This morning, as every Fourth, I was awakened by the noise of helicopters from the local television companies circling the neighborhood. Every year this is the signal that the Peachtree Road Race runners are coming down the street, and past the door they come in their hundreds. Every droning machine going overhead means its time to get out of bed and go downstairs to take part in this annual ritual. I don't run, of course: I just stand, dazed and amazed at the neighbors, the runners, the amount of liquor being consumed at 7-ish in the morning (this is the South, guys) and the palpable well-wishing and camaraderie.
This morning at 7 it was cool, about 67 degrees, and feeling chilly I went inside hoping my breakfast was ready. The cook had gone back to bed. It was 7 in the morning, I'd already exhausted myself being sociable and the cook had gone back to bed!
Nice pants, loverboy.
The reasons why I and the neighborhood were awake and whooping it up.