After living 13 years in a rented renovated chicken coop, I have moved twice in 2015, the latest being august 15th, when my daughter Erin and my granddaughter Denali  helped along with man-friends and family-men for which I am very greatfull. The sofa is a queen-size pull-out bed which means it is extra heavy, needing at least 4 people to carry. Being in the last year of my sixties, I am greatfull that I can carry many boxes and furniture, while ruling out the sofa. Almost. I did lend a small brief hand.

The following weekend my daughter Megan traveled with her daughters, Riley and Emily from Boston for their yearly visit to our home town of Ithaca, NY. My granddaughters (13 and 11) immediately claim the sofa bed, and there is no talking them out of it. Megan claims my double bed, and is not willing to sleep with her mother. So, being the camper I am, I am relegated to the carpeted floor in my sleeping bag, quite amazed that they are all very comfortable with this arrangement.

Then, I think to myself…isn’t it wonderful that they SEE me as this young spring chicken, peacefully living without a rooster. Yet, in my sleeping bag I can dream of one.

Smelling bacon frying meant the beginning of another day, while being awakened by daddy’s soft voice saying “Good Morning” as he switched the light on in the bedroom I shared with my sister, as well as lightening my heart. Mom would be making eggs and toast, setting out orange juice and coffee. It was the routine of my growing up years.

I can’t remember what I made for breakfast in nursing school but the two previous years of college was cafeteria style. I do remember frying bacon for lunch to make BLTs, often hearing the other nursing students say, “Diane’s having BLTs again!” Maybe I just missed breakfast bacon?

Marrying the weekend after receiving my bachelor’s degree in nursing meant that I would ‘make’ my husband and I cereal and orange juice before heading off to our 7am shift. It’s so blurry now as to what kind of cereal…does it matter?

My daughter, Megan would ask for Cece, her name for cereal in the mornings, leaving making either eggs with bacon or pancakes, or french toast on the weekends, my older daughter Erin’s favorite. Still eating together. Remembering the smell of maple syrup.

Now that my daughters have family’s of their own, and I am past four marriages, being single for ten years, I’ve rallied around Ithaca Bakery bagels toasted with butter, many times adding homemade jams made by my German aunt Resi, and cousin Gabrielle. Eaten only after my cup of orange juice, the first thing I drink when I walk out of bed, being the only routine that has continued since childhood.

In Copenhagen airport this past month (July 2015), where I spent the night, a banana and bottle of OJ were bought as I’m awoken by the store gate opening and passengers on the move at 6am. I’m overwhelmed by the many stores in this airport and wish I wasn’t drawn to shop for clothes at this hour. But I do, at H&M, an American store with a European label where I can feel at home?

After a couple decades of toasting bagels made at the local bakery, after being frozen in my freezer by the dozen, I have graduated this past year to bagels still warm from Wegman’s grocery store. Almost daily, I pick up the tissue paper and touch the various kinds to find the warmest. (Or ask) Wegman’s makes bagels all morning long. I relish every bite, the warm yeast scent of the sesame, or multigrain, or honey wheat, my favorites. I wait ’til I’m hungry before I drive to work by way of Wegman’s to find that special bagel and to fill my travel mug halfway with hazelnut coffee adding 2% milk and 2 brown sugars, which I have just this past year begun to drink. (coffee is recently recommended as healthy)

As I walk to my moped in the parking lot, I look up at the clouds and say to myself, “It’s wonderful to be alive: to taste, to smell (lost my ability for 10 years after experiencing a fractured skull), to feel the warm softness, as I remember my father’s tender voice, “Time for breakfast!”