Is there such a thing as a bad Saturday? After a bunch of years testing this hypothesis, I am nearing the conclusion that there is not. And that’s taking into account the six or seven years I spent working in a casino, which meant Saturday was always a work day.

How did this Saturday stack up? I was a little groggy in the morning but got in some quality time with the new fiction project. Our town had its annual parade, which once again made me ask why I am still here. Then some errands, coping with weekend traffic, and more wondering about whether my dues are, in fact, fully paid in this burg-o-village.

Then, some yard work. Which always takes me back to who I used to be, a teenager with visions of sugarplums in his head, pushing lawnmowers for one Man or another, usually fantasizing about girls. The wife made a fine goulash of leftovers, which we ate on the front porch, saying howdy to neighbors and gradually I figured out that the other scent I was picking up on the wind was the weed killer I’d spread on our fragile lawn just an hour or so ago. Which took me back again.

So all in, a decent Saturday, which is to say a better day than any spent at work — even if you happen to work on Saturdays.

I don’t understand what all the fuss about Sundays is about.