This is my annual Father’s Day post. Many of you read it every year. It is about my amazing father, my funny and loving father. It brings back a rush of memories every time I read it. It makes me smile and long for my father. He was one of a kind in the best of all possible ways. This morning, as soon as I woke up, I wished him a Happy Father’s Day.

In my front garden are a couple of ground cover plants. They have been there for years. My father planted them for me. One weekend he and my mother came down to visit. My dad brought his lawn mower, a hand mower, garden tools and those few plants. While my mother and I shopped, my dad mowed the lawn in the front and the back. Both yards were fields no longer. He weeded the garden. I could see the flowers. The garden was lovely. I get to remember that weekend every time I go out the front gate and see my father’s plants. They touch my heart.

I have so many memories of growing up, of family trips and my dad trying to whack at us from the front seat and never succeeding, of playing whist in the kitchen, with the teams being my mom and me against my dad and brother, of Sunday rides, of going to the drive-in and the beach and of being loved by my dad. Memories of my dad are with me always, but today my memories are all of my dad, and my heart is filled to the brim with missing him. When I close my eyes, I see him so clearly.

On a warm day he’d be sitting on the front steps with his coffee cup beside him while reading the paper. He’d have on a white t-shirt and maybe his blue shorts. He’d wave at the neighbors going by in their cars. They all knew him and would honk back. He loved being retired, and we were glad he had a few years of just enjoying life.

He was the funniest guy, mostly on purpose but lots of times by happenstance. We used to have Dad stories, all those times when we roared and he had no idea why. He used to laugh along with us and ask, “What did I say? What did I say?” We were usually laughing too hard to tell him. He was a good sport about it.

I know you’ve heard this before, but it is one of my favorite Dad stories. He, my mom and I were in Portugal. I was driving. My dad was beside me. On the road, we had passed many piggyback tandem trucks, all hauling several truck loads behind them. On the back of the last truck was always the sign Vehiculo Longo. We came out of a gas station behind one of those. My father nonchalantly noted, “That guy Longo owns a lot of trucks.” I was laughing so hard I could barely drive and my mother, in the back seat, was doubled over in laughter.

My father wasn’t at all handy around the house. Putting up outside lights once, he gave himself a shock which knocked him off his step-ladder. He once sawed himself out of a tree by sitting on the wrong end of the limb. The bookcase he built in the cellar had two shelves, one on the floor and the other too high to use. He said it was lack of wood. When painting the house once, the ladder started to slide, but he stayed on his rung anyway with brush in hand. The stroke of the paint on the house followed the path of his fall. Lots of times he set his shoe or pant leg on fire when he was barbecuing. He was a big believer in lots of charcoal lighter fluid.

My father loved games, mostly cards. We played cribbage all the time, and I loved making fun of his loses, especially if I skunked him. When he won, it was superb playing. When I won, it was luck. I remember so many nights of all of us, including aunts and uncles, crowding around the kitchen table playing cards, especially hi-lo jack. He loved to win and we loved lording it over him when he lost.

My father always said he never snacked, and my mother would roll her eyes. He kept chocolate under the couch, hidden from everyone else, but, we, everyone else, knew. He loved Pilot Crackers covered with butter. Hydrox was his preferred cookie. His vanilla ice cream was always doused with Hershey’s syrup. That man did love his chocolate.

My father was a most successful businessman. He was hired to turn a company around and he did. He was personable and funny and remembered everyone’s names. Nobody turned him down.

My father always went out Sunday mornings for the paper and for donuts. He never remembered what kind of donut I like. His favorite was plain. He’d make Sunday breakfast when I visited: bacon, eggs and toast. I can still see him standing over the stove with a dish towel over his shoulders. He always put me in charge of the toast.

If I ever needed anything, I knew I could call my father. He was generous. When we went out to eat, he always wanted to pay and was indignant when we one upped him by setting it up ahead of time that one of us paid. One Christmas he gave us all $500.00, not as a gift but to buy gifts.

My father left us when he was far too young. It was sudden. He had a heart attack. I had spoken with him just the day before. It was pouring that day, and I told him how my dog Shauna was soaked. He loved that dog and told me to wipe his baby off. I still remember that whole conversation. I still miss my father every day. 

