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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.

The morning is downright cold. It is only 30˚. The high will be 37˚. That sounds like deck weather. As if…

We have a pretty day with lots of bright sun, just not a warm sun. The air is clear. Everything looks highlighted by the sun. I can see through the tangle of pine branches in the back yard to the blue sky beyond. The dogs have been out a while. They enjoy this weather.

When I was a kid, we all gave up something for Lent. Most of us kids chose chocolate having very little else to give up. I rarely made it all through Lent. When I was contemplating eating the forbidden chocolate, I negotiated with myself to lessen the guilt. It helped.

I loved walking to school in the mornings this time of year. The cold felt temporary. My footsteps echoed in the still mornings. My friend and I chatted the whole way. It wasn’t a long walk to school: down the hill, around the corner to the straightaway which ended at the stop sign just on the corner down from school. We looked down both sides then crossed the street. The playground was behind the school. That’s where we waited for the nun to ring the bell, the time to line-up bell.

My school was old. It had no electric bells. It had bellringers. They were in the eighth grade on the top floor. They rang the bell in the hall so all the floors could hear it. I remember my first grade class, what it looked like, where I sat. It was on the first floor. I remember my second grade teacher, Mrs. Kerrigan. She was old or at least she looked old to me. She had grey hair and dressed like my grandmother. She lived in an apartment in an old house across from the church. My third grade class was in the cellar of the rectory. We didn’t have desks. We had tables. By fourth grade, we were in double sessions. The school was overloaded with kids. There were no places to put us so they started building the new school, which was all we called it even after it was old. For the fifth grade, while we waited for the new school, we were bussed to a school a town over as they had space. I never minded the buses. We were patient. The bus rides meant less time in the classroom. Nobody complained. By mid-winter, the new school was ready. We moved in. My class was on the first floor near the door. The school was shiny. It had electric bells.

The morning has started late for me. I let the dogs out early then I went back to bed. The dogs joined me. The one ring of the front doorbell woke us all up. It was my neighbor, and he was quite patient while I shooed Henry a couple of times then I opened the door. My neighbor had my overflowing mail from yesterday and today’s newspaper. I thanked him for his kindness. He always calls me Miss Kat.

The day is cloudy grey but warm without the wind. Today’s forecast calls for rain and snow with a high of 53˚ and a low of 22˚. The craziness of March weather continues. (It started pouring then it stopped.)

When I was a kid, a rainy, ugly Saturday meant being stuck in the house, my bike parked in the cellar. Sometimes I’d read in bed. It was quiet in my room. The only sounds were the rain drops against the window at the foot of my bed. Other Saturdays I’d watch the old science fiction movies from the 50’s. I still love those movies. The other day I watched Attack of the Crab Monsters. It was so wonderfully awful I bought it and two more Roger Corman’s for cheap money on E-Bay. I’m thinking a grand return, a red carpet event, to movies on the deck.

When I visited them for the weekend, Saturday nights at my parents’ house were always fun nights. My Uncle Jack always came. The kitchen was the center of activity. My mother served appies and had snacks like chips on the table. The small side of the counter was the bar. The card game was usually Hi-Lo Jack. At my parents’ table it got cutthroat. Sometimes there was music with the whole kitchen crowd singing. My uncle sang Bing Crosby songs. He always fancied himself a bit of a Bing. We all did too.

Tomorrow is a uke concert at the mall for St. Patrick’s Day. I’ll be bedecked and adorned in lots of green and shamrocks. I’ll be the one in the blinking green glasses and the shamrock fascinator.

Today is a delight. The sun is alone in the deep blue sky. It is 46˚, warm in these parts for March. The low, tonight, will be in the 30’s. That’s the spring pattern: warm days and cold nights.

The days are getting noticeably longer. The sun hangs around. This weekend we change the clocks. We spring ahead to an an even longer day.

Even as a kid, I loved this time of year. Unless the cold kept us in the house, we got to play outside longer after school. We lived on a tiny rotary, a circle of four houses. There were two street lights, hooded street lights, our alarm clocks of a sort. One light, my light, was right outside the house. When it turned on, almost magically, it announced the end of the day. On the poster of the film War of the Worlds, the original, is an alien ship knocking over a light pole exactly like my light pole. That always tickled my imagination.

