Today is a carbon copy of yesterday, a beautiful, sunny day, a cold day with the temperature in the low thirty’s, but it still feels like spring to me. In the front garden, I can see the yellow in the buds of the daffodils. The hyacinths have a tinge of purple. My forsythia, a housewarming present forty-five years ago, has tiny buds. Despite the chill, spring still comes in its turn.

The dogs are the barometer for the day’s weather. They stay out for the longest on nice days. Right now, they are still out despite it being their morning nap time. I’ll check in a bit.

Today is another day for cleaning. I’m on an every other day schedule to keep my inner sloth happy. I’m thinking of washing the bathroom floors. The kitchen will have to wait as rain is predicted over the weekend and the dogs will leave their marks. I still have a few things needing to be ironed. I had found them crammed in the back of the closet. They are a wrinkled mess. I’m thinking, instead, I’ll wet them and throw them in the dryer.

When I was a kid, we lived in the project. We never minded calling it the project despite the connotation. It was sort of a small colony of like houses in one neighborhood. We started in a duplex up the hill around the small rotary. It had two bedrooms. My favorite part of that house was a small landing on the set of stairs going to the bedrooms. I also remember that kitchen. The table was against a window. There was never room for all of us. After my sister was born, we moved down the hill to a three bedroom duplex. I lived there through elementary school and most of high school. I remember the kitchen, bigger than the other kitchen but still small. The table didn’t fit all of us. The freezer always had a build up of ice. The stove was against one wall while the fridge was beside the sink. My bedroom was upstairs in the back of the house.

One of my most vivid memories of that house was when my father defrosted the freezer. He’d put a pan of hot water in the middle hoping it would soften the ice. The scariest part was he’d take a knife and jab the ice hoping to break it into pieces. We all knew that somehow he’d cut himself. My father was never handy.

This entry was posted on March 22, 2024 at 12:47 pm and is filed under Musings. You can subscribe via RSS 2.0 feed to this post's comments. Both comments and pings are currently closed.