In the low light of early morning, birds began to wake and sing. Fresh dew still clung to the tall unattended blades of grass in the back yard of the Spiller home. Outside the world seemed to just be coming alive. Meanwhile, inside the Spillers modest yellow cottage movement and wakefulness had long since begun. The call of a chickadee sounded from the clock on the wall of the tidy kitchen, alerting them to the coming seven o'clock hour.

 Gail Spiller, a short, bubbly woman, who had turned sixty three just two days prior, hummed a tune from a forgotten country song as she put bacon into a pan. Her voice sounded over the popping grease.

            “Al you'd better hurry,” she said. “The dog's scratching at the door and starting to sing.” Her voice bounced through their home with the loving urgency of a woman who had no interest in cleaning up anyone's mess at this hour, let alone a dog’s.

            Hearing his wife beckon, Allen hastily dropped his razor on the side of the sink. Slipping on his moccasins, he trotted at a clip towards his wife's voice. He knew the consequences of doddling all too well when it came to a dog with a bladder the size of a squirrel, but more importantly a tired wife.

            Allen Spiller was two years and six months his wife's senior. He had a kind face with a small freckled nose and round, rosy cheeks that gave way to deep dimples when he smiled. In his youth his head had been adorned with a full scalp of rich auburn hair; at sixty-five however “full head of hair” had become a relative term. The hue of his hair had also changed through the years, although somewhat less dramatically than its thickness. What had previously been a deep auburn, Gail now affectionately referred to as sugar and cinnamon. Al, as Gail called him, stood 6' 2”, with broad shoulders and a thick chest. His protruding midsection clung lethargically to what had once been an athletic frame. His arms and legs still bulged with muscle, displaying what his children called “old man strength”.

            Allen appeared in the kitchen doorway, panting slightly from his short jog from the bathroom. Walking by his wife, he couldn't help but notice her turning away from him, most likely in an effort to conceal a chuckle. This warmed him somehow. Having a wife that still giggled at the sight of him after over thirty years of marriage, and two children was a blessing indeed.

            “The old fellow's getting worse than me in his senior years,” said Al. Gail smiled an appreciative smile, winking at him as he bumbled over to the dog and snapped the warn leather leash on the jubilant yet portly beagle. True to form, Darwin welcomed Al's arrival as he did every morning, with a low ear piercing bellow and a overly wet kiss.

            Walking outside, Al caught a look at his reflection in the kitchen window, and like his wife he too couldn't help but chuckle. The sight of a man dressed in nothing more than a ratty tee shirt, flannel pajama pants, and moccasins, face covered in foam, chasing after a roly poly beagle was most certainly a sight worth laughing at. He didn't really mind laughing at himself from time to time. He remembered his mother telling him from a young age, that to stay happy you have to find joy in the little things.

             “Aren't we a sight for sore eyes this morning, Darwin?” he mused. The ancient hound ignored his master’s voice feigning deafness, and preceded sniffing the front yard vigorously before choosing a small stone sculpture of a boy picking flowers as the locale for his morning relief.

            Al moved his from foot to foot trying to remain warm in the cold air of the spring morning. The thermometer on the side of the shed read thirty eight degrees.

            “C'mon Sniffy Long-stockings,” said Al through gritted teeth, “Some of us have places to go, people to see, and things to do today,”. Obliging, Darwin finished his business and the two trotted back up the stairs as fast as two old men could go. At the top of the three steps, Allen bent down and received today's edition of The Adler Tribune from the jaws of his trusty companion. It was a parlor trick they'd developed when he’d been a puppy, and one that proven to be immeasurably useful to Allen as he'd gotten older and less flexible. Last Killing Frost of the Spring, read the front page article, followed by a story that revealed the details and final results of this year’s Boy Scout pinewood derby.

            By the time he had finished shaving and dressing, Gail had finished preparing breakfast, and had already started in on the paper. The sports and weather lay on his place mat next to a full plate of bacon, and eggs, and a warm biscuit. He glared in disgust at the jug of soy butter that sat on the table in front of him. The low sodium bacon had been one thing, but this hogwash was another matter entirely! He looked up at Gail, mouth agape in protest.

            “Doctor’s Orders” she said. She had cut him off before he'd even had the chance to challenge her ruling on the field. Gail was a determined woman, and one who ruled the house with a gentle but firm hand. Looking nonchalantly over her reading glasses Gail addressed her husband before taking a slurping sip of tea.

            “What's on the agenda today, dearest?” she asked. Al proceeded to list off the appointments he had scheduled and then rattled off the rest of the day’s plans. He was surprised himself by how short the list actually was. In his older years Allen had developed an affinity for making a few mundane tasks last an entire day, several if he was lucky and played his cards right. Although nearly always cordial and timely, he found a certain sense of retreat in taking his time with his daily routine. His wife on the other hand, saw the open ended nature of his Thursday as a perfect opportunity to check a few items off the honey-do list. She put down her paper, and proceeded to clear her throat, a telltale sign that he was about to be drafted for labor. Uh oh, here it comes, thought Al, a sheepish grin creeping over his face.

            “If you can find the time today, love...” she started.

Al slowly laid down the sports section, and looked up at his wife. To his surprise he found her staring into his eyes in that way that he always found irresistible. It was as if in her sparkling blue eyes time had stopped. Instantly they were both young again; so innocent, and head over heels in love. He blushed like a kid caught in the act of naughtiness.

            “Would you make it a point to stop at the hardware store and the market at today?” she asked.

He remained motionless like a man lost in a dream; fork poised mid-air between plate and mouth, a flaccid piece of egg teetering dangerously on the edge of the tines. Her look had caught him off guard, and he loved it; it filled his soul with passion. The completion of all the chores and odd jobs in the world would never be close to enough payment for this look.  Seeing she now had his undivided attention, she proceeded.

            “I'll need you to pick up the cement to fix that loose brick on the front step, and beans for the church supper on Saturday.” Coming to from his trance, Allen leaned forward and gently kissed his wife.

            “As you wish, sweetheart,” he said. He stuffed the remaining half of his biscuit into his mouth and pondered the tasks he'd been given. Although he had no objection to the tasks, he couldn't imagine where the sudden urgency to repair those several wiggly bricks on the front steps had come from. It had been years since the two bricks on the far right side of the fateful second step had come loose from the mortar. The incident was a result of their oldest child, Jeffery Spiller's, failed sophomore physics project involving a dropped dumbbell and gravity. The Spiller's, being true “New Englander's," hadn't been hindered in the least by the steps faultiness. After all, they didn't use the front steps, save for weddings and funerals, the notion of using it as the primary entrance to their home was a foreign one and borderline blasphemous. He concluded that his wife's urgency was a sure sign that she’d at last succumbed to cabin fever. It was his humble opinion that weather like this was the Achilles heel of all women. They become overwhelmed with a sick sort of compulsion to get odd jobs finished, or at the very least, assure that their hubby's hands were not idle.

            “And what might I inquire is on your docket today?” he asked. He knew that she'd been waiting for him to question her. Gail humble though she was, craved excitement and adventure, and the spotlight was now on her. He could tell by the reflection in her azure eyes that she had something big planned for this day; it would surely be more exciting than his ho hum Thursday.