Today is perfect. The weather is a delight. The morning is cool at 73°. The bright sun is framed by the darkest blue sky, a navy blue sky. The air has an every now and then breeze. It is Sunday quiet.

When I noticed the dogs hadn’t come in for their morning naps, especially Henry, I went and checked. Both dogs were too busy cleaning out and eating the trash which had been in Jack’s room. Cat food cans, left over cat food, cat treat packages and even dog treat packages were in the yard almost hidden by a tree. Both dogs were at the trash. Henry has gone over to the dark side.

When I was a kid, I dutifully went to church every Sunday. Sometimes I wore my bathing suit under my dress as we were leaving for the beach right after church. Other times I sat outside on the steps when the early masses were especially popular, and the pews were filled. I figured I was at church so the steps counted for attendance.

I didn’t want to move to the cape, but my parents sweetened the deal by saying I’d have a room of my own. What they didn’t tell me was it would be the pseudo-guest room, and I’d get the couch. Mostly my aunt and uncle, Aunt Barbara and Uncle Lorrie, with their brat of a child were the guests. They lived in East Boston so she she always brought down Italian cookies and a cream cake. The pastries were most welcome. Their son was not. He was younger than I, but that was no never mind. He would keep at me with his mouth. I’d tell him to stop, and he wouldn’t. I forgot how I got him to stop and why they he didn’t come down again, but my mother reminded me why. She told me I had reached the end of my patience and punched him in the face. My aunt chastised me, but my mother told her I had tried again and again to get him to stop. He deserved the punch. My mother had my back.

Three times in my life I have punched someone. Each time I first tried reasoning and asked several times for the person to stop. When that didn’t work, my fist seemed to take on a life of its own. One punch was all I needed. The first time was when I was in the fifth grade. The second time was at Fenway Park and the third time was my cousin. They all earned my wrath.

Last night we had thunder and lightning but little rain. It fell in giant drops then smaller drops then it disappeared. The morning is dark and dank. We had fog. The temperature is in the mid-70’s and won’t get much higher. Tonight will be in the 60’s. It seems we’re having a cold spell, at least in comparison.

Yesterday I got all my chores done, even the dreaded laundry. I also went down cape to Orleans. The highway traffic was light and quick. After I finished my errand, I took the highway home. I could see the traffic build-up on the down cape side. I had just missed it.

When I was a kid, my mother used to play a game she called Jack and Jill. She’d put a small band of paper on the same finger of each hand then put both fingers on the table. She’d say, Go away, Jack,” then move her hand up over her shoulder. When she brought her hand down, Jack was gone. She did the same with Jill. We were amazed. We looked behind her back and on the floor but couldn’t find Jack or Jill. Next, she’d say, “Come back, Jack,” then put her hand over her shoulder. When she brought her hand to the table, Jack was back. She then brought Jill back. We thought my mother was a magician. How did she do it?

My father used to tell us scary stories. I will never forget the man with the hook who used to scratch screens. That one scared me. My father and mother usually went grocery shopping on Friday evenings. My mother didn’t drive then so my father had to take her. He used to wait in the car. I remember I was watching TV and waiting for them to get home when I heard it, the scratching on the screen. I yelled, “Who is it,” but got no answer, but I knew who it was, the man with the hook. The story my father had told us was real, but it wasn’t. It was my father without a hook.

Despite the man with the hook, I wasn’t afraid of much while growing up, not spiders or ghosts or creatures of the night. I am still not afraid, not even of the man with the hook.