I woke up early today. It was and still is foggy. With the fog came dampness and a morning chill. My papers aren’t here yet, but I have my first cup of coffee. Physical therapy for my arm is at 9 so I set my alarm for 7:30, but I woke up early. I told Alexa to cancel the alarm. She didn’t answer. I tried again then checked the shelf. No Alexa. Then I remembered Alexa is downstairs, and I had set a real alarm clock. I walked over and turned it off.

Yesterday I took Henry for a ride. It took a bit to get him outside to the car as he was afraid. We drove around the block, and I stopped at a neighbor’s so she could meet Henry. He peed on the seat cover, but while I was stopped, he settled down. I decided my method would be to go around the block then park in front of the house so he can get used to being in the car. The worst of it was how much he pulled to get into the house. I nearly fell. He nearly choked because the leash was looped around his neck. He doesn’t have his harness on yet. He runs every time I try to put it on. You’d think I was beating him.

When my nephew was three years old, he used swears and used them correctly. I wondered about listening and learning. How many times did he have to hear the swears to know when and how to use them? I thought of that this morning when I used a cliche  (a difficult admittance). I tried to remember if my parents used them often enough for me to learn them. I figured they did.

I do use time cliches. I lost track of time is a big one. Just a matter of time is another. In a jif, a shortened jiffy, is one I like. I find jiffy a strange sounding word but somewhere along the line I heard it and figured out what it meant. I still don’t get as fit as a fiddle. I do get as old as the hills though I don’t know how old the hills actually are. Some cliches make no sense any more like another day another dollar.

A principal I once worked with was the best at his job but he was Mr. Cliche. I used to listen at meetings and keep track of what and how many he used. My paper usually filled.

My favorite misuse of a cliché was at an interview for a secretary’s job. The applicant was asked a question. Her answer started with, “You have hit the nose right on the head.”

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 as predicted, cloudy, chilly and damp. A strong breeze is making it feel chillier. I had to shut the window in here, less because of the breeze and more for the pollen. The phone was covered with the yellowish dust as were most of the other surfaces. My handy sweatshirt sleeve was a great duster.

Not much is happening. My life is quiet. Today I’m hoping the weather will keep the crowds away from the garden shop. I want to get my front garden perennials, the plant for the step and my hanging deck plant. The rest I’ll get later in the week when I know my factotum is coming.

Summer mornings are my favorite times of the day. The air is cool. The birds are singing. I sit on the deck with my coffee and papers. Birds fly over my head on their way to the feeders. I often put down the paper and just sit and listen. It is the most delightful way to start the day.

When I was a kid, summer was casual. On Saturday my dad did his errands and lawn work. We’d go to the drive-in on Saturday night a couple of times a month. I remember my dad handing out the candy and popcorn he’d brought. We never went to the concession stand. Other Saturday nights my dad barbecued hot dogs and burgers.

On Sunday was always church in the morning. Sometimes we’d go to the beach right after church. That was a process. My mother had to make the sandwiches, pack them, cookies and fruit in the basket then fill the thermos with bug juice and gather the blanket, towels and tee- shirts for us so we wouldn’t get too sun burned. My father packed the car. It was a long ride.

Many Sundays we stayed home. My mother didn’t cook a Sunday dinner because the kitchen would get far too hot; instead, I’d grab a sandwich and some chips if there were any left. My sandwich was usually bologna and yellow cheese with mustard and hot peppers on white bread or Scali bread. For some unknown reason I stayed closer to home on Sundays. Seldom did I go bike riding. That was always on Saturdays when I’d ride all over town.

My Sundays now have no set pattern. I like that. I can do or not do.

The day is beautiful, and I’m finding it difficult to believe rain is coming. It is hot by cape standards, 77˚. Tonight it will drop to 55˚, closer to the usual this time of year.

Yesterday morning the sound of a what I thought was a truck woke me up. In that hazy state between awake and asleep, I figured it was the street sweeper clearing the sand from the road, the sand put down during winter snow storms. This morning the same sound woke me up. When I went to get the papers, I saw my lawn had been mowed. It was not a truck I heard. It was the mower which woke me up, disturbed the morning and got me out of bed far too early. I quickly waxed nostalgic about my father and the clicking and clacking of his hand mower. That remains one of my favorite summer sounds.

