Keep the Coffee Comimg

When I woke up this morning, the blue had only a small piece of the sky. Clouds covered the rest. The forecast is for clouds and a high of 55˚, but that little glimpse of blue made me hopeful. The sun popped out for a bit then disappeared only to reappear a little while later. I hope the sun wins despite the forecast.

My memory drawers are overflowing. I make new memories all the time while the old memories are still there vying for space. I can recall exact moments. If I close my eyes, I can see those moments as if they are newsreels of my life.

My mother told me about an encounter when I was about three. We were on the elevator in the Sears building near Kenmore when a Black lady entered. That was the first time I ever saw a Black person. I asked my mother what was wrong with her. The woman started a tirade and called us racists and other choice names all peppered with swears. I didn’t remember the encounter, but my mother told me we, the three of us, were the only people on the elevator. She said I was scared and so was she. The woman kept screaming at me and my mother. When the elevator stopped so people could get on, my mother hustled me off so quickly I almost couldn’t keep up. We left the building.

I do remember one encounter. My uncle, only a couple of years older than I, and my brother were at the subway station waiting for the train. We were going to the pool near Storrow Drive. My brother and uncle were a bit away from me on the platform. A man approached me. I remember he had rotten teeth and a straw hat. He asked me if I wanted gum. I said yes so he told me to go with him, and he’d give me my gum. All those warnings my mother used to give jumped into my head, and I bolted away from him. When I told my uncle, he didn’t believe me. I never told my mother.

Last night the wind was the proverbial freight train. The rain was blown sideways and was hitting my bedroom window, but the best had yet to come. I don’t know what time it was, but I woke up to a rumbling of thunder. Shortly after, the biggest clap of thunder I have ever heard broke over my house. The dogs and I sat up. Henry, who hasn’t ever minded thunder, shook. Nala looked up at the ceiling. Henry was going to jump off the bed, probably to go hide, but I stopped him and hugged him while I patted Nala. It took a little time, but we they settled dow and we all fell back to sleep.

Today will be in the high 50’s with drizzle. The wind is slight. The sky is a light grey.

Spring has come to Cape Cod. The gardens are filled with color. My forsythia has bloomed. My hyacinths are open. They are purple and mauve. My day lilies are all above ground. The other day, while I was out and about, I saw a yard filled with dafs. I stopped to look drawn by the field of yellow. It was eye popping.

When I was a kid, I pushed spring. I wanted out of winter and heavy winter clothes. I had a spring jacket I loved. It was blue and had a zipper. It also had no lining. I used to beg my mother to let me wear it. I wore her down, but she was right. In early spring it was still cold. On the walk to school it was really cold just wearing that jacket, but I would never admit it to my mother even if I had icicles hanging from my nose.

I bought some Peeps yesterday, yellow and pink Peeps. When I got home, I opened the packages and put them high up on my kitchen bookcase, higher than Nala can reach. I won’t eat them until they are rock hard, the only way I like them. I’ve told you before I know, but I’m going tell you again the history of hard Peeps. When I was in Ghana, my mother sent me packages for most holidays. Food and treats were the most welcome parts of those packages. She’d send kits like for Mac and Cheese and pasta with Alfredo. They were my Sunday dinners. She send candy which didn’t melt, including the Peeps. Packages took at least a couple of months as they came by sea so by the time they got to me, the Peeps were rock hard despite still being in their packages. Since then, I wait, impatiently, for the Peeps to get hard. Quite chewy is the best description.

Today baseball begins for my Red Sox. They are playing the Yankees at Yankee Stadium. I’m going to tape the game as it is a ukulele day.

Today is warm at 54˚. Despite the clouds, rain is not predicted until tomorrow. Everything is still. Everything is quiet. I have a couple of things to do today and a couple of stops to make. I’m taking Nala. She loves the car, Henry not so much.

I went out yesterday and was gone a little over three hours. Miss Nala got bored. I found the remnants of a pencil and a pen. She loved the pencil more and chewed it into four or five pieces. Later, I caught her trying to steal a pillow from the den. She was thwarted.

