The hahaha was loud this morning. I think it was Mother Nature reminding me who is in charge. Winter is coming back, not that it really left. Two warm days just made us hopeful. Tonight the high will be 28°, and there will be light snow. It will be in the 30’s the next two nights. Today is ugly, cloudy and damp.

Because my dance card is totally empty until Tuesday, I’m stuck doing the house chores I have been ignoring. The clumps of dog hair on the floor are lifted into the air when I walk by. I can leave messages in the dust on the tables. The kitchen is the cleanest room because I usually clean it while I’m waiting for dinner to cook. The floor does need to be washed, but I won’t because we may have snow flurries and paw prints would be back.

When I was a kid, winter, after Christmas, was mostly boring. The weekdays were the same month to month. Darkness came early. I’d get home from school, change into my play clothes, do any homework I might have then I’d watch TV until dinner then I’d watch TV after dinner. My mother dictated bedtime. “It’s a school night,” she’d remind us as if we hadn’t heard it most weeknights. I’d go to bed but then I’d secretly read under the covers. Sometimes I got caught but only sometimes. I don’t know what time I’d give in and go to sleep, but it was always at the end of a chapter.

I could smell word burning this morning probably from someone’s fireplace. It is one of my favorite smells. I love sitting on the deck close to my chiminea on a cool evening while wood burns. I use piñon wood from New Mexico. When I lived in Ghana, my food was cooked on a sort of habachi, no oven. The charcoal was wood charcoal with the sweetest aroma. Charcoal villages make the wood charcoal. One time I was hitching from Tamale to Bolga, about a hundred miles. One ride dropped me at a small village along the main road. It was a charcoal village. Smoke rose from burning tree trunks on the ground. The aroma was everywhere including on my clothes. I got a ride because small boys from the village stood in the road and stopped cars for me. The ride took me right to my road off the main road in Bolga. My clothes still carried a bit of the aroma of the charcoal.

I need a few groceries, cream for my coffee being paramount. The problem is I don’t want to get dressed to go out. Ugly days like today should be spent close to hearth and home. Even the dogs don’t want to go out. The question is which is more important, staying warm and cozy or making sure I have cream for my coffee. I need to ponder.

I have been absent the last couple of days, Sunday to see a play and yesterday because my iPad would not charge. Overnight it did charge so here I am.

Yesterday was the most amazing day. It was spring with everything spring brings. It was warm, dare I say hot. The sun was bright and shined on everything. The sky was an extraordinary color of blue. The dogs and I were energized. They zoomed the yard then Nala just sat on the deck taking in the sun. Henry roamed the yard. He never zooms. I finished tasks. It was a wonderful day.

The dogs are having their morning naps. Henry is right beside Nala with his head resting on her back. She doesn’t care. She is sound asleep. These dogs feel entitled, my fault. Nala rings doggie bells to go out. Henry keeps whacking the dog door to come in. They follow me to the kitchen. They sleep on my bed, keep in mind both dogs are over 65 pounds, and I have a double bed, an old double bed. Nala watches the microwave. They watch me eat hoping for a tidbit. I am a sucker for these dogs.

When I was a kid, Duke, our boxer, was not allowed on the furniture. He slept on the floor, usually on a rug. To get away from the no furniture rule, he’d stand on his back feet and stretch the rest of him across the bed or couch. He slept on the couch at night but jumped off before he’d get caught. We could hear him, but he was too quick. Some mornings he’d follow kids to school despite my father calling him over and over. He’d turn and look at my father then take off in the opposite direction. That infuriated my father who’d jump into his car and give chase. We rooted for Duke.

Today is another spring-like day. It is 50°. My yard needs heavy duty spring cleaning. Both the front and back yards are still filled with fallen limbs and branches. The snow is mostly gone except for small piles under the backyard trees and along the plow route. Nala is a happy dog. She brings in small branches and carries them about the house as if they are trophies. I’m forever stepping on small pieces of chewed branches that blend with the rug. She also brings in pine cones. I step on those too.

My dance card is sort of empty for the week. I saw my friend in a play on Sunday, zoomed uke practice last night, and I have my lesson and only concert for the week tomorrow. It is a quiet week.

When I first let the dogs out, it was foggy. I love fog. It always looks and feels eerie as if creatures are hiding and roaming unseen. I can imagine the sound of the shuffle of their feet as they walk.

Today will be cloudy but warm with a high of 47°. A few tall branches are swaying a bit but the rest of the trees are quiet, still. I don’t hear birds or cars or people. The dogs are napping on the couch. Jack is quiet. He likes to nap in front of the register in the guest room. I put an afghan down so he’d be comfortable. When I go up stairs, Jack comes out for some loving. His fur is usually warm. Cats know how to live.

I don’t drink just milk. I use it for cereal, for milk shakes, for recipes, for coffee and for dunking biscotti and cookies. I drank it when I was a kid. I don’t remember when I stopped drinking it, in Ghana I think. When I was in college, the milkman delivered to my apartment. My father arranged it. He worked for HP Hood, a dairy company. I’d sometimes add bread to the delivery. In Ghana, we were told not to drink milk. The cows could be tuberculin. We could drink Fan milk and Fan ice cream, It was sold on the streets by boys on bicycles. Attached to the handlebars of each bike was a cooler of sorts. Fan milk was sold in small triangular packets making it a perfect street food.

When I was a kid, we had both chocolate and white milk delivered. We never drank the chocolate milk straight. We always combined it with the white as the chocolate was a bit thick and mixing it made it last longer. My father loved Hershey’s syrup. Adding a couple of spoonfuls to white milk replaced the chocolate milk delivery. He lavishly poured the syrup on his ice cream, his vanilla ice cream. My mother made sure there was always a can of Hershey’s syrup. My father did love his treats.

I still love Oreo cookies and would probably dunk them if I had milk. The universal way to eat an Oreo is common knowledge, maybe even a birthright. The cookie is split in two. The plain side is eaten first eat then the side with the cream. Double stuffed Oreos are a gift from the Gods. I usually buy traditional Oreos with white cream, but I also love golden Oreos and chocolate covered Oreos. If I buy Oreos, they go quickly so I restrain myself, but I do buy them if I really need a boost, a little bit of sweetness. I still eat them in the traditional way. To eat them whole is a fall from greatness, a stepping off of the traditional path. It is the way of the adult.