Today is warmer than the last few days. The air smells of spring. The breeze is so slight it barely moves the end branches of trees. When Henry is out, I stand on the deck in the sun and watch him. He runs all over the back of the yard with wild puppy abandonment. He frolics.

One of my last trips to Europe was to Iceland with my mother and sister. We arrived in the darkness of an Icelandic winter morning. While we waited for our rooms to be ready, we sat in the lobby. My mother kept looking out the windows. At around nine she turned and asked me if it ever gets light. She also watched the bus stop across the street. There was a small glass enclosure around three sides. The people waiting for the bus were huddled. They looked frozen. Later we decided to go to town. I told my mother we’d take the bus. She looked horrified and asked if we had to go across the street. We did. My mother froze. We walked all around Reykjavik and did a bit of shopping. My mother despite her frozen state actually found an Irish pub. She was delighted to warm up with an Irish coffee, a couple of Irish coffees.

My mother and I went to Italy together. We stayed in a small hotel in Rome. During the day we wandered the city. My mother was a great traveling companion. At dinner one night I ordered bruschetta. She had never heard of it. She loved it and ordered it just about every night after that. We’d get back to the hotel and sit and have a drink before going to our room. Each night my mother ordered cognac. I had never seen her drink anything but whiskey and coke, a sort of weird cousin to a Cuba libre. When I mentioned that, she said this is a vacation. Anything goes.

When my mother visited me, I’d give her a cup of coffee and a biscotti at breakfast. She never drank coffee or tea. The coffee was for dunking purposes only. She did love biscotti.

My parents and I traveled together many times. I’d plan where we were going. I think my favorite trip with them was to Vienna and Budapest. My favorite day of that trip was Easter Sunday. We heard the Vienna Boys Choir at mass and saw the Lipizzans in the early afternoon. We stopped for a Sacher torte. Later we sat in a park, drank wonderful iced coffee and listened to Mozart, Schubert and Strauss being played by a small orchestra. My father loved the whipped cream on the coffee and smacked his lips every time he tasted it. That night we ate dinner in our hotel, the Palais Schwarzenberg, the most expensive hotel I’ve ever stayed in. The dinner menu had no prices. A man in a weskit worked the elevator, an old fashion one with a gate. The dinner started with a gift from the chef, quail eggs. The meal was sumptuous. My dad paid. I said let’s got to the lounge by the bar, and I’ll treat for after dinner drinks. We ordered Irish coffees. The bill was close to 60.00 for the three drinks. My dad thought that was funny. I wondered about the cost of dinner. He wouldn’t tell me.

I am blessed to have these wonderful memories of me and my parents traveling together. It was always fun.

Today we still have sun and blue sky and that pesky breeze which gives a chill to the air. We got to 55˚ yesterday. Last night was cold. I have bird feeders to fill, and that’s it for chores. I have no errands. I see a quiet day with my book.

When I was a kid, the fathers did all the lawn and garden work except for Mrs. Burns who lived on top of the hill behind my house. She took care of her lawn, and it was the best lawn in the neighborhood. The backs of the houses had no divisions between the yards but you knew where her yard started and ended because of the thick, green lawn. If anyone walked on her lawn, she shouted from the kitchen window none too gently. I remember watching her mow. She went back and forth overlapping each row.

My father always planted pansies and marigolds in the small garden in the front of our house. They were the only flowers I knew by name. My father mowed the lawn with his push mower. All his life he used that bush mower. He was always proud of his lawns. He didn’t let anyone else mow. He had a system. After my parents had bought a house, my father planted in the window boxes out front, and my mother had a flower garden in the back below the kitchen windows. She had a statue of St. Francis in her garden. My mother had all sorts of flowers planted and the garden was beautiful. We did have to fence it as my dog Maggie always checked out the garden and stepped on my mother’s flowers. After I bought my house, my parents came down for the weekend, and my father planted flowers in my garden, and he mowed the lawn in front and the tall grass in the back. The flowers still grow every spring.

I have a list of flowers to buy this year. They are different than any already in my garden. I also have a list for the window boxes on the back deck rails. Those plants repel mosquitos.

I am impatient for warmer weather so I can shop at the garden store. I love wandering the rows of flowers and herbs. I take my list and check off my floral finds. I also pick up some not on the list because of their beauty or their colors. I just want flowers.

They’re back, the sun and blue sky. It is still cold, but I can probably downgrade it to chilly if I’m standing in the sun. The nights, though, are downright cold, winter cold at 34˚.

