This morning was cloudy, but the sun is pushing through and bringing alone a blue sky. It will be in the 60’s. The forecast is for rain tomorrow, even a thundershower. I know what April showers bring but what about rain in May?

Dinner was delicious last night. My friend Tony went all out for Clare and me and Mother’s Day. It was a wonderful evening starting with a delicious appetizer then a tasty chicken dinner and finally a marble cake with Happy Mother’s Day on it for dessert. We even got cards and wrapped gifts.

When I was a kid, we made cards for Mother’s Day. I remember folding construction paper in half for the card and using crayons and pictures and words cut from the paper and some magazines. I’d glue all of that to the construction paper. The bottle of glue I used was clear glass and had a rubber top with a slit. I’d roll the slit side across what I wanted glued to something else. The amount of glue I used was extraordinary, and the top was always covered in glue. I’d just leave it that way, and the glue always hardened and covered the slit.

My mother used Mercurochrome on our cuts. I remember the reddish color and how it sometimes ran down from the cut. The stain lasted forever. It wasn’t until later that we found out that Mercurochrome had traces of mercury. We should have figured that out as the name gave it away, but in those days nobody questioned anything. So what if it had mercury?

I comment out-loud about what I’m watching on TV. I tell Henry so it doesn’t seem as if I’m just talking out-loud. This is not a new thing with me. It didn’t come with age. I’ve talked to all my animals. None of them answer me. If they do, I’m in trouble.

I had a first on Sunday morning. I was standing checking out the garden when I saw a squirrel follow by four babies. They were in line behind her like ducks. They crossed the street, and she climbed a tree. Each of her babies followed in turn. At one spot, they were bundled, crowded together. It was a blob of grayness. She jumped to a different tree. One at a time, the babies followed, but one missed the tree and grabbed a thin branch from the first tree. I got worried that it would fall, but that baby righted itself and jumped, successfully, to the other tree. I watched them until they were out of my sight. I didn’t think of them as spawns of Satan. They were a mother and her babies.

Today is Mother’s Day. It is the day I honor my mother and my memories of her. Every year I post basically this same entry with only a few little changes.

My mother was amazing. She was generous, fun to be with and was the perfect martyr when she needed to be, a skill I think most mothers have. It was her tone of voice so filled with pain that caused our guilt to well to the surface. “I’ll do it myself,” she’d say. We’d scurry to do whatever she wanted.

My sisters and I laugh often about the curses she inflicted on us: the love of everything Christmas and never thinking you have enough presents for everyone, giving Easter baskets overflowing with candy and fun toys and surprising people with a gift just because.

My mother had a generosity of spirit. She was funny and smart and the belle of every ball. She always had music going in the kitchen as she worked so she could sing along. She played Frank and Tony and Johnny and from her I learned the old songs. My mother drew all the relatives to her, and her house was filled. My cousins visited often. She was their favorite aunty. My mother loved to play Big Boggle, and we’d sit for hours at the kitchen table and play so many games we’d lose track of the time. Christmas was always amazing, and she passed this love to all of us. We traveled together, she and I, and my mother was game for anything. I remember Italy and my mother and me after dinner at the hotel bar where she’d enjoy her cognac. She never had it any other time, but we’re on vacation she said and anything goes. I talked to her just about every day, as did my sisters. I loved it when she came to visit. We’d shop, have dinner out then play games at night. I always waited on her when she was here. I figured it was the least I could do.

My mother loved extreme weather shows, TV judges and crime. She never missed Judge Judy. She also liked quiz shows and she and I used to play Jeopardy together on the phone at night. She always had a crossword puzzle book with a pen inside on the table beside her chair, and I used to try to fill in some of the blanks. On the dining room table was often a jig saw puzzle, and we all stopped to add pieces on the way to the kitchen. My mother loved a good time.

She did get feisty, and I remember flying slippers aimed at my head when I was a kid and one time a dictionary, a big dictionary, was thrown which luckily missed me though the binding broke when it hit the wall. I pointed that out to her and that made her madder. She expertly used mother’s guilt on us, her poor victims. We sometimes drove her crazy, and she let us know, none too quietly. We never argued over politics. She kept her opinions close. We sometimes argued over other things, but the arguments never lasted long.

