Today is cold but winter lovely. The sun is brilliant in a light blue sky. The wind is strong and the high branches, both oak and pine, sway. It is only 29˚, and the wind makes it feels even colder. I’m cozy and warm.

Every day I have a list. Some days I complete the items on the lists while other days I choose to be a sloth, to do nothing. Yesterday was a sloth day. Today my list says: water the plants and change the bed. I will prophesize. The plants will love the water.

I never see the neighbors who live across the street. Henry still barks when the man is in his yard. The other neighbors and I wave. The other day I saw a rental truck in the driveway of a house on the facing street. I’m still wondering why and have no one to ask.

When my father retired, they gave him a sumptuous send off complete with Dinner and presents. A couple of the presents were a hand drill and saw. We, his family, gasped at visions of drilled or sawed off digits. My father and tools had one of those live or maim relationships. My Mother asked one of the givers what had prompted the idea of tools. The man told my mother he knew my father liked to putter around the house. When my mother told us, we all laughed. By putter around the house, she meant he emptied ashtrays and did dishes. We had to figure out where to hide the tools.

When I was a kid, around this time on a Sunday, my mother would already be in the kitchen making dinner. The kitchen windows would be fogged from the heat of the oven. The aroma of the cooking roast would spread from the kitchen throughout the whole house. I can still remember my mother at the sink peeling Potatoes. She always used the same pan to cook the potatoes. It had a dent. A couple of vegetables, including my favorite baby peas, would be in pots on cold burners ready to be turned on when the roast was finished and the potatoes were ready to be mashed. My mother used a masher with a wooden handle and a metal wavy masher on the bottom. Getting all the lumps out of the potatoes took strength of body and purpose. My mother excelled at serving smooth, lump-less mashed potatoes in which I always made a hole on the top for the gravy. This is and will forever be my favorite Sunday dinner.