Today couldn’t be prettier, warmer but not prettier. It will only be 54˚ and then it will plummet to the 30’s tonight. I’m going out today. I need the sunshine.

I can see the yellow of the daffodil bulbs. They are getting closer to flowering. I also saw the tips of a couple of grape hyacinths. My garden is waking up a few bulbs at a time.

When I was a kid, I would have loved today, a Saturday, my favorite day, with all its sun and blue sky. It was bicycle weather for sure, the time to wrestle my bike out of the cellar and up the concrete stairs. From there, I’d hop on then ride down the grassy hill in the front yard and hope my father didn’t see me or the tire tracks in the tallish grass of the hill.

My first bike was blue. It didn’t have gears. They were in the future. It had brakes on the pedals and a wire basket in front. It had been under the tree, sort of, one Christmas. I remember taking my bike outside for pictures. There is one of me with a huge grin holding on to the handlebars. I was wearing one of my favorite jackets of all time, a blue wool jacket with snaps. My bike and I were on the top step right outside the door. The sun was shining that Christmas so I took my bike for its first ride.

When I was in Ghana, during my first year, I walked to town. It was downhill from my school, an easy walk. When I was walking home, uphill, cars usually stopped to offer me a ride. I always took it. We were not allowed to drive a car or a motorcycle except for the few volunteers who had Honda 125’s from Peace Corps because their jobs meant traveling. I traveled by mammy lorry, bus and plane when I was in the money. During my second year, the restrictions were lifted. I bought a Honda Cub 90, my first and only motorcycle. I had to learn the gears, the simple gears, when I bought the bike and before I rode the 100 miles home. I felt like the queen of the road when I rode that bike. Back then my town, Bolga, had few motorcycles. My friend Bill also bought one. Patrick, another volunteer who lived in Bolga, had the 125 Honda from Peace Corps. We were a motorcycle gang of three.

Today is an ugly day. The sky is grey, fog sits on the shoreline and rain is likely. The saving grace is the 55˚. I may go to the dump. It is usually quiet on ugly days.

Yesterday I did one errand. When I got home, I read, took a nap and watched a few movies. I was bored but not bored enough to clean. That’s for another day.

Henry no longer balks at a furled dog door. He goes out with only the slightest hesitation, but he still expects me to let him into the house. Yesterday I had a brilliant idea. I rang the door bell, and Henry came running through the dog door into the house. I figure I could get him to understand the dog door isn’t scary. This morning I rang the bell. Henry stayed outside. I rang it again, same result. After the third ring, I gave up and let Henry inside. He went right to the front door. To my chagrin, Henry is a quick learner.

My days in Ghana were usually the same. I woke up, had my first cup of coffee and ate breakfast if I didn’t have an early class to teach. If I did, I’d have breakfast between classes. I taught only four hours a day, two hours per class. I taught T2’s, the second years. My house was on school grounds only a couple of minutes walk from the classroom blocks so between classes I’d go home and sit on the porch and drink another cup of coffee. My work day was never long. On some afternoons, I’d coach volleyball or work in the library. Other afternoons, I’d go to town and shop or just wander around the market hoping for treasures. Dinner was always around the same time and just about the same meal, beef in tomato sauce and mashed yams or rice on the side. The beef needed the sauce to tenderize it. Only old cows became meat. Other times I’d have chicken with the usual yams or rice on the side. The only vegetables available in the market were yams, hot peppers, tomatoes and onions. I felt vegetable deprived.

It has gotten really dark, almost ominous. A wind has started blowing the tall pine branches. I think rain just went from likely to probable.

Today is warm but cloudy and damp. It rained last night, but I slept through it so I was surprised to see the driveway and the sides of the streets were wet. The high today will be 59˚. I’m rooting for one more degree!

My front garden has shoots a-plenty. I noticed the daffodil bulbs first. There are six of them in the garden beside the walk. This morning I noticed several clumps of croci or crocuses near the driveway. They made my morning.

Because rain is predicted tomorrow, I’m going out to do a few errands today. The dump is not among them. I’m pampering my back so no lifting. The trash bags will have to sit one more day.

Henry has another appointment with his shrink vet. She needs to see him before she’ll continue his medication. I have decided to put a halter on him. This will be halter number three as he chewed through halters one and two while he was wearing them, but that was a while back. I put the newest halter on the floor in the hall where Henry has to walk by it. I’m hoping he’ll learn it is nothing dangerous and something not to be chewed.

Some things used to drive my father crazy. When I was kid, he’d go ballistic if someone left an unrinsed glass on the counter. He’d accuse us of laziness. That never phased us.

