The radio woke me up this morning. What a horrible way to wake up, blasted out of bed by unnatural sounds. I set it because I have to be somewhere by nine and wanted time for a cup of coffee, the paper and this blog. It’s a dreary morning, a damp morning. I heard it rain last night. It fell gently.

The Baltimore oriole is back this morning. He found the feeder I filled yesterday with grape jelly. I’m guessing it needs more jelly today as the rain would have washed some away. All of the feeders are now filled, and I threw some corn on the ground for the squirrels. I am not totally heartless, even a rat’s cousin gets fed in these parts.

The other night I was coming home from my friends’ house down the street. It wasn’t really late but, still, none of the houses were lit, and the street was totally dark. The stars were bright. The night was lovely. I got home and went out on the deck to sit for a little bit. It was chilly, but I had on a sweatshirt and was comfortable. The only night noises were a few peepers. I seemed as if I were the only person left in the world.

When I travel, I love the odd hours, especially the early mornings. I get to see different sorts of sights like streets washed and windows unshuttered as stores are readied for business. I get the freshest rolls for breakfast and watch people hurrying to work. It’s looking at their real world, their daily lives. I remember women in dowdy dresses covered in aprons sweeping the sidewalks in front of their houses in a small town in Portugal. They reminded me of my grandmother. In Ireland, I watched the fishing boats leave the port. In Africa I could smell wood fires and hear the rhythmic beat of the pestle as fufu was being made.

I never need an alarm when I travel. I am up early every day, all the better to see the world.

The mornings are lovely this time of year. The sun seems brighter and sharper after the darkness of winter, the air is clear and fragrant and birds are plentiful and loud. I was on the deck while waiting for my coffee. I stood there looking over the yard and watching Gracie. Every day seems just a bit warmer than the day before. I know it’s not always true, but I think it so.

On Saturday mornings, the neighborhood stirs earlier now. Lawn mowers hum and sometimes knock. My neighbors talk to one another, and I can hear them from down the street. Bob’s truck goes by, and I recognize its sound. He’s off to do lawns. My next door neighbor leaves early. Sometimes I hear him talking to one of his workers in Portuguese before they load up the trucks and go. He’s a landscaper who also takes care of my yard. The day starts early when the weather is warm and the grass is growing.

The night are loud. The chorus of peepers from the pond down the end of the street serenade us. If I were a kid again, I’d be there, at that pond, lying on my stomach close to the water to watch the tadpoles transform into frogs.

I have routines. When I first wake up, I figure out the day of the week and whether or not I have any obligations or social events. I stretch a bit then get up, say good morning to Gracie, Fern and Maddie, who are milling around, go downstairs and start the coffee. While I’m waiting for the coffee, I go outside and check out the morning. In a bit, I go back inside, grab a cup of coffee and read the Boston Globe. My second cup accompanies the Cape Cod Times. Gracie naps during my paper time. I write Coffee next then make my bed and get dressed. The rest of the day just happens.

When people ask me what I’m doing during my retirement, I never give them a play by play. I figure they’d be bored with the little pieces of my day. I, however, love all these morning routines. They give each day a bit of symmetry.