This morning is dreary. It is also windy. I can hear the chimes in the backyard and the rustling of the leaves. It has been raining on and off since last night. Henry woke me up at around 3 to let him out, and it was raining then. He didn’t care. I went back to bed, and at some point, he joined me. We slept in until 10.

Yesterday I puttered on the deck. I cleaned the outside of the grill and covered it. My fingers are crossed. I’m hoping this cover will not disappear the way the last one did. I’m still baffled as to where that one went. I’m guessing it was a cadre of spawns working in unison. I’m thinking spawn nests around my neighborhood are cozy and waterproof. I also strung a new sets of lights along the top of the deck rail. I’m taking guesses as to how long they’ll stay lit before a spawn chews the wire. I bought a backup set. My expectations of the string’s survival are low.

When I was a kid, I had important milestones I could barely wait to reach. Each brought huge expectations. I wanted to be a teenager, to turn thirteen. I had watched all those teen movies, and I waited for all the parties and fun to begin. They didn’t. The next milestone was turning sixteen, but that birthday was a bust. I was totally disappointed. We were in Maine, and my aunt and uncle were with us. My birthday was also their anniversary. My mother bought a cake with felicitations to all of us written in the frosting. I didn’t want to share my big day. I figured I only turn 16 once, and they have an anniversary every year. I don’t even remember having a piece of cake. I was a bit petulant. I then bided my time until I was twenty-one. That was a great birthday. My friends took me out to dinner. I was given a magnum of champagne from another friend.   I could drink legally, and I could vote just in time for Nixon’s run in 1968.

All that time, I never really gave much thought to growing older. I never looked that far ahead. Now I find older is creeping closer and closer. My word retrieval skill is weakening. I lose things I put away because I can’t remember where they are. My hair is far grayer than it is brown. Laugh lines are really wrinkles. I’m slower than I’ve ever been. I tend to shuffle sometimes, but I don’t mind. They are just a part of the process of growing older.

Life right now is wonderful. I’m back to the present without worrying about the future. The familiar is filled with wonder. I love every new day.

The sun is still among the missing this morning but it did make an appearance, albeit a short appearance. Today is quite breezy, damp and a bit chilly, and it feels like it will rain.

Today is a get out of the house day. I’ve been inside too long. I haven’t even been on the deck because of the rain. I have a short list of groceries so that will be one stop. I need dog treats so that’s Agway. I also need paper goods like napkins so that will be stop three. By then I’ll want lunch so I might just throw in a stop at the Thai restaurant in Dennisport.

The only inside chore is fur watch. White dog hair is all over the place, on rugs and floors. Every couple of days I Swiffer the den, kitchen and hall. It takes two cloths, but the cleaning is futile. I am Sisyphus with my version of the rock, dog hair.

The animals are asleep. Maddie is on her blanket on the table and Henry is sprawled on the couch. He takes up nearly two cushions.

I’m watching the sequel to The Amazing Colossal Man called The War of the Colossal Beast. It is awful. I’m delighted. The Colossal Man survived his fall from the Hoover Dam and ended up in Mexico. He seems to have amnesia and remembers nothing, including how to speak. He grunts. That’s all, just grunts, no dialogue. After being drugged then captured, he is transported by the army out of Mexico to California and kept chained in a hanger. He manages to break free and disappear which then triggers, “A man hunt for the biggest man in existence.” Really, how many places can a 60 foot man hide?

The strangest thing happened as I was watching the movie. At the end, the beast killed himself by grabbing electrical wires. Right as the sparks appeared, the movie turned to color just for the last minute or two. Very odd!

The morning is cold. Only the back door is open so Henry can go out to the yard. I put on my sweatshirt. My arms were cold. The prediction is clouds all day and a thunderstorm later this afternoon. 70˚ will be the high.

When I wake up, I sometimes have to figure out the day of the week. They all seem to run together now, but when I was kid, each day had an identity. Sunday was the quiet day. It was church in the morning and a family dinner in the afternoon. Once and a while in the summer we went to the beach on a Sunday. We still had church in the morning, but on those rare beach Sundays it was hurry home, pack the car then head off to the beach. My mother made the sandwiches while we were at church. She filled the picnic basket and the tartan cooler. The basket had sandwiches, chips, cookies and fruit. Zarex was in the cooler. I remember carrying that cooler and hearing the clinks of ice cubes banging against the thermos. We stayed all day at the beach. Sometimes, on the way home, I fell asleep. Fun was exhausting.

I just cooked some quahogs so I can make baked stuffed quahogs later. My neighbor gave me a bag of them. I promised her some of the ready to bake quahogs, but I have to go to the store to get a few ingredients. Well, actually, I need most of the ingredients. I’ll make them all and probably freeze some. I remember my father quahogging. He’d bring home a basketful, and my mother would stuff them. She’d freeze a good many and later pull them out for appetizers. They were always a surprise treat.

