Some time during the night it rained. The day is still dark, damp and cloudy. 64˚ will be the high. I need to go out to shop a bit, cat food mostly.

My freezer is filled. I’ll defrost something for dinner, maybe chicken. I’m thinking to add it to pasta. This, however, is only a possibility.

When I was a kid, my aunt, who was married to my Uncle Lorrie who owned a fish market, introduced me to pasta with clams. I liked pasta, and I liked clams so I gave the pasta a try. It was delicious though a bit odd tasting. I haven’t had spaghetti with clams since. I never see it on menus, and I seldom make spaghetti for myself let alone spaghetti with clams.

When I was a kid, my father introduced my sister and me to steamed clams. My mother thought they looked so gross she left the kitchen and wouldn’t watch. We’d take them from their shells, take off the neck skins, dip the clams first in the hot clam juice from the pot to get the rid of the grit then into the melted butter. Satisfying ums as you eat are voluntary, but they usually escape from my lips unbidden. Horror of horrors! OMG!! My mother would only eat fried clam strips. I pretended not to know her.

I love hot dogs. My sisters make fun of me as I could eat them for dinner night after night. I always use a top loading roll. Usually I toast the rolls, but sometimes I slather them with butter and brown them in the skillet with the hot dogs. I often boil the dogs. That’s how my mother cooked them when I was a kid. They are also great barbecued with a good bit of brown. Topping choices are many. There’s chopped onions, any kind of mustard, relish, piccalilli, chili and cheese. Notice I didn’t list ketchup. It doesn’t belong on a hot dog: on a hamburger yes, on a hot dog no.

Henry and Jack are napping upstairs. Henry is probably on my bed while Jack is on the bed in the cats’ room where Gwen hides out. They’ll be downstairs in a bit.

I’m going to get settled and watch Insectula. I haven’t ever heard of this movie. “Giant insects from outer space are drawn to Earth in search of blood.” That description alone caught me. It seems our world is the perfect environment for these ugly beasts. I do not know a single member of the cast. I think I’m about to watch the first victim. Swim! Swim!

What a beautiful day it is. The sun is hot, and the breeze, dare I say the wind, is keeping down the humidity moving in ahead of tomorrow’s rain. It is 76˚.

In a movie I watched lately, I heard the police officer say, “It’s your dime.” I am part of a generation which understands that allusion. My mother and my aunt used to call the family whiners sorrowful mysteries. My grandnephew Jack was the last to wear the mantle. I wonder how many of my family knows the source. It is part of the Catholic rosary.

My father had peculiarities. The dry cleaner is a cleanser. Some Saturday’s he went to Woburn, the next town over, to go the packie. My town was dry, no booze was sold, but conveniently, that packie was maybe 10 minutes away. He always said down cellar, not down the cellar, and so do we. The remote control was always the clicker. He never said wicked, that belongs to a younger generation.

Two incorrect grammatical constructs are common here. As a former English teacher, I wince when I hear them. The first is, “so don’t I!” as in I love vanilla ice cream. So don’t I. Then there’s the ever popular, “She don’t or he don’t”

My mother was the idiom queen. I think she got a degree from some obscure college which caters only to mothers. “Because I said so,” was supposed to stop us in our tracks. It didn’t. No, I wasn’t born in a barn, and I didn’t go blind sitting too close to the TV despite repeated warnings.

My father was threatening, “Don’t make me turn this car around.” He also employed the old, “Stop crying before I give you something to cry about,” but he never did turn the car around or make us stop crying.

The end of childhood doesn’t come easily. Santa and the Easter Bunny disappear. I missed Santa the most. I still got my basket compliments of my mother who was as renown for her Easter baskets as she was for her Christmas stockings, but I liked the idea of a rabbit.

I believe the exact end of childhood happened when I knew my mother was making it all up. All those warnings about beaches and eating, wet hair, wearing a hat and eatings carrot were concerns about our health. None of them were real. They were loving.

The sky is mostly cloudy. It’s warm, already 66˚. Last night I left my bedroom window open. I fell asleep to the sound of crickets and katydids.