When I was a kid, a nickel or a dime was wealth. I remember once I found a half dollar, a treasure. It was a strange find, almost mystical. I was coming back from my aunt’s house using the short cut, a path along side a fence and behind some houses. At the end, I’d jump the fence where it was the shortest and be near my house. I remember thinking I wish I still had my allowance, all fifty cents of it, so I could buy another book, another Trixie Belden. I sat for a minute with my back to the fence before I jumped it. I looked down and there was a half dollar on the path, a shiny half dollar. I was beyond amazed. I believed it was magic. The make a wish, and it comes true sort of magic. I had no other explanation, still don’t.

I believe the world is magical if you take the time to look. It is the dreamer in me. I also have a healthy dose of skepticism honed over time, and I can be cynical. I think my cynicism grew from my idealism, but that’s just my theory.

Fireflies twinkling in my backyard among the trees is magical. I stand on my deck and watch them and have trouble pulling myself away. Christmas lights shining bright in the darkness of winter always delight me. I keep white lights lit all year. Some are candles in my windows; one is a huge star hanging on my fence and a string of lights is around the rail at the end of the deck. I love sun rises and sun sets. I read fantasy novels and leave my skepticism behind. I have a gnome statue. He lives inside all winter and moves to the deck for the summer. The crashing of white crested waves on rocks takes my breath away.

When I travel, my eyes are wide open to everything, my ears are tuned for new sounds and my nose sniffs out unfamiliar smells. But when I travel back to Ghana, I find the familiar awesome. I am still filled with wonder at my having lived in Africa.

I just hope I never forget to look at the world with wide eyes, especially here at home.

The day is dreary. I got rained on when I went out to get the papers. It is a day to stay home, to stay warm and dry, to wear comfy clothes and slippers and maybe even take a nap. Henry goes in and out the dog door now, but I have to be a cheerleader urging him on. He hated me yesterday for most of the afternoon after I put his new collar on him. Every time I went near Henry he ran, ears down and body slouched.

When I was a kid, I walked to school and home again even if it rained. I didn’t have a raincoat or rain boots. Sometimes my shoes got so wet my socks sort of bubbled. I’d sit at my desk and watch the rain hit the windows. The classroom was always quiet when it rained. We only heard the drops and sometimes the rustle of pages when we read our literature books. On our report cards we got graded on silent reading. I always got an A. Getting lost in a book was easy for me. I could block out the whole world.

On rainy days we didn’t have recess. During lunch time, we could walk around the classroom, and we could talk without the nun shushing us. I don’t think the nuns got lunch on rainy days as they had to stay in the rooms with us. That didn’t occur to me until I was older, and I realized we never saw nuns eat except for Sister Hildegard, my eighth grade teacher, who used to sneak and eat candy bars. She once spit nuts on my paper.

When I’d get home from school, I’d immediately change out of my school clothes. On rainy days I’d often put on my pajamas. That, I guess, was the beginning of my wearing cozy clothes. My shoes I’d put under the radiator so they’d dry. When they were dried, they looked a bit like genie shoes, curled at the ends. They were stiff, and it took awhile before they got comfortable again.

During the rainy season in Ghana, I’d stay inside during torrential rainstorms but mostly  the rain was slight enough so I could go about my day. Nobody minded the rain. Nobody carried umbrellas. I loved the rainy season. The crops grew high. The grasses were green. The market was filled with produce. I could hear the rain on the metal roof of my house. It was rhythmic. It was loud. It was the only sound.

What a glorious morning! We have sun and a blue sky. It is even warm, at least comparably. I have been busy. Henry got me up at 6:30 so he could go out. He ran down the stairs, and I had no choice but to follow. I have found Henry doesn’t walk: he runs up and down stairs and up and down the hall; he runs into the yard and up the backstairs. He runs into the kitchen. He runs and jumps on my bed which is why I couldn’t go back to sleep this morning; instead, I changed my bed. It took a while because of a dog sitting in the middle of it. I also restuffed and sewed the chewed edge of my comforter. I had been collecting down from all over the floor; however, I found another chewed edge. I just tucked it under. Henry barked for the first time this morning. It started with his growling. I checked out the front door and saw nothing. I thanked Henry for barking, for being on alert. The last Henry thing of the morning was he came in the dog door without me even being there to lift the flap. We’ll work on going out the dog door next. Henry is doing well.

