Today is such a lovely sunny day after so many rainy and cloudy days. It will be in the high 40’s. Tonight, though, will be cold, in the 30’s. I think I’ll spend a little time in the sun on the deck.

The dogs love this weather. They stay out longer, and Nala either lies in the yard or sits on the deck stairs. She comes inside, and her fur is always hot. Henry goes in and out. He drives me crazy as he won’t come in the dog door and waits for me to let him inside; however, he’ll run inside if someone is out front. 

Yesterday in the paper was a picture of daffodils. The caption, bold and in caps, read Pop of Color. The picture was in black and white. In an article in the same paper, the writer mentioned that a woman had two twins. I bet she is glad she doesn’t have three twins. 

When I was a kid, my weekdays all had the same schedule. Most of my day was spent in school. It was only in the afternoons I could be creative with time. Some days I rode my bike. Other days I played outside. Sometimes I stayed inside and read or colored or watched TV. I remember sitting at the kitchen table to color while my mother was making dinner. I watched her peel potatoes. There were always potatoes, always mashed potatoes. They are a comfort food for me. 

My dad had no talent when it came to fixing up the house. He once ravaged a toilet. The plumber wanted to know how that happened. When he was painting the side of the house, the ladder started to slide. My father went with it and held the brush against the house. The strokes followed the slide sideways of the ladder. Another time he was cutting a branch off a tree in the backyard. He was sitting on the wrong side of the branch. He sawed and the branch fell with him on it. He hit the ground. I had seen it happening and called my mother to watch. The branch wasn’t far from the ground so he was fine. We just shook our heads. It was definitely a dad thing. He got a shock from some appliance he was trying to fix. He got cut fingers from a fan. When my father retired, he was given a set of tools. The man who presented them to him mentioned how my mother said my dad liked to putter round the house. What she meant was he liked to empty ashtrays and do dishes. 

Long ago I took a woodworking class. I made a small table. The saws scared me a bit given my genetic make-up. I could envision the saw cutting off the tips of my fingers. Luckily, it didn’t happen. I made the table, and all of my digits were intact. 

Last night it rained again, and the clouds are hanging around as showers are predicted. It is in the 50’s, Cape Cod spring warm. The dogs have been out a couple of times. Nala is disappointed by the weather. She likes to lie in the sun, but, instead, she is on the couch. Henry is on my bed upstairs. He likes to stretch out. My dogs live better than I do. 

When I was a kid, our dog Duke was not allowed on furniture, but he had ways around it. He’d lie across the bed with only the tips of his nails on the floor. At night, he’d sleep on the couch, and we would hear him get off the couch s we went downstairs. He never got caught. My dogs think the couch is theirs. I sit in the middle and one dog is on each side of me. They are comfortable, but I am not. My dogs definitely live better than I do.  

I still moan a bit when I move, but it is getting better. I don’t moan as loudly. My hand is still ugly. If I had a job as a hand model, I’d be out of the job. My friends have been wonderful. They feed me and keep me company. They call to check on me. My neighbor stops by every day. My sister calls every morning. I am being well taken care of.

My front garden is lovely, filled with color. The dafs and the hyacinths are high. The dafs are yellow while the hyacinths are purple, red and orange. More flowers are getting close to blooming. I can see buds on my lilac tree. Spring is barreling through the cold nights and mornings. It is taking its turn.

My yard is littered with Nala trash. It looks like an empty lot. I haven’t been vigilant enough with used paper goods and such, but I have protected my food. From the deck I can see paper plates, my stolen cough drops strewn around, a few stray pieces of paper and some paper towels. I am tolerating the trash. 

I have no lists. I am bereft. My house is filled with tumbleweeds disguised as balls of fur. I grab them when they float in the air as I walk by them, mostly in the hall. My sweatshirt sleeve is my duster. I run it across table tops. I think of it as piecemeal cleaning. 

I am about to be throned sloth queen. There are no other contenders. 

