The rain was heavy. I could hear it hitting the windows. The dogs looked out the door, decided they could wait then walked back into the kitchen and on to the couch. I read the paper. I heard the rain change. It became gentle, almost quiet. The dogs went out. It is warmish at 52°.

I have reached a new low. I am watching about the worst science fiction movie I have ever seen. It is Invasion Earth released in 1983. The film has mostly teens watching horror and sci-fi movie clips in a theater while aliens are replacing people with pods. Sound familiar? How about Invasion of the Body Snatchers? Rodan made a visit. Many clips were from War of the Worlds. The scenes from the Claw were perfectly chosen. That is one ugly bird. Tarantula also dropped by to commit mayhem. As bad as this movie is. I really want to know how it ends. I’m thinking maybe I’m spending too much time alone.

I have a well honed suspension of disbelief. When I watch old black and white sci-fi movies and the low, low budget current science fiction movies, I sort of chuckle at the absurdity of it all but I keep watching. Right now the biggest croc I have even seen is dining on local fishermen. He is the star of this movie. I guessed that as the movie is called Croc.

I taught English. I taught it in Ghana, my first teaching experience, and at the high school level. I caught the virus, that’s what I call the pieces of English which became embedded. I correct grammar, mostly in my head so as not to offend. The worst is the object of the preposition, when it is me instead of i. Example: a package came for Jake and I. Wrong. It should be for Jake and me. I saw pieces from Them, the giant ant movie. The professor told the police chief to aim for the antennae. The chief shot one then the professor said shoot the other. Obliviously the police chief does not know Latin. Antennae means more than one, ending in ae, first declension plural, nominative. I would love not to remember stuff like this, but it doesn’t work that way. I am doomed.

We have sunlight despite the clouds. The light is diffused, a pale imitation of itself. It is cold, 39°, but the high 40’s are predicted for later. It is Sunday quiet. I don’t even hear any cars. Even the birds are quiet. The dogs are napping as they do every day about this time. They’ll also nap later. Such is a dog’s life, at least my dog’s life.

I often think back to my childhood Sundays. I went to mass, sometimes early with my father the usher. Other times it was mass at mid-morning. The last pew in the upstairs church had only room for two people, and it didn’t have a kneeler. I rushed to get that seat. I’ve have to sit the whole mass, such a tragedy say I with tongue in cheek. The church was always filled for Sunday mass. It was still expected that women would wear dresses and a hat. Most men were in suits. Fedoras placed on pews beside them. The mass was short or long, logical I know, but the length wasn’t a given. It was dependent on the priest giving the sermon. The oldest priests gave the longest sermons. When one walked out to start the mass, the entire church sighed, dismayed, knowing what was ahead.

On Sundays, we always had dinner, and it was always a roast of sorts, mashed potatoes, gravy and a couple of vegetables. Corn was the universal choice for favorite vegetable. Carrots and green beans were tolerated. After dinner, we’d sometimes visit my grandparents in East Boston. The house was always filled with relatives.

On Sunday night, we’d watch TV for a little while then were sent to bed early so we’d be bright eyed and bushy tailed and ready for school on Monday.

Sunday dinners stayed around. We still had a roast, mashed potatoes and vegetables, fresh and canned. I’ve mentioned before my last dinner at home before Ghana. It was a roast beef, my choice. It was the perfect way to finish.