Keep the Coffee Comimg

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.

This morning I woke up early, early for me anyway. It was just nine. The sun was shining in a clear sky. It is nearly two hours later, and the clouds have taken over the sky. The wind is blowing. Rain is predicted for this afternoon and evening.

The last of the flowers have bloomed in my garden. I don’t know what they are, but I always look forward to their blooming. I always think of those flowers as the last kisses of summer.

Yesterday was a banner day. I made it to the dump, and the two guys that always help unload my car were there. One took out all the bags of cans and newspapers and all the empty boxes stacked in my backseat. He marveled at the number of boxes. Next I stopped at the trash receptacles. My guy was there, and he unloaded my trunk mostly filled with heavy bags of used cat litter. I drove home with an empty car. I went to my little library next and did some housekeeping. I arranged the books, sent the bugs scurrying, added a Halloween decoration to the window and left some bookmarks I had bought. The library was full and most of them were books added by my fellow bibliophiles. I took one.

The last afternoon miracle was after I was outside on the deck with the dogs. I looked down into my yard, and the area closest to the deck looked like a vacant lot in the city. Nala had brought all sorts of paper outside and torn it apart. Some papers had been there since before the last rain. I lost it then and went into the yard and cleaned up all the papers. The toilet paper she had torn apart last week was stuck to the ground and the driveway by the rain. I admit I cursed a little.

I talk out loud to the dogs, to the TV and to no one. As of yet, only Nala has answered me, and she was not happy.

When I was a kid, the plans for Halloween started early. My friend and I would discuss costume choices while we walked to school. She usually bought a costume from Woolworth’s. Those costumes were worn over your clothes and tied in the back. The masks were hot to wear and ugly. The elastic holder on the masks snapped easily. We never had store bought costumes. They were expensive for four kids, but I didn’t mind. My mother was creative. If I came up with an idea, she came up with a costume. Over the years I was a ghost, a hobo, a witch and a cowgirl. Mostly I didn’t wear a mask. Instead, my mother put make-up on me befitting my costume choice. As for our goodie bags, they got bigger as we grew. My last few goodie bags were pillow cases. I dreamed of candy over-flowing my pillowcase, but that never happened. I’m still a bit disappointed.

The morning is near perfect. The sun is shining and is framed in a blue sky which goes on forever. The air is a bit chilly. The breeze is strong but intermittent. Every now and then the top branches, the ones closest to the sky, sway. It will be 74˚today. Tomorrow, the rain returns. If you stop by to visit, I won’t apologize for the dog print covered kitchen floor. I was going to wash it today, but with rain predicted tomorrow, I’ll wait. I love a plausible excuse!

I have been hauling trash bags to the car. Today is dump day. My trunk is already filled and two more bags sit by the car waiting to be loaded. Filled with used litter, those bags from the cat room were so heavy they almost took me down the stairs.

My dance card is mostly filled this week. Today is my only list free day, and the dump is my only chore. I have uke practice tomorrow, inside for the first time this fall, both dogs have a vet appointment Wednesday, friends are coming for dinner on Thursday and Friday is another uke concert. I can’t remember the last time I was this busy. I’m not sure I like it. My reputation as a sloth, one I cherish, is in jeopardy.

When I was a kid, I didn’t know many bullies. I figure they were around but avoided me. They knew I couldn’t abide bullying. Only once did peaceful methods fail me. I was driven to violence, to punching a boy in the face, one who deserved punching. I don’t even remember the boy I punched. I do remember getting caught and going to the principal’s office. I was a ten year old felon. The principal agreed with me in philosophy but explained that punching was an unacceptable response. I sort of agreed.

My mother always used unbreakable glasses and plates. My favorite glasses were the aluminum ones in different colors. They had a matching pitcher. My second favorite glasses were the old jelly glasses. They had cartoon figures on the front. I have a couple of those. I remember the Melmac dishes. I also remember that Melmac was the home world of ALF but that is pure coincidence. Anyway, if the Melmac dish hit the floor, it rattled over and over until it stopped dead, surrounded by food. Seeing meat, potatoes and veggies on the floor was never a pretty sight, but the dish, sitting in the middle of the mess, never broke. When we closed up and sold my mother’s house, there were still a few Melmac plates with the wheat decoration. Those dishes were legendary.

Yesterday it rained on and off most of the day. In the early afternoon the rain stopped but left air so thick with humidity you could see the mist. Later, in the early evening, the rain returned in earnest with drops heavy enough to be heard. They fell on the leaves of the oak trees, on the wooden deck and, loudest, on the top of the metal barrel. Both dogs got soaked. I don’t know when the rain stopped, but around 2:30 or 3 the rain started again, a gentle rain. It lulled me to sleep.

When I was a kid, Sunday was a wasted day. We, all the kids in my neighborhood and I, were captives. It was a day without choices. First, I was stuck going to mass. That I could choose the time didn’t matter. I was still stuck. I always sat in the back, the easiest seat for a quick escape. As soon as I heard, “Go in peace,” I was out the door. At Sunday mass there was always a sermon. I think I groaned out loud when the priest walked to the pulpit. I always prayed for a short sermon. I swear people applauded when the priest finally finished. The rest of the mass was a blur.

