Today is a winter’s day. The sky is steely grey. Pine tree branches stand as dark silhouettes outlined against the grey. Nothing is moving. It is 22°. The high will be a whopping 25°. It is the perfect day to stay in my cozies.

The dogs stay out a while. They chase each other all over the yard. Both come inside panting. Both have cold ears. They do have coats but not earmuffs.

Today is laundry day. I have finally begun to run out of my uniform of a sweatshirt and flannel pants. I also need to wash the spread from my bed. The CDC has been leaving messages about wanting it for testing.

For some odd reason, a singular memory of Ghana I haven’t mentioned before or I don’t remember mentioning leapt out of my memory drawer. I was in my house reading when I heard a, “Caw, Caw,” which a visitor always said to mention his presence in lieu of a doorbell, followed by a knock at the screen door. A man I didn’t know was there. He greeted me, and I returned his greeting. He told me he was looking for a white woman. I thanked him for the offer but said I wasn’t available. He asked if I knew any Canadians. I told him no. He thanked me and went on his way.

I have the makings of a cheesy science fiction movie in my backyard. Call it The Case of the Creeping Garland. Last week I finally removed the pine garland from my mantel. I had left it there so long after Christmas because green is a hopeful color, the color of new beginnings, but the garland had dried and the needles had sharpened. I moved it slowly and unwrapped the lights around it. The needles fell all over the floor and rug, but I managed to get it out the back door where I threw it down the steps. A few days ago I noticed it was missing. I found it in the backyard. I left it there. This morning it is back on the stairs closer to the door than it had been so I’m keeping an eye on the movements of this potentially murderous garland. I will not answer knocks on the back door.

Today is a day to stay close to hearth and home. At times the wind is blowing fiercely and flailing branches back and forth. It is only 36° but feels much colder. When I went for the papers, there was a snow shower which lasted about two minutes. I almost missed it. Winter is back.

I must be bored. Yesterday I watered plants, cleaned Jack’s room, swept the kitchen and hall and rearranged corners in the den, not because they offended my eyes but because I wanted stuff out of Nala’s reach. I watched her case the room yesterday looking for something or anything to take. She left empty pawed.

When I was a kid, the walk to school could be freezing cold. The wind whipped across the field at the bottom of my street. We often turned around away from the wind and walked backwards but kept an eye behind us which was usually in front of us. Sometimes the wind blew right up the sleeves of my jacket. I remember arriving at school and waiting outside for the bell to ring, but mostly I remember walking into the warm school and hearing the hissing of the steam through the tall radiators.

My classrooms were always crowded. Our desks were so close together we had to , e sideways up the aisles. The parish had to add a second class to each grade to accommodate all of us. I have my eighth grade graduation class picture. We are all in front of the statue on the lawn of the convent. In the middle of us, the pastor of our parish, Father Sexton, was seated. I counted and found there were 90 of us in the picture which meant each class had about 45 students.

The nuns scared us. We were trained to fear starting in the first grade with Sister Redempta. That I still remember her means the experience of being in school for the first time coupled with a nun in a black habit and a permanent scowl on her face kept us in line. I don’t think we even dared whisper. Nuns had supersonic hearing. Our only advantage was the sides of her wimple blocked her vision. She had to turn to catch us. A few years later, we were shocked to see the sides of the wimples had disappeared. We were stuck, even doomed.

The rain started around eleven last night, but it was a light rain. The dogs barely got wet on their last trip to the yard, but around 2:30, when I was lying in bed and had just turned out the light, the wind began howling, think freight train, and the rain was heavy and loud. That was my last conscious memory before Morpheus lulled me to sleep. This morning I didn’t wake up until almost 11, and it was still raining.

Yesterday, I was replacing the toilet paper roll when out of a back memory drawer jumped a flash memory from my childhood. I remembered my mother and her tissues. When we were in the car going someplace like my grandmother’s house, my mother would pull those tissues out of her handbag where they had been sitting at the bottom of the bag for God only knows how long. They were crumbled and sort of stuck together. My mother would spit on one then use only one finger covered in tissue to wipe our faces so we’d look presentable. I didn’t think it was gross. I was young.