Now, as the day turns from light to dark, there is an in-between, an almost night. I look outside, and the sun is gone, but I can still the outlines of objects and can guess what they are. There is a hole in the darkness letting in the light.

It was never dark in Ghana. The night sky, a blanket of stars, was so bright you could almost read by it. Every night had a falling star.

Night on a beach is filled with light. I can follow the sky to where it ends. I can see the stars from top to bottom. On a clear, easy night, the air is filled with the sounds of the waves gently finding the sand. It brings its own calmness. Occasionally I can hear the song of night birds.

I love my my deck at night. I can sit outside comfortable in the darkness. The peepers from the pond at the end of my street are loud. There are night birds. Henry barks at the sounds of likely intruders in cars or walking by the house. I shush him, but he still barks for a little longer before he finally ignores the sounds and settles down. Nala just quietly watches. We stay out late into the night, the three of us.

March is a quirky month. It waffles between winter and early spring. Yesterday was an all weather day. The rain started gently, sort of a spring rain, then it poured but only for a few minutes. The snow, big fluffy, wet flakes, fell next but didn’t stay. The sleet was last. Luckily, last night was above freezing, no ice on the steps or ruts in the road. Today is in the 40’s and is still cloudy. The wind has finally gone.

On my dance card today is the dentist. All of me is old, even the fillings, so I’m having one drilled out and replaced. I go to the dentist to avoid the dentist.

Before I went to Ghana, Peace Corps told us to have any tooth issues solved. I found a dentist in Lawrence. My father had the bills sent to him. I think I went three times and had even the hint of a cavity drilled and filled. During staging in Philadelphia we had to find our way to the dentist to have our teeth checked. Mine passed.

When I was a kid and went to the dentist, he always gave me this red pill to eat then he’d check my mouth. The red stuff ratted me out. It showed where I wasn’t brushing enough. I’d then get a lesson on how to brush my teeth. I always got a lesson.

My backyard has branches, some of them large, strewn about the ground having been broken by the wind. It has trash from Nala. Her recent booty was a bag of flour. I found her with it and put it in the barrel. She found it again and made a big pile of flour in the yard. Henry was licking it. Henry was again guilty after the fact, abetting again. I couldn’t pick the flour up so I covered it with part of the bird bath.

My days are comfortable and easy. A cleaning lady comes every two weeks though I do a few cleaning jobs in between. I do the laundry when the basket is overflowing. I have groceries delivered. I eat when I’m hungry. I eat breakfast at dinner or leftovers at breakfast. I wear my cozies all day. I’m enjoying life.

Today is chilly because of the wind. I can see the oak branch over the deck keeping its own beat by rhythmically swaying back and forth. The tops of the pine trees bend first to one side then to the other. Through the trees, I can see a deep blue sky without a single cloud. It is a beautiful day.

Last night Nala and Henry had a bad night. He snapped at her twice and scared her. I hugged her and she settled down. I then noticed Henry was drooling and knew he wasn’t feeling good so he was a bit testy. I just didn’t know why. I found out later he was guilty after the fact. My cleaning lady did not shut the gate to Jack’s room. Nala went in and stole his food. She must have thought she was in a foody heaven on Earth. One stolen food item was a large container of Temptations, Jack’s favorite snack. I found the empty in the yard. I had seen Henry eating something, but it was gone by the time I got to the yard so I had no idea what he was munching. Last night Nala tossed her cookies, or rather Jack’s, on my bed. I told both dogs I had no sympathy, but they ignored me. Today they are back to normal. Nala stole cardboard. I watched her wrestle it through the dog door.

When I was in the seventh grade, I played CYO basketball. I wanted to be able to use one of the hoops in the schoolyard during recess so I asked. I was turned down. My teacher told me it was unseemly for girls in skirts to be jumping around the yard. I asked her why. She told me girls have a special responsibility to prepare for womanhood. That was her answer. I pressed once more and was again told no.

When I was a freshman in college, women had to wear skirts. We’re talking the mid to late 60’s. The winter of my sophomore year was brutally cold so the powers that be allowed women to wear pants. Skirts were gone for good. We had moved beyond the Victorian Age.

