Keep the Coffee Comimg

The morning is cloudy, even a bit grim. It is in the mid 50’s, warmish for November, but the next few nights will be winter cold, down to the 30’s. I’ve put the blanket on my bed, a surrender, an acknowledgement to winter.

My kitchen floor is covered with muddy paw prints. Clumps of dog hair fly into the air when I walk down the hall. I ignore it all. My sloth instinct is strong.

When I was a kid, we always had turkey for both Thanksgiving and Christmas and at no other time of year. We ate turkey for days. We started with the big bird on the holiday, then, for supper, we’d have open turkey sandwiches with gravy and the rest of the fixings on the side. Sandwiches were next. The bread was always toasted, and on the turkey was usually stuffing and cranberry sauce and mayo or butter. I loved those sandwiches. Turkey salad, made with the meat my father stripped from the bone, was the next incarnation. The last of the turkey became soup made from the carcass. By then we were trukeyed out.

I had an aunt who was a nun. For most of my childhood, we saw her once a year, an obligatory visit. She lived in Connecticut. We were always dressed in our church clothes for the visit. We stopped once on the way. I remember the building was brick and close to where we were going. We went to the bathroom where my mother made sure we were all nun ready. The visit never changed from year to every year. We sat in the parlor. When she joined us, she looked formidable in her habit. Her questions seldom varied. She wanted to know how school was and what our favorite subjects were. During the visit, another nun would arrive with cookies and soft drinks. At some point we’d walk to the school to see my aunt’s classroom. That was it, the whole visit. I always thought once a year was too often.

The morning is an ugly one. It has been raining, and the damp air is chilly. I’m wearing my cold day ensemble of a sweatshirt, flannel pants and fleece socks. My heat keeps coming on to keep the cold at bay. Today feels like a winter’s day.

I have a concert today, the second this week. I organized my music book last night. Next week we start practicing Christmas music. We’ll start our Christmas concerts in a couple of weeks. I love Christmas concerts.

My father used to say he wanted to come back in his next life as a pet in any of our houses. I’m sure my dogs would agree, but they are curled up asleep on the couch, and I’d hate to disturb them.

I mostly live in my den. The TV is here, my computer too. It is just a few steps to the bathroom and down the hall from the kitchen. My table here is huge, a metal table. Anything I need, except food, is within reach. Right now my computer is on my lap and my feet are resting on the tabletop. I’m watching a movie with resurrected dinosaurs wreaking havoc on an island paradise.

When I was a kid, there were certainties. Oreos came in only one variety. Televisions were black and white. Cereal, except for oatmeal, was loaded with sugar, but we put sugar on it anyway, especially on the sugarless oatmeal which was always lumpy. Boots had shoes inside. We only took a bath on Saturdays. Sunday was the big family dinner. The rest of the week we ate supper. Vegetables mostly came in cans. My mother grocery shopped once a week. We had three sets of clothes: school clothes, play clothes and church clothes. You never mixed and mingled except for the shoes and the winter coats. Fathers worked. Mothers didn’t. We were free roamers. Santa Claus always watched, and we tempted fate by being bad.

My life now still has a regularity. Most days start and end the same way. Only the middles are different, but not very different.