Two years ago I dug a pit for eventual use as a gray water system at camp. It's been sitting unused for two summers - a 2 feet deep, 4 feet wide, and 15 feet long blot filled with rain water and mud waiting for me to put in the required pipes and fill it in with sand and top off with dirt and grass.
As I sat in my robe, drinking coffee and admiring the chickadees at dawn, I noticed that the melting snow had allowed one of my propane tanks to shift position and it was now straining the hose connecting it to the house.
Immediately I pulled on a pair of boots, happy that the dogs were the only ones to see me dressed like a Halloween freak hustling out the door to reset the leaning tank.
Who knows what, if anything, was going on where the brain should have been. I plunged through the snow and a thin glaze of ice right into my trench. It was filled to the top with freezing slush and drain water, and I flopped around like a baby Beluga trapped in a tidal pool, boots full of excruciatingly bitter cold water and terry cloth robe soaking up the frozen goodness faster than a hungry sponge.
It's moments like that when I'm glad my mother didn't have to claim me. It was not a highlight of brilliance.
It did wake me up much quicker than a cup of coffee, though.