We have been blessed with another lovely day, a perfect weather day. It is 75° with a bright sun, a cooling breeze and a deep blue sky. While the dogs were in the yard, I stood on the deck and watched them romp, well, Nala romped while Henry plodded.

I’m going to reenter the world today. I’m going to dress in outside clothes and leave the house. The last time I was out was Wednesday. Since then I haven’t needed anything, and I’ve been content in my cozies. I have uke practice tonight and during the week a lesson and two concerts.

When I was a kid, the first week of school was, at first, exciting, then exhausting. All day was regimented. After the freedom of summer, being stuck at my desk except for recess and a class bathroom visit, each of us in line waiting our turn while the nun kept the line moving, was difficult. I felt restless. My classroom, though, was mostly quiet except for the sounds of kids shifting in their chairs, the occasional rustling of papers and the nun in front giving instruction. No one spoke out of turn or dared to whisper because retribution was swift and public. It didn’t take long for us to fall into the familiar pattern of each school day. We knew we were stuck.

I followed the changes in seasons when I walked to school and home again. At the start of school, all the trees were heavy with green leaves which gave shade and protection from the rain. When the leaves started to turn color, we knew winter was banging on the door. The first fallen leaves were yellow and red. I’d pick up perfect leaves to save between ironed sheets of wax paper. Soon enough the leaves covered the sidewalks and piled in the gutters. The mornings got chilly. The trees grew barer and barer. Winter announced itself with frost on windows. I could see my breath on frosty mornings. The walk to school was cold. I always thought winter was the longest season. Spring arrived when small buds appeared on the trees over the sidewalk. My eyes welcomed that first sight of green after a dull, dark winter. I got to watch the leaves grow.

I watch the change in seasons still. I watch the trees in my backyard. Right now they are heavy with green leaves. The whole yard is shaded, but fall will soon come. The clues are there. The nights are chilly, and the early mornings hold on to that chill. I’m keeping my eye out for the first fallen leaves. They are red.

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.