When I was growing up, the only fish we ate came in sticks, the starter seafood for most kids. We had them on Fridays, the no meat day. I don’t remember when I had fresh fish or steamers or any fried seafood for the first time, but I do remember those fish sticks. I liked that they were finger food and crunchy. I’d dip them in tartar sauce. Usually my mother served French fries with the fish sticks. It was a favorite dinner of mine.

I don’t eat much seafood at home, but I do eat it in restaurants and take-out. I don’t eat  salmon, sardines, mackerel or canned tuna. I do eat most other fish, and I love shellfish and crustaceans like crabs, shrimp and lobster.

Steamers are one of my all time favorites. My mother used to steam them for my father and me and melt the butter then she’d leave the room. She thought eating steamers was disgusting even just to watch. This from a woman we called the seagull because of the foods she’d eat like a cold hot dog and cucumber sandwich.

Last night got cold. I had to close all the downstairs windows, and I’m glad I did because it’s been raining all morning, and the house has a sweatshirt worthy damp chill even with the windows closed. Henry is quick to go out and quicker to come back inside.

When I was a kid, a rainy Saturday ruined the whole week. It meant staying inside and trying to find ways to entertain myself. TV helped fill the time. I watched all the Saturday programs. Later, if I had a book, I’d hide in my bedroom away from the noise of kids stuck inside and read.

It’s a rainy day, and I have fallen into old habits. I’m watching TV to pass the time, and I’ve started a book by Harlan Coben, Don’t Let Go. I bought the hardcover at last week’s farmer’s market. It was a dollar. I’ve already gotten more than my money’s worth.

I have all sorts of collections. I have hats. They are on a hat tree, a real tree in the guest room, and on the bookcase here in the den. Some of the hats are old. One is a red Panama hat I bought in Ecuador in the 70’s. All the women there wear a similar hat. I have an old navy hat and an old army hat. I have my ancient brownie beret and a boy scout hat. I have a brown fedora which reminds me of my dad who wore one to work all the time I was growing up. One of the hats was worn for Easter by my sister when she was young. It is a pill box with flowers on the top and a ribbon and bow. The ribbon hangs down in the back. Three of my hats are from Ghana. A red fez reminds me of Doctor Who. The bowler is like the one John Steed used to wear on The Avengers. The band hat has a plume. A soft brown woman’s hat has feathers. It looks like the sort of hat worn to complement horse riding garb. The train ticket collector’s hat is blue. I have a wide brim pink hat. It is one of my favorites.

What is ironic here is I don’t wear hats. I just collect them.

I haven’t bought a hat for a while, but that doesn’t mean I’ve given up hats. I am just getting choosier.

Coffee is late today because I had PT, my last but one, and a blood test. Before I left for my appointments, I was busy picking up the pieces of flower pots which had fallen and broken during the short rainstorm we had last night. I would have liked more rain, but I did love the wind. It kept the house cool.

I have finally brought my laundry upstairs. It sat in the drier for more than a week. Part of the reason I didn’t get it was I had left mouse traps around the cellar, and I was afraid they’d be dead mice. There were none.

Today is as pretty a day as any. The sun is shining, the deep blue sky is cloudless and there is a strong breeze keeping the heat at bay. It is 76˚. I have a few flowers to pot, and I want to change my bed, the only items on my to-do list.

When I was a kid, my mother pretty much made meals she knew we’d eat. We weren’t big on vegetables except corn, peas and mashed potatoes. My mother, however, was quite clever with vegetables. She used to mash carrots and mix them with the potato. I always wondered about the orange in my mashed potatoes, but I never asked. I just ate the potatoes. They tasted fine to me.

Somewhere along the line I came to love a variety of vegetables. Count me in as a turnip fan. Cabbage is another. I sometimes buy a small head and cook it as a vegetable. I slather butter on it. Butternut squash is my favorite in the squash family followed by acorn squash. I don’t like yellow summer squash and I’m iffy on zucchini, unless it’s zucchini bread. I prefer broccoli and spinach uncooked in salads. Celery is a lot of work for nothing.

Some vegetables are really fruits like the tomato, the avocado and strangely enough string beans. In Ghana I ate okra for the first time. I liked it. It too is a fruit. I was taken aback. I would have bet the ranch that they were vegetables.

This is my annual Father’s Day post. Many of you read it every year. It is about my amazing father, my funny and loving father. This morning, as soon as I woke up, I wished him a Happy Father’s Day.

In my front garden are a couple of ground cover plants. They have been there for years. My father planted them for me. One weekend he and my mother came down to visit. My dad brought his lawn mower, a hand mower, garden tools and those few plants. While my mother and I shopped, my dad mowed the lawn in the front and the back. Both yards were fields no longer. He weeded the garden. I could see the flowers. The garden was lovely. I get to remember that weekend every time I go out the front gate and see my father’s plants. They touch my heart.

This is my annual Father’s Day post. It brings back a rush of memories every time I read it. It makes me smile and long for my father. He was one of a kind in the best of all possible ways.

