When my feet hit the floor my internal temperature guide immediately told me it was a crisp September morning. It was the first of the season. The leaves on the trees were still green, and the grass was still a faded funky color from the dry summer. In the east the early dark clouds formed a line of peaks that reminded me of the Rocky Mountain skyline I saw many years ago.
It was Labor Day weekend and while many were tying up the ends of their summer vacations, or enjoying the last of their cookouts I was intent on laboring to finish up summer projects and chores. Hubby had to work the car lot because their Labor Day sale was in full force. So, like many other daybreaks it was the usual routine. But even in routine every once in a while something comes along to make a mundane morning something more.
That morning as usual my tiny canine fur ball signaled her need to use the Pomeranian potty so like every other dawn I scooped her up in the palm of my hand and set her gently on the front lawn. When I looked up I saw a bicyclist making his way down our country road. This was no ordinary cyclist, or rather he was an Ordinary cyclist. Yes, you read me write. I mean right. Now I'm confused. Was he ordinary or wasn't he? Okay enough play on words.
That particular cyclist was riding an Ordinary and he was dressed the part. With short trunks and knee high stockings, old fashioned button shoes, and a vintage sweater it looked as though he had just pedaled his way out of an eighteen hundred something photograph. The image he evoked was a pleasant scene definitely out of the ordinary.
I paused on my front porch taking in the impression of a time gone by. Perhaps it was an occasion when one might have enjoyed more of the simple pleasures, like the unfolding of a rosebud or the peaceful lull of a Mourning Dove's coo. A period when handlebars were mustaches and the only bustle was on the back of a woman's dress. It was a season of ballgowns and grand hotels. A tea-time lingering of friends. Possibly it was a time when we could ignore time. When we could forget for a little bit that we reside in a grown up world of schedules and routines.
For a few moments I stood somewhere in time, wrapped in the simplicity of an era of afternoons in the park and the clip clop of horses hooves on cobblestones. In a wrinkle in time I let the cares of my day wheel away with a penny-farthing cyclist on a high wheeler, and I was thankful for just an Ordinary morning.
It was Labor Day weekend and while many were tying up the ends of their summer vacations, or enjoying the last of their cookouts I was intent on laboring to finish up summer projects and chores. Hubby had to work the car lot because their Labor Day sale was in full force. So, like many other daybreaks it was the usual routine. But even in routine every once in a while something comes along to make a mundane morning something more.
That morning as usual my tiny canine fur ball signaled her need to use the Pomeranian potty so like every other dawn I scooped her up in the palm of my hand and set her gently on the front lawn. When I looked up I saw a bicyclist making his way down our country road. This was no ordinary cyclist, or rather he was an Ordinary cyclist. Yes, you read me write. I mean right. Now I'm confused. Was he ordinary or wasn't he? Okay enough play on words.
That particular cyclist was riding an Ordinary and he was dressed the part. With short trunks and knee high stockings, old fashioned button shoes, and a vintage sweater it looked as though he had just pedaled his way out of an eighteen hundred something photograph. The image he evoked was a pleasant scene definitely out of the ordinary.
I paused on my front porch taking in the impression of a time gone by. Perhaps it was an occasion when one might have enjoyed more of the simple pleasures, like the unfolding of a rosebud or the peaceful lull of a Mourning Dove's coo. A period when handlebars were mustaches and the only bustle was on the back of a woman's dress. It was a season of ballgowns and grand hotels. A tea-time lingering of friends. Possibly it was a time when we could ignore time. When we could forget for a little bit that we reside in a grown up world of schedules and routines.
For a few moments I stood somewhere in time, wrapped in the simplicity of an era of afternoons in the park and the clip clop of horses hooves on cobblestones. In a wrinkle in time I let the cares of my day wheel away with a penny-farthing cyclist on a high wheeler, and I was thankful for just an Ordinary morning.
