing the turkey, cleaning the oven, putting the dishes away.  Then there was tending the garden, running the Electrolux vacuum cleaner, crocheting afghans, counting the dollars from the church’s collection plate and marking the ledger, cleaning the algae in the aquarium we bought for dad’s 75^th birthday.  There were tens of thousands of hours of faithful doing in the history of those hands.  It was at the piano that she relaxed.  But now that I think about it, even there she served her family. 

Perhaps today or this week you, too, will recall an early morning sound that takes you on a roundabout nostalgic trip to a smile.  It’s worth lying in bed at dawn and musing about.

Marilyn