My father always spit polished his shoes. He kept the oldest active shoe brush in the world, polish stained small cloths and tins of polish in a drawer by the sink. The polish was in a small round tin with a clip on the side which opened the lid. I remember watching my father polish his shoes. He’d lay some newspaper on the table or on the rug in the living room, spit into the open can of polish, use the cloth to gather the polish then he’d get to polishing. Once the shoes dried, he used the brush to get a high gloss shine on his shoes. When I visited my parents, my father always checked to see if I needed my shoes polished. Sometimes I did, and those shoes never looked better than when they were polished by my father.

Mother Nature is lulling me into a false sense of spring. It was in the mid-50’s earlier but is now closer to 59˚ where it will sit all day. The sun is bright in a deep blue sky. There is no wind. I need to do a bit of deck stuff so I’ll be outside for a while taking in this spring day.

Earlier, my across the street neighbor was out on his riding mower. He was dressed in his puffy jacket and his flapped hat. His mower pulled a small wagon behind. I watched clandestinely as he threw shovelfuls of something on his lawn. I hope his lawn comes back. It sort of died of thirst last summer. My neighbor and I don’t talk. We seldom see each other. He and his wife are fairly new to the neighborhood. Last Halloween they shut off their lights and pretended they weren’t home hoping, I figure, to thwart the onslaught of the ten trick or treaters we usually get. That gave me pause about my new neighbors.

My downstairs is clean. All that is left is washing the kitchen floor. Last night my back was as bad as it has been. I considered that a message to stop my cleaning for a while. Upstairs will have to wait a bit longer.

When I was a kid, we knew all our neighbors up and down the street even as far as the houses on the street above us, a cul-de-sac where we once lived. Every house had kids, mostly multiple kids. The only exception I remember was my aunt and uncle who lived next door for a while. They had only my cousin Susan. There was a grassy hill behind our house. The Burns lived in the house directly mirroring ours but at the top of the hill while we lived at the bottom of the hill. I remember watching Mrs. Burns, Dottie, mow her portion of the hill. It was always the greenest section. One summer we had a Slip ‘n Slide on the hill, our part of the hill. We kids slid all day then that night the adults tried. I remember watching my next door neighbor sliding down the hill screaming the whole time. She flipped at the bottom.

March seemed a long month when I was kid. We had only St. Patrick’s off from school. Every weekday morning was the same. My mother woke us up, fed us, made us get dressed, gave us our lunches and sent us off to school where we were stuck for six hours or more. I don’t remember exactly how long. I just remember it was the best of the day lost.

The front and back doors are open to the sun. Not one cloud mars the sky, a beautiful robin egg blue sky. Nothing is moving, not even the pine trees branches prone to swaying. It is in the 50’s, a torrid day for this time of year. I had no plans to go out. My to-do list says finish cleaning downstairs, but I think I’ll save that for the late afternoon. I only have the kitchen and dining room to finish. I might just go out.

When I was a kid, once the days got warmer, I’d go back to playing outside after school. I’d haul my bike out of the cellar and take a ride, my first spring ride. I remember it was cold going riding down my street, a long hill. The wind shot right up my sleeves. I was happy to get to the end of the hill.

The street lights came on later. Day was longer than night. I’d ride around and explore my town. I remember it was still in winter. The grass was yellow, brownish. Most gardens were bare though the tips of shoots were popping out of sunny corners. I’d ride around, maybe even stop at the library, until late afternoon when it would get cold again. I’d get home in time for some TV before dinner.

I remember the first place we lived when we moved to Stoneham. It had a tiny kitchen and only two bedrooms. The table was right beside the bigger kitchen window, but we seldom sat there altogether. I remember my mother cooking in that kitchen, standing in front of the stove. The kitchen got steamy, and you couldn’t look out the window. My mother never ate with us. My brother and I would sit at the table both of us craning to try and see the TV. Dinner always had some form of potato, usually mashed. Vegetables were few as we weren’t fans back then. I did eat peas. I’ve always eaten peas. I’ve eaten them in fried rice, risotto, salad and by themselves with a pat of butter. Anyway, sorry for the tangent, now back to the story. My mother tricked us with carrots. I’ve told you about this before, but I’m still so amazed at the duplicity of my mother it bears mentioning again. My mother mixed mashed carrots with mashed potatoes and told us the sort of striped white and orange colors were because of the potato, a new potato. We believed her. We ate carrots disguised as potatoes. We even liked them.

The morning is lovely though with a bit of a chill thanks to the ocean, still only 37˚. The sun is squint your eyes bright. I had to stop when I went to get the papers until my eyes adjusted. My plans for the day are simple. The den will get my attention. I’ll dust with a real dust rag, not my sweatshirt sleeve, and then vacuum. My master plan is to clean a room a day then start all over, a sort of Mad Tea Party without the tea or the hats, the March Hare or the Hatter and the sleeping Dormouse. I do have Henry and Jack, and I’ll be Alice cleaning.

