Earlier this morning it rained. When I went to get the paper, I could smell the flowers and the wet soil. It is a spring smell, the smell of growing things. The rain will return this afternoon, a light rain. It will be in the low 50’s all day.

When I was in Ghana, I learned not to mind the bugs. They’d fly onto my food or land in my glass. I’d just pick them out. I’d sift my flour as the bugs loved flour. I wouldn’t get all of them, but I figured the rest were protein. Lately I’ve been the victim of another plague, gnats. It started in Jack’s wet food. The gnats multiplied. They attacked. They reminded me of World War II movies when swarms of planes attacked carriers. I vacuumed them. I swatted them. I grabbed them in mid-air. I killed the ones on the back door glass. They left streaks. My sister suggested I get one of those fly strips. I remembered them from my childhood. One used to hang over the lobster tank at the fish store. It was covered in dead flies stuck to the strips. It was gross but mesmerizing in an odd way. I looked up how to kill gnats. There are natural ways. I’ll try those before the sticky tape.

I love the early mornings when the air is filled with the songs of birds. When I get downstairs, the first thing I do is let the dogs out, yes I do. They run downstairs to the yard. I often stand on the deck to watch them. This morning I saw blue jays, robins, a couple of doves and a woodpecker. The morning was bird noisy, and Henry added a bark or two.

When I was a kid, I didn’t know birds except pigeons, blue jays and robins. I thought of robins as the harbingers of spring. The pigeons were city birds. The blue jays were the biggest birds, and I thought they were bullies. I remember bird houses, but I don’t remember seeing bird feeders.

At the zoo was a tropical bird exhibit, an aviary. The building was huge with a high ceiling. The air was thick with humidity. It was free flight. The birds flew overhead and sometimes dive bombed us. I remember people squealing and covering their heads with their hands. That was fun to watch.

I have two concerts left this week, one today and one Saturday. Tomorrow I need to grocery shop. I have a list.

My life, of late, has been mostly routine. The weather hasn’t changed in the last few days. We still have sun and a blue sky. It is 50° and will stay 50° all day. I have been a sloth wearing my cozies most days, reading and eating bonbons, but yesterday I did a few chores. My sloth screamed. I started putting my winter clothes away. My bedroom is in disarray. Folded winter clothes destined for bins are on chairs. I just have to substitute winter for summer in the bins. Today I started cleaning my dining room. I’ll finish that and the living room. I’ll also water the plants. I’m thinking I already need a nap.

My dance card for the week is uke heavy. Today is practice, tomorrow is my lesson and a concert and another concert on Thursday. The big concert is Saturday at Margaritaville in Hyannis for the Parrot Head Convention. I’ll use my Hawaiian uke and wear my favorite Hawaiian shirt.

I am a collector. I define that as three or more similar items. I have lanterns, baskets, decorations, glassware, special Christmas ornaments, commemorative tee-shirts, cake decorations and, one of my favorites, cook books with recipes from literature. I have too much from Ghana to list, but I think of them as memories, treasures.

When I bought my house, my parents came down to see it. My mother brought some of my childhood memories with her. One is a wooden chair. My grandmother’s brother made it for me when I was around three. It has been painted white. It has survived all of us. Yellow ceramic chickens from Fannie Farmer always held soft boiled eggs. My mother would cook the eggs, put them in egg cups and slice off the tops of the eggs. She’d served them with toast cut to fit the eggs. It was one of my favorite breakfasts. She brought down a few of the chicken and rooster cups. A couple have no beaks. They are on the window sill in the kitchen. I still use them. My mother brought my childhood books. Many were gifts while others I bought with my fifty cent allowance, leaving me a penny. Those were mostly girl detective books like Trixie Belden and Donna Parker. The classics too were in the pile, books like Heidi, Treasure Island, Black Beauty and Zorro. I bought a bookcase just for those books.

One of my siblings, who shall remain unnamed, lacks sentiment. The treasures my mother brought down were junk. I didn’t bother to explain. They are way beyond my sibling’s ken.