Today is cold but winter lovely. The sun is brilliant in a light blue sky. The wind is strong and the high branches, both oak and pine, sway. It is only 29˚, and the wind makes it feels even colder. I’m cozy and warm.

Every day I have a list. Some days I complete the items on the lists while other days I choose to be a sloth, to do nothing. Yesterday was a sloth day. Today my list says: water the plants and change the bed. I will prophesize. The plants will love the water.

I never see the neighbors who live across the street. Henry still barks when the man is in his yard. The other neighbors and I wave. The other day I saw a rental truck in the driveway of a house on the facing street. I’m still wondering why and have no one to ask.

When my father retired, they gave him a sumptuous send off complete with dinner and presents. A couple of the presents were a hand drill and saw. We, his family, gasped at visions of drilled or sawed off digits. My father and tools had one of those live or maim relationships. My mother asked one of the givers what had prompted the idea of tools. The man told my mother he knew my father liked to putter around the house. When my mother told us, we all laughed. By putter around the house, she meant he emptied ashtrays and did dishes. We had to figure out where to hide the tools.

When I was a kid, around this time on a Sunday, my mother would already be in the kitchen making dinner. The kitchen windows would be fogged from the heat of the oven. The aroma of the cooking roast would spread from the kitchen throughout the whole house. I can still remember my mother at the sink peeling potatoes. She always used the same pan to cook the potatoes. It had a dent. A couple of vegetables, including my favorite baby peas, would be in pots on cold burners ready to be turned on when the roast was finished and the potatoes were ready to be mashed. My mother used a masher with a wooden handle and a metal wavy masher on the bottom. Getting all the lumps out of the potatoes took strength of body and purpose. My mother excelled at serving smooth, lump-less mashed potatoes in which I always made a hole on the top for the gravy. This is and will forever be my favorite Sunday dinner.

The morning is cold. The wind is making it feel even colder. The high today will be 32˚. We’re just about there now. The sunlight appears through the clouds every now and then giving me a bit of hope for a nice day. I need to fill the bird feeders. I’d been waiting for a warmer day but warmth is not predicted. I’ll just wear mittens.

Staying inside is wearing thin. I am tired of my own company. Poor Henry is also tired of my company. I talk to him all the time. Mostly he pretends to listen but sometimes he ignores me and just gets off the couch.

When I was growing up, Saturday was my favorite day. I got to eat my cereal in front of the TV while I watched all those great kids’ shows. The whole day was mine to do what I wanted. I had so many choices. There was always my bike. I could get to five different towns from my little town. My favorite ride was around the lake in the next town over closest to me. I would sit for a bit of a rest at the bandstand. I remember how grand the houses facing the lake were. At the head of the lake was Bayrd’s Indian Trading Post which had a teepee in front and sold authentic artifacts and costumes. I loved wandering that store with its beautiful beaded headdresses and belts. That was usually my last stop of the day.

Another choice was the library. Saturday in the winter was my favorite library day. I’d wander the shelves, find a book, take a seat and start reading. The librarian never shooed me out. Usually I’d take four or five books, the limit, home with me.

There was always the Saturday matinee especially if it was a really cold, wintry Saturday. We sometimes got a ride uptown but we never got a ride home. I remember walking home from the theater around 4 in the afternoon. It wasn’t dark but it wasn’t light either. It was the part of the day without much identity. Late afternoon, maybe. Getting on to twilight, maybe even better. Street light time, the best description of all. I always hurried home.