It’s an on again-off again chilly sunny day. Last night, it rained. We were at the beach enjoying the last of our after dinner ice cream cones when we saw the darkest black cloud moving across the sky. It was mouth dropping beautiful with fluffy edges billowing and drifting back and forth and small pockets of light trying to shine through the different shades of gray and black. I watched it all the way home.

My dance card is empty today. There are places I could go and things I could do, but I’m staying home. I have a new book.

A sub shop was only one block from my elementary school. It was Mr. Santoro’s Sub Shop, the very first ever in town, and Mr. Santoro worked behind the counter with one or two of his sons. He was a short stocky man who always reminded me of my Uncle Lorre, the token Italian in my family as my father used to joke. Mr. Santoro’s sub shop was small with no tables and only stools in front of a counter on the wall opposite the glass case which held all the meats and salads. Silver containers behind where Mr. Santoro took orders held all the fixings. Potato chips hung off tall racks. It was a treat to have enough money to get a sub for lunch, and it was a treat to get out of school for a bit. We’d walk over and patiently stand in line. I’d watch Mr. Santoro make the subs while I was waiting. He was quick and had the rolls filled, topped and wrapped in only a few minutes. I usually ordered tuna on Fridays and Italian the rest of the time. I always had pickles, onions and hot pepper, still do. I’d take my lunch and eat at the counter on chilly days. On nice days I’d walk one block over to the town hall and sit at one of the benches. Eating at Mr. Santoro’s sub shop was my favorite lunch.