Today is seasonably chilly with a cold breeze. The leaves on the oak tree have turned brown, and every time the wind blows, a few fall to the ground. Soon enough the oak tree will be bare.

Fewer birds than usual are at the feeders, and the spawns of Satan also seem to be among the missing. I have only seen the red spawn. I don’t know where his gray cousins are.

I have never had huge expectations for Sundays which dates, I think, from when I was little and, by default, Sunday was family day. The morning always started with church, sometimes with my dad, the usher, sometimes just by ourselves, my brother and me. I remember my dad used to give each of us a dime for the collection basket. When the time came, I’d watch him walk to the front of the church carrying his basket. Once there, he’d kneel then stand and pass the basket down each row. The handle of the basket was so long it reached all the way down to the end of the pews in the center aisle. I was always a bit proud when I could add my dime to the basket. It made me feel older some how. My dad would drive us home, but he always stopped for the paper first. Sometimes he’d stop so we could get a donut. I liked jelly donuts back then. My dad liked plain.

When I got home, I’d change out of my Sunday clothes into my play clothes though most Sundays, other than in the summer, I never went outside to play. I’d lie on the rug in the living room and read the comics. I never found the rest of the paper interesting when I was little. The Sunday movie started at noon, and we’d gather around and watch. The only movie I still remember watching was Lassie Come Home. It made me cry.

My mother was always in the kitchen preparing Sunday dinner. During the week we had lunch in the afternoon and then supper at night, but on Sundays we had dinner. I always thought it was called dinner because it was the best meal of the whole week. We sometimes had a roast beef or a roast pork or chicken, always mashed potatoes and a couple of vegetables, out of cans back then. There was never enough room at the table. The kitchen was small. My mother often stood up by the stove near the table to eat. Even years later, when there was room, she’d still stand at the counter and eat. I thought it was strange until I remembered those Sunday dinners and that small kitchen and the table against the wall.