The morning is cloudy, even a bit grim. It is in the mid 50’s, warmish for November, but the next few nights will be winter cold, down to the 30’s. I’ve put the blanket on my bed, a surrender, an acknowledgement to winter.

My kitchen floor is covered with muddy paw prints. Clumps of dog hair fly into the air when I walk down the hall. I ignore it all. My sloth instinct is strong.

When I was a kid, we always had turkey for both Thanksgiving and Christmas and at no other time of year. We ate turkey for days. We started with the big bird on the holiday, then, for supper, we’d have open turkey sandwiches with gravy and the rest of the fixings on the side. Sandwiches were next. The bread was always toasted, and on the turkey was usually stuffing and cranberry sauce and mayo or butter. I loved those sandwiches. Turkey salad, made with the meat my father stripped from the bone, was the next incarnation. The last of the turkey became soup made from the carcass. By then we were trukeyed out.

I had an aunt who was a nun. For most of my childhood, we saw her once a year, an obligatory visit. She lived in Connecticut. We were always dressed in our church clothes for the visit. We stopped once on the way. I remember the building was brick and close to where we were going. We went to the bathroom where my mother made sure we were all nun ready. The visit never changed from year to every year. We sat in the parlor. When she joined us, she looked formidable in her habit. Her questions seldom varied. She wanted to know how school was and what our favorite subjects were. During the visit, another nun would arrive with cookies and soft drinks. At some point we’d walk to the school to see my aunt’s classroom. That was it, the whole visit. I always thought once a year was too often.