My dance card is empty until next week. I do need a trip to the dump as my old, faithful TV is in the backseat waiting for a burial of sorts. It served me well.

Yesterday I was busy around the house, my least favorite way to spend any part of a day. I carried the garland, which had been across the mantle, to the kitchen. It dropped needles all the way from the living room to the backdoor, sort of a variation of Hansel and Gretel and the crumbs. After I’d thrown it out, I dusted the mantel, swept the floor, vacuumed and took down my snow decorations. I moved stuff around in the den though it is still cluttered.

Yesterday, Nala ran outside with a paper towel she had stolen from the recycle bag. I pretended to chase her and out the dog she went lickity-split. I went on the deck and watched her tear apart her treasure. It was then I noticed my upstairs bathroom basket, the one from Ghana, was on the driveway. I went to get it and, as I was picking it up, a brilliant idea, say I modestly, jumped into my head. I found a biggish rock, cleaned it and put it into the basket. It was heavy for me to carry upstairs so good luck, Nala.

The rain comes and goes. It will be the same all day. Right now it is 38°, but the wind makes it feel colder. I went on the deck earlier as Henry had come inside but not Nala so I went hunting. She was under the deck staying dry. I got wet looking for her. That brings to question which of us was the dumb animal.

My mouth is permanently open in wonder. My new TV is mind blowing. I realized, when watching it for the first time, my old TV had faded colors. All of a sudden I can see reds and facial complexions. The TV picture looks like 3D. People with close-ups look as if they are in my den with me. Right now I am enjoying the company of Mr. Bond. Yesterday afternoon I reloaded all of my apps. Luckily I had the passwords. Today, though, a couple had to be reloaded. It took all of three or four minutes. I’m now watching Paramount+.

I grew up with TV’s. I don’t remember a time when we didn’t have one. The small screened black and white pictures were a marvel to me. Sitting on the floor in front of the set was the best spot for viewing. We didn’t go blind though my mother warned us about the effects of sitting so closely. I guess it was all those bulbs in the back which scared her. Back then, the stations went off the air some at 11, others at 12. I remember the first time I stayed up late enough to watch the end of the evening’s programming. It was a jet flying with Off We Go into the Wild Blue Yonder playing in the background. After that it was the Indian test pattern. I even watched that for a bit.

I also remember our first color TV. Watching Star Trek was my favorite. I got to see which poor crew member wore the red shirt. The channels we could watch were limited. We had a rooftop antenna as cable was not yet available. In the afternoon I watched The Lloyd Thaxton Show, an imitation of American Bandstand. As soon as cable was available, we got it. That was like a whole new world. It was the we noticed our TV had faded colors. My father blamed it on the cable so he called the cable company to come fix it. The guy who came told my father it was the TV, not the cable. The TV died not too long after. My father right away got a new set. The colors were vibrant. Deja vu.

The rain started sometime after 1 am. It was not unexpected as I had seen the forecast on the news. Later I checked my weather app. It said the rain would stop in 58 minutes. I didn’t wait. We all went to bed and were lulled to sleep by the sound of the rain on the roof.

The morning is warm, 49°. It is partly cloudy. Tomorrow it is supposed to rain again which is a great excuse not to wash the kitchen floor today. The paw prints would be back.

When I was a kid, we celebrated both Washington’s and Lincoln’s birthdays by having school vacation the same week. What we did during winter vacation was dependent upon the weather. February was always iffy. Snow meant sledding. Freezing meant ice skating. Good days meant anything we wanted like biking or walking around town. As usual, my mother never knew where we were. We didn’t tell her because we didn’t know where we’d be. Our routes were spontaneous choices. I do remember going to the library so I’d have enough books to read during vacation. I used to grab lunch to take with me so I wouldn’t have to interrupt my adventures to go home to eat. That week we had no schedules except the street lights. That never changed. We got to stay up late. I remember all those westerns on nighttime TV. I used to read in bed, and my mother never yelled up the stairs of me to turn off my light. I loved vacations.

Right now I am watching the Monolith Monsters from 1957 on my iPad. I love the absurdity of this movie: a meteor lands and fragments. When those fragments are exposed to water, they separate. They get taller. They move by fragmenting into small pieces then those pieces rejoin and become huge monoliths. That keeps happening as they move closer to town, a bad thing as the fragments turn people into stone. I hunted for this movie. It’s a favorite.