I have so many memories of growing up, of family trips and my dad trying to whack at us from the front seat and never succeeding, of playing whist in the kitchen, with the teams being my mom and me against my dad and brother, of Sunday rides, of going to the drive-in and the beach and of being loved by my dad. Memories of my dad are with me always, but today my memories are all of my dad, and my heart is filled to the brim with missing him. When I close my eyes, I see him so clearly.

On a warm day so he’d be sitting on the front steps with his coffee cup beside him while reading the paper. He’d have on a white t-shirt and maybe his blue shorts. He’d wave at the neighbors going by in their cars. They all knew him and would honk back. He loved being retired, and we were glad he had a few years of just enjoying life.

He was the funniest guy, mostly on purpose but lots of times by happenstance. We used to have Dad stories, all those times when we roared and he had no idea why. He used to laugh along with us and ask, “What did I say? What did I say?” We were usually laughing too hard to tell him. He was a good sport about it.

I know you’ve heard this before, but it is one of my favorite Dad stories. He, my mom and I were in Portugal. I was driving. My dad was beside me. On the road, we had passed many piggyback tandem trucks, all hauling several truck loads behind them. On the back of the last truck was always the sign Vehiculo Longo. We came out of a gas station behind one of those. My father nonchalantly noted, “That guy Longo owns a lot of trucks.” I was laughing so hard I could barely drive and my mother, in the back seat, was doubled over in laughter.

My father wasn’t at all handy around the house. Putting up outside lights once, he gave himself a shock which knocked him off his step-ladder. He once sawed himself out of a tree by sitting on the wrong end of the limb. The bookcase he built in the cellar had two shelves, one on the floor and the other too high to use. He said it was lack of wood. When painting the house once, the ladder started to slide, but he stayed on his rung anyway with brush in hand. The stroke of the paint on the house followed the path of his fall. Lots of times he set his shoe or pant leg on fire when he was barbecuing. He was a big believer in lots of charcoal lighter fluid.

My father loved games, mostly cards. We played cribbage all the time, and I loved making fun of his loses, especially if I skunked him. When he won, it was superb playing. When I won, it was luck. I remember so many nights of all of us, including aunts and uncles, crowding around the kitchen table playing cards, especially hi-lo jack. He loved to win and we loved lording it over him when he lost.

My father was a most successful businessman. He was hired to turn a company around and he did. He was personable and funny and remembered everyone’s names. Nobody turned him down.

My father always went out Sunday mornings for the paper and for donuts. He never remembered what kind of donut I like. His favorite was plain. He’d make Sunday breakfast when I visited: bacon, eggs and toast. I can still see him standing over the stove with a dish towel over his shoulders. He always put me in charge of the toast.

If I ever needed anything, I knew I could call my father. He was generous. When we went out to eat, he always wanted to pay and was indignant when we one upped him by setting it up ahead of time that one of us paid. One Christmas he gave us all $500.00, not as a gift but to buy gifts.

My father left us when he was far too young. It was sudden. He had a heart attack. I had spoken with him just the day before. It was pouring that day, and I told him how my dog Shauna was soaked. He loved that dog and told me to wipe his baby off. I still remember that whole conversation. I still miss my father every day.

This has already been a productive morning. I went to the opening of the farmer’s market. First I went to the ATM and then spent almost all the money at the market. By the time I was done, my Bolga market basket was filled with bread, honey, tomatoes, a few small pots of herbs and a coffee-coconut sort of skin cream. Before I bought it, the woman gave me a sniff-it was all I needed. I was their very first customer ever they told me.

Last night was so cold so I had to shut the windows. When I woke up, the house still had a bit of that chill, and here in the den is the last of it. The day dawned absolutely beautiful. The high for today should be in the mid-70’s, and the temperature is almost there now.

My street is quiet right now. I have no idea where all the kids are. There are nine of them 12 and under. When I was a kid, our neighborhood was never quiet. You could hear kids yelling at one another, and mothers yelling at kids. Fathers never yelled out the back door.

The back door was where all the communication took place. Kids went inside and the door slammed behind them. Mothers yelled don’t slam the door. Kids yelled back that the door slammed itself. At lunch time, mothers yelled for kids from each of their back doors. It was a cacophony of mothers. By supper time, kids were inside watching TV. Outside sounds disappeared when it got dark. In the summer, through the screen windows, you could hear the TV’s. If you stood outside and looked in, you could see the flickering black and white screens of those TV’s.

I can hear my neighbors some nights. The sounds seem to travel. One neighbor down the end of the street has quite the laugh, and I hear when he finds something entertaining. On my movie nights, I wonder how far the dialogue travels as I have the audio as high as it can go, but no neighbors have complained. I’m thinking they are being good neighbors.

I do have to buy a few things, coffee being number one on my list, but I’ll wait until the late afternoon. In between, I’m going to sit on the deck and read. I think it a perfect plan for today!