The morning is a bit chilly, but the day will warm up to 70˚. Everything is bright with sun. The sky is a deep blue and stretches to the horizon without a cloud, but clouds are predicted for later. Outside is noisy. I can hear lawn mowers and edgers and the loudest of all, the blowers. My lawn was cut yesterday. It is still spring green. The flowers in the front garden are beginning to bloom. The newest to bloom are the purple flowers on tall stalks. The wild roses have small white flowers. This is their only hurrah. I can see the buds on the day lilies bordering the trees. They will be orange. Each year there are more of them. Three quarters of the fence is covered with white clematis, but, for some reason, it has never spread to the 4th section of fence so I’m going to help it along this year by moving it myself. Plenty of shoots are already growing as are buds on the tops of the vine-like greenery. When the clematis bloom, my yard is glorious.

When I was a kid, my father always planted pansies and geraniums. When I think about them now, they seem an unlikely combination. The pansies are delicate, fairy like with their colorful faces. Geraniums are blunt. They all look the same. The ones my father planted were always red. He’d put the geraniums in the back and the pansies in front. In memory of my father, I always try to have a planter with pansies, especially in fall when all the other flowers are fading.

I never really noticed all the flowers beyond my yard when I was a kid. I noticed the grass. I used to ride my bike down the grassy hill on our side yard. My father always yelled. He’d catch us because we’d sometimes leave tire marks on the grass. It was a neat little hill, the end of which was a bit of sidewalk then the hilly side gutter leading to the street and the big hill. I loved that ride in the spring. The grass was tall and spongy. My bike tires were wide. They always left a distinctive mark down the hill, the best little hill leading to all the other hills. We had to be careful at the end of the big hill as the cross street was a busy one. I don’t remember anyone ever getting hit. I just remember speeding across that street into the field. It was an amazing ride from the grassy hill to the field almost without pedaling.

When I was living that hill, I never realized the memory I was making. I just loved every bit of the ride down. Up was much more strenuous. My goal was always to make it up all the hills without walking the bike. It took a while before I could get up the big hill. I seemed to make it only only to the middle time and time again then finally it happened. I pedaled all the way up the big hill to the sidewalk and to the grassy hill. I was thrilled. I always pedaled from then on, but I didn’t pedal up the lawn, and I didn’t push my bike up the lawn. I went around.

Thunderstorms are predicted for the afternoon. Right now the morning is damp and cool and the constant breeze is strong enough to move even the biggest branches of the tallest trees. The sky is covered in clouds. I can hear the birds. They are especially busy this morning.

One of my slippers has gone missing. I took a nap yesterday, and when I woke up, the slipper was gone. I check in all the right places, Nala’s hiding places, but did not find it. The yard is overgrown in spots so it may well be hidden by greenery. I’ll check again before the rain.

My dog Duke, the boxer I grew up with, did not steal except for the time he took the roast beef defrosting on the counter for Sunday dinner. My brother and I saw him and wrestled the roast beef out of his mouth. Other than a few tooth marks, it was none the worse for wear. We hid the marks, and my mother never noticed. The beef was good.

When I was a kid, when I left the house on my bike, my mother always wanted to know where I was going. I would say around town or up town or to the zoo. I never had a set destination. I’d just ride. Sometimes I’d ride to the next town over and sit at the train station. Other times I’d do a giant loop through two towns then back to my own. Lake Quannapowitt in another town over was one of my favorite destinations. I’d circle the whole lake. The houses facing the lake were old, large and beautiful. I used to imagine living in one. At the head of the lake was Bayrd’s Indian Trading Post with two teepees in front. I used to wander the store and was amazed at the exhibit of the Native American artifacts which had been found in the lake. There were beaded Indian costumes and colorful, feather headdresses. Mr. Bayrd constructed those feathered headdresses and the beaded outfits he sold at his store. They were authentic as Mr. Bayrd was a half Narragansett Native American. I didn’t know that at the time. I just loved everything he sold especially the beaded pieces. Once I bought a small beaded change purse. I’d saved a long time. After the shop, I’d usually head home. I’d go the long way through the next town then back to my town. Usually I’d have been gone all day. It was late afternoon when I’d finally get home. I was always tired, but it was a good tired, a fun day tired.

The morning is sunny and the temperature is near perfect at 70˚. A strong, warm breeze blows every now and then. The backyard is so filled with leafy trees I can’t even see the sky through the branches. With the windows opened, I can hear the birds and even some trucks, probably landscapers of which the cape had thousands, maybe even millions.

