Curb Side

I'm curb side 5:31 every morning, Monday through Friday. Most Saturdays and Sundays I'm there too. In front of my house, half the year it is completely dark and cold. The usual car drives by with a screech and half-stop at the house numbers painted on my sloping curb without a sidewalk. For me, the driver of the car is the most appreciated person of the day. With a heart-felt greeting, I start each morning at my best, "hola". The driver responds with a wide awake, "good morning". I mean it when I give her the best "gracias" a gringo can give as she speeds away. In a strange way, we connect with each other each morning for a moment at the curb. She drives with the windows down, so I hope she is dressed warm enough on cold mornings. I worry about her if she is late. I know her schedule, so Thursday and Friday I have my coffee mug in hand too. Most days, I go to the curb first. If I'm quick enough she hands it to me. I catch it if my timing is less-than-perfect, and we smile. Otherwise, she's gone: I stretch my back and bend over and wish I was younger and had less back pain in the mornings. For the first hours of my life every morning, my newspaper is my life. It gives me confidence. It assures my family with regularity that we've made sense of the world as best we can. And I don't need to click 30 times to read 5 stories; I read 100, with 20 page turns. It is simple: if MY newspaper stopped publishing in my town, I would want to move or die. Heck, I would choose my newspaper over indoor plumbing if I had to make a choice. How much progress are you willing to give up?