Welcome spring!

We didn’t go to the beach to welcome the sunrise. We got the days wrong, but it is raining so we wouldn’t have seen the sun anyway. The wind is really strong, strong enough to have a voice. It is a good day to be home.

Henry has discovered that the dog door works two ways, not just out but also in. It has only taken him almost two years to figure that out.

I don’t go out every day. Some days I don’t even get dressed. I can’t remember the last time I wore other than my cozies in the house and my comfy casuals outside the house. I don’t need to be busy. I can sit all day and read. I like an afternoon nap. I thumb through catalogs and magazines. The time passes without me noticing. When the dog gets pushy, I know it’s his dinner time. That’s when I realize the day is passing into night.

Gwen now meows from the stairs. She doesn’t come down, but I think she’ll soon be joining Jack, Henry and me. She follows me into my room purring the whole time. I think she knows she is home.

I can see cars in my neighbors’ driveways. They are not at work.

I could use a few things from the grocery store. I was going to get up and go to the elderly only shopping hours, but I chose to sleep in. My friend said the line into the store was snaking outside and not all the people waiting were older (okay, old). I have a list. Maybe tomorrow, early, I’ll shop at one of the smaller grocery stores. I want to make sure I’m provisioned enough for an extended stay in the house. I’m going to call Agway and order dog and cat food. They are delivering. Stores and restaurants are doing all that they can to help knowing we need each other.

The world has become an unfamiliar place, a scary place.

Today is rainy and gloomy. The temperature is 42˚. It is a quiet St. Patrick’s Day. All the pubs and bars are closed. Massachusetts is shut down: schools and businesses are closed, and nearly all gatherings canceled. I figure this is the time to celebrate with friends.

When I was in St. Patrick’s Shamrocks drill team, we marched in the South Boston St. Patrick’s Day parade, cancelled this year. Along the parade route, drunken men would march beside us chit-chatting and offering us sips of beer. We were told to ignore them. As if we could. They’d leave us after we had moved on, beyond their local bar. After a couple of years, we no longer marched in South Boston.

My mother sometimes had a St. Patrick’s Day party. I always drove up to my parents’ house for the event. She gave great parties. I remember my father and my uncle Jack singing Irish songs in the kitchen and all of us joining in with them. The kitchen was filled with people. The windows steamed, and the cigarette smoke had us opening the back door. The parties always lasted into the wee mornings. I miss those times.

On my dog Shauna’s first St. Patrick’s Day, my father gave her a plate of corned beef and cabbage because she was Irish. My father loved his corned beef and cabbage. I know I’ve told this story before, but I always remember on St. Patrick’s Day. My mother had cooked the traditional dinner and was putting my father’s dinner on his plate. She couldn’t find the potatoes. She looked under the meat, no potatoes. She looked through the whole pot, no potatoes. She dished out my dad’s dinner and brought it to him. “Where are the potatoes?” was his first comment.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day!!