Last night it rained, not a lot as under the umbrellas is dry. I sat outside to read my first paper. Pandora was set to 60’s rock, the coffee was perfect and the newspaper wasn’t filled with dire events. I call that a great morning.

In the musical Camelot, King Arthur describes Camelot and says, “The rain may never fall till after sundown.” I always thought that a good idea.

I still have bits of the old Sunday in my head. It was a day to recharge for the week. We went to church, came home, got changed, and hung around until after Sunday dinner. Even then we didn’t go far. Sunday seemed to bring a quiet as if it were built in to the day. Even my neighborhood with a million kids was quiet. That’s a piece that hasn’t disappeared. I don’t hear anyone. I hear a bird or two but no people’s’ voices. Not a car has gone up my street. I know if I leave my neighborhood the stores will be open, and cars will have filled parking lots and lines of cars will sit barely moving on the roads, but for now, I’ll stay here and let it be my Sunday.

Each generation gives something to the next. Most times they probably don’t realize it. From my mother we have these wonderful sayings, and we use them all the time with each other. “It’s too cold to snow,” my mother always said. Mostly she was wrong. When it rained, it was a deluge, and my sister told me that the other day. Snow in spring is poor man’s fertilizer, and my father always noted it and so do I. My parents gave us big things, but we use the small ones the most, the every day observations of life. My mother learned them from her mother and passed them along to us without knowing we’d hold on to them so closely. They are precious and very time we use one, we bring my mother or father back with us for a little while.

No one ever told us how difficult it is and how long that feeling lasts when you lose your parents. I suppose we wouldn’t have believed them if they had.