Even after all this time, I still think to reach for the phone to call my mother when I see something interesting or have a question I know only she can answer, but then in a split second I remember. When I woke up this morning, my first thought was of her, and how much she is missed. No one ever told me how hard it would be.

Today is busy in odd ways. First, as I was making coffee, I noticed a mouse in my trap. It hadn’t been there long as evidenced by the lack of mouse poop (sort of gross, I know). It was the same mouse I had seen on Wednesday but didn’t catch. I had chased it into the bathroom but it got away. I then baited the trap with chunky peanut butter. I kept checking and finally, this morning, the trap was occupied. I immediately grabbed the trap, got into the car, drove to a wooded spot and let the mouse go. I wished it well.

I went to the kitchen to get another cup of coffee. I noticed a ring around the burners. I couldn’t help myself so I started cleaning the top of the stove, coffee forgotten. Next I swiffered the hall. It had bunches of white dog hair (assuming, of course, that dog hair comes in bunches). It was then I remembered the coffee.

I’m almost afraid to move. I’m thinking the rest of the house needs swiffering, my bed needs changing and the laundry is growing legs because it has been too long in the hall.

Today is lovely. The sun is bright. Even though it is 64˚, it is chilly because of the wind. Some white flowers are blooming in the front garden. They are small and delicate. Whatever they are, they have spread.

My dance card is empty. I’m glad for that. Today is a stay at home day. Part of it will be spent cleaning. As for the rest of the day, I’m thinking reading and relaxing and maybe even taking a nap.

When I was growing up, I wanted to be lots of things. Some days I thought being a cowboy was about the best job of all. You get to ride a horse and dress in western clothes with lots of bead work and fringe. Annie Oakley was tops on my list. Dale Evans was a close second. When I was ten, I wanted to be a writer, like Jo in Little Women. It was my favorite book. I had a Whitman edition with a hard cardboard cover, and I devoured that book. Being a detective and traveling around solving crimes seemed great fun, and Nancy Drew’s roadster would have been an added perk though I admit that one was a long shot. Reading about Nelly Bly made me want to travel the world as did just about every copy of National Geographic. I imagined myself wandering through the rain forest or riding across the desert on a camel.

Some futures I never entertained, like being a nurse or a doctor. Maybe if Florence Nightingale had worn fringe and could hit the bull’s eye while standing atop her horse’s saddle, I might have been more interested.

Last night it rained. I know because the streets are wet. The air is damp and chilly. The sun is hiding behind the clouds waiting its turn.

Yesterday morning fog covered the lawns and the houses. Because the fog usually appears in the early morning over the river, I don’t get to see it. I like fog. It brings to mind Sherlock Holmes’ movies, murderous creatures hiding in the mist and an eeriness from the imagined unseen. I stayed on the deck despite the dampness.

When I was a kid, I loved this time of year. I remember walking to school. The trees over the sidewalk had baby leaves. The lawns were turning green. The birds were out. Though it was usually a bit chilly in the morning, I wore a light spring jacket sometimes with a sweater underneath. I don’t remember feeling cold.

My mother always made breakfast for us. Sometimes it was soft boiled eggs served in an egg cup with strips of toast for dunking in the yolk on the side. In the winter it was often oatmeal. That is one of the foods I ate as a kid I won’t touch as an adult. Back then I doctored the oatmeal with milk and lots of sugar. Dry cereal was also breakfast. We usually had a couple of choices. I remember my brother always chose Cheerios. Some mornings we just had toast. Tea in a ceramic teapot covered with flowers, roses I think, was always on the table. Two were tea drinkers. I was a cocoa drinker.

When I was in Ghana, I always had two eggs, toast and instant coffee for breakfast. The eggs were cooked in peanut oil and were delicious. The coffee wasn’t.

For most of my adult life, I have had only coffee for breakfast. When I worked, it was a single cup, but I’d stop and buy coffee on my way to school. Sometimes I’d get a donut. I am partial to butternut and Boston cream donuts. Now I have two cups of coffee, one with each paper, and sometimes toast and other times biscotti. I tend to make eggs for dinner more than for breakfast. I like bacon with my eggs.