I have a few things on my dance card this week but mostly I get to be a sloth, my favorite alter ego.

The clouds and the sun are taking turns. The weatherman calls that partly cloudy. I’ve always wondered why it isn’t partly sunny. Anyway, it is a warm morning, in the 40’s. The air is so still the dead leaves aren’t even moving. The dogs haven’t come in for their morning naps. Henry has been running in and out and insistently barking at the front door. I checked to see why. I didn’t see anything or anyone, but I figure Henry did.

Today is dump day, and I have a uke concert at the mall. I’ve already brought out the trash. It sits by the trunk ready for loading. I’ll stop at the dump before I leave for Hyannis and the concert.

When I was a kid, Sunday was sacrosanct. Most stores were closed. The only ones open were one corner store, the red store, and Dunkin’ Donuts. In front of the church, a guy sold papers every Sunday. He had a wheeled, gray wooden storage sort of wagon for his papers. He used to keep it under the church stairs the rest of the week. On Sundays he’d fill the wagon and roll it to the front of the church. There was always a line.

When I lived in Ghana, Sunday was different than any other day. Most people went to church dressed in their finest. I remember being in Accra and going to the cathedral for Sunday mass, more out of curiosity than fervency. It was within walking distance of the hostel. I only went that one time. At my school in Bolga, we always had a service of sorts in the dining hall on Sundays. The students all wore their Sunday clothes made from traditional cloth. Each class had a different pattern for their dresses so you knew what year they were. My students were second years. On Sundays after the service, students were allowed to dress in mufti, have visitors and even have photographers come to take pictures. Many students went into town, the only day they could.

As for us, Sunday was traditional food day. We used to buy fufu or t-zed and soup at the lorry park. We always ate together every evening and every Sunday afternoon outside, usually on the Sandford side of the backyard.

Sunday for me now is generally a quiet day. When it is warm, I sit on the deck drinking my coffee and reading the papers. Sometimes I even make a Sunday dinner. Usually I take a nap, a long nap.

Today is an ugly day, a warm ugly day at 52°. It rained earlier and will rain later. The sky is light grey. A breeze stirs only every and then. It flutters the curled brown leaves at the ends of the scrub oak branches. I have no reason to leave the house today. That is just fine with me.

Yesterday I cleaned the backyard. I took my prisoner stick and a plastic trash bag, watched where I stepped and got all the trash. Nala’s trash. This morning I noticed I missed something white in the back. That will bother me, and I’ll have to pick it up today.

Today’s post is a bit different.

I get to the kitchen for no reason I can remember. I had a reason, that much I remember, but by the time I walk down the hall to the kitchen, distractions like cleaning dust balls or wiping down the kitchen counter take my attention so the original reason usually flies out of my head. Later, I remember why I was in the kitchen, but mostly it doesn’t matter anymore. Words escape me which I find especially frustrating. Thankfully, they do pop back into my head. I just have to be a bit patient, not a strong suit of mine. Every day I am a day older, and parts of me don’t function as well they have the whole of my life or even the day before.

My body is old. I swear my bones creak when I walk. I can’t lift anything too heavy, and too heavy is not heavy anymore. When I was a kid, I used to wonder what it felt like to be old. I know now, but what I’ve come to realize is while my body ages, my way of seeing the world doesn’t.

I have lived my life inherently hopeful. Sometimes the hope faded a bit, but it never went away. I have always believed in people. I loved my kids when I worked in the high school, all of my kids, even the ones who occasionally bedeviled me. I was thrilled for their triumphs. I remember a teacher asking me why I was spending so much attention on one kid not worth my attention. I had to restrain myself from saying what popped into my head, a litany of four letter words; instead, I told him this was a good kid still finding his way. He just shook his head and left. Well, I was patient, and that kid found his way just as I knew he would. I, gleefully, told that teacher my kid had done well, passed all his classes and was graduating. I never really got a reply. I have always wondered if that teacher learned anything from that kid. I sure as heck did.

