Last night the rain was heralded by thunder, a few large claps. I expected sheets of rain but, instead, it was small drops. I had to turn down the TV volume to listen. That first rain lasted all of five minutes. When it returned later, the rain lasted for a while.

The morning is lovely but only 68°. I shut the window behind me, Nala’s window from which she surveys the world. Her nose prints are the giveaway. The high today will be 72°, but I’m not complaining. That is just fine.

Saturday has always been my favorite day of the week. When I was a kid, it was the morning to plunk myself down in front of the TV and watch all the kid shows. With cereal bowl in hand, I’d sit on the rug close enough to the TV to go blind. I am not a fan of westerns now, but I watched them then. I loved Annie Oakley, a woman sheriff. I remember all the words to Happy Trails to You, the ending of The Roy Roger’s Show. Truth and Justice was the Lone Ranger’s mantra. “Yo, Rinty!” needs no explanation. I didn’t realize it back then, but there were several orphans, Rusty in Rin Tin Tin, Joey in Fury, The Circus Boy played by Mickey Dolenz of The Monkees, and Tagg, Annie Oakley’s brother. The Cisco Kid wore the best embroidered shirts, and I loved his sombrero.

My mother bought cereal we liked. My brother liked Cheerios, and I liked Rice Krispies. We never ate Corn Flakes. We always thought Corn Flakes were for adults. We had Frosted Flakes instead. I liked the little boxes of cereals. They gave us choices and could also be used as a bowl. My mother always bought whole milk.

Saturdays had a routine. In the warm months, after morning TV, we’d take off for the day, usually on our bikes. We varied our destinations. There were neat things to see in all directions. We had trains one way, the zoo and Spot Pond in another, the sheepfold and Wright’s Tower on the Fells, the farm with its dairy cows and, finally, window shopping uptown. Spot Pond was a reservoir so we had to stay off the water. I always wanted to put a boat in the water and paddle to the island filled with trees where I could camp and hide. In the next town over, I used to sit on the bench in the station and wait for the train, for the whoosh as it reached the station. At Wright’s Tower we could see all the way to Boston.

Dinner was the same all over New England on Saturday nights: hot dogs, beans and brown bread. The hot dog rolls were slit at the top, the mustard was yellow, Howard’s piccalilli graced the dogs and the brown bread, the B&M brown bread, came in a can. I purposely left out a description of the beans. I scorned tradition and never ate them.

This entry was posted on June 15, 2024 at 12:39 pm and is filed under Musings. You can subscribe via RSS 2.0 feed to this post's comments. Both comments and pings are currently closed.