Sunday was the only day we didn’t have supper. The roast and all the fixings elevated the midday meal to dinner. It was sacrosanct when I was young and was always the highpoint of the day. I had to stay within shouting distance if I went outside to ride my bike or play around the yard so I could hear my mother call for us. The table was always set ready for dinner when I got home.

It’s a school night, one of my least favorite phrases, was used every Sunday to get us into bed earlier. My mother always said we needed to be rested for school. That made me groan. It seemed unfair that every week I had to go to school five days and every week I got only two days off though one, Sunday, was iffy.

I was never a worrier when I was a kid. Duck and cover, which we practiced in school, was just silly fun. While we were covered, while our heads were hidden in our folded arms, we used to covertly look at each other and silently laugh. The nuns never did explain all that well why we were on the floor in the corridor with our arms around our heads, and we never asked. The nuns said to do it so we did.

Last night the storm arrived with thunder, lightning and near torrential rain. The window in the den facing east was outlined by flashes of lightning. The thunder boomed overhead. It got the dogs’ attention but for only a minute. They went back to sleep. It was still pouring when I went to bed.

The rain had stopped when I woke up but then I heard it on the roof. When I looked out the front door, I saw a sheet of rain, a curtain of drops, falling straight down. I had to shut the front door. The floor inside was getting wet from the ricochet of rain on the steps. The dogs were soaked when they came back inside from the yard.

Scattered showers is the forecast for today with a high in the mid 70’s and a low in the mid 60’s. It is still rainy day dark. I thought I saw a bit of sun earlier, but I think I was deluded.

This morning I realized we are living in a loop. Today’s news is a rerun of the news from last year. Covid is raging. The vote count in Arizona from the presidential election has just been completed. Biden garnered additional votes. No comment from Governor Abbott. Texas is the new fraud and is about to be recounted.

I was so excited to vote I registered the day I turned twenty-one. My first vote was cast for Hubert Humphrey in 1968. I used a black pen to fill in the circle next to Senator Humphrey’s name. I wanted a perfect ballot so I carefully filled the circle and stayed inside the line. My candidate lost.

I found myself bored this morning. I went up and down the TV remote checking channel after channel. Nothing! I longed for the days of Saturday Creature Double Feature when I could watch two 50’s black and white movies and be entertained all afternoon on a rainy Saturday. I ended up on the syfy channel and am watching Godzilla from 2014. The city is being destroyed by a monster couple or a couple of monsters. Take your pick. My favorite scene was when the male monster (he flies) took one train car at a time off the bridge, squeezed it flat then threw it. The romantic scene between the male and female monsters was better fit for a gigantic bedroom. In this remake, Godzilla is the hero brought back to life to kill the two monsters. They’re just now getting acquainted. I’ll let you know how the movie ends!

2:45 am: The night is noisy. A little bit ago, the dogs and I went out. While they mingled in the yard, I stayed on the deck . I could hear all the night insects, the crickets and the katydids. My back yard lit up when Nala ran by the lights which are mounted on the back of the deck. They shine on the open ground. The trees are in shadow. I can see the dogs almost anywhere in the yard when all four spotlights have been triggered. Sometimes when I go to bed the lights are still on. The yard looks pretty at night. The lights stay on about ten minutes after the dogs come in. Sometimes I am surprised when everything goes dark in a blink.

This morning I had an English muffin. It took a while to brown. Toast takes less time. I watched through the toaster oven window and cheered when a small bit of brown showed up on the round edge. The muffin is from a local company. It has no ridges, but it has great taste. I had to use the toast prongs to take the hot muffin ends out of the toaster. I slathered them with butter. I was out of fig. (I apologize for this boring paragraph. Seriously, who wants to hear about an English muffin browning, except Simon and Garfunkel, “Wish I was an English muffin, ‘Bout to make the most out of a toaster, I’d ease myself down, Comin’ up brown.” They’d have liked my muffin, but I have no boysenberry.)

The wind is strong, and I can hear the creaks of the pine branches when they sway. Thunder showers are predicted for later. Of course they are. The day is dark. The sky is a single white cloud. The warm air, in the mid 70’s, is getting thick, more humid. The saving grave is the breeze from the window behind me, from the north.

When I was a kid, I’d cross the open field below my street both to and from school. On some days, the wind, as I crossed that field, was terrific. I loved it. I’d face the wind and spread my arms out straight hoping to fly, sort of to helicopter or even to kite it into the sky. Sometimes I moved backwards quickly blown by the wind. It was exhilarating. My mouth was open in joy. It didn’t matter much to me the direction of the wind. Either I’d be blown backwards or I’d have to fight the wind straight on with my head down as sort of a battering ram (okay, that last simile might too much. If so, I apologize.) Anyway, I loved walking in the wind, one way or the other.

