Yesterday it rained all day, heavily at times. Today is a leftover day with light grey clouds but no rain or wind. I have no errands to do though I could do a dump run, but I’m thinking of saving that until Sunday. It will give me something to look forward to say I tongue in cheek.

Both dogs are upstairs asleep on my bed. They are a strange pair. Henry growls at Nala if she scares him or walks by him when he is in a bad mood. I pat him to divert his attention. It usually works. Last night, just before I turned off the light, Henry growled at Nala because she was lying on his spot in the bed. I told him to stop. He did then started cleaning her face side to side, probably out of guilt. After she’d had enough, she got up and moved right beside my head, her usual spot, and settled on the other pillow curved in ball. I turned off the light.

When I was a kid, we learned to hide under our desks and cover our heads or curl up in the hall to save us from a nuclear bomb. Hiding under my desk was a little scary. I knew what a bomb was, but the nuclear part was fuzzy, but I did what I was told without a real understanding of the why. When I was older, the drills stopped. By then I understood why we had hidden under our desks, but an atomic bomb was still remote from my day to day. It was for somewhere else, not here.

I remember President Kennedy announcing on TV the blockade of Cuba, a quarantine to prevent the Soviets from bringing in more military supplies, more missile parts. The US would seize weapons off any Soviet ship attempting delivery to Cuba and would retaliate on the USSR should any missile be fired from Cuba. The stand-off lasted thirteen days. We all waited. We were all afraid. On TV the news was constantly dire. We kept hearing that Cuba is only ninety miles from the US. I remember too there were Soviet ships boarded and searched, but when nothing was found, they went on their way while other ships turned back before boarding. That was the first time I was glued to the TV. I remember reports about Soviet ships on their way to Cuba. I remember Walter Cronkite, I think, announcing the ships were turning back. We could all breathe again until the next crisis and the next and the next. There is always a next.

The rain started around 2:30 this morning. It started staccato. I listened for a while then turned off the light and fell sleep. The dogs woke me around 8:30, and it was pouring. I let the dogs out, yes, I am the one, and went back to bed. They were asleep on my bed when I finally stirred close to noon. I am a sloth without the toe nails.

The darkness the rain brings always feels somehow comforting. I am dry and warm in my house. The lamp on the table gently lights the room. The dogs on the couch beside me sleep soundly with only an occasional sigh. I can hear my heat blasting. I checked the news and the weather. Both are unsettling, the news the worst.

This morning I had coffee and an English muffin. I had no cream but did have almond milk in the oven. It was part of my emergency stores; actually, it was the only emergency store. The English muffins were flat from packaging. They are a brand new to me. I used the last of my black mission fig jam. The almond milk tasted just fine and so did the flat muffins covered in fig jam.

President Biden is in Brussels. My sister and I reminisced about the trip we took there with our parents. We stayed at the Hotel Amigo right off the Grand-Place. It was exquisite and about as far as you can get from a hostel bunk room and a shared bathroom. It was during this trip my father unceremoniously gave me the keys to the rental. He never drove on any of our trips again. It started from the airport. He was lost, didn’t know where we could find the hotel. I gave him directions. He wouldn’t listen as I had never been in Brussels before this, but I had seen signs to the center of the city, and I knew that’s where our hotel was. He finally listened, and we easily found our hotel. The trip which broke the driver’s back (sorry, it is the best I could do) was the trip to Bruges. We ended up in Waterloo. We went to the worst museum I have ever seen. They had cones on the floor around the puddles. There were empty display cases. It smelled musty. We left laughing. We did find a really good museum in Waterloo, and we eventually made it to Bruges. I drove.

The last story I’ll tell is on me. On that same trip we went to Bastogne. We ate at a restaurant in a hotel where the Americans had stayed during the siege of Bastogne when it was surrounded by Germans. My father and I ordered boar. When the waiter brought the food, he asked who the two boars were. My mother and sister roared laughing and pointed to my father and me.

The day is pretty. It is sunny and calm but chillier than it has been; it’s only in the 40’s and won’t get much higher. I do have a couple of errands so I’ll venture out. I have been taking Nala with me, and she loves the car. I don’t know if I am brave enough to bring Henry. He hates the car.

