My memories of waking up at dawn go back to the summer I was nine and my mother was in the state hospital again. My brother (2 1/2) and I were "farmed out", literally, to Irja and Pete's farm for the summer. Although I missed my parents, especially Dad, I had a wonderful time. Irja was, at the least, a casual babysitter, which meant I had more freedom than I had ever known.
Irja and Pete were unusual farmers in many ways. They were also an unmarried couple and the farm was really Irja's, left to her by her parents. Pete had been the hired hand, and when she inherited the farm, she inherited Pete. He eventually moved into the house. Of course, this was all above my head, although I can remember whispered conversations among my Finn relatives about the situation. At any rate, the most unusual aspect of this farm life was that Irja and Pete milked at noon and midnight. They slept late every morning, so Tigger and I had the best part of the day to ourselves.
I remember only sunny, pleasant days and wonderful early mornings (before 6, most days), when I would change Tigger's diaper, put on my bathing suit, and, holding Tigger's hand, would hurry down the road to Dottie Coon's. There, I would throw pebbles at her bedroom window (she wasn't quite as enthusiastic about dawn as I was) until she woke up. She'd slip into her bathing suit as quietly as she could, to avoid waking her older brothers who would have spoiled things by coming with us, or by tattling to her mother.
Off we'd go, the three of us, to the crystal clear brook that ran under the road on the corner below her house. Here we'd put our bare feet slowly into the frigid water, squealing and laughing as we did. Tigger would stay on the bank ( a mere 4 or 5 feet from the road), until we were in and wet. Then I'd pick him up and little by little get him wet. We watched for crayfish and minnows, dodged "darning needles", hunted for pretty rocks, and generally enjoyed the cool morning. After about an hour of playing happily in the water, we'd run back to Dottie's house, where she would, just as quietly as before, go in to change into her shorts.
We'd return, running up the road with Tigger swinging from our hands, to Irja and Pete's. Tigger and I would dress and hang my bathing suit on the line. I don't think Irja ever knew about our dawn swims. When she got up at ten, we would be playing outside in the dirt, or hanging over the fence watching the cows, or rolling in the chaff on the floor of the haybarn. Dottie would be long gone, home to do her chores, with her mother none the wiser.
I have many happy memories of early mornings. At The Farm, or as locally known, The Rock House, where we moved when I was ten, I was often up when dawn cracked. Sometimes the stars were just fading, and the whip-poor-will was singing a last verse, as I sat in my window watching the light change. I loved the birch copse just in from the edge of the woods, and the light through the young leaves in the early spring mornings would take my breath away.
In RI, I would watch the herons from my kitchen window; here in Small Village early morning walks were always my favorite. I look forward to being able to walk at that time again, when I finally retire. Now, I wake up early to read the Bible and write my odd little "devotions", or to iron for the week. I get to work between 7:15 and 7:30 most mornings, because I love the quiet at my desk. I am most productive, then.
BUT, my very best memories of early morning are of getting out of bed in New Hampshire, dressing in my "barn clothes", stoking up the kitchen fire and putting the kettle on, then taking my pail of hot, sudsy water out into the cold, crackling air. The snow squeaked under my barn boots, and my nostrils would freeze together as I breathed. Snuggling against Bambi's side, listening to the milk squish and squersh into the pail, singing folk songs to my petite cow, I was closest to being thoroughly content as I had ever been. Silky, the long-haired black cat, would sit on my shoulders, watching the frothy milk, keeping the chill off my neck.
Then, stepping outside, still in the inky dark, broken only by the stars and the light in the kitchen window, I would smell the wood smoke curling gently out of the chimney, and know that my family was safe and sound. I was always filled with joy at that moment. Soon, they would be up and around, breakfast would have to be made, the milk strained and set, and the milking pails cleaned. At that moment, I would know the meaning of "Perfect Peace".