I am getting a bit better. I just have to be patient. I spend most of my time on the couch, and as long as I sit still and not reach for anything, I’m okay. I did find a gigantic black and blue I had missed before. My hand is still swollen but not as much. The bruise looks red and goes all the way up to the knuckles of my fingers. It is ugly. 

The rain keeps coming. My lawn and garden are flooded. The dogs are soaked when they come back inside after a trip to the yard. They are now having their late morning naps. Such is a dog’s life in this house.

Ghana has only two seasons, rainy and dry. I lived in the driest part of the country. Both seasons were uncomfortable in their own ways. The dry season was longer, and temperatures were usually in the high 90’s and low100’s. The roads turned to dust. Everything was brown. My lips and heels cracked. I learned not to dry myself after my shower so I could feel cool enough in bed to fall sleep. Sometimes they turned off the water. I became quiet adept at taking bucket baths. I even left enough water in the bucket to flush the toilet. I could buy tomatoes, onions, tuber yam and rice. I ate so much rice I didn’t eat it for the longest time when I got home. The dry season was never enjoyed. At best, it was tolerated. 

The rainy season was a rebirth. The first storms were magnificent. I once saw lightning hit the ground. Because of the dryness of the ground, the water made rivulets which turned into small streams. I used to watch the one in front of my house. Fields were planted. Leaves returned to trees. The air felt cool. The nights got as low as the 70’s. I needed a blanket. More citrus fruits from the south were sold in the market where the tables had pyramids of oranges and bananas piled high. The pineapples were sweet. Aunties, the women who sold food along the roadsides, would use a single edge razor blade to peel around the top of the orange then slice the top so you could suck out the juice. Their dexterity was amazing to watch. Millet, maize and corn grew tall in the fields. I was surrounded by green.

When I travel back to Ghana, I go during the rainy season, but Bolgatanga, my other home town, still feels hot and the humidity is thick from the rain, but I have always loved the rainy season. I love the sound on the metal roofs and sitting outside under an umbrella surrounded by rain but staying dry. The fields are filled with crops. The air smells sweet.

Yesterday started out like any other day with coffee and the paper. I think I even had toast. I left to do a couple of errands. My last one was to buy a few groceries. I started for home. I saw a truck stopping on the road before turning. I didn’t see the car. It hit me. It was most decidedly my fault for not looking. I was shocked by the hit and sat there for a little bit to process. My car was totaled. The police and the fire department came then the EMT’s. It was quite a crowd. The EMT’s insisted I go to the hospital. I declined. Meanwhile, I started taking my uke book and my music stand out of the car. I took my groceries. My neighbor stopped and came over to me. She said she’d pick me up at the hospital. I went into the ambulance. I went to the emergency room.

At the hospital I was examined. The decision was for x-rays and a CT-scan. I was wheeled to both places and back again. It was quick. I sat in my room for a long while. It wasn’t quick. The doctor said there were no broken bones. I was in pain but only when I moved, talked or breathed. 

At home I moved as little as possible. My neighbor sent over dinner. She also sent cinnamon buns. Those I ate. Nala was upset. Her boxer eyes just stared then she licked me. She knew it was not a usual day. 

This morning, my hand is just a little less swollen. I still try not to move because it hurts. I had to cough a bit, and it hurt a lot. 

I should have known something would happen. I just bought two new tires. Yesterday was not a good day!

Winter is still heavy handed. The other night the water in my birdbath froze. It was in the low 30’s. Last night was only a tiny bit warmer. The days, though, are giving me a bit of hope, a hint of spring. They jump into the 40’s and feel warm if there is no wind. Right now it is 46°. The sun, with its deep blue background, is bright and magnificent, after all the rain. The vibrant yellow of the goldfinches at the thistle feeders cuts through the drab. There are so many of them they have to wait in line. I swear I saw one goldfinch take a number from the deli machine on a branch. 

