Gee, just what we want, another cloudy, damp day. It is 61°, but I feel chilly. It is definitely inside sweatshirt weather, and I think I might need socks. The dogs are napping on the couch, Henry to my left and Nala behind me. She is keeping my backside warm. I’m going to get another cup of coffee.

When I was a kid, I thought my parents were sort of old, being parents and all. Actually, they were just about the youngest of all my friends’ parents. It was my grandparents who defined for me what old was. They set the standard. They looked old, walked old and dressed old. One grandmother even sounded old. I never thought about how it felt to be old. I was a kid. I just didn’t think about stuff like growing old, but now I know. What I leaned through time and find amazing is your inside belies your outside. When I look in the mirror, I see an old lady. I don’t need platitudes here about how I don’t look my age. My face is wrinkled. Those are not laugh lines. They have been etched by time. Through, my eyes, though, my view has not changed. It doesn’t age. It still gives me the same joy it did when I was young. I see bright color and dazzling light. I see the changes in seasons. I sit in the living room just to look at my Christmas tree all lit. What I see is what I have always seen. For that I am thankful.

I have never been one for dressing up, for fancy or frilly clothes. Besides, I have seldom gone anywhere where there is even an unspoken dress code. When I was a kid, I wore dungarees in winter and blouses all year long. I wore skirts and blouses to church. When I was a bit older, my dungarees gave way to pants. That was dressy to me. In Ghana I had to wear a dress every day. All women did. What made it easier was I had dresses made from colorful, beautiful Ghanaian cloth. Those I exclusively wore after my first 6 months or so. I loved shopping in the cloth market and the cloth stalls. In Lomé, Togo, I shopped at the Grand Marche for cloth. I remember I had to climb to the top floor, but the climb was worth it as the cloth was so different from Ghana’s. That was the only time in my life when I cared beyond what my clothes looked like. I chose so carefully the cloth they were made from.

I have my usual uke events but I have something exciting. My sister and brother-in-law from Colorado and my sister from Stoneham are coming tomorrow through Thursday. I can barely wait.

The nor’easter has moved away. We will get more rain today keeping the flood warning active, but the wind is gone. The day is still and warm. It is 68°. My yard and deck are covered in debris, small branches and so many leaves I went looking for naked oak trees.

I remember my father always wore a sort of cranberry colored jacket when he did his Saturday yard work. This time of year he’d mow for the last time and use a bamboo rake to clear the yard. He always mowed in the same pattern and raked almost in a circle around him. The rake made a scratching noise while the mower clicked. He’d rake the leaves and sticks down the small grassy hill in the front of our house to the gutter. He’d pile everything and set it on fire. He’d lean on the rake beside the fire to watch it. That is the image in my memory drawers. I’ve probably mentioned too many times that the smell of burning leaves is one of my favorite smells. I’d stand close to the smoke, and it would permeate my clothes. Even a few days later I could smell that smoke.

When I was a kid, we always bought pumpkins to carve. I loved pulling out the guts. I’d grab handfuls and hold them up and threaten to throw them. My mother watched. That was enough to keep it a threat. I think my pumpkin looked the same every year when I was finished. I remember trying to carve teeth and failing miserably. My knife skills were still raw and undeveloped. My pumpkin had the usual pumpkin grin, eyes and nose. We’d put in a candle in each pumpkin and put the pumpkins on the front step. We’d light the candles every night. I remember going outside to look at the pumpkins. The candles flicked. My pumpkin was beautiful, even with a toothless grin.

I used to eat candy corn. I liked the kind with a sort of gold color in the middle and a brown color at the end. That the corn was so sweet was the best part. I’d grab a handful and throw a few pieces into my mouth. The idea of eating them now makes my teeth rot with just the thoughts of it. I do buy bags of candy corn now but use them for decoration then toss them.

This week I have my usual uke practice and lesson. I also have two concerts. It is grocery shopping week, and I have a list.