Today is an ugly day. It is cold, dark and damp. Showers are predicted for later. My concert is cancelled but not my trip to the dump as it is closed the next three days, and my car is already filled with trash and wet cat litter and probably flies.

My living room has been ravaged by a four legged marauder. I noticed today that a wooden figure from Ghana is gone, and a small pottery tagine from Morocco is missing its top. I’ll have to go through the yard and hope to find the missing items.

This morning I dusted places which haven’t seen the light of day for probably years. I hadn’t meant to dust, but I just couldn’t leave it. I used my sweatshirt sleeve, my handy dust rag. I found small chunks of peat my sister had given me. I lit one, and the aroma brought me back to one of my trips to Ireland, the one with my parents, my grandfather and two aunts, a tour group of sorts. We stayed a night in Youghal, a beautiful seaside town where some of Moby Dick was filmed. The place where we stayed was really old. The stairs to the rooms were worn and dipped in the middle. The dining room had a fireplace where peat was burning. The TV room had a small TV and rows of mismatched chairs facing the TV. My room had a saloon door for the bathroom. It was funny as you could see the toilet below the saloon door. My bed slouched in the middle. If you tried to sleep on one side or the other, you rolled to the middle. In the morning, while we were having breakfast, a parade of kids dressed in their uniforms went to school. I think I counted five or maybe six kids. That B&B is still among my favorite places where I’ve stayed.

This blog is a repository of my memories, the memories of my childhood and my wanderings. Ghana plays big because it has influenced all of my days since then. When I got to Ghana, I was only twenty-one. I was wide-eyed and took in everything, amazed I was in Africa. I remember training started the second day. My room in Winneba, our first stop, was on the second floor. I could look out over the town, and I remember being excited seeing my first palm trees. The ocean was a short walk away. Breakfast was the best meal because we could identify what we were eating. We couldn’t at dinner.

I etched all of those all those wondrous experiences into my memory bank so I’d never forget. Even now, I can touch it all. I can see and hear it. I see women in colorful cloths carrying babies on their backs. I can hear the tribal languages in the market and the calls to me, to the obruni, to the white person. I remember the market smells, the goats and the goat dung. When I close my eyes, I can see my whole town as it was.

When I finally returned, Bolga was far different, but I didn’t care. I was home for a while.

The wind is intermittently strong enough to bend branches and twirl leaves. The morning is fall cold, the sort of cold which disappears as the day gets older. The sun is bright but not quite warm enough. It is a sweatshirt day.

When I walk through the house, I find small chewed pieces of branches and pine cones and even a few brown leaves dangling from a small branch. Nala brings them inside through the dog door, but because she always goes in and out that door, I pretty much ignore her comings and goings. Henry is using the dog door every now and then. This morning he came in to watch me get the papers.

I had Frosted Flakes for breakfast. If I had been sitting on the floor watching TV while I was eating, I could have been ten again watching Creature Double Feature. I am watching a science fiction movie which, at best, is a B-movie. It is called Monsters of War. The monsters are dinosaurs, hungry dinosaurs. The movie is in color. It needs to be black and white. It fits.

My dance card has a few items. One is the dump, but I’ll save that for tomorrow. It gives me something to look forward to says I with tongue in cheek. The others are uke concerts, today and tomorrow. I’ll have to bundle up.

When I was a little kid, my Saturdays, after breakfast and a movie, were unplanned. In the winter, I could go to a matinee up town. On warmer Saturdays I’d roam on my bike, no destination in mind. My mother never asked where I was going once she saw my bike. She knew I didn’t know.

I liked the back roads of my town. I’d pick a direction. I had stops. One was the horse barn behind the town hall. The horses were in stalls. I could see their heads from the doorway. Another stop was the zoo. I’d watch the mountain goats and deer in the first exhibit, one you could see from the sidewalk. There were rocky hills to climb for the goats. I remember being amazed to see a couple of goats at the very top just standing there surveying their world. Another direction led to the next town and Lake Quannapowitt. Sometimes I’d circle the lake. Other times I’d just bike home a different way. I remember the train station near the church. The golf course was in another direction. I’d walk my bike along the side of the road looking for errant golf balls. I often found one on someone’s lawn across the street.

I was gone all day on Saturdays. I cherished the day because Sunday was a wasted day to me with church in the morning and having to stay close to home waiting for dinner in the afternoon. After dinner, we’d watch some TV before going early to bed. I remember westerns.

Today is supposed to be the nicest day of the week, warm and sunny. Already it is a pretty day with the bluest of blue skies. Nothing is moving, not even the leaves at the ends of the branches. I have to do a couple of errands today and maybe I might just take a ride, a tourist ride with gawking and a craning neck. I just won’t stop for souvenirs.

