I glanced at the clock on the dash of my pickup as I rolled through the four-way stop sign. The gentle green 7:08 a.m. glow painfully reminded me that I was once again several minutes late.

It may not be every morning, but on a semi-routine basis, my day begins with a little pep talk to myself. Some days it’s simply a little note to myself in my head that prods me to just stand up, walk out the door and start the morning chores. On other days, it’s more of a stern talking-to or even a desperate plea to my guardian angels.

A timeworn chicken house becomes a quiet keeper of history, routine and home.

As I found the last parking spot in the lot behind the school and jumped out of my pickup, I heard the obnoxious blast of the morning bell, reminding me and the handful of students still speed walking to the door that school was now in session.

It was one of those awful, bright, beautiful, bitterly cold days where every exhaled breath seemed to hang in the air on the verge of turning into a block of ice before it finally decided to dissipate and drift off into the frigid atmosphere.