When I was a kid, I knew I would travel. It was the only known. I made that vow to myself when I was eleven. The when and the where weren’t part of my vow. The idea of traveling was enough. 

Over my lifetime I have been surprised by experiences I never imagined. 

It is sixty-six years since my vow to travel. My young self would be amazed at where I’ve been. I still marvel that I lived in Africa, that it holds a special place in my heart. About Africa, I only knew what the geography books taught me. I could talk climate, capital cities, exports, rivers and mountains. I had so much to learn, so much to experience, and I took in everything I could. Ghana became a comfortable place. I think my eleven year old self would have thought that remarkable.

I can play a musical instrument. I thought my debut with the triangle in the second grade would be it. I saw no symphony hall in my future. I saw no ukulele in my future. I didn’t even know what a ukulele was. Big Brother Bob Emery played the uke on his TV show when he sang The Grass is Always Greener, his theme song. I thought it was a guitar. When I decided I wanted to play a musical instrument, the uke came to mind. I thought it might be easier than the guitar. It only has four strings. I still don’t see Symphony Hall in my future, but it doesn’t matter. I love my uke.

When I was growing up, I never did laundry, make a bed or cook. I was just fine with that. During college I had to figure out how to work the washing machine. I seldom made my bed. Cooking was out of a can. Dinty Moore’s beef stew was a favorite. I loved chicken noodle soup. In Ghana, I never did laundry. I always found someone to pay to do it, by hand as there were no machines. Ironing was a necessity. It was a charcoal iron. I didn’t do that either. I didn’t cook. I had no stove, only a small charcoal burner, a sort of forerunner for the hibachi but round. I cook and bake now. I’ll try to make anything, nothing phases me. That was a surprise. I still seldom make my bed. My washing machine died so I have my clothes washed at the laundry. Some habits don’t change. 

The rain has stopped as has my work on the ark, but scattered showers are predicted so I’ll keep the tools handy. The kitchen floor is filled with paw prints. The backyard is soaked. 

My sloth must have been napping this morning as I have already changed my bed, taken my shower and cleaned down the stairs. I’m exhausted!

In the winter, my mother usually made us a hot breakfast before school. My favorite was soft boiled eggs. She used to serve the eggs in yellow Fanny Farmer duck egg holders. She would cut off the top of the egg and have toast around the plate. The toast was cut into strips the perfect size for dunking. When I first moved into this house, I had only a few pieces of furniture, a frying pan and two pots, a few dishes, a TV and a couch for my bed. My parents came to visit to see the house. My mother brought a few memories. She brought down two duck egg cups. Each duck had lost its beak. I loved those ducks, beaks or no beaks. They are still in my kitchen.

I remember classmates from grammar school. Many of us were together for eight years. After graduation, I lost touch with most of them. I wonder about them. I had a crazy, old nun in the eighth grade, Sister Hildegard. It was our life’s mission to take advantage of her. She hated us. One poor classmate was somehow related to her. Her name was Eleanor, and she sat in the last desk in the fourth row. I remember one day when Sister Hildegard went off on Eleanor who had rolled her skirt at the waist to make it shorter. Somehow Sister Hildegard noticed and went up the row toward Eleanor so fast her veil was blowing behind her. She yelled and pulled the skirt so far down you could see the top of Eleanor’s slip under the skirt. Eleanor started crying. No one made fun of her or laughed. We were horrified for her. I have never forgotten.

When I was a junior in high school on a late Friday afternoon, only a nun and I were left to finish decorating the gym for a dance that night. She was on a ladder. At some point she dropped the decoration and said, “Shit.” I was taken aback. A nun swearing? I never really thought of nuns as regular people. They were a breed unto themselves. We had three sexes: men, women and nuns. 

My dance card has three entries, all uke related. I have practice, a lesson and a concert on Friday. We are still singing funny food songs. 

I keep checking my hands and feet for webbing. It is raining, again, and it is supposed to rain all day. I was going to do a couple of errands, but I’ve decided to stay home, to stay warm and dry. 

