The morning is the same as the last few mornings, but we are slowly inching to warmer weather. The high today will be 49°. Tonight will be in the low 40’s, finally out of the 30’s at least for one night. The dogs are my barometers. They have been staying outside longer since the days got warmer.

Sunday has always been the quiet day. When I was a kid, we went to church. We always wore our church clothes which meant I wore a dress or a skirt and blouse, never pants. I wore good shoes. I even wore a hat. My father was an usher at an early mass. He always brought home the paper and some donuts. His donuts choices left something to be desired. He bought plain, jelly and lemon. His favorite was a plain donut slathered with butter. We hung around the house until after Sunday dinner. I’d read the Sunday comics. The news didn’t interest me. We’d watch a movie.

Sunday dinner was special. We had a roast, sometimes chicken and sometimes beef. My mother used to put onion slices on the top of the beef. They got crispy and were delicious. I always tried to steal one. Sometimes I did before my mother could catch me. The chicken was usually stuffed. I loved my mother’s stuffing. It was sage. Mashed potatoes and gravy were a given. The vegetables varied. They were all canned back then. I still laugh at my father and his asparagus. My mother bought a small can and served them on a plate just for my father. None of us ate it. He’d pick one spear up with his fork and the asparagus was always limp.

I’ve mentioned before how on Sunday afternoons we often went to my grandparents’ house in East Boston. The kitchen is where my mother, my grandmother and my aunts sat around the table all afternoon. My grandmother always made pasta. It stayed on the stove and was help yourself. The grater and the Parmesan cheese were on the table. That was the first time I grated cheese. My mother used to buy the already grated Parmesan cheese in the jar.

On the way home in the late afternoon, I sometimes fell asleep. The trip wasn’t long, but the car on the road lulled me to sleep. At home, we had a few hours before my mother announced, “Time for bed, school tomorrow.”

What a pretty morning! A slight breeze sways the pine branches. Not a cloud is in the sky, the spectacularly blue sky. Today will be in the low 50’s. Tonight will be in the 30’s. I have a couple of errands which will get me out to enjoy the day. I’m finally going to get those pansies.

When I was a kid, my mother made dinners she knew we’d all eat. We never saw broccoli or cauliflower. Spinach was Popeye’s choice, not ours. The only salads she made were potato, tuna and chicken, never green salad. I didn’t eat beans, but I loved peas. We knew we’d have potatoes at dinner. Mostly they were mashed, but sometimes they were oven fried. Corn was a frequent all season veggie, canned in winter, fresh in summer. My father was the champion at eating corn off the cob. His approach reminded me of typewriter keys moving side to side and up and down. He went so fast that if you sat beside him you got sprayed with flying pieces of corn. For dessert we’d grab some cookies, Oreos, if it was close to when my mother grocery shopped as they disappeared quickly. Chocolate chip was a close second. My mother would sometimes surprise us with brownies. She’d make them then frost them with chocolate frosting and jimmies (sprinkles to some of you). I remember the pan she always used. I can still see it in my mind’s eye.

I remember when my mother visited we often went shopping. We’d stop at a few antique stores. In one there were individual tables and bookcases. I watched a woman adding to her wares. She put down four nested tulip bowls, Fire King bowls. My mother had had a set when I was growing up so I decided to buy the bowls. I still use them, and every time I do, I am reminded of my mother. What a treasure!

When both of my parents came down, my mother and I shopped while my father worked around my front yard. He weeded and mowed. He loved yard work. When I visited them, he’d show me his front lawn. It was his pride and joy.

Henry started barking by the front door. It was his intruder bark. I checked but didn’t see anything or anyone then I heard the mail truck. Henry is not a fan of that truck, and the mailman is not a Henry fan. If he has a package for my house, he leaves it at the end of the walk. Henry keeps barking. That’s all he does as he hasn’t yet learned to open the door. I hope he never does.