Coffee is quite late today. It was a mirror under the nose sort of morning. I slept until after noontime, well, we slept until after noontime, the dogs and I, as the night was cool and perfect for sleeping, and I had gone to bed well into the wee hours. I was going to skip Coffee today given the lateness of the hour, but I decided to write anyway.

Today is Labor Day, summer’s last hurrah. It was our final day of freedom. School started on Tuesday. I was ready. The summer had started to drag by the end of August. The playground closed so no more crafts or sports. I was left to my own devices. I rode my bike uptown and around town, even to the zoo. I went to the library to stack up on books. I hunted balls by the golf course. I rode around the lake. I filled the days.

The fourth grade was my last year in the old school. I loved that school with all its dark wood, the tall classroom windows on two sides of the rooms and the cloak rooms. A hand bell was always rung for the change of classes, recess and the end of the day. It was rung from the very top floor by one of the eighth graders. The bell had a sweet sound.

For the first half of my fifth grade I was bused to the next town over. I’d walk to school then wait by the driveway behind the church for the buses. We always lost time and had a shortened school day because of the rides to and back. The new school opened for the second half of my fifth grade. My classroom was on the first floor on the school yard side. The halls were lined with lockers. The rooms had bookcases under the windows. The desks were light wood. I felt the difference. It was a new school with no warmth. Later I realized we were the ones who would give it warmth, the warmth of memories, of the stories we’d tell over and over. The punch I threw during recess to defend my friend in the fifth grade was the stuff of legend. By the eighth grade we were a rowdy bunch. Sister Hildegard was a star in our memories. By the time we graduated from the eighth grade we had embraced the new school. Our escapades had given it some character, some colorful memories and lots of funny stories.

A long sleeve shirt is the order of the morning because the house is chilly. I can feel a breeze coming from my back door, from the south. Outside is warmer. The sun is bright. The day is pretty.

When I was a kid, Sunday was a real day of rest. My neighborhood was quiet. Saturday was the noisy day, the day for the sounds of lawn mowers and of rakes pulled across the cut grass. The lawn mowers were hand mowers. They clicked. The backyards were busy on Saturdays. The wash was hung on clotheslines to dry. All the duplexes up and down the street had their clotheslines in the back, and on my street the backs of the houses faced a grassy hill. You could stand by the clotheslines and see all the backyards in a row, in a straight line down the street. They all looked exactly the same. Little kids, like my two younger sisters, played in the backyards.

Sunday was different, always quiet. Everyone, often whole families together, went to church. The pews were sometimes filled so people stood in the back. I liked standing. I got credit for going without having to do anything. My father ushered at an early mass. After mass, he’d buy the Sunday paper and donuts. As soon as he’d get home, he’d change out of his suit and sit in the chair by the picture window to read the paper. I used to read the Sunday comics. I’d lie on the rug to read them. I never went exploring on Sundays. If I went anywhere, it was with the family. Sunday was the least interesting day of the week.

My sister reminded me old age is not for the faint of heart. I am limping. I again hurt my right leg. I moan when I move, when I walk. Nala is sympathetic. She wags her tail at me and gives me kisses. Henry is disinterested in my plight. The other night I must have slept wrong as my neck hurts if I look to the right. I seem to be falling apart one piece at a time. I’ll keep a list.