Keep the Coffee Comimg

Last night it rained. I could hear it on the roof and windows. The warm day disappeared into a colder night, but it didn’t last. The morning is beautiful, a fall morning with sun, a strong breeze and a beautiful blue sky. The high will be 49˚, almost tropical for this time of year.

When I was a kid, I didn’t count the days until Thanksgiving. I reserved my counting for the days before Christmas. Thanksgiving was a half week of school and dinner. My father and grandfather always went to the local high school’s traditional Thanksgiving game though none of us even went to school there. I don’t remember about my grandfather, but my father loved football. He was a Giants fan before the Patriots existed. I remember him watching the game on Sundays on our old black and white TV. The only name I remember is Y.A. Tittle.

Last night, or rather when it had just turned into today, at 12:30, the dogs went out. I watched from the back door, and when I noticed Nala stayed on the deck, I went outside to encourage her. Henry finished and went inside then Nala went through the dog door into the house. I went to follow but the door handle had locked. This has happened before, but I was inside each time it did. I banged the door handle but nothing happened except my frustration grew. The dogs were inside watching and listening. The front door was locked. All the houses around me were dark, no help there. I looked for something to use as a screwdriver so I could get the handle off but had no luck. I tried to take off the dog door but couldn’t. Nala joined me outside and watched, highly entertained I suspect. I banged the handle and screamed in frustration. All I could figure was I’d need to break a window on the cellar door. I screamed again and banged the handle three or four times. I envisioned being stuck outside on a cold night with the dogs inside comfy and warm. I pulled at the bottom of the door knowing it would do no good, but I had to keep trying. My hand hurt from banging the hands over and over, but I banged it again then tried the handle. Give me a halleluia! The door opened. A Thanksgiving miracle! I’m taping the lock.

The morning is a delight. At 62˚, the day has a September feel. A warm wind is blowing. The set of chimes hanging from a low branch are tinkling and sweetening the air. My backyard is covered in pine needles and leaves. When the dogs run, I hear the crunching of dead leaves under their paws. Nala is faster and noisier.

I have sad news. My slippers have gone to their heavenly reward. The holes had gotten bigger, the backs stayed flat, and my big toes were totally exposed. Reluctantly I put the slippers in the basket. They served me well.

Other than a lab test for Gwen tomorrow, my dance card is empty. The usual, laundry and trash, can wait for the meantime. Neither needs attention. I have a couple of books waiting to be read, and I even have bonbons.

When I was a kid, I loved the holidays. We had traditions for each of them. Thanksgiving meant watching the Macy’s parade and snacking on tangerines, mixed nuts and M&M’s. My mother put the turkey in the oven early. Her sage stuffing jutted out at one end. I later learned it was the butt end, not the neck. I thought that was gross at first, but the lure of the stuffing was greater than the butt end. My mother stayed in the kitchen most of the morning. She peeled vegetables and opened the can of asparagus for my father. I remember the aroma of turkey filling the house and the windows in the kitchen steaming. I remember one pot which usually held the potatoes. It had a few dents. I can even remember where the dents were. That pot moved with us.

Thanksgiving, of course, wasn’t celebrated in Ghana, but we celebrated. We even had a turkey, the first one I ever remember seeing in Ghana. The farmer didn’t want to part with it but gave in for the money, a good amount of money. We also had a few chickens. We piled them in a big trough like pan and began to pluck them, a skill I haven’t used since then. I’ll never forget when the chickens, without their heads, jumped out of the trough. It was the adage come to life. I knew it was their nervous systems, but that didn’t make it any less freaky. For the rest of the meal we had fufu pounded by students, whatever veggies we could find in the market and pies. That was the first time I ever made a pie. I made pawpaw pies. They were delicious.

This Thanksgiving I have ordered dinner to be delivered, but I’ll start my day traditionally by watching the parade and eating tangerines and M&M’s.

