Languid is the word. Today is unhurried. The dogs and I have no intentions to move, to do anything needing energy. Both of them are napping. Nala is with me, and Henry is upstairs on my bed where I wish I were. The rain did it to us. When I heard the drops on the roof, I didn’t want to get out of bed. Outside is uninviting with dark clouds and rain. The day’s only saving grace is its warmth, 44˚. We have a high wind warning but no wind yet. Tonight’s high will be 29˚, but I don’t even care about the cold. I am staying close to hearth and home.

Yesterday was a banner day. I went to the dump. I had no choice. The trunk was filled with trash bags, most of them litter. The front and back seats had recycables. The back seat was totally covered by cardboard boxes filled with cardboard boxes. I was surprised by how quiet the dump was with few cars and no wind.

I also got a few groceries yesterday. Most were utilitarian, but I admit to apple and blueberry turnovers and a Three Musketeers. The dogs got biscuits. We were all happy.

When I was a kid, I loved being in school on a rainy day even though we had no recess. The classroom was in shadows despite the lights. The rain hit the windows. I remember they were the tallest windows stretching almost from ceiling to floor. A long stick with a curved metal piece at the top was the only way to open and shut them. The boys could use the stick, not the girls. Sometimes the pelting rain was loud and drowned out the nun, a miracle of its own, so we did quiet lessons like silent reading. I never understood that one even though it was graded. How did the nun know we were reading? The only thing I came up with was she watched our eyes moving across the pages, left to right. In my wanderings on line, I found sinistrodextral, which means reading left to right. The word has Latin roots, and with my four years of high school Latin, I can easily translate. Sinister means left and dexter means right. I suspect I’ll never have an opportunity to use this neat word. Not once in my life up to now has anyone ever asked me about reading left to right, but if someone does, I’m ready.

The weather is bizarre. For two days it has been frigid weather, and my heat has been constantly running. Going outside even for a little bit was brutally cold. The dogs were out just for their business though I think Nala stole a box from the recycle bin and shredded it before she came back inside the house. Today the high will be 45˚, perfect dump weather. Tomorrow will be rainy and maybe even snowy.

I can’t believe I will actually get dressed today. It has been a while. I do, for cleanliness sake, change my cozies after my shower, but as far as I get beyond the house is usually the mailbox across the street.

Henry and his battle with the dog door continues. Yesterday he came back in himself through the dreaded door every time. Today he’s been standing outside and whacking the door with his nose, his method of summoning me. I am well trained.

When I was a kid, I never thought about how my every day was the same except for weekends, but even they had a pattern. Saturday was mine. Sunday was family. Saturday was morning TV, bike rides around town, hot dogs, beans and brown bread for dinner and a bath Saturday night. Sunday was doomed from the start. I had to go to mass. After mass I usually stayed around the house, watched some TV, read the funnies or hid in my room and read until dinner time. Sunday was the only day of the week with dinner. Every other day we had lunch and supper. Sunday dinner was usually around two. Sunday supper was light after the big dinner.

In Ghana, my week days too had the same pattern. I was up early, sometimes early enough to watch my students line up with their metal buckets at the shower stalls outside. I remember the sound of water hitting the bottom of the buckets. I’d have my first cup of coffee then breakfast, the same one very day, then I’d walk across the school compound to the classroom block to teach my first class of the day. In between classes, I’d walk home and maybe have another cup of coffee. After school, I’d go into town, roam around the market and hope to find a surprise like the watermelon I once found. I’d visit people in the stores and my husband at the Super Service Inn. On picture day, his mother, my mother-in-law, dressed him in new clothes. He looked adorable though a little uneasy, nervous and probably wondering why the white lady was taking pictures of him with her trusty Instamatic. When I looked at the picture just now, I realized it was taken fifty three years ago. I expect my husband is a grandfather.