When I was a kid, I never ate Jello. To me, its consistency was gross, and I was never charmed by the jiggling. I preferred chocolate pudding. I still do.

My favorite potatoes are mashed, but I’ll eat almost any potato dish including sweet potatoes. Those usually get baked. I have a couple I’m thinking of baking for tonight. They are my only menu item for dinner so far.

My mother used to make the most delicious fish casserole. It had a white fish of sorts and some shrimp. The top was Ritz, buttered Ritz. I can’t remember the last time I made it. I’m thinking it’s pass time.

Lately I have been binge watching movies. Everyone has been in black and white and most are science fiction. Right now I’m watching It came from Hell, a 1957 movie. The antagonist is a tree monster. The setting is a tiny atoll. A native prince was accused of killing his father. He was innocent but was found guilty. He was executed when a knife was driven into his heart. He was buried upright in a hollow tree trunk. Years earlier, according to legend, an island chief returned from the dead in the form of a vengeful tree monster called Tabanga. The legend, come to find out, was a true story. The prince morphed into a tree monster who walked and killed those who had wronged him, including his wife. The tree had feet instead of roots. The feet wore shoes.

My house is quiet. The dogs are asleep on the couch. Nala is using Henry as a pillow. Jack too is quiet. I greeted him this morning. He meowed.

Today is the sort of morning which comes so often in the early spring. It is a bit chilly, but the air gives hint of a warmer day. The birds are lively. The dogs stay outside running the yard. Nala usually has a stick in her mouth or something she’s stolen from the house. Yesterday it was a plastic water bottle now crushed and lying flattened in the yard. It is the only debris.

When I was in elementary school, I did well, mostly A’s, except for a few subjects, not unexpected subjects. In the fourth grade, I got B’s in art except for one term when I got a C. In music, I got B’s except for one A. My penmanship too was worthy of only B’s. The worst I did was in conduct. I had mostly C’s, but it seems I did better by the end of the year when I got a B. My poor showing in art and music has been lifelong. I have an appreciate for both but no talent in either.

When I was a kid, I always looked for the man in the moon and his gigantic smile. I never believed the moon was made out of green cheese. I loved Hey, Diddle Diddle. It made no sense which was great fun. I got to imagine the cow jumping over the moon, the little dog barking and the dish running away with the spoon. I have always wished on the first star I see, “Star light, star bright, The first star I see tonight; I wish I may, I wish I might, Have the wish I wish tonight.” I know my wishes didn’t often come true, but that has never stopped me from wishing. I remember I used to lie on the grass and watch the sky. I hoped for a falling star and sometimes saw one, but it took time and patience. Now, when we have meteor showers, I still watch the sky. I sit outside even in winter. I ooh and ah out loud, but my neighbors are usually asleep, their houses dark. I am tempted to run up and down the street to tell my neighbors to come outside and be astounded.

When I lived in Ghana, the night sky was jaw dropping amazing. It was filled with stars, more than I had ever seen or have seen since. I could actually see the Milky Way’s span across the sky. I saw falling stars every night, sometimes even a couple. The only place here which comes close is at the beach on a clear night. The sky is ablaze with so many stars. I sit on the cold sand and watch and wait for a falling star. I usually see one. I ooh and ah out loud. I am still thrilled to see a falling star.

Today is a pretty day with lots of sun. It is warmish at 44˚. My plans for today are simple: change my bed and take a shower then maybe nap from the exertion. I don’t even have a full load of laundry yet. Yesterday I took down ornaments from the tree near the driveway, unplugged all the extension cords and then put everything down cellar, but the lights themselves are still on the fence and deck. I am saving them for another day. Wow, something to look forward to say I sarcastically.

My house is being cleaned. Nala is barking and trying to eat the vacuum. Henry barked like a crazy dog when my cleaning lady rang the bell but has since settled on the couch. His work is done until the mailman stops his truck at my mailbox. That will send Henry into a frenzy.