Last night was cold. This morning is still cold. A strong wind is blowing the dead leaves to the ground. The sky is the deepest blue. The sunlight is sharp, but the lower parts of the trees in the backyard are in shadows. The sun doesn’t quite shine so brightly there. The day is a delight but best seen through the windows of a warm and cozy house.

My cleaning lady came yesterday. She loves Nala, thinks she’s a hoot. While I wasn’t paying attention, Nala stole a variety of items from my bedroom and took them outside. I saved a few but most were in pieces in the yard. She follows Maria and tries to play with the vacuum. Henry barks at first but then ignores her. The house is wonderfully clean, free of dust, tumbleweeds and dog prints. She was here about four hours.

I finished my book last night, State of Terror by Hillary Rodham Clinton and Louise Perry. I thoroughly enjoyed it. Eric Dunn, the president of the previous administration, is Trump not even well disguised. The main character, Ellen Adams, is the Secretary of State. Those are the only teasers I’ll offer.

When I was a kid, I always wrote a letter to Santa. One year we got a telegram from Santa telling us to be good as Christmas was coming. It was a real telegram. I knew it was really Santa who sent it. I still have it in a scrapbook I kept when I was young. When my sister’s boys were little, I sent them a report card. On it was a list of all the good things they needed to do and be before Christmas. If they behaved, a gold star was placed next to the good thing they did, but if they were bad, a black star was placed on the spot. The report card was to be left under the tree for Santa to see on Christmas Eve. My oldest nephew, Ryan, would beg and cry and ask for a second chance to keep those black stars at bay. The report card worked. My sister loved it.

My Thanksgiving dinner is ordered. It will be delivered in the morning of the big day. I’m going to start with shrimp cocktail and dates filled with goat cheese and wrapped in bacon. The rest of the meal is traditional with all the fixin’s. Apple crisp is dessert. Last year I had enough for two meals. I loved the leftovers.

Last night was cold. I was reading in bed when the rain started around 12:30. I fell asleep to the sound of the drops hitting the roof. Henry woke me up early, 6:55, the crack of dawn for me. He wanted out. Nala followed us. I waited to let Henry in then went back to bed. Henry didn’t follow. Nala came to bed but no Henry. It was 7:30 by then so I went downstairs and Henry was at the back door. He drives me crazy picking and choosing when he’ll come in by himself.

The morning is pretty. The day will be sunny and in the 50’s. With no wind, it will feel warm. I did go to the dump yesterday with a filled trunk and a backseat loaded with boxes and papers.

My nephew Justin’s baby boy was born on November 11th. Justin looks so delighted in every picture. One e-mail he sent me said he couldn’t wait to be a dad. He sent pictures from the hospital. Grayson, his son, is adorable.

When I was a kid, we all walked to school. I lived about 3 long blocks away. The school was in an enclave of sorts. Across the street was the convent. On one side was the rectory where the priests lived. Beside that was the church. Later, the parish bought a house which had meeting rooms and a small library. The new school was perpendicular to the rectory in the back. The school yard had a bicycle rack and two baskets. It was the church parking lot on Sundays. I attended that school for eight years.

My school in Ghana had houses for tutors, the name for teachers in Ghana, dorms, outside shower stalls, an outside bathroom, a cafeteria, a huge beehive oven for baking bread, a wooden house, a library and two classroom blocks. The sports field was below the buildings. Track events were held there. There was an outside netball court. Netball is a woman’s game similar in some ways to basketball. The court had small stones or cinders of some sort as a base, and there was blood from scrapes if you fell on the court. That didn’t bother the players. They just kept playing. Volleyball was played under trees in an area cleared for the net. The school buildings were made of concrete and had metal roofs except for one building made of wood, an anomaly in Ghana, too many wood eating bugs. I don’t know anything about the wood house. The school was off the road to Navrongo and down a small dirt road, a rutted road. After all these years, I can still close my eyes and see every part of that school. I remember it bustled each morning and afternoon. It was quiet during the day when classes were held and at night for study hours. Those two+ years have their own memory drawers maybe even some neon lights. That school was home.