When I was a young, my neighborhood was filled with kids. Most houses had multiple kids. There were four of us in two waves. My brother and I were a year apart, and I was 5 and 7 years older than my sisters. We, the older two, played games outside like red rover and hide and go seek. I remember our voices seemed to carry through the air, especially in the early evening, sort of at twilight. The seeker counted out loud, and her voice echoed.

I remember sitting on the back steps as it started to get dark. I remember seeing lights go on in the houses behind us. They were all kitchen lights. Once in a while I’d see a neighbor at the window, always a woman. It was the kitchen sink window, and she was doing dishes.

When it got darker, it was time to go inside. The house felt warm compared to the cool night air. The dishes were in the rack right beside the sink. They were air drying. The TV was always on. My father was in the chair by the picture window. My sisters were on the couch. My mother was often in the kitchen sitting at the table. I’d check out what was on TV and then either watch or go upstairs to my room. I’d grab privacy whenever I could. The house was small for the many of us.

We’re back to cloudy. The rain will arrive later in the day. It is a bit chillier than yesterday but still warmish. After the school buses have come and gone, my neighborhood is quiet until Henry barks. He is so loud he becomes the noise, but he is protecting me, keeping me safe from car doors closing so I don’t mind.

Henry has eaten more holes in my down comforter. The worst part is he only has access to it when he is with me. I figure he waits until I’m asleep then attacks the down. I’ve added sewing to my to-do list.

Yesterday I sat on the deck taking in the warmth. The cardinal couple dropped by to the feeders. There were also chickadees and so many gold finches I lost count. The air was filled with bird songs.

When I was little, I made memories. The school corridor, wider than a river, went on for miles. Nuns were all six foot and muscular, even the old ones. The Five and Ten was magical. Everything you wanted or needed was on one of its shelves. The railroad tracks just kept going and going as far as any of us could imagine, even to China. The woods were filled with adventures. Blueberries grew everywhere. The swamp was the skating rink and the science lab. The Thanksgiving turkey needed two people to lift it out of the oven. The Christmas tree touched the ceiling and filled the living room. All of these I tucked away.

Life is gigantic when you’re little. It’s a surprise wrapped in paper and lots of ribbon. The sun is brighter, the snow deeper and the rain heavier. New still happens. Believing is easy. Santa is real and so are the tooth fairy and the Easter bunny. I know the memories I share may have been tempered by time, but I swear most of them are true, except maybe the one about the nuns. A couple of them might have been five ten.

Last night it rained heavily. I could hear it on the roof. I fell asleep to the sound. Today it is supposed to rain again. When I went to get the papers, I was surprised at how warm it is.

Mouse 3 was in the trap this morning. He looked exactly like the other 2. I tried to put the leash on Henry so he could come on the short ride to relocate the mouse. I want to start to get him used to the car, but Henry took off out the dog door. I didn’t chase him; instead, I took the mouse to the car. When I got to a wooded section of the road, I stopped and opened the trap. The mouse didn’t go out. I shook the trap. The mouse stayed. That went on for a while then the mouse jumped out the opening and almost jumped into my car. I was relieved when the wee beastie finally took off into the bush. I’ll reset the trap in a bit.

When I was in Ghana, I had to wear dresses all the time. I didn’t really mind except when getting off or on mammy lorries because I had to climb up on the back to get to and from the seats. Ghana is hot, and in the heat, dresses were cooler than pants would have been. I had to have my dresses made. There were no clothing stores. My seamstress was the wife of a fellow teacher. She lived right next door to me. I’d buy cloth in the market and bring it to her, and she’d make dresses in a variety of designs. Most were without sleeves. My favorite dresses were usually tie-dye. The colors were vibrant. The patterns haphazardly interesting. After paying the market lady and the seamstress, the cost of the dress was usually around 5 cedis, equal to 5 dollars in those days. When I went back to Ghana the first time, I had two shirts made. I forget the cost of the cloth, tie-dye of course, but the shirts were 25 cedis each, around 7 or 8 dollars. They are beautiful.

