Keep the Coffee Comimg

Yesterday I beat the rain. I emptied my car at the dump, went to the bank and got pet food at Agway. The rain started late in the afternoon after I was home. It was a heavy rain, a loud on the roof for a while rain. I don’t remember when it stopped. I didn’t notice.

Today has leftover weather. It is chilly and rain is again predicted. The Red Sox opening day game for today is postponed until tomorrow. I’ll put away my peanuts and popcorn until then.

When I was a little kid, dressing us for outside this time of year was a conundrum for my mother. She wondered if the chill was cold enough for us to need a winter coat or were layers better. I favored ditching the winter coat for layers, for a sweater under my spring jacket. I never got cold, or at least that’s what I told my mother.

When I was really little, my mother shopped for my new Easter clothes. I didn’t have a whole lot of say. Every year I wore a dress worthy of swirling, a round hat with a small brim, white short gloves and a light jacket, a dressy jacket. I remember one jacket was deep blue and had a white collar and white buttons. My socks were white with lace, and I always wore black patent leather shoes. I think that outfit was universal, an unwritten Easter clothes’ rule all mothers knew.

The spawn of Satan has chewed another light set. That makes it spawns 2 and me nothing. Those lights have been hung there by the door and down the railing for over a year and were untouched until the last couple of weeks. I’m undecided about adding any more lights, but it is just so dark without them. I’ll have to buy cheap lights by the gross.

My dance card is empty and has been for months. Henry stays upstairs, his way of ignoring me. Jack sleeps. He is, after all, a cat. Gwen stay upstairs but comes out for me when I visit her. She gets treats. I have to go out today for the third day in a row. I think it is a new record.

The daffodils in the front garden have bloomed. They are the first bits of color with their bright yellow flowers. I can see crocus will be next then grape hyacinths. Every new flower is a surprise. 

Yesterday I cleaned but only the top of my desk with the wind up toys on it. I cleaned the desk top and all the wind-up toys, some of which are quite old for being cheap little plastic toys. The fishing set is close to 25 years old. It looks the worst for wear. I cleaned everything. Then I cleaned more in the den. I sat down and zap, my back hurt. I had been doing nothing two days. Now I know two isn’t enough. I’ll try three this time. 

Last night I had a splendid meal. I dined on the second pork chop and the rest of the turnip, leftovers. On the mashed turnip I sprinkled some Moroccan harissa then added a bit of butter and warmed the dinner in the microwave. As soon as it hit my tastebuds, it was an hmmm out loud moment. Yesterday’s dinner was even better than it had been on Sunday. Some leftovers are like that. My chili, actually my brother-in-law’s chili, is better the second day. Spaghetti sauce is always better the next day when it hits leftover status. I make my uncle’s sausage cacciatore the day before I’m serving it, all the better for the taste. Thanksgiving dinner on Friday is as tasty and maybe even tastier than the original meal. Chicken soup always tastes better for the next day or two. There are probably more, but these are the ones I remember the best. These are the tastiest ones for me.

When I turn off my bedroom light, Jack and Henry jump off the bed. I haven’t yet figured out why. During the night, when I’m asleep, Henry and Jack return. Henry is a bed hog. He sleeps mostly in the middle of the bed stretched out with his head near me. Jack sleeps at the bottom of the bed on my side. He also sleeps stretched out, and Jack is a big boy. I sleep so deeply I don’t even notice their return nor do I notice the shrinking real estate. I adjust.

What a lovely day, a bit chilly at only 49˚ but it will get a bit warmer by afternoon. Tonight, though, will be cold, in the 30’s. Spring is just so unpredictable.

My bird feeders need filling. I also have a string of solar lights to be placed outside somewhere. I’m toying with putting the string on my little library.

I never made it to the dump yesterday. It poured most of the afternoon. I still have a couple of bags for the trunk by the front door, but they will have to wait. The dump is closed until Wednesday.

When I was a kid, this week before Easter held none of the expectations of Christmas. New Easter clothes and an Easter basket were the highlights. In our baskets, we knew they’d be a chocolate bunny, usually hollow, big jelly beans, some hard eggs with white inside and a few Peeps. Besides the candy, we always got small gifts. Those were the surprise.

I remember a Holy Thursday when my mother and I went to church to watch the foot washing. My pompous grandfather was one of the barefooted men sitting in chairs on the altar, and he looked uncomfortable the whole time. While he was getting his feet washed by the kneeling priest, my mother and I were convulsed in laughter. We didn’t make any noise but our shaking shoulders probably gave it away. The best part of that service was the incense. I always wanted one of those gold incense burners the priests used.

We had Good Friday off from school though we had to do a vigil in church at some point in the afternoon for an hour or so. I always brought a book and looked devoted with my head down, but I was reading, not praying or maybe I was praying I didn’t get caught by the nun sitting behind us.

I have no list today. I find myself lacking the wherewithal to do anything. My bedroom is cluttered with boxes, and I hate the untidiness but not enough to do anything about it except gripe. I am getting quite adept at griping.

Today is ugly. The sky is ominous, the wind is blowing, and it is raw despite the 44˚. Rain is predicted, and, of course, my car is still filled with trash because I stayed home yesterday. I have to go to the dump. Alas!!

It is time to start cleaning downstairs room by room. Upstairs, though, is still dusty and cluttered. I do keep the cats’ room vacuumed because of all the litter on the floor. When I’m in there, I always feel as if I’m on the beach and the tide is out.

My sleeping pattern is awry. I am up until three or so then I sleep in until 10:30 or 11:00. It being not yet spring, I’m okay with sleeping late, but once summer comes, I want to be up and about early. I usually drink my coffee and read my papers on the deck. I love hearing the birds and watching them at the feeders. This morning, though, it was a spawn of Satan at the suet feeder. I was upstairs so I opened the window and yelled. The spawn just looked and kept eating. I yelled again, and it ran. I’m thinking I need ammo, acorns, to toss at the spawns from the window. I doubt they’ll realize how ironic that is.

Today I am cooking a pork chop, some turnip and a sweet potato for Sunday dinner. I also have fresh asparagus, but I’m saving that and a second pork chop for tomorrow’s dinner, for Sunday on Monday. I might add some rice.

This is the first time in a while I’m actually cooking. Most dinners of late have been hot dogs, crackers and cheese or Raisin Bran Crunch. I just haven’t wanted to cook. I have no idea why today is different. Maybe it is just a Sunday frame of mind.

When I was a kid, most of the year we had Sunday dinners. They was always a roast of some sort, mashed potatoes and canned vegetables. The summers, though, were different. We had casual dining. We had a cookout as we used to call it back then. Usually my father did the cooking which brings to mind another Dad story. When we all lived on the cape, my father grilled in the backyard near the kitchen window. He had a comfortable seat and could request whatever he needed through the window. One night, he kept saying, “Pop me,” which is Dad speak for a whiskey chaser. My mother obliged. My father was a firm believer in the efficacy of charcoal lighter fluid. He kept a can of it close to him, and he’d spray the coals thinking the lighter fluid would help the charcoal burn down faster. One night, we could hear all sorts of sounds from the back. We looked out the window to see my father trying to put out the flames on the bottom of his trouser leg. He had sprayed more than the charcoal.

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.