We have sunlight despite the clouds. The light is diffused, a pale imitation of itself. It is cold, 39°, but the high 40’s are predicted for later. It is Sunday quiet. I don’t even hear any cars. Even the birds are quiet. The dogs are napping as they do every day about this time. They’ll also nap later. Such is a dog’s life, at least my dog’s life.

I often think back to my childhood Sundays. I went to mass, sometimes early with my father the usher. Other times it was mass at mid-morning. The last pew in the upstairs church had only room for two people, and it didn’t have a kneeler. I rushed to get that seat. I’ve have to sit the whole mass, such a tragedy say I with tongue in cheek. The church was always filled for Sunday mass. It was still expected that women would wear dresses and a hat. Most men were in suits. Fedoras placed on pews beside them. The mass was short or long, logical I know, but the length wasn’t a given. It was dependent on the priest giving the sermon. The oldest priests gave the longest sermons. When one walked out to start the mass, the entire church sighed, dismayed, knowing what was ahead.

On Sundays, we always had dinner, and it was always a roast of sorts, mashed potatoes, gravy and a couple of vegetables. Corn was the universal choice for favorite vegetable. Carrots and green beans were tolerated. After dinner, we’d sometimes visit my grandparents in East Boston. The house was always filled with relatives.

On Sunday night, we’d watch TV for a little while then were sent to bed early so we’d be bright eyed and bushy tailed and ready for school on Monday.

Sunday dinners stayed around. We still had a roast, mashed potatoes and vegetables, fresh and canned. I’ve mentioned before my last dinner at home before Ghana. It was a roast beef, my choice. It was the perfect way to finish.

What a pretty morning it is. The sun is bright. The sky is a deep blue. Though clouds were predicted, there are none. It is 45°. It feels warm with no wind. Dare I say this is a preview of spring?

Since I was a kid, Saturday has been my favorite day. I used to wander on my bike. I had routes I followed. Near the golf course, I hunted for wayward golf balls. I always found a few across the street from the course. Uptown, I walked my bike on the sidewalk and checked out all the store windows. Two had smells. The bakery smelled of bread. The aroma wafted up and down the street and seemed to swirl around the sidewalk in front of the store. Once in a while I had enough money to buy a loaf, a warm loaf. I’d tear off pieces and eat it as I walked. The last store, the fish market, was down a bit from Hanks’ Bakery. It had a fishy smell, an unpleasant smell, which carried to the sidewalk. In the store window was a tank with lobsters. I used to watch the lobsters swim around. That was my last stop in the square.

Winter Saturday fun depended on the weather. If it was snowy, we’d sled all day right down our own hill. If the weather was ugly, we’d go to the matinee in the theater uptown or just hang around watching TV. I remember westerns more than any other programs. Fury, My Friend Flicka, The Adventures of Rin Tin Tin, Sky King and my favorite, The Lone Ranger, were all on Saturday. I always sat on the rug right in front of the screen. Some Saturdays I ate not only breakfast but also lunch in front of the TV. I never went blind.

None of us ever complained about supper on Saturdays. It was traditional. It was a New England thing. We had baked beans, brown bread and hot dogs. The beans and the bread came out of cans. The brown bread had the markings of the can. It looked sort of decorative. The hot dogs were boiled or sometimes fried. The hot dog rolls always opened at the top. I used mustard and piccalilli on my dogs. No one would have ever have given any thought to using ketchup. That was sacrilegious. In summer the hot dogs were grilled, and the rolls were browned on the grill. We’d have ice cream for dessert. My father back then worked for an ice cream company.

As for me now, I am not a fan of westerns with a few exceptions like Blazing Saddles. I don’t sit close to the TV, but I do eat in the den. I love hot dogs. My sisters make fun of me as it is my go-to supper. I always have hot dogs and top loading rolls on hand. I never have brown bread, decorated or not.

Last night around 11:15 the electricity died. I was reading when the room went dark. It took me totally by surprise. Henry is not afraid of the usual darkness but is afraid of sudden darkness. He sat up, started shaking then came to me for a hug. He got many hugs and scratches. I had grabbed the flashlight and started reading hoping the lights would be back quickly. Nala then went out and Henry followed. I opened the door and used the flashlight to light the stairs. In a while Nala came back inside but Henry did not. The bottom of the stairs was dark. He just stood there. I went out and shined the light on the steps, and he braved the stairs and came inside. He got a treat. I went to bed early. The electricity was back when I woke up.