When I was a kid, if we didn’t do what my mother told us, she always threatened to tell my father. He was the hammer. She knew it. We knew it. When I was older, my mother took to throwing things. I remember my dictionary whizzing through the air. Nothing ever hit us. She knew that. We knew that. We were safe until the flying slipper. My mother wore slippers during the day. She started throwing the slippers. They were close at hand. She missed every time then she told one of us to bring the slipper back. We knew that was a bad idea. The slipper was no longer just a projectile. It had become a weapon. If one of us returned it, that good soul would get whacked. We were quick to solve the slipper problem. We threw it back, gently. My mother wasn’t happy. We were. We ran in the opposite direction. She yelled at us she’d tell my father.

When I was in high school, my father worked away on weekends. He came home Friday nights and left Monday mornings. We were waiting until the end of the school year to move. We’d greet my father then meet my friends and head out for Friday night doings. I had no curfew so I was never late; actually, I made sure to get home early, but when I got home, I still had to fill out what my brother and I called the curfew card left on the desk. Both my parents were in bed so they had left the note on the desk asking us to sign in and write down the time. We complied. Nothing ever happened.

Today is a spring day. The bright sun is framed by a cloudless, deep blue sky. The morning air has a bit of a chill, but, in typical spring fashion, the day will get warmer. I’m going to clean the backyard so it will look less like a vacant lot. Nala has been busy stealing trash and secretly taking it through the dog door. I caught her once yesterday with a box in her mouth. She dropped it and jumped when I yelled, but the odds are in her favor. I seldom catch her.

Henry is asleep on the couch. I know that doesn’t sound revolutionary, but my house cleaner is here, and Henry doesn’t care. He isn’t following her and barking. That’s the revolutionary part. Also, Henry has mastered the dog door. He stands outside and bangs the door, but I ignore him so he comes in on his own. That is also revolutionary.

When I was a kid, I walked more than I rode my bike. All week I walked to and from school. On Saturday mornings, I walked to the armory for junior drill. On Saturday afternoons, I walked uptown to the movie theater. When I was older, I still walked. On weekday mornings it was to the bus stop with a reverse walk in the afternoons. In the early evenings, on Tuesdays, I walked to drill and later at night I walked home. I never worried. I grew up feeling safe.

When my parents moved off Cape while I was in the Peace Corps, they couldn’t find a key to the house. It was never locked. I think they finally found the key in the junk drawer with all the other odd objects.

When I was a kid, I loved riding my bike to school. The bike rack in the schoolyard was under trees. It was wooden and painted green, the perfect color for St. Patrick’s School. I never had a lock, but I never worried about my bike. I knew it would always be there in the green bike rack at the end of school.

Happy spring!

Finally, spring is here, and, despite the clouds and dampness, today is warm. A little sun would have been an ideal way to greet the long-awaited new season, but I’ll take warmth.

The morning is filled with the songs of birds. The front garden has all sorts of flowers popping through the ground. The daffodil bulbs have color now, and a couple more of the hyacinths are poking out of the ground. So far they all look purple. The day lilies, a row of them where the lawn ends, are the slowest to grow.

When I was a kid, I couldn’t wait to shed winter, to say good-bye to the heavy layers. I’d wear my spring jacket to school even if it was cold. I never admitted to cold. I wouldn’t go back to winter.

When I lived in Ghana, I didn’t miss winter though there were days when I wished for the cold instead of the heat, over 100˚most days this time of year, down to the 80’s at night. Instead of waiting for spring, we waited for the rain, for the start of the rainy season, for the end of the dry season, the end of brown.

In Ghana, I had a cook book called Ghana Chop, meaning Ghanaian food, Ghanaian chop. It was basic with measurements in cigarette boxes, metal boxes. It was from Peace Corps hoping we’d stay healthy. I ate pretty much the same dinner every night, meat and yams. Usually it was beef cooked in a tomato based sauce with onions, tomatoes and onions being the only vegetables I could consistently find back then in the market. The beef had to cook a long while to be tender. Chicken was the other meat we ate.

We sometimes bought Sunday dinner, fufu, from a local chop bar near the lorry park. For a big night, we went to the Hotel d’Bull for a really old movie and kabobs for dinner, beef and liver kabobs, for a mere twenty pesewas. We sat on the roof, the expensive seats. The movies were reel to reel. I remember seeing the ending before the middle in a western. The Ghanaians didn’t notice. I didn’t care. It made the spaghetti western a bit more fun.

I have plantain ripening in the kitchen. I’m going to make kelewele, my favorite Ghanaian dish. I do need some fresh ginger, integral to the dish, and peanuts, an optional ingredient I like. I already have the music, a cd of the songs of the FraFra, the local tribe where I lived. I have the right clothes. I have a matching bag. I have sandals in Bolga red leather. I’m ready for a trip back to Ghana, figuratively for now.

