Today is warm, not your lie on the deck and read sort of warmth, but it is 45°, a long way from yesterday’s 30°. I call this sort of day sweatshirt weather.
One of the fattest gray spawns of Satan I have ever seen drops by each day. I watch him try to manuever around the squirrel protected cage to get at the seeds inside. He holds on to the outside wires and pulls himself around the cage then hangs on from underneath. His last desperate attempt is to try to pry off the top, but he never gets at the seeds. He generally ends up on the deck rail then waddles away. I give a yell of triumph and thrust my arm into the air.
The only time I didn’t wish for snow at Christmas was the year I asked for a bike. The last thing I wanted was not being able to ride it so bare streets were essential. I remember everything about that Christmas. When I came downstairs, the first thing I saw was my bike in all its glory off to the side of the tree leaning on its kickstand. It was blue and had a bell attached to the handle bars and a metal basket in the front. The first thing I did was ring the bell. The next thing I did was try on my bike. I sat on the seat and put one foot on the pedal and balanced the bike with my other foot to the rug. The bike was the perfect height. Right then and there, in my pajamas on a cold Christmas morning, I wanted to take my bike outside and give it a test run. All of the other presents were forgotten. All I could see was that bike and me on the open road riding all over town. My parents said no, maybe later, and reminded me of my other presents so I got to unwrapping, but I kept glancing at that bike hoping later would come sooner.
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