When I was a kid, my mother always prepared breakfast for us so we would be fortified for the walk to school. I remember the oatmeal, the lumpy oatmeal, on winter mornings. Sometimes I added sugar and milk while other times it was maple syrup. I also loved cinnamon toast. When it was a cereal morning, a box of Rice Krispies and a box of Cheerios were on the table. I never chose the Cheerios.

My father joined the navy during World War II the day he turned 17. He had already graduated from high school. His mother had sent him to school at 4 just to get him out of the house. My father was a signalman. I don’t remember how old I was, but he taught my brother and me Morse code. We used to darken the upstairs. My brother and I were in one room while my father was in another. Using his flashlight, he’d send us messages in Morse code. We’d answer him with our flashlight. I don’t remember Morse code except SOS and the four opening notes of the movie The Longest Day which were the opening bars of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony and Morse code for victory, dot-dot-dot-dash, or three short clicks and one long. It was played on kettle drums which was the dramatic opening of that movie. V for victory became the leitmotif for the Western Allies (I had to look up leitmotif, a new word for me).

For a long time, I knew I wanted to join the Peace Corps. When the recruiter came on campus my junior year of college, I was front and center to listen. His description of his experiences cemented my Peace Corps wish. I applied in October of my senior year then I suffered through the waiting game. In real time it wasn’t a long wait, but for me, it felt like an eternity. I received a special delivery letter in January inviting me to accept an invitation to the Peace Corps. I accepted immediately. I was going to Africa. I was over the moon.

The sun is shining in a sky of blue. It is a bit chilly, only 48˚. The forecast is for rain but not until after five. Yesterday I cleaned the papers and cans in the yard, Nala’s mess. While I was cleaning, she tried to eat the convict pick up stick. I use stop instead of no, but it doesn’t matter. Nala ignores me either way, but she comes in when I call. I’m good with that.

When I was a kid, my dog Duke, another boxer, ignored everybody. That used to drive my father insane. He was known to chase Duke in the car when the dog ignored him and still ran off to follow kids to school. My mother tried a different tactic to get him into the house. She bribed him with bologna, but he could snatch a slice from her hand and leave her only with the corner of the meat she was holding. If Duke was out, he’d follow us to our school. The nuns had me walk him home. I didn’t mind the walk, and I loved missing school with permission. I took my time.

I had all the regular subjects in elementary school and only one nun every year who taught them all. We didn’t have art or music every day which was fine with me. I can’t sing and I draw stick figures. We were taught a few weird subjects. I can translate Roman numerals, and I can read and transcribe Gregorian chant music. Mighty skills, useless skills!

I am watching Unknown World from 1951. It has a woman scientist who is described as an ardent feminist. She is in charge of the diet and the animals. The other day I watched a video about a moose. The narrator described it as a quiet Gentile. I wondered. Are all moose Gentiles? I have no idea what the program was, but I loved the description of the main character as a plucky underdog. At one of my high school’s graduations, a speaker, the head of the school committee, made a speech. He wanted to share with the graduates an antidote.

The English language and mathematics are strangely similar. There is one answer to a math problem and only one correct grammatical structure. I find the sounds of incorrect grammar grating. I reject the argument that only being understood matters. That is like telling a musician that singing on-key isn’t important. Just belt out that song. Only the singing matters, not the tone or the key or the notes. My third grade teacher, Sister Eileen Marie, told me just to mouth the words to the May procession songs. I still remember exactly where I was standing when she had me sing to her. She then embarrassed me in front of the whole class when she told me to mouth the words. I was eight. That is when I stopped singing when anyone could hear me.

Today is spring, a pretty day sandwiched in between two rainy days. The sky is a spectacular blue. The slight breeze stirs only the ends of the smallest branches. My dafs have bloomed. Their yellow is striking. They are the brightest spot in the whole garden though the hyacinths are close behind and the forsythia has buds. That forsythia is as old as the house. It was a housewarming gift from my brother and his then girlfriend. When it was planted, it was alone in the garden. Now the garden blooms in so many colors from all the flowers, but the forsythia is front and center.