Yesterday I took Gwen to the vets. Her back leg flails. She got checked, and the vets asked a few questions. I asked her what she thought. She said the symptoms seem to indicate diabetes. Gwen got lab tests. The vet called this morning. The diagnosis is verified. I have to bring Gwen in on Monday so I can learn how to give her injections. She’ll also have special food. I have to figure out how to give Jack his regular food while Gwen gets her very expensive canned food. I’m toying with feeding Jack up high as Gwen can’t jump so well with her back leg. The vet said the leg might improve but it doesn’t always. Poor baby!

One time Duke, my childhood dog, got mauled on the neck by a huge dog from down the street. My father said he’d heal and didn’t need the vets. Nobody disagreed. A day or two later my father left for the week. At that time he was working in Maine and only coming home for weekends. My mother immediately took Duke to the vet’s. He got stitches and antibiotics. Duke’s neck looked good when my father got home. He commented and said, “See! I told you he would get better.” Nobody said a word. My mother just smiled and agreed.

When I was growing up, my mother never made fancy food. My father was the poster boy for meat and potatoes and a canned vegetable or two. I liked the canned peas and niblet corn. I didn’t like the creamed corn. I thought it looked disgusting as if it had been eaten then rejected. We only had fresh veggies in the summer. Mostly it was corn for all of us and local tomatoes for my father. His snack was to slice them, put them on a plate and add a healthy dollop of mayo. He yummed his way to the end. My father was a yummer. I remember we were eating seafood in a coastal town in Portugal. We ordered the shell fish. There were even razor clams. My father ate those, and he yummed his way through all of the rest.

When I looked out the door this morning, the old nursery rhyme came to mind. I can remember my mother saying it to me:

It’s raining, it’s pouring, 
    The old man’s snoring. 
He got into bed 
    And bumped his head 
And couldn’t get up in the morning.

The rain started last night and continues this morning. It is supposed to rain all day into the night. I don’t mind. My to-do list is tiny. I’m actually going to finish the laundry, only two loads left. This is a monumental achievement.

Both dogs have been in and out. Nala is soaked. Henry is wet. He isn’t out as long. Speaking of Henry, we have breakthroughs. He actually went on the other side of the couch. It sounds weird I know, but Henry had chosen his side of the room and never strayed beyond. He even walks on the other side of the room now. Yesterday he came in the dog door. May wonders never cease!

Yesterday I had hot dogs for dinner, in the usual top loading rolls. I added cheese, mustard and red pepper relish. Much later, I made cinnamon toast as a snack. I felt five again.

When I was a kid, I never minded the rain. I’d get soaked walking to and from school. I remember taking off my shoes and finding my socks were so wet they made footprints on the floor. It was sort of fun until my mother made me take them off. Sometimes we’d play in the cellar on rainy days. I remember every part of that cellar. On one side was the black oil tank. The window on that side of the cellar was at the top of the foundation and was square and tiny. I could see dust in the ray of sunlight coming through the window. The rest of that side of the cellar was open. On the back wall was my father’s rack, the one he built. It had two shelves, one on the floor and the other close to the ceiling. They were attached to two side pieces of wood one of which always hung at a tilt. On the bottom were cans of paint. Nothing was on the top. We couldn’t reach it. My father always said he didn’t have the right tools. We knew better.

The weather was perfect yesterday. Today will be the same. I’m going to Hyannis, the big city. I hope I don’t look like a rube.

Yesterday was a banner day. I finally did my laundry, three larger than life loads. Now I know where all my clothes have been hiding. Hauling the piles up two flights of stairs was the worst part. One load is still in the dryer. I just couldn’t carry another load. I’ll finish tomorrow. I do feel accomplished.

When I was a kid, we went to Boston a few times a year: in the summer and near Christmas. In the summer, It was usually on a Sunday. I remember going to the Public Garden, sitting by the lagoon and being amazed at how friendly the squirrels were, coming up and begging for peanuts which, conveniently, were sold from carts on the street. The squirrels would come up to us, and we could feed them by hand. I was thrilled. I was feeding wildlife. We’d take a ride on the swan boats. I was impressed that they were powered by pedaling. In the middle of the lagoon was a swan’s nest. I never saw eggs or baby swans, but I did see the couple, the adult swans, swimming together.

Our winter trip to Boston was for Christmas. We’d go look at the decorated store windows and the Boston Common where all the trees were filled with lights. I remember once my father bought us roasted chestnuts from a cart. I wasn’t particularly impressed. They tasted awful. Our next trip to Boston was to go to Jordan Marsh to see Santa and the Enchanted Village. My mother took us by bus to Sullivan Square and then we took the subway to get to Boston. That was always so exciting, the subway and Santa in one day.

Yesterday was chilly. Today will be much warmer. The high is supposed to reach 70˚. I’ll pack away my flannel shirt again.

Hanging in my bathroom is a picture of my eight grade class. It is a graduation picture. I am wearing a frilly dress. Trust me. I am not the frilly type. As to why the bathroom, it is decorated with school stuff like an old school bag, a chalk board, some Ding Dong School artifacts and old school books. The picture is hung over the sink so I give it a look when I’m brushing my teeth. I know the names of many of my classmates. Some I don’t remember at all. That makes sense as it was sixty years ago. I think that was the last time I wore a puffy dress.

