Today is quiet, calm. It is a fall day. It is cloudy, dark cloudy, but warm, in the 70’s. Tonight will get down to the 50’s. I’d invent today if it didn’t already exist. The best days don’t have to be sunny.

When I was a kid, I wondered why on Labor Day nobody worked. Even my father stayed home. When I was older, I understood it was a day to honor the American worker, to commemorate the contributions of the labor movement. It was in 1887 when Oregon first celebrated Labor Day. Massachusetts followed that same year. Everything used to be closed on Labor Day. We had a barbecue. Labor Day was, for me, the summer’s last hurrah.

School always started the day after Labor Day. It was the end of freedom. No longer were the days mine. My life became regimented. I got up the same time every school day. My mother was my alarm clock, and she yelled up the stairs to tell us it was time to get up. Breakfast was always ready. I remember the tea pot with the ends of tea bags hanging out of the pot was always on the table. Breakfast was either eggs or cereal. After breakfast I got dressed in my uniform. The same uniform I wore every day. My friend and I walked to school together on the same route every day. We waited in the school yard for the bell. I sat at the same desk day after day. The lessons followed the same order except we had art and music once a week. Lunch followed by recess was the same time every day. When the school bell rang to free us from our chains, our proverbial chains, I ran home at breakneck speed. I changed quickly into my play clothes and ran outside. I didn’t want to miss a minute of my free time, the only free time every day. The street lights came on soon enough.

My dance card has only one listing for the week, my uke lesson on Wednesday. I haven’t left the house or even gotten dressed since Friday. I did do some cleaning. I vacuumed and polished. On my to-do list for today is to fill the bird feeders, change my bed, water the inside plants then take a nap. The sloth in me needs its time.

The morning is cloudy and damp. Rain is predicted. The only sounds I hear are the songs of birds. A male cardinal was at the feeder as were nuthatches and a chickadee or two.

When I was a kid, our TV was in the corner of the living room. It was, as all TV’s were, black and white. It had an antennae with rabbit ears wrapped in aluminum foil which was supposed to give us a better picture. I remember turning the antenna to find the best picture while my father gave directions like left or more to the right or hold it there. Whoever was closest to the TV had to get up and change the channel. When the TV needed service, my father would take out the tubes in the back. That always ended in disaster. He’d bring the tubes to the TV appliance store where the guy would check them and replace the bad ones. My father would bring them all home. He had no idea where the tubes belonged. He’d tinker for a while, unsuccessfully, then call the repairman to the house.

My father often cooked breakfast on Sunday mornings. He always made bacon and eggs. The eggs were fried in the bacon grease. He made sure to keep the yolks intact. I’d do my own toast. In my mind’s eye I can still see him at the stove minding the eggs.

My father hunted mosquitos. His weapon was a rolled up magazine. I remember waking up when my bed shook. My father, with his weapon, was moving on my bed trying to whack mosquitos on the ceiling. Standing on the bed was for added height. The ceiling had spots of smushed mosquito bodies.

We are all sharing the couch. I have one end, Nala has the other, and Henry is between us. This happens every morning. The dogs are creatures of habit.