The morning is cold. Last night was even colder, an under the down comforter and thanks for the warm dogs cold. Today’s high will only be 51˚, and it will be mostly cloudy. The only to do list item is the laundry, but I find that easy to ignore.

When I went outside to get the papers yesterday, I opened the door and was taken aback by the turkeys in the front yard. There were about eight of them. A couple were really plump and as pretty as turkeys can get.

My yard was totally cleaned yesterday afternoon. There were guys with leaf blowers in the front and back. Henry barked at each of them from the front and back doors. Another guy was cutting the dead perennials to the ground. My front fence is again standing upright, but my mailbox still leans.

Last night I actually cooked dinner. It was pork and a roasted honeynut squash. I had never tasted honeynut squash before last night. If ever a vegetable can be called cute, it is the honeynut squash, a sort of little sister to butternut squash. I just sprinkled it with salt and pepper and put it in the oven.

When I was a kid, the trash truck came once a week. In the early morning of trash day, even before I left for school, gray metal barrels, mostly dented metal barrels, were on the sidewalks in front of each house in a random line as if in a sort of display. My father put his barrels out just before he left for work and took them in when he got home. They were kept in the cellar. When we moved to the cape, the barrels came with us. I remember them in the backyard next to the house, some with covers which were too dented to fit anymore. Every weekend my father loaded the barrels in the trunk and went to the dump as there was no trash pickup. He loved going to the dump. Back then the dump had huge heaps of trash and loud, noisy seagulls on the ground and in the air circling the heaps. When I would go home for the weekend from school, my father always invited me to go to the dump with him. It was a grand invitation.

I have a couple of barrels stored under the deck. One is metal and the other plastic. The metal one has weathered well over the years. The plastic one is split in places. Both are filled with yard trash, mostly small limbs and branches. I haven’t ever emptied them or taken them to the dump. They just sit there. I always think of them as waiting for my father.

The air is crisp. Last night was cold. The morning sun is glinting through the trees and highlighting the thick branches of the oak trees, the ones by the deck. Nothing is moving. It is quiet. Even the leaves at the end of the branches are still. Everything is pretty in the sunlight.

The house is clean. The backyard is escape proof. The front lawn and deck are clear of leaves and debris. Fallen trunks from small, dead trees were hauled out of the backyard now made ready for winter.

The weather forecast is for a passing shower this afternoon. We’ll be in the 50’s today and the rest of the week. The nights will drop to the 40’s. Fall is giving way to colder days and nights.

When I was a kid, I resisted as long as I could, but as the mornings grew colder, my mother insisted I wear a sweater under my jacket on the walk to school.

I loved the first morning I could see my breath. The air was clean, clear. The sunlight was sharp but not so warm anymore. My footsteps echoed on the sidewalk. Fallen leaves filled the gutters. Fall was disappearing before my very eyes.

When we got home from school, we had to change into our play clothes. Back then, my wardrobe was divided into school clothes, play clothes and church clothes. My school clothes were a blue skirt, white blouse and a blue tie, our school uniform. My church clothes were a dress or skirt and a blouse. My play clothes were seasonal. In the warmer seasons I wore shorts, a sleeveless blouse and sneakers. When it got cold, I’d wear my dungarees, girly dungarees with a zipper in the side pocket, and long sleeve shirts. My favorites were flannel shirts, still are.

On school days, breakfasts changed with the seasons. On the warmer days it was cereal, dry cereal with milk, and on the colder days it was sometimes oatmeal with butter and brown sugar or eggs, mostly soft-boiled eggs in yellow chicken egg cups. I remember the breakfast table. A teapot filled with hot water sat in the middle. That was for the tea drinkers. I was a cocoa drinker. My mother made that cup by cup. I remember there were bubbles on the top of the cocoa. Once a while, we’d just have toast and our hot drink of choice. I remember the toast buttered then covered in cinnamon. That was a treat.

In Ghana my breakfasts didn’t change for the whole two years. I ate two eggs cooked in groundnut oil (peanut oil), two pieces of toast and a couple of mugs of instant coffee, the only coffee sold. I loved the fresh bread and the taste of those eggs. I never tired of that breakfast.