DIANE MAKAR MURPHY Trucks plow through my sleep, but at least the roads are clear

It is 4:43 a.m. I know this because I forgot to take my watch off when I went to sleep last night. And when I pushed the button for the Indiglo light, the numbers & quot;443 & quot; were illuminated. I know it is a.m. because I am lying on the couch under a sleeping bag, staring at the ceiling. Listening. Listening and counting. (I am on the couch and not in bed because of a backache -- but that's another story.)
I have been awakened 435 times in the last hour. That is how many times the snowplows have passed my corner house.
This happens every time it snows. Four hundred thirty-five passes. They remove every last flake of snow from the roads on my corner. If they had a vacuum cleaner, I am certain they would use it.
I hear people on radio talk shows complain about snow removal. I want to invite them to live in my corner house. I have no idea what they're talking about. The people who run the plows through my neighborhood are zealots.
I've given this some thought, and I think President Bush lives on my block, or some other, REALLY important person. Like Homeland Security Adviser Tom Ridge. He might live on my block. He would need snowplows to pass 435 times; you wouldn't want Ridge to be stuck in a pile of snow at 4:43 a.m.
If my driveway were as clean as the road it leads to, I would be the envy of my neighbors.
& quot;Wow, she's amazing with her driveway! It's darn near as clear as the roads! Why, there's George W. now. Hello, Mr. President! & quot;
Trash time
Before the heavy snows, and the priority status of my corner, only occasionally did I lie in bed and stare at my clock radio, reading "3:43" a.m. This is Monday mornings -- garbage pickup morning. This leads to six wake-ups for corner-house dwellers.
I don't want to mislead. It is six wake-ups if you only fall asleep five times in between block pickups. If you fall asleep during each quiet period, as the truck rolls to the neighbor's house -- before its brakes squeal to a stop, before the contents of the cans hit the truck cavity, before the jaws grind it up -- it's about 47 wake-ups.
The truck goes east up my street, then west, then north up the other street we face, then south, then it does the same thing one block over.
Then, a couple of people in the neighborhood changed their waste removal company. Now, Tuesday mornings also bring a screeching, crunching truck onto my corner.
(We have our garbage picked up Thursday mornings, by yet another waste removal service. Our company comes at 8:30 a.m. -- when most humans have already arisen.)
So now, I watch the seconds ticking at 3:43 Monday mornings, at 2:45 Tuesday mornings, and at times most people in our Valley are snoring -- whenever God deems it necessary to dump an inch or more of snow onto Applewood Acres.
It's gotten better
This all used to be much worse when we first moved into our home (though Tom Ridge didn't live in the neighborhood at that time, or it didn't snow as much, or something). Our walls had no insulation in them.
If a car drove by, you could count the cylinders by the roar in our family room. I was privy to conversations of people walking by.
& quot;That's a nice corner house. & quot;
& quot;Yes, but their walls are paper thin. Better whisper; they listen to everything we say. & quot;
Then we had insulation blown into our walls, and now, I only awaken six times on garbage mornings and 435 times when snow plows pass. Incidentally, this would not be nearly so bad if anyone else in the house was awake. They all sleep through the diligence of the snow removal squad. Even the dog sleeps through the plowing.
Take it from me, there is not a lot to do when your Indiglo says 4:43. But, come 8 a.m., I know darn sure I'll be able to drive to work.
murphy@vindy.com