Last night got cold rather quickly, and we had snow flurries. This morning is still cold, 37°. The sunlight looks faded. The sky is cloudy, a grey blue color. Light rain is predicted for later. This is an almost pretty day gone bad.

When I was a kid, my family had a hierarchy. The grandparents and their siblings were the oldest and at the top. At family parties the aunties came, my grandmother’s sisters. “Are you Chickie’s daughter? They always asked. That’s how I was known to the aunties. My parents and their siblings came next. My mother was the third of eight, my father the second of three. I had cousins galore. We were the bottom of the hierarchy. Now I am at the top. I am the oldest. That astonishes me. I can’t believe time has so quickly passed.

When I was in Ghana, Mr. Edwards was the local education chair. He spoke at my school often. I always thought him pompous. His speeches each time were filled with clichés. The one I remember from every single speech is, “Time and tide wait for no man.”

The hahaha was loud this morning. I think it was Mother Nature reminding me who is in charge. Winter is coming back, not that it really left. Two warm days just made us hopeful. Tonight the high will be 28°, and there will be light snow. It will be in the 30’s the next two nights. Today is ugly, cloudy and damp.

Because my dance card is totally empty until Tuesday, I’m stuck doing the house chores I have been ignoring. The clumps of dog hair on the floor are lifted into the air when I walk by. I can leave messages in the dust on the tables. The kitchen is the cleanest room because I usually clean it while I’m waiting for dinner to cook. The floor does need to be washed, but I won’t because we may have snow flurries and paw prints would be back.

When I was a kid, winter, after Christmas, was mostly boring. The weekdays were the same month to month. Darkness came early. I’d get home from school, change into my play clothes, do any homework I might have then I’d watch TV until dinner then I’d watch TV after dinner. My mother dictated bedtime. “It’s a school night,” she’d remind us as if we hadn’t heard it most weeknights. I’d go to bed but then I’d secretly read under the covers. Sometimes I got caught but only sometimes. I don’t know what time I’d give in and go to sleep, but it was always at the end of a chapter.

I could smell word burning this morning probably from someone’s fireplace. It is one of my favorite smells. I love sitting on the deck close to my chiminea on a cool evening while wood burns. I use piñon wood from New Mexico. When I lived in Ghana, my food was cooked on a sort of habachi, no oven. The charcoal was wood charcoal with the sweetest aroma. Charcoal villages make the wood charcoal. One time I was hitching from Tamale to Bolga, about a hundred miles. One ride dropped me at a small village along the main road. It was a charcoal village. Smoke rose from burning tree trunks on the ground. The aroma was everywhere including on my clothes. I got a ride because small boys from the village stood in the road and stopped cars for me. The ride took me right to my road off the main road in Bolga. My clothes still carried a bit of the aroma of the charcoal.

I need a few groceries, cream for my coffee being paramount. The problem is I don’t want to get dressed to go out. Ugly days like today should be spent close to hearth and home. Even the dogs don’t want to go out. The question is which is more important, staying warm and cozy or making sure I have cream for my coffee. I need to ponder.

I have been absent the last couple of days, Sunday to see a play and yesterday because my iPad would not charge. Overnight it did charge so here I am.

Yesterday was the most amazing day. It was spring with everything spring brings. It was warm, dare I say hot. The sun was bright and shined on everything. The sky was an extraordinary color of blue. The dogs and I were energized. They zoomed the yard then Nala just sat on the deck taking in the sun. Henry roamed the yard. He never zooms. I finished tasks. It was a wonderful day.

The dogs are having their morning naps. Henry is right beside Nala with his head resting on her back. She doesn’t care. She is sound asleep. These dogs feel entitled, my fault. Nala rings doggie bells to go out. Henry keeps whacking the dog door to come in. They follow me to the kitchen. They sleep on my bed, keep in mind both dogs are over 65 pounds, and I have a double bed, an old double bed. Nala watches the microwave. They watch me eat hoping for a tidbit. I am a sucker for these dogs.

When I was a kid, Duke, our boxer, was not allowed on the furniture. He slept on the floor, usually on a rug. To get away from the no furniture rule, he’d stand on his back feet and stretch the rest of him across the bed or couch. He slept on the couch at night but jumped off before he’d get caught. We could hear him, but he was too quick. Some mornings he’d follow kids to school despite my father calling him over and over. He’d turn and look at my father then take off in the opposite direction. That infuriated my father who’d jump into his car and give chase. We rooted for Duke.

