Saturdays in Winter

March 9, 2014

They start late, I sleep in until 6 and when I get up I feed the cats and make a pot of coffee.  I sit and read until about 7:30, when I call my husband (sometimes actually on the phone) to wake him up and let him know that breakfast will be ready in about a half an hour. (How many eggs? Always Two, but I always ask.)  I listen to podcasts while I cook; we listen to podcasts and talk while we eat.  We sit on the floor for an hour, or two, and play with the pets.  The tortoise walks around with the cats, the cats play with their toys and inspect the tortoise; they also inspect any leftovers offered up.   By 10:30 I am antsy and say, “Okay, let’s get going.” We dress, glancing at the temperature, debating layers.  We drive. We spend a couple of hours outside – walking, hiking; the ground determines what is on our feet.  We talk about the week, the month – the coming summer.  We take pictures with phones that we can’t share because we don’t have reception.  We have lunch – sometimes something we’ve packed while sitting on rocks wearing gloves or mittens, sometimes after we’re done moving in a restaurant with other people in various states of winter bundling and disheveled weekend dress, sometimes at home when we’ve returned to pets who think we have been gone All Day and that it is time for dinner.  When we do return we lay around on the floor, playing with animals, listening to music or more conversation from small speakers. We pass time, maybe do some small chores, we feed pets dinner and eat dinner ourselves; we settle in and maybe build a fire.  We read. We catch up on television. We have a night cap.  We go to bed at 10.  And these days are perfect.



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