One Hundred Fifty-Six

Breakfast in the wee-est of the wee hours is a delight few experience with sufficient frequency.

About John Swinburn

"Love not what you are but what you may become."― Miguel de Cervantes
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4 Responses to One Hundred Fifty-Six

  1. Millie says:

    Ohmygosh, this moment I remembered the two “Kidnap Breakfasts” in which I participated as a teen. My mom had bought and made me wear new pajamas to bed one Friday night when I was in seventh grade because she knew I would be kidnapped at 5:00 a.m. by a group of Rainbow girls. (She’d also bought me a matching robe and slippers, which was exceptionally odd because I never wore robes or slippers. I should have known something was up…)

    The second was one I helped orchestrate as a senior in high school. As I recall, we two or three organizers kidnapped a dozen boys and girls, my group of close band friends. As was customary, we alerted the parents a few days before the event so no one called the police and no one was naked. As far as I know, boys in my community never attended Kidnap Breakfasts, so you can imagine their perplexity when a group of pj-clad girls and boys burst into their rooms to take them out to breakfast. (Dutch treat- the parents provided the money.)

    You have made me want to have a senior citizen kidnap breakfast!!!!! Of course we would have to tell everyone in advance that we were coming so no one had a cardiac arrest. But wouldn’t it be fun for a dozen senior citizens to carpool to HS together to have breakfast at 3 a.m. at IHOP???

  2. Millie says:

    Breakfast in the wee-est of the wee hours is bizarre- nay, surreal- if you are breakfasting at a truck stop when the local Tyson Chicken factory shift changes.

  3. Your thoughts this morning, Juan, were far more insightful than mine. They seemed, to me, to be written by a man who’s pondering ideas and issues far too complex for me to grasp. Duties, my friend, are never dishonorable; they sanctify responsibility.

  4. jserolf says:

    I like it. I generally rise at 4 am,though in bed by 9pm. Such are the hours of those who view sleep as an infringement, an invasion; though, what I like about sleep is that I am so fully charged by my 2nd cup of coffee. And, while I am a tobacco smoker, I never smoke in the morning.

    This morning, however, I rose at 2 am, and since I am off on Friday, I stayed up, and finally got around to pouring myself an ice clinking glass of whiskey. I walked outside by my pool. Listened to mocking birds as they work the night. Completely alone. Silent, early morning. I mulled things over in my head again and again. I jotted some notes, I wrote on a pad, “I am not so lost in my own doubt that I cannot thank whatever super-consciousness exists.”

    I thought about you, John, and I thought about Trish, and how maybe I should visit Trish or not in Mexico. I thought about others. I thought about my responsibilities, then made my usual list on a note-pad with the heading “Needful Things” for the day. My days are made on such lists, John. I must begin, almost always, with a list of duties.

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