The sun is shining. It is a pretty morning which belies the forecast of rain this afternoon into tomorrow. I’m fine with the rain. It is about time.

I saw it, the spawn. Earlier it was hanging upside down at one of the feeders. I wished I had a sling shot and an accurate eye. It was yesterday when I knew for certain that a spawn or many spawns were at the feeders. When I went out in the afternoon, I saw one of the clay pots had fallen to the deck and was broken. I saved the flower and repotted it. I’m going out on the deck later which will keep the spawn at bay.

Sunday has always been my least favorite day. It is quiet by design. When I was a kid, it meant mass and a family dinner, the best part of the day. It meant hanging around the house, no exploring, no biking, no wandering. There were only two exceptions to those usual Sundays. We’d go to East Boston to visit my grandparents, and we’d go to the beach, always after mass. Sunday dinner became beach food like sandwiches, chips, pepper and egg, bug juice and cookies, usually Oreos. We’d spend the day there. I can still remember leaving the beach to go home. We had to stick our feet in a bucket to get the sand off then jump into the car with clean feet. My father wasn’t big on sand in the car.

The very first presidential election when I was old enough to vote was in 1968. I voted for Hubert Humphrey. I couldn’t bring myself to vote for Nixon. Much later, during the Watergate hearing, I was in Washington. Hubert Humphrey walked by, and he kindly stopped and signed the book I was reading, the Foundation Trilogy by Isaac Asimov. I still have that book.

My dance card for the week is filled with uke: two concerts, practice and a lesson. That’s it.

The morning is perfect. It is 74° degrees, sunny and dry. The air is still. It is a day to be out and about or a day to loll on the deck with a book and a cold drink. Lemonade, a bit tart, would be perfect. I was awakened by the roar of the mower cutting the grass in my front yard. It was early for me, around 9, but I’m thinking not so early in the world of mowing.

When I was lying in bed, I could hear the plink of falling acorns hitting the metal bird seed storage barrel on the deck. Acorns are all over the deck. Nala chews them. In the spawn attacked deck box, the poor flowers have died. Well, one died and two disappeared. It is now empty. I’m going to have to buy a couple more.

When I was a kid, Saturday had rituals. We watched Saturday morning TV, still in our pajamas, with cereal bowls in hand while sitting close enough to the TV to cause blindness. Saturday was chore day. My father did his errands in the morning and worked in the yard in the afternoon, weather permitting. We had a New England Saturday night dinner though in the summer we often had a barbecue, also traditional. When we kids, it was hot dogs and hamburgers. When we were much older, it was spare ribs, steaks tips, Chinese sausage or chicken. My mother would make peppers and onions or potato salad. We were never a green salad family. Saturday night was bath night, a universal ritual.

My dance card is empty for the weekend. I’ll hunker down at home. I could vacuum or dust, but I won’t. I will water the inside plants. Rain is coming tomorrow so I don’t need to water outside. My hibiscus have started blooming. The front garden is still awash with color. Soon the clematis covering the front fence will bloom. The air will be abuzz with the sounds of the bees swarming the clematis. I’ll walk by gently.