Today I’m home for the duration; nothing is going on. I am having friends over for dinner this weekend so I’ll plan my menu tonight. I’m leaning toward sea food, maybe a boil or a paella. It’s been months since I last had company so I want to put my best foot forward (similes and cliches! Yikes).

The dogs woke me up this morning when they chased each other and jumped on my bed to eat each other’s heads while politely growling. I kicked them off a few times, but it continued. I gave up and went downstairs. Both Henry and Nala are having their morning naps, one in here and the other in the hall. The child in me wants to wake them, rudely, but the adult in me prefers to have them sleeping and sleeping they’ll stay, at least until dinner.

Today is another delight. The breeze is making the current 78˚ feel cooler than you’d expect. The sun was here earlier but has disappeared. I guess the clouds figured partly sunny, today’s weather report, means they get some sky time. I have to go out for a quick errand today. I’m also going to buy some mums. I have a pumpkin already on the steps but a mum is essential for fall decorating.

Nala has become a naturalist. She brings in small pine branches still with pine needles. She brings in pine cones of various sizes. Today it was a big one. Yesterday the pine cone was tiny. Anyway, she now tears apart the pine cones and rips the pine needles off the branch, always in the house. She doesn’t eat them. She does it for the fun of it. I vacuum. It is never fun for me.

This morning I got distracted and forgot to turn on the coffee. I put in the water, the filter and the fresh grounds then went and put some trash by the car for a soon to be scheduled dump run. That interruption was enough for me to forget the coffee. I sat down to read the papers and shortly thereafter wondered why the aroma of coffee was not wafting through the house. I went to the kitchen and turned on the coffee.

My grandmother, the one who couldn’t cook, had been born in 1898. The changes she saw in her lifetime must have been mind boggling. I have pictures of her when she was young, maybe early 20’s. In some of the pictures she is standing with her sisters and in other pictures with my future grandfather. I don’t know all that much about them. I did meet all of my grandmother’s sisters, her brothers and her mother, my great grandmother, when I was young. My grandmother was tall. My grandfather was not. She stooped. I remember her wearing day dresses, thick heeled shoes and stockings. She had a wire cart she pulled behind her to the First National three houses away at the end of her street. Those grandparents lived in the same town we did, but we didn’t see them much. My father did. He dropped by usually on a Saturday. I do remember dinner there one Thanksgiving night when I was young. They had a dining room filled with furniture, all of it heavy and dark. I remember one low hutch across one wall, doors to the yard on another and a cabinet on the third. Despite how little time we spent there, I can still see every room up and down, including the cellar, in my mind’s eye. As for my grandparents, I remember them less and less each year.

The morning is lovely. The sun is bright in a cloudless blue sky. It is 74˚, a perfect temperature. Every now and then a leaf at the end of a branch flutters, from a puff of air, not even close to a gust.

I do have one item on my dance card, practice tonight at 6.

Yesterday I did make it to the dump. It was quite the place to be. I had to bypass the recycle area as both lanes were filled with cars so I dumped the heavy bags and decided I could recycle another day. The dump is closed until Thursday.

This morning I couldn’t find Nala in the backyard. I knew she had no way out of the yard, no holes to China and no open gate, but she wasn’t there which made no sense. I called frantically. No Nala. I went into the house in case she was upstairs watching the cats, one of her daily diversions. She wasn’t. Henry and I went back outside. All of a sudden running at breakneck speed came Nala from somewhere at the back of the yard. She ran at Henry and the two of them took off chasing each other. I looked around. Yup, a new box had been torn apart. Nala had ignored me out of a weird sense of dog guilt, and the yard and she are dark so I didn’t see her hidden in the back, tall grass. Of course, I had picked up the rest of the trash earlier. Nala has a perfect sense of timing.

Tomorrow is the first day of fall. I remember when I was a kid, and the early mornings started to get cool. The sun was bright but took longer to heat up the day. The shards of sunlight fell between the leaves and made shadows on the long sidewalk, the straightaway to school. On some of the trees, a single leaf or two had already changed color, mostly to red. The afternoons were still warm, in the 70’s. I remember walking home with my jacket, the one my mother had made me take, either unzipped or stuffed into my school bag.

Soon enough all the leaves will change. I always think of all that beauty and color as Mother Nature’s last gasp before the drab and cold winter. I remember gutters filled with piled leaves and sidewalks covered in red and yellow. Our lawn didn’t have a whole lot of fallen leaves. The side trees were fir, but my father, though, dutifully raked every Saturday. He had a pattern from back to front. He raked from the sides to make one giant pile of leaves he’d rake down the grassy hill, the same hill we always rode our bikes down. From there the leaves were raked into the gutters below the long sidewalk. The last part, the burning of the leaves, was my favorite part of this Saturday ritual. I always hung around for the burning of the leaves. There were fires up and down the street, all monitored by men with rakes. The smoke rose into the air in streams from the individual piles. I can close my eyes and vividly see it all. I can remember the sweetness of the smell of the burning leaves. Fall has always been my favorite season.