The morning is cold. I wanted to stay bundled under the covers, but it was time for Gwen’s shot, and the dogs wanted out. The heat was on the night setting so I turned it up to warm the house. It feels cozy now.

Henry came in the dog door four times yesterday. He banged the door for me to let him inside three times. This morning it’s one and one. I think I’m being used.

When I was a kid, I liked Sunday the least. My bike stayed in the cellar. I had to go to church. Wandering was limited to the fields below my house and the backyard because I needed to be around for dinner, but I didn’t mind too much as Sunday dinner was the nicest meal of the week, and the only meal we called dinner, a fancy name for a fancy meal. The crowning glory of Sunday dinner was the roast. If it was chicken, my mother stuffed it with her sage dressing. If it was roast beef, my mother put cut onions on the top for flavor. I used to try to steal the onions. We always had mashed potatoes and gravy and a couple of vegetables including peas, my favorite. The whole family was always together for dinner.

When I was in Ghana, Sunday dinner was unusual. It was the only day of the week we ate food sent from home. I remember beef stroganoff kits and macaroni and cheese. Other times we’d ride our motos into town and buy dinner from the aunties along the road or from chop bars in the lorry park. From the aunties, we’d buy fried yams and kelewele or fried plantain and whatever meat we’d find. In the lorry park, we’d buy fufu and soup or stew. I remember light soup and okra stew, my two favorites. We’d bring our own pots, fill them with dinner then bungee them to the backs of our motos. We were careful riding home.

Sunday at school was also special. A service was held in the morning. The girls wore their church dresses, three pieces of traditional cloth: a top, a dress skirt and a cloth around the skirt. Each class had its own cloth design. In the afternoons, the girls wore their own fancy dresses. The upper classes could walk to town. Photographers often came in the afternoon so the girls could have their pictures taken. I have a few of those pictures given to mw by the students. They were always in black and white.

Today I am going to the dump. My car is nearly filled with bags and boxes. I might even stop to buy dinner. It is Sunday after all.

Yesterday came the deluge. Today is bright sun and a blue sky. Last night was cold. Today could reach 60˚. The weather is confusing.

A few trees in my backyard still have yellow leaves. The rest of the leaves are brown and shriveled. The sun is diffused through bare branches. The air is still, quite a contrast from the winds of last night. The dogs are outside enjoying the day. Nala perches on the top step, her paws one step below, and watches the yard.

Nothing is on my dance card today. The dump, as always, is on my list, but I’m saving it for tomorrow. I have no need to do the laundry, plenty of clothes left. I vacuumed the hall yesterday. The tumbling tumbleweeds had risen in the air when I walked. They’re back today. The kitchen floor is all dog paw prints as everything is still wet in the yard. Gwen had her morning insulin. The dogs had treats, and I had a chocolate biscotti with my coffee. All’s right with the world.

This morning I have been watching old serials and movies on TCM. I am ten again and eating my Rice Krispies while sitting on the floor watching TV. The first serial was called Travel Talks, The Voice of the Globe. We went to Guatemala. I learned the Guatemalans are inherently Pagan. They cover their babies’ heads to protect them from white men. A ring is the first step toward marriage. The second step is when the hopeful groom drops a pile of wood in front of the home of his intended. If her father takes the wood, the marriage proposal is accepted. Next, I watched Batman and Robin from the late 40’s. Batman’s hood went over his nose so he had to look up to see through the eyeholes. A convertible, top up, was the batmobile of the day. Records of criminals and past cases were kept in a metal file cabinet. Today’s chapter ended with Batman and the woman he rescued from the bad guys in the water off the dock surrounded by flames. Right now I’m watching Torchy Blane in Panama from 1938. She is a reporter who parachuted out of a plane to catch up with a ship. She had on a small backpack. So far she has worn an evening dress, a couple of day dresses with matching hats, gloves and purses, a sort of pants suit and pajamas.

