Curb Side Connection

I am curb side 5:31 every morning, Monday through Friday. Most Saturdays and Sundays, I’m there too.

In front of my house, for half the year, it is completely dark and cold. The familiar car drives by with a screech and half-stop at my house numbers painted on my sloping curb because our neighborhood does not have sidewalks.

For me, the driver of this car is the most appreciated person of the day. With a heart-felt greeting, I start each morning with my best, “hola.”

The driver responds with a wide awake, “good morning, sir.”

I mean it when I give her the best “gracias” a gringo can give as she speeds away.

In a strange way, we connect 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. Perhaps she will be delayed. But 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, bend over, and wish I was younger and had less back pain in the morning.

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. I don’t need to click 30 times to read 5 stories; I’ll read 100 articles with 20 page turns.

It is simple: if MY newspaper stopped publishing in my town, I would want to move or worse. Heck, I would choose my newspaper over having to live on a deserted island if I had to make a choice.

How much are we willing to give up to constant innovation?