55˚ is the current temperature. The dense morning fog disappeared when the rain started. It will rain most of the day. The dogs will be in and out and will leave more paw prints. I’ll complain, loudly. The dogs won’t care. The day will go on as usual.

I’m tired. I need more sun so I can regenerate. I want to bake on the deck in the warmth of a spring day, but, instead, I get fog, clouds and rain, not a bit of sun. It seems I’m wanting a weather miracle.

I used to love to ride my bike through the biggest puddles. It was my version of the parting of the Red Sea. My bike made tsunami like waves on each side when I rode at top speeds through the puddles. The center was dry. Sometimes I’d lift my feet off the pedals into the air, my legs splayed over the water. It was part of the fun.

When I was a kid, I liked to roller skate in the parking lot up the street from my house. I had the old key skates, and, like the rest of the skating world, I kept my key on a string around my neck. I’d sit on the curb and use my key to tighten the clasps, as tight as I could get them, to my shoes. I always wore shoes when I skated. Sneakers didn’t work so well. The skates often came loose. I can still see in my mind’s eye the skate hanging loose attached only by the strap, not by the shoe. You always exaggerated the lift of the hanging skate on the walk to the curb.

Today is a day to languish on the lounge dressed to the nines with a wet cloth over my eyes and a tray of bonbons beside me. I will moan dramatically every now and then to punctuate my situation. A few words of comfort and an endless supply of chocolate would be perfect to heal the soul, with an emphasis on the chocolate.

I have no plans for today which take even the tiniest amount of energy. The bonbons should come unwrapped.

Yesterday and last night we had rain. Only a few clouds are left and more are disappearing, pushed away by the sun. Rain comes back tomorrow. Today is warm, already 53˚, and it will get warmer. I noticed the tip of a hyacinth in the front yard has popped. I can see purple. The daffodil bulbs too are beginning to show their colors. I see yellow and white. Spring is in the wings itching for her turn.

My house is relatively clean if you stay out of the kitchen. That floor is always a mess of paw prints. I make plans to wash it then it rains. Plans dashed. Washing the floor today was on the top of my to-do list so I am responsible for the forecast of rain tomorrow. I don’t know which is worse: living with that paw-painted floor or washing it just before the rain. I’m thinking I can’t take that floor anymore.

My father ran a company which provided sand blasting equipment and materials. 3M once sent a plane for the walnut shells only my father’s company had. When we were in Europe, my father saw a sand blaster and made me take his picture in front of it. That became part of every trip. Find a sandblaster. Another part of every trip was my father pointing to a poo pile. It started in the barn of the farm B&B where we stayed in Belgium. He pointed to it so I wouldn’t step on it. In France he pointed to a pile on the beach. In England, it was a London sidewalk. I have all the slides. My father is smiling in all of them.

I have been a sloth most of this week. I’ve sweatshirt-sleeve dusted a few tables, rearranged some baskets and put some Nala targets away, but that is getting more and more impossible. Did I mention Nala’s newest? I heard banging on the stairs and then in the kitchen. That’s when I investigated. Nala was trying to steal a 608 page hard-cover, The President’s Daughter. Nala had gotten it off my bedside table and down the stairs. She was trying to get it out the dog door but she kept dropping it and giving herself away. I saved the book. Maybe Nala should try smaller books.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day!

My family always celebrates St. Patrick’s Day. My mother made corned beef and cabbage. She often threw a party which inevitably ended in the kitchen with the crowd singing St. Patrick’s Day songs. That’s how I learned all the words to the songs. I remember my dog Shauna’s first St. Patrick’s Day at my parents. My father gave her a dish of corned beef and cabbage. She ate all of it. She belonged to the clean plate club. She did better than my father who never ate the turnip.

My sister has already started her dinner. She did the corned beef yesterday. I’ll be enjoying my St. Patrick’s Day dinner this evening, and I’ll eat the turnips.

I spent yesterday afternoon in Elysium. The day was pretty with a bright sun which shined from window to window, from the east to the west. I noshed on Effie’s cocoa biscuits and cheddar cheese. They were a perfect combination. On TV I watched old black and white movies which were so bad I loved them. The first was The Earth Dies Screaming with killer robots and resurrected human beings with popped out eyes. Now I’m watching The Hideous Sun Demon in which a scientist exposed to radiation turns into a lizard every time he is in the sun. I’m in heaven with bad actors and cheesy effects. “His appearance has turned into something scaly. He is not taking it too well.”