Today is another spring-like day. It is 50°. My yard needs heavy duty spring cleaning. Both the front and back yards are still filled with fallen limbs and branches. The snow is mostly gone except for small piles under the backyard trees and along the plow route. Nala is a happy dog. She brings in small branches and carries them about the house as if they are trophies. I’m forever stepping on small pieces of chewed branches that blend with the rug. She also brings in pine cones. I step on those too.

My dance card is sort of empty for the week. I saw my friend in a play on Sunday, zoomed uke practice last night, and I have my lesson and only concert for the week tomorrow. It is a quiet week.

When I first let the dogs out, it was foggy. I love fog. It always looks and feels eerie as if creatures are hiding and roaming unseen. I can imagine the sound of the shuffle of their feet as they walk.

Today will be cloudy but warm with a high of 47°. A few tall branches are swaying a bit but the rest of the trees are quiet, still. I don’t hear birds or cars or people. The dogs are napping on the couch. Jack is quiet. He likes to nap in front of the register in the guest room. I put an afghan down so he’d be comfortable. When I go up stairs, Jack comes out for some loving. His fur is usually warm. Cats know how to live.

I don’t drink just milk. I use it for cereal, for milk shakes, for recipes, for coffee and for dunking biscotti and cookies. I drank it when I was a kid. I don’t remember when I stopped drinking it, in Ghana I think. When I was in college, the milkman delivered to my apartment. My father arranged it. He worked for HP Hood, a dairy company. I’d sometimes add bread to the delivery. In Ghana, we were told not to drink milk. The cows could be tuberculin. We could drink Fan milk and Fan ice cream, It was sold on the streets by boys on bicycles. Attached to the handlebars of each bike was a cooler of sorts. Fan milk was sold in small triangular packets making it a perfect street food.

When I was a kid, we had both chocolate and white milk delivered. We never drank the chocolate milk straight. We always combined it with the white as the chocolate was a bit thick and mixing it made it last longer. My father loved Hershey’s syrup. Adding a couple of spoonfuls to white milk replaced the chocolate milk delivery. He lavishly poured the syrup on his ice cream, his vanilla ice cream. My mother made sure there was always a can of Hershey’s syrup. My father did love his treats.

I still love Oreo cookies and would probably dunk them if I had milk. The universal way to eat an Oreo is common knowledge, maybe even a birthright. The cookie is split in two. The plain side is eaten first eat then the side with the cream. Double stuffed Oreos are a gift from the Gods. I usually buy traditional Oreos with white cream, but I also love golden Oreos and chocolate covered Oreos. If I buy Oreos, they go quickly so I restrain myself, but I do buy them if I really need a boost, a little bit of sweetness. I still eat them in the traditional way. To eat them whole is a fall from greatness, a stepping off of the traditional path. It is the way of the adult.

The weather is the same as yesterday’s, light rain, white clouds and a temperature in the high 30’s. Over the weekend, we’ll have Sunday rain and a high of 56°. That seems like deck weather, but I’d have to shovel first.

So much has disappeared in my lifetime, and I’d like to resurrect a few. Woolworth’s would be first. It would be just like the one in the square when I was a kid. The floors were wooden and creaked. At the front was the check-out counter and the comic book stand. It spun. Rows of goods extended from the front to the back. I remember the toy section the best. It had jacks, yoyo’s, Fli-back paddles, Chinese finger traps, plastic green soldiers and card games like Old Maid. Nothing was expensive. Old ladies worked the register. They didn’t allow comic book reading. Sometimes I bought one.

I’d bring back the diner. It was one of my father’s stops. Sometimes I went with him, usually on a Saturday morning. I remember the diner in winter. You could feel the hot air as soon as you opened the door. The diner smelled of bacon in the morning and French fries later in the day. We ate in a booth with a tabletop jukebox, one choice for a dime and three choices for a quarter. My father would give me a quarter. When I was older, my friends and I would stop there after drill. I remember brownies with chocolate sauce.

I miss the milkman and the sound of clinking bottles. I miss the trash truck. I miss the guys with their barrels who picked up the trash and emptied in into the back of the truck. I remember their clothes were filthy. One of them would empty the garbage pail. It was in the ground. Its top had a pedal to open it. They’d pull out the pail and empty it into their barrel. I thought that had to be the worst job except for the nightsoil men in Ghana.

