Wake Up Call

“My Sainted Mother used to wake us up with a loud shrill, “Wake up Jacob! Day’s a’breaking,” It was one of the few occasions during which I thought ill of her. I’m sure she learned the practice deep in the woods of Cleveland County, Arkansas. It was particularly annoying of a Monday morning. Indeed, on a school day it produced thoughts of revenge. I would envision informing the world about the package of Kool cigarettes that she kept hidden in a jacket in her closet, accessible when we kids were all away.

My father had a less annoying but even more efficacious manner of getting us up and moving. “I ain’t sayin’ it again.” That caused three sets of feet to hit the cold floor.

These days our foster puppy, Daisy the Demon Dog, communicates her wakeup announcement telepathically, something along the lines of, “You can’t begin to imagine what a mess I can make if you don’t get in here and get some din-din ready.” It works. After morning ablutions, she loves to initiate the entertainment portion of the day with a game she calls, “Tug on the fat man’s robe.” That often results in incarceration, a punishment devoutly deplored.

A careful reader can see why I have put so much thought into how to awaken my sleeping spouse of a morning. Here’s what I try.

First, I make sure that she does not cradle her little friend, “Mr, Louisville,” but, rather, it is safely out of reach under the bed.

Next, I approach softly, still out of reach of harm’s way. “Missy,” I start. “All the other pretty little girls are up already.” 

This generally brings forth a series of oaths that would have made Captain Lucky Jack Aubrey take notes.

Then I try, “I think Matthew McConaughey has dropped by to see you. He brought the guys from ZZ Top with him.” That brings only a smile.

Then it is decision time. If I see a hand reach down and under the bed, I initiate a strategic withdrawal. Same-same if there is a hard cover book within her reach.

As I reach the bedroom door, my courage generally returns. I’ll wheel with the resolute courage of a young Audie Murphy, and emit my next invite.

“I think maybe it’s time for you to think about getting up. The light over yon horizon is breaking.” Like mother, like son.

Thereupon I flee. That final exoneration has produced flying objects weighing in excess of ten pounds. I close the bedroom door softly with a final challenge, “There’s a good, hot, fresh pot of coffee waiting for you when you get up.”

That’s how you stay married for 47 years, young fellers.

Early on, I learned
to avoid this look.