A typical day in Delta is an atypical day anywhere else. Therefore, we may say that “a typical day in Delta is a typically atypical day.”

As I recall my reveille was somewhere between zero-dark and zero-dark-thirty (-ish). I pull myself into my kitchen where I had assembled a coffee preparation sequence the night before with only the slightest movements remaining to initiate the cook (economy of motion).

I stupor-proofed the process by attaching an oversized plastic button over the top of the coffeemaker’s “start” button in the event my sleepy state might cause me to miss several times trying to press it. That failure I suffered exactly one time in the past before I rectified it. By my estimate I lost six-tenths of a second from my morning by missing that communist button — unacceptable!

Jumping into my combat-parked truck I skillfully maneuver my coffee mug tipping it slightly into the direction of travel to preclude it from spilling as I speed ahead. On the way to the compound, I keep a lookout for signs of my neighbor and great Delta friend Patrick Arthur McNamara and his motorcycle, as they both were known to incidentally crash into the wood line. Mac laid his bike down at an interval pressing the speed margin hard to shave off those last few tenths of a second from his travel time just like a man possessed.