I have no to do list today. Yesterday the only thing I did was dry mop the rooms on this floor. I do need to wash the kitchen floor so maybe I’ll do that today, but I’m not making a list.

Yesterday I watched movies. Some were really bad, but they helped pass the time. I’m beginning to run out of ways to entertain myself. Cleaning isn’t one of the options.

This is the week for me to buy my flowers. I need a few perennials for the front garden, but I mostly need herbs and flowers, many flowers, for the deck boxes. I also need potting soil. I love to flower shop. I show no restraint.

When I was a kid, we used to go to the drive-in just about every Saturday night. I wore my pajamas, most kids did. My father always brought plenty of movie food. I loved his popcorn. It always had plenty of butter. The first movie was always for kids, but I usually stayed awake through both movies.

Much later, when I was an adult, my friends and I went to the Dennis Drive-in. It was a small theater. It was surrounded on three sides by trees and woods. There were berms between each row. The car sort of climbed to the parking space. There were always mosquitos. We brought our own version of movie treats. We had champagne, crackers, cheese and usually chocolates. The drive-in movie is making a comeback. Wellfleet still has one. I’m thinking the drive-in may just be a good way to spend a warm summer evening with adult treats, of course, though Ill probably add popcorn.

Memorial Day is a day for thanks and a day for reflection. I hope you remember those to whom we owe so much. This is my annual tribute.

Memorial Day, originally called Decoration Day, is a day of remembrance for those who have died in our nation’s service. There are many stories as to its actual beginnings, with over two dozen cities and towns laying claim to being the birthplace of Memorial Day. There is also evidence that organized women’s groups in the South were decorating graves before the end of the Civil War: a hymn published in 1867, “Kneel Where Our Loves are Sleeping” by Nella L. Sweet carried the dedication “To The Ladies of the South who are Decorating the Graves of the Confederate Dead.” While Waterloo N.Y. was officially declared the birthplace of Memorial Day by President Lyndon Johnson in May 1966, it’s difficult to prove conclusively the origins of the day. It is more likely that it had many separate beginnings; each of those towns and every planned or spontaneous gathering of people to honor the war dead in the 1860′s tapped into the general human need to honor our dead, each contributed honorably to the growing movement that culminated in Gen Logan giving his official proclamation in 1868. It is not important who was the very first, what is important is that Memorial Day was established. Memorial Day is not about division. It is about reconciliation; it is about coming together to honor those who gave their all.

Memorial Day

“Dulce et decorum est”

The bugle echoes shrill and sweet,
But not of war it sings to-day.
The road is rhythmic with the feet
Of men-at-arms who come to pray.

The roses blossom white and red
On tombs where weary soldiers lie;
Flags wave above the honored dead
And martial music cleaves the sky.

Above their wreath-strewn graves we kneel,
They kept the faith and fought the fight.
Through flying lead and crimson steel
They plunged for Freedom and the Right.

May we, their grateful children, learn
Their strength, who lie beneath this sod,
Who went through fire and death to earn
At last the accolade of God.

In shining rank on rank arrayed
They march, the legions of the Lord;
He is their Captain unafraid,
The Prince of Peace . . . Who brought a sword.

Joyce Kilmer

Today is cool, in the high 50’s, but it is still a lovely day with sun, a blue sky and some clouds. I went out earlier to pick up my order of tomatoes, milk, a cucumber and a loaf of pullman bread. I’m already tasting my grilled cheese sandwich with tomatoes.

Yesterday was a monumental day. I got dressed in outside clothes. That doesn’t happen often anymore.

Speaking of tomatoes, my mouth is longing for a taste of homegrown tomatoes, but they’re at least a couple of months away. My father loved those tomatoes, and when I visited my parents’ house for the weekend, and they were in season, I always brought him some. I’d buy them on the honor system from tables in front of peoples’ house. My father always ate his tomatoes the same way. He’d slice them and then slather the tomato slices with mayo then he’d carry his dish to the living room to watch TV. I swear he yummed the whole time he was eating his tomatoes.

I need to fill my deck boxes. The side boxes nearest the back door get the herbs while the rest of the boxes get flowers. I am not behind my time. I always buy after Memorial Day. I’m thinking maybe Tuesday.

