The morning is lovely, pretty. The sun is shining, and it will be in the 70’s. The air is still. I have noticed more red leaves on the oak trees, and a few odd trees with just one branch of red leaves as if it were practicing for the full array of fall. My yard has had its fall cleaning. Bushes and trees were trimmed, the yard was raked and the pile of branches in the backyard was cleared. Even better, they took three bags of trash.

I can hear a lawn mower, the summer Saturday sound I most remember. It was as if the fathers in my neighborhood had had a pact to mow at the same time every Saturday. The sound, though, was different than today’s sound. It was the clipping sound of the hand mowers.

Yesterday I had a concert and didn’t have time to write. I have another concert today, but I was up earlier than yesterday and have no Cape Times to read. Because I have become a night owl, I tend to sleep away the morning. The dogs sleep in along with me.

When I was a kid, Saturday was my busiest day. This time of year I was out and about. Mostly I was on my bike. I have pictures in my memory drawers of that bike. It had been a Christmas present. I couldn’t wait so I even rode it on that snowless Christmas Day. My mother took a picture of me standing by the front door holding my new bike by its handle bars. It was blue. A basket was attached to the front. I remember that when I went over bumps whatever was in the basket bounced up and down. Books sometimes even bounced out of the basket. I held on to the bread and milk when my mother sent me to the store.

In my mind’s eye, I can see the whole route to the white store. Some of the houses were big and old. One house, the newest house, was sandwiched on a hill. The garage was on the side under one part of the house. I knew the people who lived there. The mother was French. I can see the route I took: first street on the left from my house, across the road, down the straightaway then a turn to the right, a stop by the busy road then across that road to the store. It has probably been at least 65 years since I last took that route, and I can still see it all. I wish I remembered why I was in the kitchen this morning.

This entry was posted on October 4, 2025 at 12:16 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.