Yesterday I crossed a couple of things off my to-do list. I watered the plants and put the front door screen in. I left the back door screen for another day because it still gets a little chilly at night, and that door is open all the time for the dogs. The storm door was heavy so I didn’t lift it but moved it corner to corner across the floor and down the steps. We both survived, the door and I.

I have a long to-do list but not energy to finish it. My leg is better and hurts only in the morning for a very short while and at night after a day of using it so it is no longer an excuse. The truth is I also lack the ambition. Like Scarlett, “I’ll think about it tomorrow…After all, tomorrow is another day.”

When I was a kid, school wound down by mid-June. On the last day, we got our report cards. I remember looking around and watching kids’ expressions to see if they were promoted or not. I never saw anyone who was kept back, but maybe they just went to the public school instead. We had so many kids in class mostly nobody would be missed. We had close to fifty per class when I was in the eighth grade. It was surprisingly quiet given we had Sister Hildegarde who noticed very little. I used to leave at lunch and always got back late. She never cared. I was one of her favorites. I would tell her I was leaving usually to the library and she’d say okay so I’d leave early, sometimes by an hour or two. I didn’t go to the library.

I used to fill the metal basket of my bike with things I’d find along the road. Sometimes I found golf balls errantly sent across the street from the course and not retrieved. I found oddly shaped branches. Other times it was pieces of metal, their prior uses unknown. Once in a while I’d find a lone Christmas bulb probably left for dead. Bulbs were favorite finds. I used to keep my treasures in a box except for the bigger finds which were on my bureau. Even now I decorate with dead bulbs. They add a bit of color to the oval trencher in the center of the dining room table.

Yesterday I was sitting on the couch when Nala checked out the recycle bag and right in front of me stole a folded box of Effie’s Cocoa Biscuits. With it in her mouth, she looked fleetingly at me wondering what I’d choose to do then she turned and left, briskly trotting down the hall in case I was chasing. I wasn’t. It was defensive indifference. The box is on the driveway.

This is the sort of morning which holds promise for a beautiful day to come. The early morning air has that coolness which only lasts only a short while and mostly on summer mornings. The breeze can’t make up its mind between strong wind or calm breeze. The sky stays blue.

I will have a deck day. My deck has been transformed. Yesterday it was cleared by two amazingly wonderful people. They had heard my lament about my debris filled deck. One is my friend and neighbor while the other is her friend but who went to the school where I taught at the time and remembered me. I swear my deck is calling my name.

When I was a kid, no yards had decks or even patios. My dad used to bring the barbecue out of the cellar each time he used it. He’d put it on the patch of sparse grass near the clothes lines. No grass ever grew there. It was in the right angle formed by the walkway meeting the paved clothes line square.

Of late, my dance card has had only a few entries. Two were doctors’ appointments, but I don’t count those. I did have a uke lesson, and that made me happy. The rest of the card is blank, but I’m okay with that. It gives my leg and foot more time to rest and heal. I’ll read, the best way to spend time.

When I was a kid, I had a bulletin board in my room. The board was fuzzy pink in a silver frame. It hung near my bedroom door. On it were pins, invitations, pictures and more pieces of my life. When I was in Ghana, my parents moved but dragged along my bulletin board. They gave it back to me when I bought my house. I cleared it and bought a clean, new board for my new house. The board is here in the den. It has my sloth calendar, ID’s on lanyards from a variety of events I attended, a couple of invitations to long ago events, a picture of much of the family in Colorado and other odds and ends. I can trace a part of my life with each of these. Some connect to one another. Others celebrate one time events like graduations. A couple of pins are still on the board, a peace sign pin and a patch from Peace Corps. The board is almost full. I’m thinking it is a metaphor of my life.

I don’t know what time it was, but the three of us, the two dogs and I, were awakened by rolling thunder off in the distance. As the thunder moved closer and closer, it got louder and louder until one clap, the loudest of all, cracked right over the house. Nala raised her head so I talked to her and patted her so she was fine. Henry didn’t seem to mind. The thunder brought the rain, a heavy, pounding rain against the house and windows, and that was the last thing I heard before I fell back to sleep. Today will be hot, 77˚, but it is only 68˚right now and damp and cloudy. The air feels close. Nothing is moving. The clouds will stay around or at least some of them will. The sun won’t make an appearance. She will be missed.

When I was a kid, I loved riding my bike after a rainstorm. I’d ride through the biggest puddles, always the ones closest to the curb, and watch the waves rise on each side of my bike. As I rode through, I’d lift my feet off the pedals and spread wide my legs hoping not to get too wet, but in the scheme of things, I never really minded wet sneakers.

