To Sleep, Perchance to Sleep Some More

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To Sleep, Perchance to Sleep Some More  By Dale Short A friend of ours has a daughter who loves to sleep. Even as an infant, there was no late-night floor-walking required for her. The mom got worried that something was wrong medically and had a lot of tests done, but the verdict was that her daughter was perfectly healthy. The girl’s first complete sentence was, “You can’t stop me from getting the sleep I need!” I’ ve always felt a kinship with her. Whenever I hear song lyrics that say “Gonna party all night” or “Gonna boogie till the morning light,” they fill me with dread rather than excitement. It’s not just a matter of age, either. Even when I was young, the only thing I could do all night was sleep. Occasionally I’d make an exception when there was a really good concert I wanted to see, but once the last encore was done around 10:30 or 11 p.m. I’d head straight home to Shanghi, Ala., because it was already past my bedtime. I lost track of the number of times I was called a party pooper, or worse. But the truth was that I had nothing against parties, as long as they were held at a decent hour of the day.  Now, as then, this is not a majority sentiment. Last week I was working late and it was a few minutes past 10 p.m. when I stopped at a store to get a pound of coffee on the way home. A young woman in line ahead of me got a call on her cell phone. “No, I have no idea what I’m going to do tonight,” she told the caller, with a hint of irritation. “I mean, it’s only 10 o’clock!” This does not compute for me, and never has. I was working at the Mountain Eagle back when Hurricane Camille hit the Gulf Coast, and the editor called me at home just after suppertime with what he considered a very choice assignment. Media were being kept out of the area because of the chaos, but he had somehow wangled me  passage in the sleeper cab of an 18-wheeler leaving from Jasper to deliver emergency supplies. I could tell from the excitement in his voice that the assignment was not optional. I filled up the biggest thermos we had with coffee, and went off to meet my fate. I discovered that the term “sleeper cab” was a contradiction in terms. When the sun came up over the destruction, I hadn’t dozed off even once.

Transcript of To Sleep, Perchance to Sleep Some More

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To Sleep, Perchance to Sleep Some More

 By Dale Short 

A friend of ours has a daughter who loves to sleep. Even as an infant,

there was no late-night floor-walking required for her. The mom got worried

that something was wrong medically and had a lot of tests done, but the

verdict was that her daughter was perfectly healthy.

The girl’s first complete sentence was, “You can’t stop me from

getting the sleep I need!” I’ve always felt a kinship with her.

Whenever I hear song lyrics that say “Gonna party all night” or 

“Gonna boogie till the morning light,” they fill me with dread rather than

excitement. It’s not just a matter of age, either. Even when I was young, the

only thing I could do all night was sleep.Occasionally I’d make an exception when there was a really good

concert I wanted to see, but once the last encore was done around 10:30 or 

11 p.m. I’d head straight home to Shanghi, Ala., because it was already past

my bedtime.

I lost track of the number of times I was called a party pooper, or 

worse. But the truth was that I had nothing against parties, as long as they

were held at a decent hour of the day.

 Now, as then, this is not a majority sentiment. Last week I was

working late and it was a few minutes past 10 p.m. when I stopped at a store

to get a pound of coffee on the way home. A young woman in line ahead of 

me got a call on her cell phone.

“No, I have no idea what I’m going to do tonight,” she told the caller,

with a hint of irritation. “I mean, it’s only 10 o’clock!”

This does not compute for me, and never has.

I was working at the Mountain Eagle back when Hurricane Camille

hit the Gulf Coast, and the editor called me at home just after suppertime

with what he considered a very choice assignment. Media were being kept

out of the area because of the chaos, but he had somehow wangled me

 passage in the sleeper cab of an 18-wheeler leaving from Jasper to deliver emergency supplies.

I could tell from the excitement in his voice that the assignment was

not optional. I filled up the biggest thermos we had with coffee, and went off 

to meet my fate.

I discovered that the term “sleeper cab” was a contradiction in terms.

When the sun came up over the destruction, I hadn’t dozed off even once.

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It was only through the blessing of adrenaline (and the fact that the

truck driver had an even bigger thermos of coffee than I did) that I was able

to wander around and do some semblance of reporting.

I wrote the story on the ride home, went to the office to develop and

 print the pictures I’d taken, then went home and slept for about 36 hours

straight.

When I went to work at The Birmingham News my hours were

supposedly 9 to 5, but there was a catch. The city desk was short-handed, so

we all had to take turns working a night shift.

Thus it happened that I was the only human being in the vast (at least

it seemed vast) newsroom on that fateful night the phone rang. None of my

co-workers had bothered to tell me that the editor was in the habit of calling

at midnight for an update on the stories we’d be running the next day.

All I knew was that a guy with a gruff voice was asking, “What’s

happening, down there?”“Oh, not a heck of a lot, bud,” I responded cheerfully. “What's going

on with you?”

There was a long, ominous silence before Mr. Bloomer said, “Who

the [blank] is this?”

I had no choice but to tell him, and at that moment I assumed I would

forever afterward hold a special place in his heart. And so it was.

From that day on, whenever he was in my vicinity he would give me

an extra-intense glower. And considering Mr. Bloomer's normal demeanor,

that was saying a lot.

Looking back, I guess I should have explained to him that I would

never have bungled that exchange if I hadn't been sleep-deprived.

Or maybe I just should have leveled with him:

“Mr. Bloomer, you can't stop me from getting the sleep I need.”

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(Dale Short is a native of Walker County. His columns, books, photos, and radio features can be found on his website, carrolldaleshort.com. His weekly

radio program “Music from Home ,” featuring Alabama singers, songwriters, and bands, streams live online each Sunday at 6 pm onoldies1015fm.com. His e-mail is [email protected])