The morning is pretty with a bright sun glinting off the leaves in the backyard. It is getting warmer after last night, a chilly night. For the last few weeks, our weather has been following that same pattern, days in the low 70’s and nights in the 50’s. That seems about perfect.

When I was a kid, I loved the fall most of all. It seemed to touch every sense. All the trees were covered in red or yellow leaves, and when they started to fall, it was like a shower of colors above and below. The leaves fell quietIy and sometimes fluttered and danced as they fell. I remember the sound of the rake. My father raked the leaves into piles on the side lawn. The rake made a scratching sound, a rhythmic sound as my father went back and forth across the grass. After he was finished with the yard, he’d rake the leaves to the gutter below the small grassy hill, the hill we’d ride our bikes down. He’d burn the leaves. I can still see the smoke billowing. I can see my father in his red jacket standing by the pile to tend the fire. He’d feed it with more leaves. The smoke rose straight up from the pile. It smelled sweet and a bit earthy from the dirt clinging to the leaves. It is my favorite memory of fall.

I loved walking to and from school during the fall. The morning air was clear. It had a crispness, a chill. I‘d wear my jacket. It was warm enough for the mornings but too warm in the afternoons so I’d tie it around my waist or stuff it into my school bag. The sun was different on fall afternoons. It looked faded. Its light was slanted. The sun went down early and the air chilled. You knew winter was coming.

If you’d like a bit of a weather report, just check yesterday’s Coffee. Today is the same. I do love this weather, but I’d like some rain. Everything is too dry.

When I was a kid, Sunday was sacrosanct. Most of the stores were closed. It was family dinner day. We hung around the house after church. My father read his paper, and we watched TV. Sometimes in the afternoon we went to visit my grandparents.

In my mind’s eye, I can see the way to East Boston where my grandparents lived. I remember places which caught my eye or piqued my curiosity. They sit in my memory drawers in no particular order. I remember the sportman’s club with the pond stocked with trout. It was just before my favorite part of the ride, Route 1. On the highway, right beside each other were a couple of seafood restaurants. Some of the menu was listed on signs by the road so drivers might be tantalized to stop. I also remember the small store which advertised bait. It was close to the church with its back to the highway. There was a sign to Wonderland, the dog track. Both sides of the highway were filled with all sorts of stores and buildings. On a corner with a strip of grass below an overpass was a bridal shop with mannequins wearing wedding dresses in the windows. The rotary was always busy. We had to wait for a break in traffic. Beyond that was a trailer park and a sort of project with brick buildings. It was at the bottom of the hill where the huge statue of Madonna Queen of the Universe looked down on the city. We’d leave the highway and ride through a couple of neighborhoods to get to my grandparents’ house. My father would drop us us then he’d hunt for a parking space. The house was always filled with cousins and aunts and uncles. My grandmother was in the kitchen as were my mother and the aunts. My grandfather hid from the turmoil. He used to give us each a dime.

My dance card is fairly empty for this week. I have the usual uke practice and lesson and only one concert. If the warm weather continues, I’ll be happy to sit on the deck to read and watch the birds. I’ll let my sloth have full rein.