The morning is lovely, sunny and seasonably warm. I filled my bird feeders earlier so now there is a line waiting for turns on the perch. I watch from the window over the sink as the different birds fly in and out. The male goldfinches have almost lost their bright colors. The chickadees grab a seed, fly to a branch and tap to get at the kernels. The blue jay fills his cheeks, if birds have cheeks, with several seeds. My deck is littered with sunflower kernels.

Sunday may not be what it used to be, but it is still a quiet day. People tend to stay close to home. The roads are clearer. Some stores are even closed.

I remember those childhood Sundays. My dad watched football. He was a pre-Patriots Giants fan and was most expressive during the games. He’d yell loudly and curse a bit and ask, “What the hell are you doing?” Rhetorical questions are common when watching any game. Name calling too is part of the experience. “You idiot or what an idiot move,” was one of my father’s favorites. It was reserved for stupid plays, interceptions and fumbles. My father always watched alone, and he sat in the big, comfy chair. I sometimes sat on the living room floor and read the comics. My mother spent the morning in the kitchen getting dinner ready. I remember her standing over the sink peeling potatoes. The oven was always on and whatever roast we were having for Sunday dinner was cooking. The small kitchen got warm. I never liked Sundays with church, homework and an early school night bedtime. Its only redeeming factor was the family dinner.