I’d bring back corner stores. They were the best stops for small items like bread or milk. They had large glass candy counters filled with penny candy and I remember one of them had a counter with everything Hostess. Corner stores had a feel about them, a personal feel.

I’m done pondering.

“We’re having a heat wave,” okay, a slight heat wave. It is only 33° now but a high of 40°is predicted. Rain is in the forecast. It should beat down more of the snow which is at its ugly stage. The pine trees didn’t fare well. My yards, back and front, are littered with branches and limbs. Some landed on fences. In the back a section of the fence is leaning. I think it can be saved. The front fence needs to be replaced. The snow is holding it up. Clean-up will take a while.

When I was a kid, the streets after being plowed still had a layer of snow. Summer tires were switched to either snow tires or chains. My father had his winter tires put on at the gas station. Because we lived on a hill, it was an early winter chore. Sometimes when the snow was still high on the street, my father went up the next street which by-passed most of the hill. He parked out front at the curb. Cars riding up and down the hill hard-packed the snow and made it perfect for sledding. We flew.

When I was growing up, I gave no real thought to the further beyond a day or two unless I was counting down the days until Christmas or summer vacation. I sometimes made weekend plans like going to the matinee or going bike riding usually by myself but other times with friends. On winter weekends we sometimes ice skated, at the swamp or the field. Once in a while, we’d take the bus to the MDC rink. It was the best rink. It had two round fenced in rinks, and a building where you could sit inside on benches to get warm, and you could even buy food. If I had the money, I’d buy hot chocolate then skate a little more. To get home, we used to have to cross over the busy road at the Middlesex Fells so we could catch the bus back. The bus stopped off the road at the front of the neatest house, a part of the New England Sanitarium and Hospital, where I was born as was Buffy St. Marie. The house had a beautiful rock front. Students nurses lived there. I remember them in uniform getting on the bus. They’d get off in the square.

My dance card has a few entries this week, all uke. I have the usual practice and lesson, and we have one concert. We’re playing Irish, one of my favorite uke music books. It will be good, my getting back into the world.

The early morning was sunny. Now the sun is behind the clouds. They are suspicious clouds, the sort which hides surprises. It is cold, 39°, the high for the day. I’m warm. I’ve already had my first cup of coffee. I read the newspaper. It is an ordinary winter’s day. This morning I checked my mailbox for the first time since last Monday. When I opened it, I had the best surprise. A soft package was stuffed in at the front. It took me a while of tugging and pulling to free it and the pile of mail behind it, including a small box in the way back. As soon as I got inside, I opened the package. My sister and brother-in-law had sent me a Cape Cod Ukulele Club shirt. I was thrilled. Their thoughtfulness gave me the biggest boost, gave me joy. Serendipity! Also, in the mail was my coffee. This month’s coffee, a medium roast, is from Peru, from the San Ignacio region, a mountainous region. I’m excited to try it.

When I was a kid, I drank cocoa every morning. I remember the top of the cocoa in the cup had small bubbles from my mother stirring it into the hot milk. The cocoa was thick and silky, at least that’s how my tongue remembers it. I always yummed after the first sip. I remember the cocoa container had a slot on the top. The slot was for coins. The container became a bank after the cocoa was finished. I remember my money always smelled like cocoa.

I love the taste of cinnamon. When I was a kid, I’d sometimes sprinkle cinnamon sugar on my cereal. For a nickel I could buy the cinnamon flavored Life Saver roll. Every Christmas I got the Life Saver’s book in my stocking. The first roll I’d eat was always the cinnamon followed by the root beer roll. My sister sent me cinnamon lollipops from See’s Candy one year. After the first lick, I was addicted. I bought a couple of boxes more. I got more for Christmas. I bought more. Finally I called a halt. I got a See’s catalogue the other day. I’m afraid to look through it. I have no resistance.

This week I get to join the world. I haven’t left my house since last Sunday though I did have two visitors, my friend Mary Allen and my nephew Tim. Both of them brought light. Tim shoveled me out, cleared the back stairs for Henry and brought hot food and coffee. He took trash. Mary Allen brought me the vegetables for my sausage dinner. She brought already made spaghetti and meatballs and Italian bread. She brought cream. The best thing she bought was what looked like a giant eclair. It had layers from the bottom up: dough, custard, cream and the dough top covered in chocolate. My hands were covered in cream and chocolate. I felt like a little kid, a contented little kid.