Saturday morning love

Fond and vivid memories of Saturday mornings. Welcome memories that give me a good feeling.The free day of the week when I explored my world and stopped living in the work week and best was I was with Kate all day long. It was cleaning day too, which meant I got to wipe away the past week, make it bright and clean to welcome the next week. Always preparing to move forward even if it was only the next 5 days. The morning chores done released me  into the world for coop shopping, second hand shop shopping, and the book store. Walking into the book store my shoulders dropped, I dropped my vigilance for the world and I took my first breath of new book fragrance. Sometimes I broke into a smile as I stepped in and that fragrance hit me. Still happens. Sections I sought out were women fiction writers, feminist theory and healing through words, and books about writing and making  theatre and plays and poetry books. Books about women who made shit happen, women who were sexual and smart and funny and their own captains. If i was feeling rich I would buy books and maybe a new pair of earring from a small gift shop. Kate and I would go to lunch and before smart phones, we would draw with crayons on the paper place mats or talk to each other.  Sometimes we went to coffee shops to get good coffee for me and hot sweet chocolate with whipped cream for Kate. Afternoons laying in bed together or alone reading books, laying on top of the bed covering, perfect for naps. Afternoon chores could be a special house project or make art or a trip to the laundromat. A place pretty good as a dream killer. I always brought a book. Home cooked dinner because there was time to make dinner with patience.  Try a new recipe. All the time in the world. No need to rush, all the time in the world because its Saturday. It is not lost on me that Francie describes similar feelings and descriptions of Saturdays of strong coffee and good books.(A Tree Grows in Brooklyn) My favorite childhood book.

“Dear God," she prayed, "let me be something every minute of every hour of my life. Let me be gay; let me be sad. Let me be cold; let me be warm. Let me be hungry...have too much to eat. Let me be ragged or well dressed. Let me be sincere - be deceitful. Let me be truthful; let me be a liar. Let me be honorable and let me sin. Only let me be something every blessed minute. And when I sleep, let me dream all the time so that not one little piece of living is ever lost.”
― Betty Smith, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn