Today is yesterday, cloudy and chilly, but the weather report is a mix, a sort of a peek a boo game between the sun and the clouds. The high today will be 53°. That’s jacket weather.

When I was a kid, Sunday was a different sort of a day. I had to get dressed early to go to mass. I wore my Sunday church clothes, not to be confused with my school clothes or my play clothes. Most Sundays I walked to church, a short walk, as it was right beside my school. I preferred the downstairs for mass, no sermon there. I was never fond of sermons, most were dull. A bit of humor would have helped, but I guess sin and eternal flames are never funny. I always sat in the back, the best spot for a quick getaway.

My father always bought the Sunday paper. He read the Boston American. I remember he sat in the chair by the picture window to read it. He never read the funnies so I’d grab them. I’d lie on the floor to read. I remember the print would sometimes smear, and ink would get on my fingertips. The television was usually on showing the Sunday Cinema. The only movie I remember was Lassie Come Home, an old black and white film.

Sunday dinner was the special meal of the week. On the menu were always mashed potatoes and a couple of vegetables, canned vegetables. The roast varied. Sometimes it was a whole chicken, other times roast beef. We’d sit at the table. My mother, though, would often stand and eat at the counter.

Some Sundays we went to East Boston to visit my grandparents, my mother’s parents. My mother had seven siblings. She was the third born. My mother’s sisters were usually there on Sundays with their kids, the cousins. The women, including my grandmother, sat in the kitchen. The men sat upstairs watching football. On the stove was always spaghetti, enough to feed everybody. I loved that the cheese was in a chunk and had to be grated over the spaghetti.

It was dark when my father drove us home. I would sometimes fall asleep leaning against the backseat door. I do remember a white house with an oxen yoke, minus the oxen of course, over the garage. That was the sign we were almost home.

My leg is the best it has been. I believe my sloth days are the reasons. Now I need the energy to clean or blinders to ignore the dirt.

The house was cold this morning. It holds the night chill. Today will be in the low 50’s. It is a cloudy morning. Everything looks dark. The leaves are losing their colors, turning brown, and even a small breeze drops more of them to the ground.

Mornings this time of year have a different feel. The air is chilly but it hints of afternoon warmth. Hoodies are morning attire while a flannel shirt will do for the afternoon.

Saturday has always been my favorite day. When I was a kid, it was a day to roam. I remember riding my bike to the zoo. I’d put it in the bike rack then walk and visit the animals. Back then the animals lived in small cages except for the deer who roamed a fenced in hillside. The animals were more local than exotic. I remember raccoons and even squirrels. I’d spent most of the day there. I’d eat my lunch at one of the picnic tables in an area beyond the cages then finish roaming. The MDC barn was beside the entrance to the zoo. The horses were stabled there. That was my last stop before the ride home.

Pieces of my childhood have stayed with me. They have become traditions. Some are as simple as making my mother’s stuffing at Thanksgiving and her pepper and eggs in the summer. She always made it when we went to the beach or had a barbecue. My sisters and I joke that we caught the Christmas bug from my mother. We even make the same cookies. My mother used to say, “It is too cold to snow.” We did too until it snowed on the coldest day. When I go outside in the winter without a hat, I think of my mother. She would have reminded me that heat escapes through the head. My sisters sometimes say that to me. It is part of family lore.

My sloth continues to party. I swear I can hear him blowing horns. He is celebrating my joining him and doing nothing. I have become quite adept at ignoring the giant balls of dog hair which fly into the air when I walk around the house. I could write dust me on the tables. At some point, though, I’m just going to have to clean. I can only take so much!!