Today is another lovely day, warmer than it has been. The morning light is squint your eyes bright. Shadows dot the trunks of the oak trees. The blue sky shows through the leaves still on the branches. It is a day not to be wasted, a day to be out and about.

My dance card has just one item, a concert today, but I do have a list. I always have a list. I need to go to the dump. I need to vacuum the mounds of Henry hair in the hall which fly into the air when I walk to the kitchen. I just had a weird memory jump into my head. In Ghana, what is called the hall is what we call the living room.

Fall has always been my favorite season. When I was a kid, I loved the colors of the leaves, especially the yellows and the bright reds of the maples. I loved walking on the piles of dead leaves in the gutters and hearing the crunch as they crumbled underfoot. I remember cool mornings and warmer afternoons and layering for the walk to school. The streetlights came on early in the afternoons. That was my only complaint.

Being a kid was easy when I was growing up. School on weekdays and church on Sundays were my only responsibilities. I never minded school, but I wasn’t a fan of going to church. I remember sitting in a pew in the back, close to the exit, so I could make a run after the Pax Vobiscum. I’d sometimes sneak a book in my pocket to read during the mass. I think I looked devout. Back then it was a Latin mass, and all we saw up front was the priest’s back as he stood at the altar. I remember the pews were filled every Sunday. The older women wore real hats. The younger women wore mantillas and even Kleenex held by two Bobby pins. I wore the mantilla as I could stash it in my pocket.

We were the duck and cover generation. We’d practice crouching under our desks with our hands and arms covering our heads in case of a nuclear attack. I really had no idea what a nuclear attack was. I just figured whatever it was I’d be safe under my desk.

Yesterday was downright cold, and when the wind whipped through, it made the day feel even colder. It was a fleece day, an acknowledgement to the coming winter. Today is a pretty day. It is in the mid-40’s with a bright, bright sun. The few red leaves and the pervasive brown leaves on the oak trees shine in the light. We still have a wind.

When I was a kid, I loved walking to school in the mornings. We lived on a hill. Across the street from the bottom of the hill was a huge field, a tended field with baseball diamonds. I always thought of the field as a shortcut so I’d cross it to get to the sidewalk on the street which led to school. The sidewalk was long, the whole length of the street, and was interrupted only by the railroad tracks.

When I was growing up, the living room was where we spent the most time. The TV was there in a corner. We’d sit on the rug close to the set and watch it. We never went blind. In the late afternoons, my mother would be in the kitchen making dinner. In my mind’s eye I can see her standing by the sink peeling potatoes. The stove was behind her. The fridge beside her. The kitchen was small. We always had potatoes. My father never had supper with us. He’d get home late from work. He was a salesman. I remember a photo of him coming in the front door. He is wearing a fedora and a top coat, the unofficial men’s winter wardrobe back then. Both were black.

I didn’t question much when I was a kid. I went to school every weekday, played outside if I could in the afternoons, watched TV, did my homework, ate dinner, watched more TV then went to bed. I was never bored. Kids seldom were.