@ 6:13 march morning

Early each morning, I rise with the sun, prepare breakfast for Rejoice and I, and then we brace ourselves for the late winter cold before heading to the van. I blast the heat (Rejoice isn't used to this weather. The coldest it gets in his part of Swaziland is fifty degrees), set the van to barrel up the rutted, bumpy lane and down the other side, emptying out onto our country road as the sun pinks the sky and the frost clings desperately to the hills and valleys. We have some of our best talks then, as I'm driving Rejoice to his daily job at the local thrift store, sometimes getting so involved in our conversations that I forget to respect the potholes. Lately, we've been watching in amazement the progress of an Amish neighbor's building, a shop for crafting end tables and coffee tables. In just a matter of days, the project has gone from moving some earth to a building under roof. Rejoice is intrigued with the building process. In his homeland, houses are made from cement blocks, often hand-made, and either steel, tile or thatched roofs. Seeing stick frame construction is new for him.

Along our drive, we see animals that dart hither and yon--a squirrel who isn't sure whether he's crossing the road or not, a herd of deer staring curiously at our passing vehicle, a groundhog waddling quickly into a hole in the bank. Sometimes we see large turkey vultures or crows on the road devouring a squirrel or groundhog that wasn't so lucky. Often, we'll begin our conversation, about Swazi government, or strange American customs, or rodeos or county fairs or polygamy or genetically modified foods, and find it difficult to stop talking when we reach our destination.

This poem, which I read for the first time today, reminded me of our morning drives.

@ 6:13 march morning
by Denis Dunn

driving toward the
morning sky

I must be attentive; the spring potholes
punish the wandering mind

crow gently rises
from carrion breakfast
to allow me to pass

the pine bough
of crow’s chosen perch
barely bends;
tho the bird looms large

the greens, the orange
the gleaming black death eater

what have these to do
with this shattered passageway

today this dark ice will melt
as orange brightens to yellow
& tonight it will freeze again

Why I love my daughter

While there are many very decent reasons for me to love my firstborn child, my dear daughter, my young genius, I've just this evening added yet another.

As we were driving home from choral practice, a trip that takes over an hour, I was enjoying her iPod's music mix--Peter Mayer, Jack Johnson, Five Iron Frenzy, U2, Chris Rice, John Mayer, Barenaked Ladies, Bob and Doug Mackenzie--and we were all bopping along to the tunes when, suddenly, a familiar melody filled the van.

"...for so long
You and me been findin' each other for so long
The feelin' that I feel for you is
Growin' stronger
Take it from me
If you give a little more than you're askin' for
Your love will turn the key..."

Yes, my darling daughter had loaded Andy Gibb's "Everything" onto her iPod. My eldest son, soon-to-be sixteen-year-old Houdin, could sing the words AND hit the notes.

Of course I thanked Bard for the wonderful gift. She tells me there's more. Tune in next week to hear what other blasts from the past my daughter will share with me.

My heart is still going "pitter-pat."