The sun is gone to regions unknown. It is a chilly, damp day. I always think Sundays should be bright and sunny. A beautiful warm day  would make me optimistic about the rest of the week.

This morning I didn’t tarry for a look at the garden. I grabbed my papers and came right back inside the house. I know a few flowers are still blooming. The other day the bees were all over them. That morning I stopped and watched. I think it’s time for the front storm door.

The week seems to have an empty dance card, the same as last week. I liked it. One book was finished and another begun, and the odd places in the house were cleaned and polished: bookcases, knick-knacks, lamp shades and the tops of books. I lemon oiled the old wooden surfaces and cleaned tiles. I was possessed.

I still hold for quiet Sundays. When I was a kid, I complained there was nothing to do, and there wasn’t, but that has changed. Sunday is now the same as any other day except the newspaper is thicker. That seems wrong, not the paper of course, but the rest of it. We all need a day to enjoy life, even to do nothing which is enjoyable in itself. Lie on the couch and read or watch football, even take a nap. Most things can wait until tomorrow.

My boys won again yesterday. The Red Sox are now up 2 games to none. Big Papi hit two home runs. What made the win especially sweet was they beat Price. I love the post season.

Tonight is games, appies, The Amazing Race and dessert. Sounds like a perfect Sunday night to me.