I watched late night TV on MeTv until around three. That station has the best old TV. I watched The Night Strangler with Darren McGavin. It is still fun with him, his blue suit. his porkpie hat and his small camera on a strap. Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea was hokey. I had to remind myself to see it with 1966 eyes. The sub is enormous. Flashes of light from sparklers come out of control boards on the top and bottom sides then the little colored lights on the boards go out. I want to tell the crew not to worry. They’ll be safe.

When I was a kid, I loved the classic monster movies. I have favorite scenes in all the movies. My favorite in Frankenstein, probably one of the best scenes of all those movies, is when the villagers, the men, carrying torches and screaming leave the village to hunt the monster. The women and children cower by the walls. The dogs are barking and straining at their leashes. It is frightening. The Invisible Man when he took off his bandages in front of everybody and is hysterically laughing is amazing and scary. Dracula with his shadow, his cape and those eyes always gives me pause. He is frightening. I am sorry for Renfield and his madness, thanks to the Count. The Wolf Man, the 1941 Wolf Man, makes me sad. He is such a gentle human. His changing from man to wolf always kind of captivated me when I was young. I watched these movies in my bedroom on a small bureau size black and white TV. I got scared sometimes so I turned the light on when I watched.

There is something exciting about being scared but not in any danger. Those scenes got my heart pumping. I knew the monsters weren’t real, but they scared me anyway. I still wait for those scenes. I adhere to a suspension of disbelief. That makes everything is so much more fun and a even bit scary.

Happy Spring!

I set my alarm to get up to greet the sun but nobody told the sun. It was gray and cloudy. I sighed and turned over and fell back to sleep. When I woke up a few hours later, it was sunny. Right now it is 44˚. The high will be 48˚. and without the wind, it feels warmer. I’m staying in today as I have no place I need to go. The dump is scheduled for tomorrow.

When I was a kid, I loved spring. I loved shedding the layers of clothes for my light jacket, my spring jacket. It didn’t matter if the morning was cold, I was determined to wear that jacket once the seasons changed. My mother did convince me to add a sweater one morning when there was a late frost.

When I was seven, I became a Brownie. My mother brought me to Jordan Marsh where there was a section selling Girl and Boy Scout equipment and clothing. We bought my Brownie uniform, the brown round beanie and a brown belt with a small coin purse attached. On the purse and the beanie was the Brownie logo, a sort of joyful, dancing sprite. My mother sewed my troop number on the sleeve near the shoulder. My troop used to meet in the cellar of the school which had a bench around three walls, high small windows and the girls’ bathroom. On troop days we could wear our Brownie uniforms instead of our school uniforms. I was always so proud. I remember we marched in the Memorial Day parade, a really home town parade filled with a few floats, Girl and Boy Scouts, little league teams on the back of trucks and the high school band and cheerleaders. A family story is still being told to my chagrin. It seems when I got home from my first parade I told the family that everyone was out of step but me.

I remember Fly-Up Day. It was a ceremony when we Brownies became junior Girl Scouts. Even parents came. We received actual badge wings to put on our Girl Scout sashes right at the top. The gold wings had a green background and were symbolic of our flying to the next Girl Scout level. Our uniforms were green. Our hats were green with a white trefoil on the front inside of which was a GS in white lettering. We wore a sash to hold our badges. I remember the thick Girl Scout Handbook. It had all the requirements for each badge. I remember the rows of the badges I earned. I remember becoming a senior scout. I was so proud.

I have a hat collection. I have my Brownie hat and my worse for wear Girl Scout hat. They carry so many memories.

Today is brightly sunny, window beautiful. It is so windy even the heaviest pine tops and the thick oak are swaying. It is cold, in the low 30’s, and won’t get much warmer. I have no need to go out. My house is warm and cozy, also pretty dusty so I’m going to spot clean today, very few spots. I do see a dump run in my near future. The animals are having their morning naps, not to be confused with their afternoon naps or their evening naps.

After the dust has settled, so to speak, I’ll probably just read the day away, a half sloth day.

When I was a kid, I had my own bookcase in my bedroom. It was filled with mostly Whitman books, 49 cent cardboard hard covers I used to buy uptown at The Children’s Corner. A few Bobbsey Twins and several Nancy Drew’s were also on the shelves. I had some Harty Boys and some classics like Little Women and Zorro. The Whitman books were mostly in a series. I had all the Trixie Belden. She was a girl detective who lived in Sleepyside-on-Hudson. I loved that name. Her best friend was Honey, that much I remember. They solved mysteries. I also had Donna Parker books. She solved dilemmas and a couple of mysteries. I had more but those two I remember the most.