I am immersed in the book State of Terror by Hillary Rodham Clinton and Louise Penny. Last night I read in bed until 1:30 then reluctantly turned off the light. I figure on spending a good part of the today reading. I wish I had bon bons.

The early morning was dark, but the sky is a bit lighter now. It has been raining on and off. The wind gusts are sometimes so strong the oak tree by the deck sways and bends, the trunk in one direction, the limbs in another. The dogs are out and back quickly. Henry even used to dog door. It is already 58˚. The high will be in the 60’s, but the rain will get heavy and hang around all day into the night. I am going nowhere today. My dance card is empty until next week.

When I was a kid, classrooms in the old school, built in 1910, had cloakrooms right outside the door of each room. Hooks in two rows, one above the other, lined the wooden walls, but there were never enough hooks. There were too many of us, 45 or more in each room. We’d hang out coats two to a hook or just stuff our coats between other coats where they’d stay. I remember there was almost no room to walk in the cloakroom with all the coats hanging one way or the other. In the afternoons, just before dismissal, the nuns had us go out row by row to get our coats. A stampede would have ensued otherwise. We’d get our coats and go back to sit down at our desks so other rows could go. We’d stay there until the bell rang. The youngest kids were on the first floor giving them a greater chance of survival when the stampede ensued. I used to go out the side, rarely used door, which gave me an edge.

When I was growing up, I had favorite places in my hometown. I loved the railroad tracks. One route brought me to the old station and the end of the tracks while on the other route, the tracks kept going, and I never got to the end. I loved the zoo. Sometimes I’d walk there and take the bus back if my mother had the money. I always brought a lunch. The town barn where the horses were kept was behind the town hall. I’d watch the horses in their stalls from the doorway. Right around the corner, was the rag man’s house. When I was really young, he had a horse and wagon and would wander the town looking for newspapers even though he was called the rag man. I loved uptown, the square. It had the best stores, all of which are gone now. I still miss Woolworth’s.

The mornings are chilly, but the days gets warmer. It’s flannel shirt weather. I was out yesterday doing errands. Today I’ll be out again. This has been a busy week.

When I was ten, I got a new bicycle as a Christmas present. I remember going down the stairs, peeking over the bannister and seeing my bike beside the tree. I ran down the rest of the stairs. I couldn’t wait to try on my new blue bike. It fit perfectly. Later, after I got dressed, my mother had me take my bike outside where I stood at the top of the steps while she took pictures. I am smiling in everyone of them. My bike had a front wire basket. If I carried anything, whatever it was would bounce when I went over a bump. One time I had to stop to retrieve a loaf of bread which had bounced all the way out of the basket. It was dented just a bit. White bread did that back then. I loved riding that bike, and I remember finally learning to ride with no hands. I was so proud. I’d pedal with my hands folded on my chest and hoped the world would see me. I think I even waved a couple of times, sort of like the Queen’s wave.

I loved my mother’s brownies. They were pure chocolate. She’d frost them with chocolate frosting then sprinkle them with jimmies. I remember she baked her brownies in a square metal pan. I always liked the edges.

My socks often slid into my shoes. I’d still walk anyway though there was a bit of a lump. When it finally got annoying enough, I’d pull the socks up by the tops. Old socks never stayed up. I still have a sock problem, but it has to do with holes. I hate to throw socks away especially if they look intact. The holes in my socks are hidden by my shoes. My toes hang out so I have to double over the tops of the socks. I get a socks’ lump.

In Ghana, I always wore sandals. At first, because of the dryness, the heels of my feet cracked which hurt so much I had to walk on tiptoes. I wondered if my students, many of whom hadn’t been so close to a white lady before, thought the walk was the way all white ladies walked. My ballerina days finally ended when my heels hardened. They were thick and ugly. I was glad.