Sometimes, when the rain was especially gentle, I’d stay outside. I always thought the rain was glorious. I’d spread my arms and spin. My clothes would get wet, but wet always dried.

My first rainy season in Ghana was amazing. No rain had fallen in months. Nothing had grown. The fields were empty. All the stalks of millet and corn had been burned away at the end of the rainy season. Everything was dry. The roads were dusty, and lorries were surrounded by trails of dust as they moved along the back roads. The market had only tomatoes and onions, but the market always had tomatoes and onions despite the season. I can still see in my mind’s eye the first rains, tremendous rains which flooded the hard, unpaved roads and made travel difficult, but the rain fell day after day, sometimes twice a day. The roads softened, and the fields were fit for planting. I could look beyond the wall of my house and see the farmers in the compounds behind me bending over, planting their seeds in rows. Outside the front gate of the school was another compound. That was where I saw the miracle, a bonafide miracle. Small, bright green shoots began to appear. Where there had been nothing was now filled with new growth. It was as if a wand had been passed over the fields and the crops had magically appeared.

The sun was here earlier but has since disappeared. We have that partially clouded forecast which I always contend should be partially sunny, just for the sake of optimism. It will be in the 70’s.

My leg still hurts to the touch but is getting better. Yesterday I bemoaned my fate. The deck is still in its winter mode. My lawn needs to be cut. Nala’s holes in the yard need filling before I fall to China. My deck is still covered with debris from the pine trees. I have yet to buy my flowers and herbs for the deck pots. I am very far behind my usual springtime. I guess I need to bite the bullet and start getting ready for summer.

My father was a lawn man. He did plant a few flowers in the small front garden, mostly pansies and marigolds, but his efforts were on the lawn. He used a hand mower, always. I can still close my eyes and hear the click click of the mower as my father moved up and down the lawn in a pattern, the same pattern every time. Saturday was yard day. I think it was the universal yard day in my neighborhood. All the fathers were out with mowers and rakes. I remember the scratching sound of the rakes as the cut grass was cleared. My father clipped around the perimeters of the garden, the grass and the fir trees on the side lawn. I remember him on his knees using the metal clipper which looked like scissors, big scissors. My father had a round sprinkler which made a squishing sound as it turned. He moved it all over the yard so everything was watered. My father was proud of his lawn.

The dogs love being in the yard. They are out so long I go and check on them. I remember when Gracie jumped the fence so I get a bit nervous. Henry can’t jump that high, but I’m not sure about Nala. She is small and athletic and feisty enough to jump to spite me.

Sunday is the quiet day. I can only hear birds sounds and the rustling of the leaves on the trees in the backyard when the wind blows. Henry does his barking inside the house. Nala seldom barks. I guess she figures Henry is loud enough for both of them. She’s right.

Today is another delightful day with lots of sun and a bit of warmth, 77˚ of warmth. My deck needs to be opened, but I’m stuck with this injury and knowing me, I’d do something to cause more injury. I also still need to shop for my flowers and herbs. The only flowers on the deck were brought by my friends Bill and Peg when they visited. Those flowers are a profusion of colors on the drab deck and are in the most delightful planter shaped like a bear. Bill made the bear. Bill is talented.

Nala stole two books. I saw them in the yard when I was standing on the deck yesterday. They had been in the living room waiting to be put into my little library. I watched that canine felon pick up one of the books and run the yard. The other book she tore apart just for the sheer joy of it. That dog makes me laugh, but she is a pip.

When I was a kid, Saturday was always the best day of the week. In the winter, I went to the matinee at the theater uptown. It never really mattered what the movie was. I loved them all. We got to see not only the movie but also some cartoons. The Road Runner was and still is one of my favorites. I love his beep beep and the cloud of dust around his feet. The Road Runner is the nemesis of Wile E. Coyote. He and his Acme dynamite never catch the Road Runner but not from lack of trying. When I was older, I got the play on words of Wile E. Coyote’s name. I love that he has a middle initial.