When I was a kid, I marched in our town’s Memorial Day parade. I was a brownie when I first marched with my whole troop. Actually we didn’t march as much as we sauntered together waving our small flags. I remember my parents yelling my name as I went by them. The little league, Boy Scouts, Girl Scouts and politicians rounded out the parade. We marched to the cemetery where there were a couple of speeches then the playing of taps. My parents said after the parade I was so excited when I told them, “Everyone was out of step but me.” I suspect you can imagine how long that little bit followed me.

I heard the rain earlier. Since then it has stopped, but showers are still predicted. I have no inclination to go outside.

An extraordinary event happened last night. I was in the kitchen giving Henry and Jack some treats when I noticed Miss Gwen in the dining room. Yup, you read that right, Miss Gwen. That is the first time she has come down when all of us were there. I know she and Jack chase each other late at night. I’ve heard them. Carl Sandburg’s little cat feet does not describe the sounds of hefty animals running up and down the stairs.

Yesterday I did more around the house stuff. I changed my bed before the sheets grow legs and wander away. I dusted and didn’t use my sleeve. I think I’m going crazy in quarantine. I went out, but only to get my car inspected before the end of the month. That’s a big one crossed off my list. The dump sticker is next.

I need to bake another loaf of banana bread today. The three banana skins have reached the perfect stage of blackness. I also have the ingredients for lemon bread. If I’m going to use the oven, I might as well go whole hog.

Henry woke me up early when it was just getting light. He licked my hand and jumped on and off the bed over and over until he woke me up. I ignored him at first then I figured he really wants out. I went downstairs, let him out and then waited for him to come back to the door. I went back to bed, but I left the back door open in case Henry needed out again.

My diet of late has been deficient. I’m out of fresh vegetables and fruit. Last night I had cheese, good Irish cheddar cheese, and crackers. My BLT the other night is the closest I’ve been to vegetables since my last grocery delivery, a few, maybe three weeks ago. I’m thinking banana bread counts as a fruit.

I am doing nothing today. I have earned it after the last few days of cleaning and hauling and rearranging. I was going to wash the kitchen floor, but with the rain, Henry will only add to the paw prints on the tile. I am thankful for the rain.

Today is glorious. It is actually 73˚. There is a breeze, a strong breeze. Outside the window I can see the new leaves on the scrub oaks fluttering. The flowers seem to glean in the sun. When I got the papers, I was sun blind for a second. I thought that delightful.

Cue the trumpets, unroll the flags, start the parade. You may think this an overreaction, but I know it is a celebration. I did my laundry, all three loads. Today I tackle the bed.

I loved my mother’s brownies. She always frosted them with chocolate icing and chocolate jimmies (for those of you outside New England, think sprinkles). Too much chocolate? Never!

Some of my creatures need to move to their summer quarters. My plastic flamingo longs for the outside. The Travelocity gnome is smiling. I figure he knows it’s time to move.

My mother told me she took my brother and me to see Sleeping Beauty. My brother hid under the seat every time Maleficent made an appearance. I stayed in my seat and watched. At Christmas one year, I had my picture taken with Santa. My brother hid in the bedroom. I wasn’t afraid.

Last night I had a BLT. That simple sandwich was raised to new heights by the ciabatta bread. I had it and truffle fries delivered. That was my reward for doing the laundry.

Yesterday I called a friend I haven’t seen since college. We had lost touch. She, Claire, had run into Bill and Peg, my friends dating back to Peace Corps. They were at a craft fair selling Bolga baskets. Claire talked to Peg and found out the baskets are from Ghana. After all these years Claire still remembered me and said she only knew one Peace Corps volunteer, and she had gone to Ghana (the she being me) and told Bill and Peg my name. Peg said her jaw dropped. Claire gave Peg her number, and she gave it to me. I put it in a safe place. I only found it yesterday. Claire and I spoke for well over an hour. We’ll stay in touch.

Today is another beautiful day. It is already 63˚. I’m thinking after my chores I’ll sit on the deck and read a while. What are my chores you ask? The laundry and my bed are what is left. I avoided them yesterday by dust mopping the downstairs and cleaning the kitchen floor and counter. I have no excuse today.

