The fishing boat is out most mornings just as the sun starts its rise. Winter mornings, spring, fall and summer, the two fishermen let the nets roll out into the water as the boat hugs the shoreline and bobs on small waves.
The folks who work and who live in our neighborhood wake early and work late, a house painter, an occupational therapist, a youth pastor, a police officer, a secretary, a short order cook and a nurse.
At the small cafe across the street, the chef is in before five and soon enough, he's got the homefries on, the coffee with a hint of hazelnut freshly brewed and warming. The city bus that stops half a block from my house, rumbles to life just past dawn.
The mechanics, a father and son, are in around 7:15, fixing carburetors, changing tires and oil until after six each night.
Saturday morning and the fishing boat is back along the shore; the garage is open; the coffee is on.
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