Spring and summer Saturdays were the crown glories of the week. I never stayed home. Either I rode my bike or walked all over town. My favorite walk was on the railroad tracks, now gone from my little town. I used to jump the double OO tracks so I wouldn’t break my mother’s back. I was skeptical about the power of those tracks, but I didn’t want to risk my mother’s back. I remember stopping for a drink at a pipe with flowing, clear water. It came out of a small hillside. The train station was at the end of the tracks. It still stands and has been used in a variety of ways over the years. I wish I had been around when it was an actual station. I did see trains run on those tracks from my grandparents’ house. The trains stopped at E.L.Patch Company beside the tracks. The name, the lettering, was on a long black sign toward the top of the building. I remember it from when I was a kid. I had no idea what the E.L.Patch Company sold but later found out it was pharmaceuticals. I used to dream about jumping on that train and leaving for parts unknown. I was never scared for the ride. I knew I’d bring a lunch, probably a PB & J sandwich, some cookies, Oreos if there were any left, and Zarex, orange Zarex, in my thermos. My love of adventure always came along for the ride, whether it was real or imagined.

Yesterday’s rain storm was tremendous but by early afternoon the sun had returned as if it hadn’t rained at all. This morning is beautiful with a bright sun. Everything seems to shine. The air is filled with the melodies of birds. Today will be in the 70’s.

Sometimes I remember singular moments. My mother had a picture of me from when I was around four or five. I am wearing my Easter coat, hat and gloves. The picture is in black and white. We were living in an apartment building in South Boston. I am standing in front of the steps. The brick can be seen in the background. I look a bit shy in the picture. I remember our neighbor asked to take a picture of me in all my finery. It embarrassed me a bit.

One summer I was sitting on the back steps. It was early evening. All the screen doors of the houses facing the hill were open. I could hear muted voices and a few TV’s. It felt comforting somehow.

Staging is when Peace Corps trainees get together before leaving the country to meet each other and for last minute details. My staging was in the Hotel Sylvania in Philadelphia. The hotel had a very tiny lobby with a table and a few chairs. Around the corner facing the desk was a bank of pay phones. I remember standing in line to check in. I remember where the elevators were. I remember returning to the hotel after being out for a bit. I sat on one of the chairs in the lobby and read a newspaper someone had left. On one page was an announcement that Judy Garland had died. For some reason I remember that moment.

The first time I saw The Wizard of Oz was at a Saturday matinee. I was probably nine or ten. I didn’t know anything about the movie. I had never read the Oz books. I remember when Dorothy landed in Oz and everything was in color. It was jaw dropping wonder.

I remember my mother sitting in the chair by the picture window, and I was beside the chair. She had a stuffed animal with a long piece of ribbon around its neck. That was when she taught me to tie a bow. I can still see her fingers making the bow over and over. My first bows were clumsy looking and didn’t hold. When I finally tied a bow which held its own, my mother clapped.

My life has been a series of adventures made up of singular moments.

A clap of thunder woke all three of us, the two dogs and I, around 6 this morning. A deluge started almost immediately. I decided to get up and face the day, such as it is. The dogs wouldn’t go out. They backed into the house. It was pouring.

When I was a kid, walking to school in the rain usually meant wearing wet shoes and socks all day. Sometimes bubbles popped up between my toes, and if I took my shoes off, I’d leave footprints. The bottom of my uniform skirt sometimes got wet, but that dried quickly. The rain subdued us. The classroom was unusually quiet except for the sounds of the rain and the rustlings of papers. I remember silent reading. We’d pull out our literature books and read. I never understood a grade in silent reading. I guessed the nun watched for restless kids and gave them lower grades. I could have spent the whole day reading without moving a muscle. We stayed inside for lunch. The milk was delivered just before the lunch bell rang. When I was really young, it came in small bottles. When I was older, it was a carton of milk. We’d walk up to the desk, give the nun our money, grab the milk and then walk back and start to eat. I was never good at opening cartons. If it weren’t for the straw we got, I’d have spilled milk all over me and the desk. I am still no good with cartons. I love the screw tops.

When I was in Ghana, I learned to do with less and never minded. I had a hand can opener. I still have one, the old silver opener with the turner. The only problem is it is getting difficult for me to turn it. The good news is few cans are missing the pull off tab.

Yesterday I went to my uke lesson. I was able to keep my foot elevated the whole time, but the excursion was still painful. My leg and foot hurt. I took an early nap. I did nothing the rest of the day.

The mornings are the worst for my foot and leg. After being elevated all night, my foot does not take well to walking. I whine a lot. I still haven’t worn a shoe. My slippers have holes for my big toes, hardly attractive, and faux fur around the top. I wear therm everywhere. I have no shame.