The school principal was Sister Eileen Marie. That wasn’t her real name. That was her nun name. Her office was just across the hall from my class. I was a class officer. We, the other officers and I, were summoned to the principal’s office. One of us would be picked to crown the Mary statue during the May procession. I was the one. My aunt Mary, my favorite aunt, told me she had also crowned. That made it a family tradition, one which ended with me.

My wanderings were all over town mostly on my bike, but one of my favorite places was a short walk from my house. I walked there so many times I can close my eyes and see it. Below the houses was a huge field, my grasshopper hunting grounds. On one side was a dead tree with its biggest branch still attached but on the ground. The other side was wooded. Once my brother and I found a tiny shack in the wooded side. It was made of boards, poorly made, as there were holes. We went inside. There was a pile of magazines, the sort you hide. We figured the guy who made it wanted a private place where his mother wouldn’t go.

Just up the path was the swamp. Just at the water’s edge was sand. The swamp was a wonder to me. I could watch tadpoles grow into frogs, skate on it and work my way through trees and undergrowth and branches to get where the swamp ended. In the winter it was easy as I could walk on the ice. I remember under the ice was perfectly clear. I could see plants and twigs. It was a marvel.

Today is a fall day, a pretty fall day. The temperature is in the low 60’s, but it will get warmer. I am going out and about today, down Cape to Orleans. I don’t go that direction often.

Dinner last night was great fun. After dinner, one of my guests cleaned everything while my other guest and I chatted at the table. Nala was welcoming, overly welcoming at times. She is a boxer and jumping is a boxer thing. Henry was standoffish but only for a little while. He sniffed, his understated way of saying hello. The food was good. We had shrimp fettuccine Alfredo, a salad and garlic bread. Dessert was a blueberry pie, brought by my friend. The meal, the company and the evening was a delight.

When I was growing up, we visited my grandparents in East Boston often. Those visits may have germinated my love of cities, not for living but exploring. I remember a lady selling Italian ice out her front window. She had to lean over to hand it to us. I loved the pizza squares from the bakery. The flat pans were huge and were in the bakery case. The squares were sold at room temperature. I never knew bakeries made pizza. I remember the truck which stopped on the street and offered carousel rides. On the back of the truck was a tiny carousel with about four horses. It was for little kids. I was a bit envious. It was at my grandmother’s where I first saw cheese in a chunk, Romano cheese, to use on the spaghetti, always on the stove, in a pot which never emptied. It was fun to grate. I always grate my own cheese now.

The worst Nala disaster happened yesterday. I was in a make dinner frenzy and didn’t notice the beastie. Earlier in the day, I had changed the litter and brought the bag down. I didn’t put it outside but by the door. I walked into the living room for something. I forget what. That was when I saw it, the pile of cat litter out of the bag on the floor. I screamed. It took a while to finish clean up. The end was the floor washing. Never in my wildest imagination did I think Nala, the marauder, would be interested in used kitty litter. It was a gross job. I have learned that nothing is safe from Nala. I put things away I think she’d love to chew or eat or just tear into pieces. The only problem is I forget where I put them.

Today is pretty but cold. The wind is blowing all the tree limbs and the hanging leaves. I’m wearing my sweatshirt, an essential part of my fall wardrobe.

Lots to do today. Friends are coming to dinner. The shopping is crossed off the list. The house, still on the list, is in capital letters. It needs a bit of a touch up. The dust is swirling. The kitchen floor is a map of dog tracks.

Nala will steal anything. The house is not safe from this marauder. Yesterday it was two dolls out of my room, one from Ghana and one from my childhood. Today it was naan. She ran outside onto the deck, with her booty in her mouth, but she dropped the bread, but when I yelled. She tried to grab the package again, but that slowed her down. She ended up with only the cover. I got the bread.

I was contemplating putting a gate across the stairs, but Henry would be the victim. My bedroom is his solitude. He takes naps on my bed. The beastie usually stays downstairs.

Henry had his own issues last night. He threw up several times, the poor boy, but today he is fine. I guessed it may have been all the shots the day before. I was getting ready to take him to the emergency vet, but he stopped being sick and went to sleep. I breathed.

When I was a kid, my parents didn’t entertain much. The house was too small, but when they moved off cape, they bought a perfect house for entertaining. My mother threw epic parties. One of my favorites was the D-Day party celebrating the 35th anniversary. My mother decorated the dining room with maps of the landings. On the TV the movie The Longest Day played during the whole party. In the kitchen, songs from WWII played, and the crowd sang along. My family was big for singing in the kitchen, never the living room. People were scrunched together on the kitchen benches. The bar was on a small counter next to the fridge, handy for ice. The food was only a few steps away in the dining room. It covered the table. I think I remember the table groaning.