My muse has gone to sunnier climes. I don’t blame her. We seem to be stuck in the last bit of winter. The next few nights will be downright cold, down to the 30’s. Where did I put my mittens? I need to wear a bed cap like Scrooge and the man in The Night Before Christmas did. I’d like mine to be colorful. Their’s were white.

I remember my hometown so very well. I was roamer, sometimes on foot but mostly on my bike. There used to be a small train, a narrow gauge, which took riders through the trees behind the China Moon and Hago Harrington’s miniature golf course. Sunnyhurst Dairy’s bottling plant was close to the route of the train. Sunnyhurst also sold ice cream, cones and such, from the front of the brick building near where the Italian bakery is now. My friend Pat and I used to stop there. I have a couple of Sunnyhurst milk bottles. The square had an army-navy store. I never shopped there, but I wish I could now. The town horse barn faced the road behind the town hall. It was one of my stops. I think if I could go back in time, I’d go back to the the late 50’s, early 60’s, and spend a Saturday on my bike riding all over town. 

I have shelves filled with cookbooks. I store many of the books in wooden boxes against one wall here in the den. The boxes are old. One is from a cranberry bog and is labeled 1982. Another is a Gnome beverages box. A beverages’ box has slots for bottle storage, for 12 bottles of flavored drinks sold at a small plant I remember was near the Fellsway. I have an insulated Hood box which used to sit on the back steps of our house. The milkman left the bottles of milk in it so the milk could stay cold. Many of the books are Christmas books filled with crafts and recipes. My mother used to send me one every year. 

The floor to ceiling bookcase in the kitchen is filled with all sorts of stuff. I have a collection of glass cocktail shakers and old drink stirrers, some from TWA and hotels and bars which are long gone. My favorite cookbooks are ones with recipes from books like Nancy Drew, Barbara Pym, Anne of Green Gables and Shakespeare. I have an ugly collection of souvenirs. A fondue pot is on one shelf. Dishes and bowls are on the lower shelves. 

I love all my collections.

The rain has stopped. The morning is cloudy and damp. We have pre-spring temperatures, in the mid 40’s. The dogs are content to stay inside. Henry is napping on my bed upstairs while Nala is here the couch. The house is quiet.  

 Nothing much is happening. I have no plans, no necessary chores. Yesterday I watered plants and cleaned the den. That was more than enough.

When I was young, my mother read to me. She read me Golden Books and fairy tales. My favorite story was Chicken Little, aka Henny Penny. The story starts with her panic after she is hit on the head by a falling pinecone, “The sky is falling!” She goes to tell the king, and, on the way, tells all the animals she meets on the road. The animals have the best names like Turkey Lurky, Goosey Loosey, Ducky Lucky and Foxy Loxy. That last one was a mistake. Foxy Loxy ate all the other animals. I remember the whole book except for the ending, the eating part. Maybe my mother didn’t read it to me or maybe the horror erased it from my memory.

I loved fairy tales. The ones I remember most had happy endings. the good guys won. Most, though, were a bit violent, but I cheered because the bad guys got what they deserved. Hansel and Gretel’s witch was going to eat them. Gretel tricked the witch who ended up on the oven. The Three Little Pigs hoodwinked the fox who was looking for dinner. The Billy Goats Gruff did in the troll who was waiting to eat a goat. Little Red Riding Hood’s wolf was hoping to dine on Little Red. Some fairy tales didn’t end in dinner like The Ugly Duckling, Snow White and Cinderella, but there were trials and tribulations they had to endure. 

 I read all the classics. I read the three Little books: Little Women, Little Men and Jo’s Boys. I was a Robert Lewis Stephenson fan. My favorite was Treasure Island, but a close second was Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. I think it was my first horror book. Robinson Crusoe, The Secret Garden and so many more were in personal library. My favorite of all was The Wind in the Willows. I still have a copy.

