Cup XVIII: Morning Has Broken (a Chair over My Head)

Tea: Arctic Storm (green tea with bergamot, lemon, red thistle and chile)

Music: Tegan and Sara, "Wake up Exhausted"

Time: Mo(u)rning.

My late father was the sort who woke up cheerful: "Good morning, Lord!" Not me. I'm more the "Good Lord, it's morning ..." sort.

My mother, who died when I was 17, was more pragmatic and disciplined. I'm not so sure she was all that thrilled about single-digit a.m. hours, but she got up and got after it.

The weekly teaching stint starts at 8 a.m. I'll be leading the senior AP English class' discussion for the first time. It's not until tomorrow, but I figured I'd better give myself a day of being at least semi-awake at this time of day.

And, of course, no good intention goes unpunished. Getting up earlier means I have more time to be lousy company, after the discovery in the basement.

During the good years between her first cancer surgery and the time the disease came back with reinforcements, my mother painted. Beautifully.

My father loved to fish. His favorite painting of hers was a photorealist piece of crappie in a net, on a stump over water. It was, in turn, her labor of love for him. I inherited it when he died, although it hung in my stepmother's house for a time as a reminder of him. I didn't mind. She was very good for him, and still is good to and for me and mine.

We'd been storing the painting in the basement, because there's been no place to display it properly in the main part of the house. Now it's picked up some mold damage. Not much, but noticeable.

I'm sure it can be cleaned, not so sure I can afford that before the damage gets worse.

I don't have many things that tie my parents together in tangible form. To lose this would be ... I can't think about it right now.

So I'll read, and make a lesson plan, and hope to return at some point today from the Land of Not Very Good Company.

In the meantime, here's today's creepy story:

Algernon Blackwood, "The Empty House"