When I was a kid, the house across the street had grape arbors in the back yard. An old couple lived there, at least old to me, and they told us to take what we wanted. They were purple grapes. I ate the wild blueberries near the water tower close to the swamp. There was a pear tree, but the pears were little and always hard. The apple tree had crab apples. We ate the pears and apples anyway.

The strawberry plants I put in last year are up and growing. I hope for my first crop this year. Maybe I should wear bibbed overalls and chew on a piece of straw when I harvest all this strawberries.

The swelling is just about down around my eye though it still looks as if I lost a few rounds with Ali.

I loved Jiffy Pop but not just because I liked popcorn, but because I loved watching the aluminum foil top get bigger and bigger. I also remember that steam which rose from the popped corn when I ripped it open. My mother always melted plenty of butter.

My sisters, when they ate Oreos, scraped off the cream, ate that side and fed the other side to the dog. I eat my Oreos adult style, but every now and then I scrape off the cream and eat that side first. Poor Henry gets none.

My mother used to complain about how quickly the sweets disappeared. With four kids and a limited number of treats it was the old “each man for himself.” My mother used to hide her Pecan Sandies. I don’t know why. We didn’t like them. When I was much older, I knew my father hid his candy under the couch right below where he always sat. Beside him was a dish filled with Hershey’s Miniatures. He was a chocolate lover. I guess he was the one who cursed me with an almost insatiable love of chocolate.

Today is spectacular. The sun is so bright I had to squint my eyes when I got the papers. Not a single cloud mars the deep blue sky. The breeze is strong but warmish. I think I’ll spend some time outside in the yard.

My house is getting clean a room at a time. The kitchen floor is on my list, but today I’m going to bake the sweet potatoes I have then use them for hash browns. I have sausage partially cooked in the freezer bound to join the sweet potatoes.

Today is a Ghana day only because nothing has been going on for such a long time that the weather is about all that changes. Even poor Henry is bored. Both he and Jack are upstairs sleeping. Henry is on my bed. I don’t know where Jack is sleeping.

One day there was a knock at my door. There was a man I had never seen before standing there. He wanted to know if I had any interest in having sex with him. I said no, and he asked if I knew anyone else. I said no. He thanked me and left. Ghanaians are polite.

At the train station my pocket was picked. Peace Corps reimbursed me. A purse snatcher tried to steal my pocketbook, the one I had brought with me from home, but he couldn’t. I was holding on too fiercely. My house was broken into, but nothing except a little money was taken. My camera was taken but left outside my yard. Even after those, I always felt safe in Ghana.

I saw and ate okra for the first time. It was in soup. It was slimy. Mostly I ate beef cooked with tomatoes and onions accompanied by yam or rice for dinner, every night. I didn’t mind. I was in Africa.

The sun is gone, and the clouds have filled the vacuum. No rain is predicted. It is in the high 50’s. Tonight will drop back to the 40’s.

My eye is ugly, but it was hidden by my glasses so I went out yesterday. I had such fun. I went to the dump and sat in a line waiting for a turn at the dumpsters. My car was so full it took me a while to empty it. My next stop was the grocery store where most people were wearing masks except for one couple. I wanted to point at them and make that earsplitting shriek the way they do in the remake of Invasion of the Body Snatchers, but I just gave them a dirty look and checked out. After that I went for a ride. The main routes had a slew of cars, but the back streets had far fewer. I headed up cape and got as far as Sandwich. I put more miles on my car in that one trip than I have in weeks.

When I was a kid, I liked to color. All our crayons were kept in a round tin which once held a cake. We never threw a crayon away unless the stub was so small it was useless. Some of the crayon boxes came with a sharpener. As the crayons got smaller, we’d tear off the labels. That meant we didn’t know the actual color. Azure blue was just blue, and Indian red was just red, but we didn’t really care. Every Christmas we’d get new crayons usually in our stockings. I remember the box with 48 “different brilliant colors.” My mother never forgot to add a Christmas coloring book to our stockings.

The governor today announced Phase One of opening the state. The list of what can open is small: places of worship, construction and manufacturing.

My mood has a name, quarantine fatigue.