Thoughts on Good Morning, Gravity, and Pain killers

I walk to the warehouse from where my car is parked; roughly only 5 minutes, but it feels longer. Generally there are other cars passing by, heading to their assigned spots and joining the other carpoolers, along with filling up the nearby business park.

We share our warehouse with another company. Sure, we take up about 90% of it, but they receive their own deliveries in bay doors on the opposite side of the building. They supply car parts for various garages and dealerships, their drivers coming in every morning to pick up the order for their assigned routes and then leaving once they snag some coffee and chat it up with fellow drivers.

There's this one guy that wishes me "Good morning," every day. His cheeks are adorned with muttonchops, and he always has a baseball cap and a red plaid jacket. Not only does he do this without fail, but he could be in the middle of a conversation, and he'll stop and greet me. I smile, wave and respond with a "Good morning."

A part of me is curious about his friendliness, and if there's any rhyme or reason to why he greets me, but at the same time.... I don't want to know. I like the mystery in it all and the thought that we're just friendly strangers, who routinely see each other.

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Thoughts on The Valley, Work Crushes, Clear Tape

Every morning I drive through a valley to get to work. It's farm land, soccer fields, and where the majority of my hometown sits. Huge hot air balloons take off and land here, and people come to watch the spectacle of Ultimate Frisbee during a weekend tournament.

In the morning, I drive on a small back road to go down into the valley and across. The sun rises at my back, lighting my destination in golden rays. A light mist lingers mere feet over the farmer's crops and above the creek that cuts the valley in half. On the distant hill, more fog shrouds buildings, but is quickly dissipating from the sunrise.

I cross some railroad tracks that haven't seen a train in over fifteen years. Weeds grow between the ties, nearly hiding the existence of the iron beams and railroad spikes still firmly in place. Taking one last look at the valley, I won't see it for another eight hours, on my trek home with the sun once more at my back.

Thoughts on Sunday Mornings, Rainy Nights, and Failed Food Experiments

Weekend mornings are quiet. Particularly Sundays. It's the last twenty-four before the return to work and only a small break in a week where every second counts. But it's not filled with To-Do's and errands, or with hanging out and chores. Those are all left up to Saturday. Sunday gets the things I should make time for. The list of things I love to do, but don't do on a day-to-day basis.

 But most of all, it's the early morning where I'm still in bed, wishing to drift to my dreams. Instead, I listen to the quiet murmur of a television in the next room, and the groaning of the dog as he moves to get up. In the quiet of the bedroom hall, I can hear his collar jingle about his neck as he stretches, yawns, scratches, and whines. His loud waking ritual signals he needs to go outside; and then get his breakfast the instant he returns. I know if I pretend to sleep, he won't wake me. He'll rouse whose bed he slept in. Upstairs he'll venture in the yard before returning for his breakfast reward. Thanking whomever fed him, with a burp to the face.