When I visited my parents, my father always made Sunday breakfast. He cooked eggs and bacon. I was in charge of my own toast. He used to keep a dish towel over his shoulder, and that’s how I see him in my mind’s eye: standing at the stove with a spatula in his hand and that dish cloth on his right shoulder. I never did see him use it.

The weather has settled into May. The days are in the 50’s and the nights down to the 40’s. The sun is shining and the sky is a lovely blue. It is warmer outside than here in the house. That’s the way it is this time of year. The heat is on for just a bit.

Everything is still. Even the new leaves on the ends of the oak branches aren’t moving. My neighborhood is quiet. All I hear are bird songs.

The other night I heard what first sounded like a weird bird song. I listened a while and then recognized a turkey gobbling. It was close but the sound faded as the turkey moved. It finally got too far away to hear.

My sister and I were talking about our town square. She remembers buying popcorn, and I remember the smell of it popping. Behind the stores was a small candy factory. I don’t remember anything about it except for that wondrous smell wafting through the square.

The popcorn conversation moved easily into Jiffy Pop. We both remembered the aluminum foil getting taller and taller as the corn popped. We also remembered that you had to keep shaking the pan or the corn would burn. We used to take turns shaking it. The buttery popcorn was worth the work.

Henry ate my cozy pants yesterday. He was upstairs when I left to do errands so I let him stay here. When I got home, I went to change. My cozy pants which I had thrown over the bottom of the bed when I got dressed were wet around the waist. I held them up and saw a big hole right above one leg. On the bed I found remnants of blue cloth, chewed remnants. Henry had found a way to keep busy. Today the gate is across the stairs.

I found a few more holes in my little library. I thought that would end with the death of one bird caught inside with the books. There must be something about the wood attracting the birds. I’m going to cover the new holes later, a stop gap solution. When I can, I’m going to the hardware store to find wood putty or something like it to fill in the holes. You’d think the birds would be more thankful given the feeders I fill with seed.

A holly tree is growing in the rough area outside my backyard fence. Some bird must have dropped seeds there. I only noticed the seedling when I was checking out the leaning fence, the section needing a new post. The tree is small but healthy looking with bright, shiny leaves. It is in a perfect spot for a tree.

I missed a meeting this morning. I forgot to put it on my calendar. That is so not me. I do have physical therapy later. That’s on the calendar.

The house was cold this morning. I had left my bedroom window open. It got down to the middle 50’s last night so I snuggled under my comforter. I checked the thermostat when I came downstairs, and it was only 62˚ in here. My heat, which had been off since May 1st, was turned on again, and the furnace started blasting hot air right away. Once the house was warm, I turned off the heat. It’s May after all.

When I was a kid, my school had an annual May procession. Every grade took part. The second graders wore their first communion white. The rest of the girls wore fancy dresses and the boys wore jackets and ties. We walked around the long block from the playground near the church to the front of the church. Parents lined the sidewalks. When I was in the eighth grade, I crowned the statue of Mary, the culminating May procession tradition. The statue was high in a niche in the grotto to the side of the church. I was last in the procession. I wore my neighbor’s wedding dress. I stopped to pose for pictures. Once we were at the grotto, we all sang songs to Mary, “Mary we crown thee with blossoms today, queen of the angels, queen of the May.” I remember all the songs. We practiced them for weeks before the procession. I stood by the grotto rail until it was time for me to go up the ladder to the statue. I held the bannister with one hand and the crown with the other. It was tricky as the dress was long. One of the priests help me up the ladder. When the time came, I placed the flower crown on Mary’s head then carefully went down the ladder. It wasn’t long after that the procession was over. We broke ranks and went to find our parents. I stopped to pose for pictures.

Today is cloudy. It is warmer outside than the house was. Male goldfinches were at the feeders as was a spawn of Satan. It was holding on to the outside of the feeder trying to get the seed inside. I scared it away and wished I had a sling shot.

Yesterday I went to the dump. I waited until the last minute hoping the rain would have stopped, but it was still raining. I did feel accomplished after I’d dumped everything. I need a few essentials like bread, dry dog food and canned cat food so I’ll be heading out in a bit.