When I was twenty-one, I accepted a Peace Corps invitation to Ghana knowing little about that country beyond what the Atlas told me. We had nearly three months of training all over the country. It was during that training I realized I could do almost anything. I was living thousands of miles away from home. I was with other trainees I had just met who would become dear friends. I was eating strange foods with strange names. I was learning my way around Ghana, and I was learning a new language, Hausa. I was so immersed in all of Ghana I didn’t realize how important all these experiences were in making me a stronger, more confident woman, traits I have carried with me all of my life. I give thanks almost every day for having the courage, at twenty-one, to accept an invitation to serve in Ghana, to live in Africa.

Today is International Women’s Day which celebrates the global, social, economic, cultural and political achievements of women. Wear purple.

The morning is cloudy but warm, near tropical for this time of year, 55˚. I stood outside enjoying the warmth for a few minutes when I went to get the paper. I noticed the green shoots of the dafs in my front garden are even higher than just the other day. Spring is gently pushing its way through winter.

The big news is I did my laundry, two loads of clothes and one load of blankets. All the clothes have already been put away. I felt accomplished.

I am in my element. I’m watching Earth vs. The Spider, a black and white movie from 1958. The girls all wear puffy dresses. Mothers wear aprons in the house. A teen couple are the stars. Her father was the first victim. My favorite scene so far is when the girl is lying on the couch crying and mourning her father. Her mother tells her, “Forget about it dear. You have homework for tomorrow.” Comforting words to a girl whose father had been sucked to bones. The spider is currently on a rampage.

When I was a kid, my first records were red and yellow and had songs like Farmer in the Dell and singers like Gene Autry. The records were 78-rpm, the ones with the small holes. I had a record player I had gotten for Christmas one year. With it came some Christmas records. I still have many of them. The Caroleers were big as were the Sandpipers. Bing got into the act with a song called How Lovely Is Christmas. I haven’t played these songs in a long time. They were in my room, forgotten. I found them again yesterday.

When I was older, I bought 45’s. One side was the A side, the side with the hit. The other side, the B side, sometimes had a great but seldom played song. I still have many of those stored in a cylindrical container called Disk-Go-Case. It looks space age. I still remember many of the songs but some are strange choices for me. I have to think that maybe they were gifts. Conway Twitty, Laurie London, an unknown singer to me, and The New Happiness are a few of them. Some records are by familiar singers like The Village Stompers and The Big Bopper. I have one of my all-time favorite songs, Scotch and Soda by The Kingston Trio. I spent a lot of quarters playing that song on the jukebox in the school canteen.

I’m going to listen to a few of these records today. I have a couple of those discs you put in the holes of the 45’s so they can be played. It will be a trip back in time.

The sky is covered in whitish gray clouds. It rained during the night and will continue raining on and off all day. The breeze is chilly, but the air is warm, 50˚. There is a fog warning. I need go to the dump today so I’ll go in between rain drops.

When spring is poking its head through winter, mornings are my favorite time of the day. The birds are back and singing to greet first light. A warmth breaks through the cold. Everything feels lighter. The air smells fresh. This morning I saw the first green shoots of the dafs in my garden. I did a happy dance.

I buy flowers when I go shopping. I put them in every room. Tulips and dafs make me smile. They bring color. They bring spring even on the coldest days.

The dogs are out a long time in this weather, even when there are no possums. Nala keeps busy with the stuff she steals. Yesterday she stole a stick of butter I thought was safe. It was far back on the counter. Later, she brought in a dog food can from the yard, a can she’d stolen earlier. I hope that’s a trend: Nala cleaning her own mess.

Last night, I put one of the cat’s food dishes near the gate so I’d remember to take it downstairs to wash. I was playing with Jack when I heard a sound I didn’t recognize. I looked and saw Nala had her head through the hole in the gate and was licking the dish which was clattering against the floor. I moved the dish, the path of least resistance.

I loved my mother’s brownies. She didn’t use a mix. She baked them in a square metal pan. When they were cool enough, she’d frost them with chocolate frosting then sprinkle the top with jimmies. It was a chocolate overload for which I gave great thanks.

My overloaded laundry basket still sits next to the cellar door, and I’m finally tired of seeing it so I’ll haul it downstairs to wash. Nala follows me to the cellar. It is a new space for her to explore. That worries me.