We have another rainy day, a preview of the weekend. It might rain Saturday, will rain Sunday and will likely snow on Monday. This sounds like a weekend to hunker down.

When I was growing up, I never thought of my life as routine. I was seldom bored, except maybe on Sundays. Every day was fun.

When I was a kid, we didn’t have sleepovers. We had pajama parties. They were usually a birthday celebration. We’d arrive in our pajamas, and we’d be toting pillows, blankets and presents. Usually we’d set up our blankets and pillows on the living room floor. A nearby table was always groaning under the weight of snacks like popcorn and chips and candy. We’d sing and laugh and even dance to music. At sometime during the evening, they’d be a birthday cake, a happy birthday song and presents. One parent was the designated sentry. That parent’s job was to tell us when it was time to settle down and get to sleep. That always made us snicker. Eventually, though, we’d tire out, lie down, get quiet and fall asleep.

After Christmas, winters were always quiet. The days had routines. The weekdays were school, a short playtime until the street lights came on then TV until dinner. Even dinners had routine menus, except for Friday, the no meat day. We ate chicken or ground beef, potatoes, usually mashed, and a vegetable. For dessert, we’d grab cookies if there were any left. The weekends were less regimented. Saturday was movie day or bike day or sledding day or a day of exploration. Saturday dinner, though, was always the same. I think just about everyone in New England ate hot dogs, beans and brown bread. I always thought of it as traditional, not routine. Most Sundays were boring. We had to go to church. We had to hang around for Sunday dinner. We went to bed early. It was a school night.

This is a good time. My face has healed. I am finally rid of that cough. I have rejoined the world.