My daffodil shoots are getting taller with the unexpected winter warmth. The temperature is already 62°, plant boosting weather. I just wish it was sunny.

Yard clean-up tops the chore list today. I’ll grab my prisoner stick and clear the yard of Nala’s trash, mostly paper, empty water bottles and cat food cans. Thieving Nala has a tell. She doesn’t walk down the hall. She struts with her pilfered goods in her mouth. That’s when I usually see her, too late to catch her. I followed her to the yard this morning. She went out the dog door with the whole Cape Times in her mouth, my fault. I left the paper on the floor. She did drop it when I asked and came running, but I think it was merely whim and the thought of a bit of coffee that had her dropping the paper. I collected it from the yard.

When I was a kid, we never did anything special during February or April vacations. My father worked. His vacation time was always in the summer. If it was warm enough and we had no snow, I’d ride my bike. I always rode alone. My neighborhood friends didn’t ride. I never understood that. They missed the joy of speeding down the hill. They didn’t get to ride proudly with no hands, a great feat. They were stuck while I roamed all over town.

I don’t go to my old town often, but when I do, I take a nostalgia tour. I ride on Main Street from the highway exit all the way through up-town pass the fire station, the town hall, the four churches on the corners and my grammar school and parish church. From there I do the route I walked every school day for eight years. The best houses are gone. The railroad tracks are also gone. The hill on which our house sits still looks a bit daunting, but I remember when I finally rode my bike all the way up that hill. I was triumphant.

My mother didn’t learn to drive until her thirties. If we, she and all of us kids, went anywhere on a weekday we either walked or took a bus. We used to go to East Boston to visit my grandparents and my aunt. We’d walk up town, take the bus to Sullivan Square and from there we’d take the subway. We had to change train lines. My mother was always worried she’d lose one of us. The rule was if we got separated we were to go one more station, get off and wait. That never happened. When I used to take the train in high school, I’d tell my traveling buddies, my friends, the same thing. That never happened then either.

Right now it is 46° and sunny. Last night it got quite chilly, but warmer weather is coming. It will probably rain tomorrow, a good thing, to keep us out of drought conditions.

When I was a kid, Valentine’s Day was never just a single day. The celebration started a few days before the actual festivities. In school, during art, we made valentine boxes from shoe boxes. We decorated our boxes using construction paper and crayons. We made slits on the tops of the lids for the valentines. I drew and cut out hearts from red construction paper. They were always a bit uneven, but I thought them perfect.

The next step in the festivities was shopping for valentines. I’d walk up town with my mother to Woolworth’s and spend an inordinate amount of time picking the right valentines. They came many to a package. The valentines were one-sided with pictures and sayings on the front, mostly puns. The backs were white so we could write our names. I remember valentines with chicks and puppies and little boys and girls with ruby cheeks. I have a few I bought on line. One has a picture of an elephant driving a car. It says, “You auto to be my valentine.” Another has a boy and his dog on the front. The boy is dressed like a cowboy, including chaps, a gun, a neckerchief and guitar. It says, “Git along little valentine. I’m a heading up to round your heart.” I usually picked ones with a girl on the front.

The night before the big day I’d sign my valentines and pick to whom they’d go. We pre-dated the give one to everyone so I’d address them to my friends first then random kids. I remember trying to fit my whole name on the back. It was always slanted.

On the big day, we’d also bring sweets, like cookies and brownies, to share. I remember sitting at my desk with my Valentine box on it just waiting for the party to start. We’d put the sweets on the nun’s desk for enjoying after giving out valentines. We went row by row, one at a time. I always sort of held my breath just hoping my classmates wouldn’t pass me by. From all over the room you could hear giant sighs of relief when someone got a valentine. Once we were done, we’d pick our sweets and sit at our desks munching while opening the envelopes.

Just before the bell, we’d clean up the class, put our valentines in our boxes and grab a treat or two left over on the desk as we exited the classroom. The walk home took awhile as we munched and showed off the valentines we’d gotten.

When I got home, I’d show my mother each and every valentine and read off the names on the backs. They were always full names and both names barely fit so most were slanted across the back.

I’d save my box under my bed and pull it out and read through my valentines a few more times. I never thought about the ones I didn’t get. I loved the ones I did.