Early to rise.

It's appropriate that this be the subject of my Monday posting; after two days off I drag myself out of bed at 5am and proceed, zombie-like, with my morning routine of shaving, brushing, washing. My daughters both have a unique gift of being able to sleep in on the weekdays and wake at amazingly early hours on the weekends. Sophie came in to our room at 4:30 Sunday morning, "Mama, Dad, will you go downstairs with me so I can play?" So sweet, so innocent. We responded with a "please go back to sleep," and are then pestered every five minutes until one of us (er, Paula) finally gives in and heads downstairs with her. I like to sleep in when I can, but I've got my early morning work routine that has stuck with me for years.

Starting at about age 11, I worked at the family woodworking business. I wasn't given an allowance, but I could make decent wages by spending my Saturdays catching and stacking boards as my dad or brother fed them to me. I ran saws and sanders, sorted nails and screws, assembled crates and boxes and when there was nothing else to do, Dad would hand me a broom. "You can always sweep" he would say. This is how I spent most Saturdays, up through high school. It wasn't all work. Lunchtime was spent at the local Chinese food restaurant, or eating sandwiches and shooting bottles with my brother's pellet gun. We'd have pallet jack races and I even learned a choice word or two from Hans, the surly, cussing craftsman in the shop next to ours. Nonetheless, there were times that I would have wanted to do something else, perhaps with my friends at home. On Saturday afternoons, they'd be telling me about the matinee they just went to, or about the fireworks they'd purchased from the questionable kids who lived a few streets over. And I'd nod along, still coated in sawdust.

Every Friday night, Dad would ask me if I wanted to go to the shop. I usually said yes, until I got a bit older, and a bit more sassy. When I started saying no, he'd respond with "Well, let's talk about it in the morning." As always, he'd wake me at 6am the next morning, saying, "Tim, you going to work?" "No." I'd grumble and roll over in my bed. "Okay," he'd reply, "I'll be back in a few minutes." And he'd head back to his room to get ready. I'd lay in bed, stewing, until I realized that my options were limited and would get up, get dressed, and head off to work with him.

Don't get me wrong, he was never angry with me and he never lectured me about it; he was just insistent. It was like getting into a staring contest and I knew that, no matter how long I could return his gaze, I'd always blink first. And he never gloated about it either. Instead, we'd make the 20-minute trek to work listening to the classical station. If there was an exceptional composer on—say, something by Rimsky-Korsakov or Tchaikovsky—he'd turn up the radio and sing along to the melody. If it happened to be opera, he punched the off button with gusto and we drove in sleepy silence together.

I could easily blame him for messing with my metabolism at an early age, forever dooming me to be an early-riser. But I've come to enjoy my early mornings. I'm usually out of the house before my girls are up, but I get to spend time with them every evening after work. Some mornings, as I sip my coffee and drive down into the Boulder valley, watching the rising sun's glow set fire to the Rockies as they fill the horizon in front of me, I think, Dad would really like this.