When I was a kid, my mother often sent me to the store for one thing or another. Usually it was milk or bread. I rode my bike. The white store was just a bit closer, but it didn’t have anywhere near the amount of groceries the red store did. I remember walking into the red store and seeing, right in front, the Hostess display. My favorites were Hostess cupcakes and Sno-balls. Mostly the Sno-balls were pink. I’d pull off the frosting in a single  piece and eat the cupcake first. The coconut on the frosting was my favorite part.

I’m thinking that Hostess came to mind because I need to do an errand. Looks like I’m be buying more than bread.

Summer is gone. Today is chilly and damp. We’re back to sweatshirt weather. Rain is predicted, but the clouds seem too bright. I suppose they’ll darken later.

There is something about Sunday mornings which holds me in thrall. I take my time getting up. As the coffee brews, I watch the birds at the feeders from inside the kitchen window. Henry goes out, and I go get the Sunday papers, come back inside, grab a cup of coffee and then start my reading fest. After a bit, it’s time for my weekly call to my sister in Colorado. We often talk during the week, but Sunday is our day nonetheless. We talk an hour sometimes. When we’re done, I grab a cup of coffee and go back to my papers. By the time I sit down to my computer, it’s nearly one o’clock. I am always surprised by the time.

I watch TV, not as much as Chance the Gardener, but I watch. I also bitch and moan. Even with a zillion stations, I sometimes find nothing to watch. HGTV is one of my stations of last resort. I’ve watched so much I can now throw around phrases like curb appeal, focal point and window treatment. I know to look for hardwood floors, a master suite, stainless steel, tile and granite or its ilk. Mirrors will make the room look bigger. Neutral colors are best.

I always think spring smells fresh like the air after a rainstorm. Summer is flowers and grass. Fall will always be burning leaves. Winter smells are all inside. They’re Christmas and cookies and dinner in the oven. Sometimes the wonderful smell of the ocean makes it as far as my house. Usually it comes in the morning air. I can smell rain long before the first drops fall, and I swear snow has a smell that comes with that eerie light just before a storm. I love the smell of burning candles. Last night it was cinnamon and before that it was coconut. My sister gave me small squares of peat and a stone block to hold the burning embers. I was reminded of the old b&b in Youghal Ireland. It was springtime and cold and damp. We were the only guests. The owner lit a peat fire in the grate in the dining room. The smell of peat filled the room. It stuck to my clothes. I could smell it even when I got home and opened my suitcase. The smell of burning wood always brings me back to Ghana. For that, it is one of my favorite smells.

When I went to get the papers, I was surprised at how warm it is. The sun is out, but there are clouds. Rain is coming tomorrow. Today will be a pleasant day.

YouTube has been my go to station lately. I’ve watched black and white science fiction and a few disaster movies. I’ve also watched some Peace Corps videos posted by trainees and volunteers. I envy those just starting out in training. They have a most interesting two years ahead of them, two years they will forever treasure. I remember my training. We were the first group to train entirely in country. Our first stop was Winneba for two weeks. My room was on the second floor. I remember the first morning when I was standing by the rail outside my room for my first up close look at Africa. I saw palm trees, thick green undergrowth and tin roofs. During those two weeks we went to meet the chief of Winneba. I can’t imagine what the Ghanaians were thinking when they saw all of these white people walking through their village. It must have been a strange parade.

Training lasted nearly three months. We ate Ghanaian food nobody identified for us. I remember a lot of green which I later found out was kontomire, never a favorite. We got shots, a multitude of shots. We Upper Region trainees finished our live-ins with our Ghanaian families then traveled by ourselves from one end of Ghana to the other to Koforidua and the rest of training. During the three weeks in Koforidua we got together many nights at a spot, a Ghanaian term for a bar, for beer, conversation and mostly companionship. In my mind’s eye, I can still see that spot on the corner of the main road. We hitched to Accra for the weekend. We got one ride all the way. By the end of training, we were comfortable riding tro-tros, walking all over Accra and eating all sorts of strange foods. Ghana had stopped being a foreign country.

I could have gone to law school or accepted a teaching position, but I chose the Peace Corps. For a long time it had been my only real choice. The other two were backup plans I hoped never to use. I remember a January afternoon my senior year in college when the doorbell rang. It was a postman with a special delivery manila envelope for me. On the upper left corner was the return address. It was from Peace Corps. I tore that sucker open and found out I was going to Ghana. I was beyond thrilled. I was joyful. I still feel the same way!