After my dad died in 1993 of sinus cancer, my mother decided to become a little more active in her Catholic Church, St. Paul’s, to take her mind off her sadness. The priest asked if she would take responsibility for the breakfast after the 6 a.m. Mass. This would require her to get to the church hall to set everything up around 5:30.
That was no problem as she was always an early riser. She didn’t catch a worm but did make many new friends in the decade she performed this service.
She passed this morning chronotype gene to her oldest son, who has been getting up around 4 am for half a century.
This morning my eyes popped open at 3:45 and saw those numbers on the ceiling from the new projection alarm clock. I haven’t needed a wake-up device since Richard Nixon. Oh, for those halcyon days of only one corruption story a month.
After putting on the backyard lights, I walked the garbage out and said good morning to Mr Owl. I’m writing these words at 4:30 after my first cup of coffee.
My night chronotype friends refer to my perverse rising time as insomnia disguised. Otherwise, they think, why would I do it?
They get up around 9.
They can’t help themselves, either. My wee-hour habit fits my natural endowment. It’s no more a part of character development than my obsessive neatness. Or your tendency to pile the mail on the kitchen counter, read after midnight, or say good night to Mr Owl.
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