Keep the Coffee Comimg

The day is perfect. It is sunny, breezy and a bit chilly, flannel shirt weather, which is just fine with me. This is only June. Summer doesn’t have to hurry.

I haven’t yet bought my flowers. It has been too hot or rainy the last few days but not today. I am also going to the dump. It is a banner day.

Henry is crazy. He woke me up at three to let him out. I went downstairs and opened the door then went back to bed. At around eight, I could hear him running from my room to the guest room pounding the floor as he ran. I wondered how the horses got inside to run with Henry, and I’m not exaggerating. He’d jump on my bed then jump off over and over.  The bed shook each time. Finally he settled down, and I went back to sleep until ten when his chewing woke me up. He was chewing on my beautiful spread from India. He had almost chewed off one piece. I saved the piece and folded the rest of the spread over to cover the chewed part then we both went downstairs.

I talked to my sister yesterday, the one near Boston, and she asked what was going on. I told her nothing and nothing was exactly what was going on. In the afternoon it rained enough to wash the pollen off my car. Parts of the deck are also clean, but under chairs and tables are still pollen covered. Rain is predicted for tomorrow so more or even all of the pollen should be gone. It will be a cold rain with the temperature only in the mid-50’s.

When I was a kid, the end of school was in early June. We spent the week before the last day putting books away and cleaning the room. I always liked getting the erasers to clean. I got to go outside and beat them one against the other. My school uniform front and my hands and arms always got chalk dust covered. We didn’t do much school work that week as the text books were packed. We did do a few works sheets and spelling words.

The last day was always a half day. The nun gave out ribbons for excellence. I remember  one year getting spelling, history, religion and reading ribbons. The nuns also gave us our last report cards, the big report card. I remember looking at the back before anything else. On the bottom back, it said promoted to followed by a number we all expected to be the number of the next grade. It always was.

The weather shifts hour by hour. When I got up at 5 to let Henry out, it was foggy, cloudy and damp. The fog was whirling around the bottom branches of the pine trees. The air felt wet. When I got up again at 8, the sun was shining but it was humid with thick air. At 9, I went to get the papers and was surprised at hot it was. My house was much cooler. Right now it is cloudy and still humid despite a strong breeze, but the clouds seem transitory. The sun will be back.

I have no plans for today though I should buy my flowers. It is time to get them in the ground and on the deck, but I just have this laid back attitude which flinches at the idea of work of any sort particularly in this heat and humidity; however, were it suddenly to get cold, I suspect my mood wouldn’t change. It is just one of those days.

The only sound is the lawn mower working on my front yard. I can smell the cut grass. It hangs in the air.

Enough flowers have bloomed to give the air some sweetness. This morning I noticed a yellow iris. It stands in the front of the garden bed taller than many of the flowers behind it. I also noticed the flowers are spreading and the front garden is filling in enough so I can count the spaces needing new flowers. There are 7 of them. I’m glad I have a list.

When I was a kid, summer was haphazard. We’d bike ride, go to the pool, the zoo or the playground. My favorite was the playground. It was just below the hill where I lived and was monitored by two college students who planned each day. I took tennis lessons early in the morning. The park provided the rackets and the coach. All day long there were activities. A couple of days a week in the afternoons, our softball team played other playgrounds. We were good. For other activities I could play checkers at the big picnic table or toss horseshoes in the pit. For arts and crafts I made the looped pot holders. I think everyone made the looped pot holders. Another activity was painting a wooden tray. I actually did a great job which surprised me. Painting was not one of my talents.

My mother loved the playground more than I did. If we were they, we weren’t in the house driving her crazy.

The day is dreary and dark. It was a misty rain when I went to get the papers and when Henry went out later. I find mist an annoying rain. I always think it should really rain or not rain at all, none of this misty stuff. It is only 64˚. I had shut all the windows to keep the pollen out so my house is warm, unusual for a chilly morning. My car is covered in pollen as is the deck and all the furniture. Yesterday I filled the feeders, and I could see my footprints in the pollen going from the seed barrel to the feeders and back again. I hope it pours as rain will get rid of much of the pollen.

I don’t remember pollen from when I was a kid. I think that’s because we didn’t have mostly pine trees. We had a variety of trees. I remember the giant oak tree across the street which was felled during a hurricane and the chestnut tree by the fence up near the parking lot. The maple trees had flying seed pods like whirlybirds. We’d get a seed pod from the ground, open one end and stick it on our noses. There were all kinds of fir trees in the woods. I always collected the different pine cones. When I was older, I used them for decorations at Christmas. My whole walk to school during the fall and spring was shaded by maple trees. I loved the shadows beneath them on the sidewalk from the sun poking through their leaves.

Trees chronicled best the changing seasons from their brilliant fall leaves to the spindly limbs of winter then to the buds and tiny leaves of spring and finally to the full, beautiful trees of summer.

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.