My memory is one of my favorite places to visit. I go through all those memory drawers for bits and pieces and whole memories. My time in Ghana fills a few drawers. I always think of that as the most amazing experience of my life. I was at home in a place so totally foreign than I had known in all my life before and since. Ghana still feels like home to me.

I was going to set my alarm so I could watch the wedding. I didn’t, but I did DVR it from the BBC. I’ll watch it later, my finger on fast forward.

It was cold last night. I had forgotten to turn off my heat from the last cold day so I was surprised when I heard the blast of hot air. Today is cloudy again and rain is predicted today and tomorrow.

A male and female cardinal were at the feeders this morning. I watched until both of them flew away. The spawns of Satan haven’t been around the yard. That surprises me. I am delighted.

Henry continues to protect me from car doors slamming. He barks and howls. He is still nervous around other people. He sometimes even shakes. I hold him.

When I was a kid, Duke, our boxer, followed us everywhere. We could never shake him and telling him to stay was useless unless he wanted to stay. He never did. I remember one time my father yelled for him to come as he was following kids to the East School. Duke stopped, looked at my dad and kept going. My father was so furious he sputtered, got in his car and went after Duke. Gracie was like that. She totally ignored me, the screaming maniac. Luckily, though, she’d go to anyone else but me.

I get a hankering for particular food. One day it was fried seafood so I took myself to Dennisport, to the same restaurant I ate at when I was in high school. Another day I got Thai food at a newish restaurant, also in Dennisport. I got my food to go. The other day I had a cheeseburger and fries. I always think of that as an iconic all-American meal.

I just took hamburger out of the freezer. I’m thinking a dinner of meatloaf with mash potatoes and peas, a favorite comfort meal. A bit of shopping is in order as I have no peas or mash potatoes, that would be baby peas and Yukon gold potatoes.

It will be a quiet weekend. I have nothing immediate on any list. There is stuff I could do but I won’t. I don’t have to.

What a surprise! It is cloudy again, but no rain is predicted. I’ll just have to wait until tomorrow and Sunday for that. It is quite windy. The boughs are bending back and forth. Last night was foggy. I could see the mist in the back house light.

I have set the mouse trap. Crunchy peanut butter is the lure. It has worked twice so far. Lee, when he was vacuuming yesterday, said he saw no mouse poop. I’m not convinced. I found an empty bag in the cabinet. It used to be a bag of pasta, an expensive bag of pasta from the Italian store. At least the mice have good taste.

Last night I made dinner, a dinner dinner according to my sister. She meant it wasn’t a scrounge through the fridge for something easy sort of dinner. I don’t know what came over me. I had steak and rice pilaf. I didn’t have a vegetable because I hadn’t bought any. I do have tomatoes, technically a fruit, and lettuce, both for my BLT sandwiches, but I didn’t think to use them. I have to buy bread today so I’ll buy some fresh veggies as well.

My animals are napping after their hectic morning. Henry went out twice, had breakfast and ran up and down the hall a couple of times. Maddie had some treats, fresh water, and used the puppy pads. Both of them are exhausted.

This week has been boring. I didn’t do much. My back hurt, and that limited my activities. I did watch some TV, finish one book and start another, do laundry, water plants and nap. I didn’t go out yesterday so I still need my dump sticker. I need bread even more so I’ll head out later.

When I was a kid, I was seldom bored. I remember playing in the cellar. One time I was Annie Oakley. I put a blanket on the stair rail at the end of the bannister and pretended I was riding a horse. I’d throw a ball against the wall and play a few innings. I was both teams. That meant I always won. I know it meant I always lost too, but I never saw it that way.  The cellar windows were small. They were in the concrete foundation above the ground. I remember seeing the sun streaming through one window. The stream was filled with dust. It didn’t matter. I didn’t care. My cellar was a wondrous place. It was the Old West, and I was riding Paint, my trusty steed. It was the outfield at Fenway Park, and I had just caught the last out and insured our victory. I heard the cheers of the Fenway faithful. I tipped my cap.