Every now and then I read one of those books again. Treasure Island was the last one I read. When I was young, the characters and the action held me enthralled. Now I appreciate how the metaphors, the similes and the imagery deepen the language, the descriptions of places and people. Long John Silver is the best character but the most treacherous character. I remember my shock when I found out he was a bad guy. 

I think I might just read Kidnapped next.

Today is chilly and cloudy. Rain is predicted. The temperature is in the mid 40’s, today’s high. My house is warm. The furnace is blasting lovely hot air. The fix was easy. He turned on a switch I had turned off without noticing when I was hanging a picture. I was that old woman oblivious to the world at large or at least to the outlet on the wall. 

My inner sloth has full rein today. I watch the dust balls fly into the air when I walk down the hall, and I don’t care. The dogs and I are on the couch. They are sleeping, breathing deeply. My feet are up on the table. It is just one of those days. 

My jigsaw puzzle is still in progress, but I am at the point where I can pick up a piece and generally know exactly where it goes. I’m hoping to finish this weekend. 

When I was in Ghana, Peace Corps had Range Rovers, the sort you’d see in National Geographic pictures crossing the desert in caravans. I hitched a ride a few times. The Range Rover always seemed exotic to me, a vehicle for adventures, for faraway places. 

My house has a deck but I’d also like a front porch. On the Andy Griffith show every Sunday after dinner, Andy, Barney and Aunt Bee settled on the porch. Barney was still wearing his church suit, his really ugly church suit. Andy would bring his guitar, and they’d sing. Neighbors would walk by and they’d say, “Hey!” The porch was neighborly. 

When I was a kid, my clothes were functional, not fashionable. I had school clothes, church clothes and play clothes. My school clothes were a uniform. My church clothes were usually a skirt and a blouse. My winter play clothes were pants and warm shirts. My summer play clothes were shorts and sleeveless blouses. In Ghana I had to wear dresses. I had most of my dresses made there with Ghanaian cloth. For the first time, I was fashionable. 

I don’t intend to move much this weekend. My longest walk will be between the den and the kitchen either to let Henry in or to get myself food and drink. If I get tired, I’ll rest in between.

Last night it rained. Right now it is 56° and cloudy. Today should get as high as 60°. This warmish weather has the dogs wanting out but only Nala coming in. Henry stands outside the back door looking in and hoping I’ll see him. I feel like a Jack-in-the-box. I’d wait him out but he cries and whimpers. 

When I was young, we lived in South Boston in an apartment complex of huge brick buildings. Our back yard was mostly fenced in clothes lines. My mother used to check on me from the back window of our apartment. Only a few old black and white pictures of our apartment still exist. I have a few memories prompted by those pictures. One picture is of me on Santa’s lap on the couch. I don’t remember sitting on Santa’s lap, but I do remember sneaking a peek of him from the barely opened bedroom door across from that couch. A neighbor took a picture of me one Easter in all my finery. I am standing on the front steps. I remember being a bit embarrassed, and I can see that look in my picture. Another picture is of me and a few other kids standing against a wall. We look scruffy. I don’t remember the kids, but I do remember the wall. Strange memories lurk in my memory drawers.

As far back as I can remember, we’ve had a television. My mother told me the first one she ever saw belonged to a neighbor who lived in an apartment beside ours in that apartment building in South Boston. Every night, neighbors would bring their chairs, sit in the hall and watch TV. My parents would leave their apartment door open so they could hear us, my brother and me, if we started crying. When we moved away from South Boston, my parents bought their own TV.

If I could choose to go where I’ve never been, I’d be hard-pressed to pick a place. I haven’t been to Asia so I’m putting it on the list. I had a trip planned, but, instead, I bought my house. A long train trip would be high on the list. It wouldn’t have to be anywhere exotic though I’d love to ride the Orient Express. I’ve taken a few overnight trains and loved falling asleep to the clicking of the train wheels on the tracks. I’d go to Alaska but not Hawaii. I’d love to see Turkey and India. There are more places, but these are enough for now.