In my bedroom now is a short bookcase with two deep shelves. In the bookcase are most of the Whitman books from my childhoods bedroom. My mother and father brought the books down when I first moved into my house thinking something old would be welcomed. They were right. I filled the new bookcase I bought with most of my childhood books. The top became a side table.

I’m careful when I open those books, Most of their pages are yellowed and brittle and sometimes drop corner pieces, always corner pieces, on the floor. I was probably around nine when I read most of those books, except Little Women. I was ten when I read that book. It had been a Christmas present, and I didn’t put it down until I had read every page. It is also upstairs.

Today is cloudy. Rain is predicted. It is in the high 40’s, a typical March day on Cape Cod. I have a couple of errands to do and neither one is the dump. I’m saving that for another day. Oh, joyous! My piled beside the cellar door laundry is now a memory. I did three loads yesterday. The last load, a few sets of sheets, are still in the dryer. I suspect they are quite wrinkled but I don ‘t care. They can sit for a while.

I have been bored of late. I find myself cleaning the fridge, clearing cabinets, dusting and moving stuff around for a different look. I wish I could woodwork as I would make a small shelf to fit under the butcher block so I can use it for kitchen storage, for mostly marina sauce storage. I noticed three jars of it when I was rearranging, and I think there is another in the back. I have been thinking of clearing a bookcase shelf in the kitchen so I can fill it with some of my appliances like the panini press, but that too is for another day.

When I was a kid, I liked days like today, overcast with light gray clouds and no wind. The sounds in the classroom seemed subdued, as if the cloud cover was a shroud of sorts, maybe a cone of silence. The loudest sounds were papers rattling, desks opening and rosary beads clicking. We went from subject to subject with no break until lunch and recess. After lunch the afternoon always seemed to go so slowly. The clock was in the front of the room over the blackboard. I used to watch the hands move and click from minute to minute. I’d almost hold my breath waiting for those last couple of minutes, the go to the cloak room for your coats minutes. I can remember running out of school when the nuns finally let us go.

There is something about the rain. When I was a kid, I’d watch the rain hit the glass in the window. I’d follow one drop from when it hit to when it disappeared below the panes and the sill. Lightning and thunder added excitement to the rain. I’d watch hoping too see a bolt of lightning jagged against the sky. Many times the light caught my attention but afterwards, too late to watch.

Ghana had the best rainstorms. After the dry season, the rains came and flooded the roads and fields, both hard packed from no rain for months. The lightning was dramatic against the almost black sky. I know I have mentioned it before, when I saw the lighting bolt hid the ground in front of my house, but I had never been so close to lightning, and it still amazes me. Before that, lightning had always been high in the sky and a distance away. When I close my eyes, I can still see that bolt of lightning strike my front yard. Maybe I clapped and maybe I just kept repeating, “Wow! Wow!”

Today may be chilly, cloudy and grey but the sun always shines on St.Patrick’s Day, even proverbially.

I am wearing my shamrock earrings and my deep green Ryan sweatshirt. We played Irish music on our ukes this morning. I sang along. I was loud and festive and off key. Neither Henry nor Jack cared.

My relationship with St. Patrick started when I was a kid in the first grade. I attended St. Patrick’s Elementary School and would for eight years. We always had St. Patrick’s Day off from school. Boston’s official commemoration for today is not St. Patrick’s Day but rather Evacuation Day which celebrates the evacuation of the British from Boston during the Revolution but don’t be fooled. It is St. Patrick’s Day. Ask anyone.

For years I marched with a drill team called St. Patrick’s Shamrocks. We even had a woven shamrock in the centers of our uniform tops. We wore green and white. I remember marching in the St. Patrick’s Day parade in South Boston. It was usually cold. Sometimes a few of the parade watchers offered to march with us. Usually a bit of drink prompted the offer. We’d politely refuse and keep on marching.

My mother made corn beef and cabbage for today. Her giant pot was filled with meat and vegetables including turnips. I always think of turnips as an Irish vegetable. The Irish used to carve turnips with scary faces to ward away jack-o’-lantern who nightly wandered the earth because he was not allowed into Heaven or Hell. It always seemed a bit odd to me as turnips are so darn difficult to peel. I have scars from peeling attempts.

I am celebrating today with Irish music and corned beef and cabbage with all the fixings including Irish soda bread. I have a green shamrock plant sitting here on the table with my St. Patrick’s Day cards. Henry is sporting his green collar. I’ll share a bit of dinner with Henry and Jack, but only a bit.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day!!!