Truth is, it was fairly early because my father was principal and had to be school earlier than everyone else (how well I understand that now!). My poor dad did everything he could to get us up and ready so he wouldn't be late. He even made our lunches for us and . . . brought us breakfast in bed! I think of it now and would give anything to have one of those breakfasts: fresh squeezed orange juice, French toast,hot chocolate, etc. I'm afraid I didn't appreciate them so much back then as they got me out of bed. We little realize at the time what lovely, loving things our parents do for us when we're young, do we? Makes me think of this tender poem by Robert Hayden:
And put his clothes on in the blueback cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he'd call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,
Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love's austere and lonely offices?