My morning was ruined in the form of a red pickup truck. I had just put the coffee on when I heard the

rumble of an old engine and they looked out the front window to see it making its way down the drive. It was just after 6 a.m.

the sun was barely breaking over the horizon. I had just finished my move into a new

house trying to put things back together through the wreckage of a far

from pleasant divorce. After months of paperwork and going back and forth with lawyers, this was my first

weekend to take a load off and enjoy it, until the

truck pulled in. It was a slow coast, in a way someone would arrive at their grandmother's

house, almost making themselves at home.

I stood there for a while in disbelief, taking in the faded paint and rusted rocker panels of

their crew cab as it sauntered in.

At first I hoped the truck was just trying to turn around.

But instead of swinging in front of the garage and backing away,

the vehicle slowed to a stop, and a man got out.

I wanted to scowl.

I could already feel the random visitor spoiling my coffee and sunrise,

and the way he troust to the front door, almost excitedly.

Confused me more than anything.

He looked to be in his mid-50s, dressed in layers of denim and carheart.

There was a giddy excitement to his walk,

like he couldn't wait to get to the door.

The way he waltzed up the gravel

unfortunately meant that he wasn't lost. It was too early for a salesman or someone spreading the good word. This person was sure they were supposed to be here,

...