The dogs love this weather and are out for the longest time. This morning Nala came in first, usually Henry does. She was hoping for her morning treat so I went on the deck to look for Henry. He was in the lower 40, against the back fence. Henry is easy to spot with his white fur. He heard the word treat and came running. They both got a biscuit, a peanut butter biscuit, finished it then went back outside. They’ll be in for their spoonful of coffee.

When I was a kid, I’d ride my bike on a day like today. I lived on a hill. Riding down that hill and gathering speed made me almost giddy. It was a windy ride without the wind. I could feel the cold air up my sleeves. They billowed. I can still remember the joy of riding down that hill.

I lived in the project on one side of a duplex. It was a small project with maybe a dozen duplexes up the hill and around a small rotary in the cul-de-sac. Each side of the duplex mirrored the other side. It was a good place to live.

Most of my exploring was done alone. I’d jump on my bike, head down the hill and then decide my route. I had special places. One was the zoo. I’d walk my bike around all the cages and check out the animals. The elephant was my favorite.

Another route took me uptown. I’d walk my bike again, this time on the sidewalk while I checked out the windows. I watched the lobsters swimming in their tank at the fish market. That they were someone’s dinner never occurred to me. At Hank’s, the bakery, I’d wish I had money to buy even just one cookie. The ones in the window were sugar cookies, some frosted while other had sprinkles, the multi-colored ones. At Kennedy’s it was the cheese. A huge block of cheddar was by the door and another was in the window. I just wanted a chunk to eat on the way.

Another route took me by the golf course where I searched for balls. I always found at least one. From there I’d take a different route, a longer ride, to go home.

I’d be gone most of the day. Only the chill of the late afternoon had me heading for home. It was hot dogs, beans and brown bread night. It was bath night. After that, it was westerns on TV and staying up a bit later.

It was the most satisfying day.

The rain started late. I heard it hitting the window. The dogs went out anyway. It was a warm night, still 55˚ at two. The wind got wilder just as I went to bed. It was a stop and listen sort of wind, fierce and loud. Branches brushed the window. The last sound I heard before I fell asleep was the howling.

The morning was cloudy, but the sun broke through a bit ago. I can see the blue sky expanding and chasing away the clouds, a bit of a treat for a little while as the forecast is for scattered showers. It is 55˚.

Yesterday was my errand day. I even went to the dump. Today is an around the house day. I need to finish clearing Nala’s trash from the backyard. I’ll get to use my bright yellow prisoner trash stick again, and I’ll take down the Christmas flags and check my little library. (Oops, outside is on hold. The sky is dark and threatening. Rain is coming just as forecasted.)

My dafs are in bloom. Their bright yellow is striking. I am tired of brown and grey. It is time to celebrate the awakening of gardens and the warmth of spring.

When I was a kid, I remember walking to school on chilly mornings this time of year. Instead of winter layering, I wore a sweater under my spring jacket. I think I skipped to school.

My mother was the consummate April Fool’s Day joker. She was tricky. She always got my sister. I was wary when she’d call me. She was that good!

When I was a kid, I always gave up chocolate for Lent, but I never made it all the way through to Easter. The call of chocolate is too great. I tried to think about other things to sacrifice, but I had none. My mother nixed giving up vegetables. Giving up church was out of the conversation. I didn’t want a mortal sin, that blackened milk bottle in the Baltimore Catechism. I gave up nothing for Lent. Besides, I was never big on the concept.

I have been buying old black and white science fiction movies for summer viewing. It is time to reopen movies on the deck. I’ll start with a classic, maybe Beau Geste, the original, then move on to my new movies. Yesterday, The Monolith Monsters, a 1957 film, was delivered. Black rocks from a meteor crash are strewn all over the town. When they interact with water, they become gargantuan towers of rock which petrify anyone in the way. They can move by collapsing and then reforming. On the back of the cover is a wonderful description. Their path of destruction must end before they plow mankind into a stone-cold early grave.

