Sauntering, ambling, slowly walking…that’s how I’m greeting today. Rushing into a Sunday isn’t good; I prefer the slow approach with a cup of coffee, taking time to hear the water fountain by the porch, thinking about yesterday and bringing the good parts of it into today.
A nice accomplishment from yesterday was a clean bedroom. I hauled everything out of the closet, sorted, threw away, dusted, rearranged stuff on shelves, vacuumed, washed curtain and window and now it looks pretty good.
People aren’t the only ones who enjoy an orderly, clean house. Birds and animals do too. A nature documentary I watched the other night showed that making things tidy was part of a courtship ritual for a certain kind of bird. Wrens are neat too. A wren built on my porch one year. She carefully carried all the droppings of her babies out of the nest and onto the grass. I don’t usually think of pigs as being neat but they have their own rituals. For example, when a hog begins carrying sticks to make a bed, that’s a pretty good sign of a coming rain. Honest. That’s farm lore.
Remember, we are sauntering, and a nice morning amble leads on some interesting twists and turns.
My family plans to eat lunch with me today. I’ll fix a simple one-dish meal, chicken pot pie. A flaky crust top and bottom and in between, chicken, potatoes, corn, and mushroom soup. It’s a favorite of everyone. We’ll also have a green salad and finish off with chocolate pudding, everything washed down with sweet tea.
The morning is still dark and cool. Oh, that it would stay cool! Or, at least cool-er! We have a thirty per cent chance of rain which is better than no chance at all. Have you ever noticed how the forecast changes almost daily? I guess as far as weather is concerned, nothing is set in stone. It’s fluid.
My coffee cup is empty, indicating a refill is in order. I’ll gather up my scattered thoughts and organize them into some sort of coherent pattern. Onward into the day!
Answer to today’s Mini-Mystery: What type of weather did Ned compare to a woman in her latest cozy mystery? 
By the Fright of the Silvery Moon, page 71, the fog, like an old-fashioned lady, gathered up its gray gown and hurried off to other places.
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