My mother was one of twelve children, most of whom lived near where I grew up in St. Lawrence County, New York. One of her siblings, my aunt, was known for not being able to sit still. Her visits, although frequent, never lasted long. She was fidgety. Her name, really, was Euretta, but we all called her Dady. Sometimes I worry about being fidgety like Aunt Dady. In truth, though, I think I am more like my father, who knew how to relax but only after accomplishing an almost-endless series of tasks. At my house, like the place I grew up, there is always another task: there are weeds in the garden, there is paper to be recycled, closets to be cleaned. Nothing urgent, and perhaps nothing important either. I need to remember that.
Today is a perfect summer day. The sun is shining and the birds are singing. The mosquitoes are managable. I’ve done my errands for the day, and it’s too early to begin cooking. Here is where I plan to spend the next few hours, tasks be damned.
And here is what I plan to be reading:
Please don’t judge.