The wind is so strong it blows open the dog door. Henry gets spooked so I have to get up from my comfy couch to let him in by the human door, and Henry doesn’t wait patiently. He bangs the door with his nose. Right now he is napping, probably because of the trauma of having to wait outside a couple of minutes.

Today is an ugly day. It rained earlier, and the sky is still covered in clouds, but today is warm, even with the wind. It is in the mid-50’s. I have errands today. One of them is easy to guess.

Nala likes to play fetch, even in the house. I throw toys down the hall, and she brings them back to me. She also brings in stuff from outside. The other day it was a pine branch. The needles on the floor of the living room and the hall gave Nala away. The dirt on the door mat and in the kitchen also gave Nala away when she tore apart my succulent garden. It was left counter after I had watered. I thought it was safe. Silly me forgetting Nala, the Destroyer of Worlds, loves surfing the counter.

I almost feel like a grave robber. Nala pulled apart a Santa cloth ornament she had stolen a while back. Sadly, Henry is complicit in this theft but after the fact. He also enjoys chewing poor Santa. This morning I found white stuffing on the floor. I followed the tufts from room to room and caught Nala trying to pull out some more from Santa’s head. I grabbed the ornament and pulled out all the rest of the stuffing from Santa’s head leaving him a shell of his former self. During all of this, Jack was meowing for attention.

When I was a kid, I never knew how to answer when aunts, great aunts and my aunt the nun, whom I seldom saw, asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. It usually took me days to decide what to wear on Halloween let alone decide what I’d be doing the rest of my life. The enormity of that question floored me. I had no idea I was supposed to be planning my future. I still thought Saturday was a long way off. I usually said I didn’t know. That ended our once a year chat.

Winter has decided to hang around for a while. Right now it is only 31˚ and won’t get much warmer, the only flaw in an otherwise lovely sunny day. Not a cloud is in sight. The trees are still. The dogs stay out long enough that I check to make sure neither has escaped though it is only a courtesy to check Henry.

I like jam. I am not a great fan of jelly though I still have a fondness for Welch’s jelly in a cartoon character glass. I think I have one or two in the cabinet, Tom and Jerry glasses. I used to slather too much jelly on my PB&J sandwiches. It always seeped through in the middle and made for an ugly sandwich, a tasty but ugly sandwich. My father loved strawberry jam. I always gave him a couple of jars in his Christmas stocking. I am not particular though I do have a favorite or two. I eat a variety of jams, usually whatever I find when I scrummage through the cabinet. My favorite of late has been black mission fig jam, a Christmas present, but I finished the last of it and have moved to strawberry jam with huge chunks of strawberries.

In Ghana I bought groundnut paste. It was sold in the market and was the base for groundnut stew, but I used it mostly as groundnut butter, peanut butter in American English. It was thick and had to be thinned with groundnut oil or it tore the bread. I bought imported jam. PB&J or GN&J was my favorite snack.

Peanut butter is a stable still. I love a snack of peanut butter and jelly on a Saltine. It has to be a Saltine, a preference carried through time. We always had Saltines. I crushed them into my chicken noodle soup, my Campbell’s chicken noodle soup. Sometimes I buttered the crackers. Other times I used Marshmallow fluff instead of jelly. They were the messiest combination, but that was my favorite. I mean, seriously, what could beat the taste of fluff and peanut butter? The one use which makes me gag at the thought of it is sardines on crackers. I can still see, as if in a bad dream, the opened can, the wound metal top with a key and the sardines in a row. I’d take one and eat it on my Saltine. My sister remembers doing the same. It was my father who introduced us to the joy of eating sardines on Saltines. The three of us would nosh together. I think maybe that was the draw.

I used to give my father a really expensive can of sardines in his Christmas stocking. He was always delighted and offered to share.