Sunday Morning Red Lights Disdained

On alternate Sunday mornings, as I have written before, I pick up Danica and take her to work by 7 o'clock. Mom can sleep in, and I am always up anyway, so it is a helpful task that I don't mind doing.

As I have also written previously, I set three alarms but have never had to use even one.

I set my watch to go off at 6:00, my phone for 6:05, and Alexa for 6:10.

This Sunday, I awoke at 5:50 from a dream in which I was carrying a feeble and frail old fellow up the hospital stairs. He seemed to be at death's door, and for some reason, the staff wouldn't carry him up those fearsome stairs. When I saw him the next day, he was well enough to greet me as I stood in line at a snack counter. He got up, thanked me, and said that he felt better.

Who knows how some like me, who has trouble weeding his garden, managed to carry someone up a flight of stairs?

I always ramble on with background information, but now I intend to get to what I was going to post – Red Lights Disdained.

Sunday mornings are quiet with almost no traffic in this town. When I turn the first corner on my way to Danica's, I invariably hit a red light. The cross street is a major artery, so the light is a long one. I look carefully, maybe a half kilometre or more up and down the road. There is no vehicle approaching from either direction. I look left and right again. It seems senseless to sit there. I drive through. I look behind in my rearview mirror; the light remains red for quite some time.

I get to the main downtown intersection, scan carefully in both directions, and off I go through my second red light. It's not a terribly long light, so I don't really need to run through it, but I do, regardless.

Onward I go to wait in the driveway for Danica to emerge. I worry that she has slept in, but she never does. Almost like clockwork, she emerges a minute or two before 6:45. It's only 5 minutes to the grocery store where she works, so we always arrive in good time. But first, we have to turn onto the highway. Even the highway is devoid of traffic. It always is on these early Sunday mornings. I go through.

The final light is at a more major intersection and it has never been traffic free, even at that godly hour – godly, for it is Sunday. I never disregard that one and wait patiently like to good, law-abiding bloke that I am – every day except early on Sunday.

I do wonder if a cop were lurking in the weeds whether I would be given a ticket. I imagine so, but I would explain that on such a morning, I treat a red light like a stop sign, look very carefully, and proceed with utmost caution. My likely futile hope is that the officer would nod, pat me on the head, and tell me to stop it because the next cop might not be as understanding and friendly as he or she is.