Ditto is my description of the weather though it will be warmer today at 41°. I have lots of I could’s on my to-do list with cleaning on top, but I’m ignoring the list today. I might say it is my sloth exerting its influence, but I’m going to use Sunday, the day of rest, as my reason. 

In the cold of yesterday’s late afternoon I filled the bird feeders. To the three feeders I usually fill, I added a fourth. Each was filled with a different seed: sunflower, thistle for my goldfinches, a mixed seed and one which spawns are supposed to hate. The dogs followed me to the deck where they played and ate each other’s faces. It didn’t take long for my fingers to get cold and stiff. I hurried inside and warmed my hands around a steaming cup of coffee. Today is little library day. I need to add new books, clean the window and organize. 

When I was growing up, I had it easy. I had no chores. My bed got made, my clothes got washed and my room was cleaned, all while I was in school. When I went to college, I didn’t even know how to work a washing machine. I panicked when the buzzer sounded. What had I done? Someone explained the machine had an overload of wet clothes on one side so I needed to move the wash round. I never cooked dinner or baked anything. I was in the Peace Corps when I baked my first ever cookies, sugar cookies for Christmas.

 One of my favorite culinary adventures was also in Ghana when my friends, Bill and Peg, and I tried to make bagels. I remember the boiling, but mostly remember how awful they tasted. 

Ironically, cooking and baking became favorites. I had special dinners and celebrated with different cuisines. My friends dined on Indian, Chinese, Cajun and so many more. I decorated the table to complement the cuisine. For the Russian meal I made Russian churches with onion domes. I played Russian music. I made everything for every dinner, most dishes for the very first time, risky but always successful. The only foods I have never been tempted to make are bagels. The memory lingers. 

The day is lovely, but we are still stuck in the cold. The high will be 32°. I have no list today, nothing I need to do and nowhere I need to go. I will lounge in my cozies wrapped in my afghan. I will honor my inner sloth. 

When I was a kid, the high point of my week was always Saturday. I seldom stayed home. I was out and about with my bike in the warmer weather, even on a warm winter’s day, or I would ice skate at the town rink or the swamp. I remember skating at the rink. You never went straight ahead. You skated in a circle. I followed the skaters in front of me and had skaters following me from behind. I skated until my feet hurt. I remember walking home, my skates over my shoulder and my feet tingling for a little while. The matinee was always a choice on rainy Saturdays. Snowy Saturdays meant sledding on the hill until my hands were so freezing they’d stop working. I’d call it a day, stand my sled up in a snow pile then slide down the stairs to the cellar where I’d hang my wet clothes on the clothesline and put on my cozies. I have been a long time lover of cozies.

I used to love buying copies of Classics Illustrated. Two of my favorites were Treasure Island and Kidnapped. I had read Treasure Island but not Kidnapped though I did see the movie. The Classics Illustrated were the same price as the regular comics, only a dime, and I thought they were bargain. One time, I was walking the tracks. On one side of the track by the road was a big green wooden box which held sand. I remember opening the top just to look. I found a tied bundle of comic books. I had found a treasure. One of the comics was Little Lulu, a favorite, another was Dondi. I never liked Dondi, the World War II orphan. Scrooge McDuck was in the pile. I sat all the rest of the day reading those comics.

I finished my book last night and am ready for another. I have several books saved to my iPad, but I love reading real books more. I love the feel of them, the sound of the pages turning and the joy of finishing one and shutting the cover with a satisfaction that on-line books don’t give me. I have several choices including books by Ngaio Marsh, Mary Wesley, James Patterson and Winston Groom’s Forrest Gump. I’m leaning toward the Mary Wesley. I’m thinking to lie on the couch, read and maybe treat myself to hot chocolate with marshmallow floating on the top.