I was five when my aunt brought us Duke. He was six months old and had been returned to the breeder. I don’t know how my aunt found out about him. I don’t know if she told my parents ahead of time. I just remember he howled in the living room when he first arrived, and he was the reason I fell in love with boxers. Duke was protective. I remember once during a storm he tried to break out of the house because someone was walking on the street. He growled and barked over and over. We felt safe. Duke was also stubborn, a boxer trait. That drove my father crazy. Duke used to follow us everywhere. I’d turn around and tell him to stay. Every time I did he was sitting down, but the distance between us never got any greater. He was tricky. He was amazing. Duke was with us for my whole childhood. He lived a long time but dogs never do live long enough.

I don’t think I’ll ever be without a dog.

Nope, I didn’t expect the weather to get worse but it did. The wind is howling. The pine trees are bending left and right. I expect the backyard to be littered with their branches. Pine always seems the most likely to snap in the wind. Last night a few snow flakes fell before giving way to rain. It is still raining. The temperature at 44˚ is warmer than yesterday but the dampness is bone chilling.

Henry has pretty much pulled all the stuffing from his toy. He is my first chewer. I just pick it up or take it out of his mouth and throw it away. He goes back for more. I’ve tried to take his picture with that ratty toy, but he doesn’t seem to like the camera and stops whatever he is doing. Henry is also my first dog not to mind the rain. Gracie always looked beaten when I made her go out to the yard. Henry runs out, squats and runs back inside. This morning I didn’t open the door so he was forced to use the dog door.

When I was a kid, I always loved spring. My bike spend more time leaning against the back steps than in the cellar. I wore a light spring jacket with a sweater underneath, no more mittens, no more hats and no more heavy coats. Even if I felt cold, I’d never admit it. I took spring literally.

My sneakers were always white. We called them tennis shoes. Mine were from Converse. When I was younger, I didn’t care if they got dirty. When I was older, I even used polish to keep them looking white. It was a matter of fashion and pride. All the sneakers were canvas back then. I still have a few Converse high tops. One pair is pink and the other pair purple. I used to wear them all the time. If I wore them now, I’d seem eccentric but old ladies can get away with so much and I like eccentric.

I did go to the dump yesterday. It was freezing cold and raining. I didn’t even change from my cozy clothes. I didn’t ‘t care. It isn’t as if the dump has a dress code.

Today is a good day. We have sun, at least for the meantime, and a blue sky hazy with clouds. It is in the 50’s though it will drop to the 30’s tonight. The Red Sox have their best opening record since 1918. Today’s game is on at 1. My knee barely hurts this morning so it is close to healing completely. I even brought the trash bag to the car. The laundry which has sat by the cellar door long enough to grow legs is now in the washer and the dryer. Henry is more at home. He growled when he heard a car door shut. He is sitting and napping on the couch. Last night I went out on the deck to check for him, and he was running circles at top speed in the yard. He then ran up the backstairs and went into the house by the dog door. His dishes are now on the floor, no more couch feedings.

This coming week is April vacation. When I worked, I usually went to Europe and spent the week in one country. One of my favorite trips was with my parents and my sister Sheila. We  spent most of the week in Belgium though we did cross over to the Netherlands. I remember driving along the side of a canal. I think my father held his breath the whole time. We took a ferry, and I had to drive the car onto the ferry, onto the two wooden entry planks. My father closed his eyes. The funniest incident was in a wonderful restaurant though I can’t remember which town. My mother and sister went to the ladies room. My dad and I checked the map for our next leg. All of a sudden the middle of the map was on fire. We had been too close to the candle. Everyone in that restaurant burst into laughter. We just sort of shrugged, put out the fire and folded the map. When my mother and sister got to the table, they wanted to know why everyone was chuckling. I unfolded the map. It had a huge hole in the middle with burnt edges. The two of them roared laughing. My father and I were chagrined.

My mother told us she was tired of Europe. We jumped on that one. She was forever sorry she had said it, but I knew what she meant. Our next trip was with the whole family and was in honor of my dad who had wanted to take us all somewhere to celebrate their 50th wedding anniversary. They didn’t make it to 50. My dad passed away. My mother decided she’d give us a trip to Panama through the canal and fulfill my dad’s dream trip. We hoisted more than a few in his honor when we met every afternoon for drinks. We knew he’d have loved that trip.

My last four trips have been to Africa: one to Morocco and three to Ghana. My bank account is gasping for breath. I’d like to take one more trip. I figure in three years if I’m frugal I’ll have enough to go somewhere. That destination has yet to be determined, but it won’t be to Europe. I love off the beaten path.