Today is a delight. My sweatshirt is gone, replaced by my flannel shirt. It will be in the 60’s. Nala returned the lost garden glove from the yard. I found it on the floor this morning. She has already been a busy girl. I missed Gwen this morning. I didn’t go in when I saw her as it was too early for her shot. I was hoping she’d still be out when it was shot time, but I had to hunt for her under the beds. She was in front of one heating vent. I gave her a few treats and her insulin. I figure she and Jack are now under the beds for their morning naps. The dogs are out in the yard. All’s right with the world.

Yesterday Nala was glued to the front door. She wasn’t moving and was intently looking outside. I went to check. She was watching a spawn of Satan dine on one of my pumpkins. The insides of the pumpkin and some seeds were strewn on the walk. That spawn ignored the two of us and just kept eating. Cheeky beastie!

When I was a kid, there was no leash law. Dogs roamed. Duke, our boxer, was all over town. My favorite Duke story is the time he recognized my grandmother, who was shopping uptown, and followed her. He had stayed at her house a couple of times so he knew her. Duke followed my grandmother into Woolworth’s. He lifted his leg on the comic book display. The manager asked my grandmother if Duke was her dog. She said no, which was technically true, but then she lied and said she didn’t know him. The manager was skeptical as Duke was still there sitting beside her. She wasn’t called out on it even when he followed her out of the store and down the sidewalk. My grandmother said she was thoroughly embarrassed being questioned about Duke after his comic book escapade. I still laugh about this story.

When I think about comfort food, I think about my mother. Because my father was a meat and potato guy, we always expected mashed potatoes. I remember making a well in the middle of my potatoes, adding gravy and trying not to let the gravy overflow, just because it was challenging. My favorite mashed potatoes were the ones my mother used to frost her meatloaf, the king of comfort foods. Tomato soup with a grilled cheese sandwich is one of my favorite comfort combinations. My mother’s grilled cheese sandwiches were epic. I remember the browned bread from the cast iron skillet oozing with melted Velveeta. I’d dip it into my soup and be careful not to let it slop. I remember going inside after sledding and being warmed by thick tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich. I yummed my way through the entire meal.

Huzzah!! Huzzah!! I’m celebrating an accomplishment. Yesterday I did three loads of laundry. The last load, sheets, is still in the dryer, but everything else is put away upstairs. I even changed my bed. This morning I have already had my annual eye doctor’s exam, an 8:30 appointment. I don’t know what I was thinking. I set my alarm, my Alexa, but woke up before she said good morning.

When I went to get the papers, I was surprised how warm it is. Right now it is already 55˚, and without a wind, it feels almost tropical, only maybe not tropical, but it is warm.

When I was a kid, I would have rushed home on a day like today to play outside for awhile. Darkness came early this time of year, and we could only play outside until the street lights came on. I remember playing Red Rover. We’d call to the other team, and our voices sounded loud and seemed to echo in the twilight. Every kid got picked for a team. The strategy was, once called over, to run through the smallest kids as fast and as hard as you could. If you broke through that was how you added to your team. If you didn’t break through, you were now on the other team. The games was over when one team was down to its last man.

Red light, green light was another game we played. It was always controversial. When the caller yelled, “Green light,” we could move toward the caller, but if the caller yelled, “Red light,” we had to stop immediately. Whoever didn’t was out. That where the controversies took place. Kids would yell they hadn’t been moving, and both sides would argue. A lot of times, someone would get really mad and go off in huff. That’s when the game ended.

We had to stay close to home on those afternoons, within hearing distance. The mothers seemed to have plotted together or maybe there were rules only mothers knew because, at about the same time, all the mothers yelled out their front doors for us to come home. It was the front doors because we played in the street on those afternoons. Our back yards were too small. Back then we lived on a cul-de-sac with a tiny rotary. A fence ran around all the backyards so we preferred the street. My neighborhood was filled with kids so we always had somebody to play with every afternoon. I remember all of us running in different directions home. I also remember how warm the house felt and how wonderful supper smelled.