The air is so thick, as the saying goes, you can cut it with a knife. It is damp, wet. The sky is cloudy. It is breezy, a constant breeze. The temperature is only 69°, a chilly morning. It might rain. Today is dump day, and the weather is perfect for a trip to the dump. I’d hate to waste sunshine on trash.

Henry has become suspicious of me. When I let him in, I sometimes spray his infection and rub his eyes with an anti-itch medication. This morning I did neither. I figured it would keep him off-balance and make him less suspicious.

Sunday has always been my least favorite day of the week. When I was a kid, if it weren’t for Sunday dinners, it would have been a completely wasted day. Sunday mornings meant mass, enough said about that. Some afternoons we’d visit my grandparents. My sisters loved to go to East Boston to visit as they had cousins to play with. I was too old for play. My aunt, five months younger than I, was unpleasant. She hated that so many of her siblings and their families visited. She usually stayed in her room, out of bounds for everybody. What I did love was the pasta. My grandmother always had a giant pot of pasta on the stove, sometimes shells, my favorite. It had that day after taste when the pasta and the sauce have melded perfectly. She kept Parmesan cheese and a grater on the table. I covered my pasta with a layer of that cheese then mixed the heavenly concoction. Sometimes there was Italian bread, and I’d cut a slice, an imperfect slice. I’d sit at the kitchen table between the aunts to eat.

During the school year, on Sunday nights, we had to go to bed early. “School tomorrow,” was always my mother’s reason as if Saturday and Sunday had so discombobulated our usual routines we had to be retrained. I’d usually read a little before my mother would yell up the stairs for me to turn off my light. I’d sometimes keep reading with a flashlight or my headboard lamp, hidden under covers.

The week began when my mother woke us up on Monday mornings. Every weekday had the same pattern between waking up and going to bed. It was a groove.

Last night got downright chilly, the low 50’s. I shut a few windows and closed doors. Today is another delightful day. It is 77°, the high for the day. The breeze is strong and northern. The leaves are jumping, twisting and turning. The sun shines framed by a lighter blue sky.

Since I was little, Saturday has been my favorite day. I’d stay in my pajamas, sit on the rug in front of the TV and watch all the Saturday morning programs. I’d eat my Rice Krispies. I always lifted the bowl to my ear to hear Snap, Crackle and Pop. By mid-morning, I was ready to get dressed and roam on my bicycle, my sort of trusty steed. My bike was a three season bike. Only in winter did it often stay in the cellar. In the cold, snowy weather my ice skates and my sled became my substitute trusty steeds though they were not for roaming. I sledded on my hill and skated either at the nearby swamp or at the park a few blocks from my house. I walked there. By late afternoon, I was usually home.

When I was older, I’d sleep in on Saturdays because Friday nights were busy. My friends and I often went out. My school dances were on Fridays. Some Fridays we’d bowl. I was always a bad bowler. Three balls were never enough. Mine tended to the gutters. If I hit even a couple of pins, it was time for celebration. We’d sometimes just get together at one of our houses. We’d play games. We’d eat snacks, usually chips and pizza. Saturday nights were usually unplanned, open for whatever. I remember one Saturday night my friend Jimmy and I went square dancing at Marconi Hall, the town’s social hub for special events, memorable family parties, birthday celebrations and after funeral get togethers. When we got to the door, we were stopped. The square dancing was an adult event, but it was decided we could join. That was one of the best nights. We do-si-doed all night. We were exhausted. I remember a slow walk home.

Saturday in Ghana for me wasn’t special. It was a regular day, just not a teaching day. Sometimes a Saturday was market day. I loved market days and always went to town. I went to my usual tables for eggs, onions and tomatoes then I roamed around looking for surprises. Sometimes I’d buy cloth for a new dress. I’d buy a chicken. The chickens were tied to a rope stretched across the ground. I’d walk around the lines looking for a plump chicken. My choice was handed to me with its feet tied. It would be Saturday’s dinner. I’d fill my shepherd’s bag, put it around the handle on one side of my moto then I’d put the chicken on the other side. On Saturday afternoons, I’d sit around to read and listen to music. Sometimes I’d nap. In the evenings students often came to visit, a Saturday only event.

When I was home and teaching, I never did school work on a Saturday. It was my free day. It was my favorite day. We’d often get together at somebody’s house, have a few drinks, some snacks and some great conversation. Sometimes we’d go out to eat, nowhere fancy.

Since my retirement, I think of every day as a Saturday, open and free for happenstance.