In Ghana, the two foods I missed the most were coleslaw and root beer. (For convenience sake please just go with root beer as a food.) Cole slaw made sense as I liked cole slaw, but the root beer stymied me. I seldom drank it. That I was missed it was odd.

Ghana had Coke and Fanta. What kind of Fanta you ask? If a Ghanaian ordered a Fanta, he’d get orange, only orange. Coke was just Coke, no lite, no Tab, just Coke, usually warm, except we found a store in town with a fridge and cold Cokes. It was at the end of a row of stores which started on ground level then the row of stores got higher so the last store was reached by climbing steps or walking the whole length of stores. We chose the steps every time. There was an outside table, and we were sitting there the day of the incident, I think it was Bill and me, when we were approached by a white guy or maybe two. I’m not sure. I remember one white guy stopped at our table to talk to us, not unusual in Bolga with few whites. He wanted to know where the bare breasted women were. He had heard they were around Bolga. We were horrified by his question. Why would you even ask that question?  We told him there were no bare-breasted women. We lied. He deserved a lie. He also deserved a punch, but we exercised restraint.

This morning the dogs woke me again. I went downstairs with my eyes barely opened and let them out to the yard. I went back to bed. They joined me a bit later. We slept another hour. Nala woke me up. I gave in and started my day.

It took thirteen minutes to start my day. I timed it this morning. I got downstairs, started the coffee then I went and got the paper and yesterday’s mail. While the coffee was perking, I toasted a bagel. It and the coffee were done at the same time.

The bagel was just a bagel until I spread on the black fig jam. That elevated the bagel from simple to magnificent. I yummed my way through both sides of the bagel while the dogs watched. They were hopeful. I gave each of them a piece, a small piece. I am entirely too generous.

When I was a kid, I learned to ride my bike on the street in front of our house. My mother taught me using the age old method of holding the back of the seat, running along side and offering words of encouragement until she felt comfortable enough to let go secretly. When I realized I was doing the riding myself, I yelled triumphantly. I had been given freedom to anywhere my pedaling would take me. The onyy deterrent was snow.

Ice skates and sleds had limited use as both were so dependent on the weather. Sleds needed snow so my sled stayed in the cellar a good part of the winter. My ice skates just needed cold, below freezing cold, except at the swamp, one of the neatest places of my childhood. It was shallow enough that it froze, even in above freezing weather, all around the front and on the canals, tiny canals, leading from the front to the back of the swamp. The water was clear enough I could see everything below the ice, mostly branches and ferns. I always thought it was kind of neat to have a winter picture of summer places.

The spring ahead has changed my mornings. I go to bed later and get up later. My coffee and bagel have morphed into brunch. The dogs wake me up. Nala cries so I crawl down stairs, let them both out and go back to bed. They join me later. We sleep until Nala wakes me up by whacking me, totally unnecessary as the back door is open. I give in and get up to face the day with bags under my eyes and a terrible need for coffee.

When I was a kid, cocoa was my morning drink of record. For my brother, it was tea. My mother always made the tea in a small ceramic teapot covered in pink flowers. The cocoa came cup by cup. Some days we had cereal while other days we had eggs, but we always had tea and cocoa. My favorite breakfast was a soft boiled egg served in the yellow, chicken egg cup and surrounded by strips of toast for dunking. My least favorite was oatmeal. It was palatable only because of the milk and the sugar we put on top, mostly the sugar. My mother was fortifying us for the trek through the extremes of weather to school.

I don’t know when I started drinking coffee. I believe it was in high school when I left so early for the bus I didn’t have time for breakfast so I bought coffee before school. It quickly supplemented the cocoa. By college, my friends and I started every morning over cups of coffee at the canteen and a race to finish the cross puzzle.

In Ghana, the coffee is almost universally bad. The only time I had a cup of real, as in brewed, coffee and real milk, not in a can, was at a resort on the ocean in Beyin near Nzulezo on one of my trips back. There was a real French press on the table. I wanted to borrow it.

I drank instant coffee during my two years in Ghana. Every morning I’d have one cup at breakfast; actually it was more of a stein than a cup, a huge amount of coffee. Breakfast was always two fried eggs and two pieces of toast. I’d have another cup during a break from teaching. I’d sit in the front yard and watch the little kids going to school. I was an attraction, the white lady. I always greeted them and they returned the greeting.

I love coffee. I just don’t love flavored coffee or instant coffee. Call me a purist if you will.