Today is a spring day. The sun is brilliant, and the blue sky is deep and layered and without a single cloud. The air is crisp, morning crisp. It will get warmer as the day passes. We could even get into the 50’s. It is only in the mid-40’s now, but, without a wind, it feels warmer. The nights, though, are holding on to winter still and might even get down to the 30’s. 

I can smell wood burning, one of my favorite smells. Maybe someone is using a chiminea. In Ghana, I loved the mornings. The air was rich with the aroma of burning wood from the compounds behind my house. Breakfast was being cooked.

Today I have some chores. I need to move a few things down to the cellar, water the plants, sweep the kitchen and clean the dining room, though it’s a maybe on that last one as I don’t want to over-do. My inner sloth would object loudly.

On Wednesday I noticed a nail sticking out of my tire. It was a shiny new nail. Oddly, it was the head of the nail embedded in the tire, not the point. I made an appointment and got a new tire. They told me I need a second new tire. I made another appointment.

The morning is filled with the songs of birds. The goldfinches are so many at my feeders that they have to sit in line on a branch for a spot on one of the two thistle feeders. I filled the feeders a couple of days ago, and I filled them again this morning. Joining the goldfinches are chickadees, nuthatches, house finches and sparrows. Yesterday Mrs. Cardinal dropped in as did a couple of mourning doves. One pig of a blue jay grabbed some seed from my open feeder. I love watching the birds.

When I was a kid, my mother had bits of wisdom to impart to me. She followed the mother’s handbook in not letting us swim after eating for fear we’d have cramps and maybe even drown, and that we courted blindness by sitting close to the TV. I learned certain vegetables had magical powers, like carrots which would give me keen eyesight. If I swallowed gum, the wad would stay in my belly for years. Drinking coffee would stunt my growth. If I shaved my legs, the hair would grow back thick and black. If I cracked my knuckles, they’d get huge. If I didn’t dress warmly, I’d catch a cold as if one flew in the air waiting for a coatless, hatless kid. My sisters and I still quote her, “It is too cold to snow.”

Happy spring! Today, though, is calendar spring. Real spring, warm and sunny and filled with color, hasn’t arrived yet. It will be a while. Today is chilly and cloudy. The early morning was foggy. This is sweatshirt weather, the time between winter and spring. 

When I was a kid, spring was my favorite season. The mornings were still chilly and crisp, but the air was different. It had a sweetness. In the bleak gardens in front of the houses on my walk to school shoots starting poking their heads above the ground. I watched them grow taller. I loved when the buds had a tinge of yellow. The trees started to wake up and had the tiniest bits of green at the ends of the branches. My winter coat was put away until the next year. Bundling just meant adding a sweater under my jacket. I played outside longer after school. I reveled in the stirrings of spring.

My yard and deck were cleared yesterday, a spring clean up. The morning songs of birds are getting louder. The dafs are taller and the buds more prominent. I keep hoping for warmer days. I want to ditch that sweatshirt.

The other night for dinner I had tabbouleh and hummus, foods I first ate in Ghana at one of the Lebanese restaurants of which there were many. I hadn’t ever heard of Lebanese foods before that. Every time I was in Accra I usually went to Talou’s, a restaurant near the Peace Corps office. The hummus was served on a flat plate with an edge. It was spread cross the plate. In the middle was sesame oil and on the hummus was a ring of hot pepper. I still love to eat it that way. 

I haven’t made anything in a long while. I used to bake. I also used to make foods from all over the world for an annual dinner with friends, foods like Chinese, Indian, Cajun and yes, African. They were all new dishes, the first time I ever made them. I liked the risk. I need to get back to that. 

The morning is cloudy. We still have a wind but a lesser wind. The high is predicted to be 43° which is a cape spring temperature, but tonight could be winter with a predicted low of 36°. I have a couple of errands today, and I still have a long to do list. Yesterday I crossed off cleaning the living room. I even polished the furniture. My inner sloth was screaming the whole time. 

My schedule this week is uke heavy starting with practice tonight. I have three concerts on each of the next three days. I’m going to miss my afternoon naps.

I had seven goldfinches at the thistle feeders this morning. I added a new thistle feeder the other day after I had noticed the goldfinch traffic. Now, both feeders need to be refilled. I’ll also fill the sunflower feeders. I’m finding I spend more money on creature food than on my groceries. 

My mother loved watching the birds. We used to tease her because she seemed to get mostly pigeons. We called them country pigeons. One time even a seagull dropped by for dinner. She used to hang the feeders from the middle of her clothes line to keep them from the squirrels, but her squirrels were agile acrobats, tight rope walkers. We used to watch them from the kitchen window as they balanced their way across the line to the feeders. My mother had a special garden in the corner of her backyard. You could see it from the kitchen windows. A statue of St. Francis held his hand out to hold seeds. She had planted flowers all around the statue. The garden was fenced. One time my dog Maggie found her way into the garden. My mother yelled. I had to go get Maggie and fix the fence. She was the biggest “bird” ever to grace my mother’s garden.

In keeping with the season, my new jigsaw puzzle has an Easter theme. It has chocolate rabbits, decorated eggs, peeps and a giant Easter basket. I work on it just about every night. I’m at the point where I feel triumphant when I find the right spot for a piece. Jigsaw puzzles are addictive.

My dogs are having their morning naps. Nala is on the couch while Henry is upstairs on my bed. They have become sloths, my fault I’m sure. 

The weather is ugly. The wind started last night. I don’t when the rain started, but it is loud and heavy. The dog door was blown open by the wind. The floor is soaked so I had to close the back door, but I don’t think the dogs will mind. They are not rain dogs. It will rain all day. The temperature at 55° is wasted. 

When I was a kid, I went to St. Patrick’s grammar school. I always had today, St. Patrick’s Day, off from school. My parents often hosted a St. Patrick’s Day party on the weekend closest to the big day. My mother decorated, moved the dining room table against the wall and made so much food the table groaned. The house was filled with relatives. I remember the kitchen crammed with people singing Irish songs. The back door was always opened to clear the smoke. The temporary bar was on the counter.  It was always a celebration of food, drink and family. 

My mother always made corned beef and cabbage for dinner on the big day. If it was a weekend, I’d visit. One year I brought my dog Shauna, my first boxer, to visit and meet my parents. My father loved her right away and spoiled her. She loved him right back. While he was filling his plate with corned beef and cabbage, he made Shauna a plate. She had everything, even a slice of buttered Irish bread. She cleared the plate so well it looked clean. My father even gave her ice cream for dessert.

I have a concert this morning. I’ll wear my Irish sweatshirt, my shamrock fascinator and my glittery shamrock earrings. Later, I’ll watch a film befitting the day. I’m thinking The Quiet Man. I haven’t made a big dinner, but I’m thinking a sandwich with all the fixings might be in order. Maybe, in memory of my dad I’ll share it with the dogs.

Today is warmer than yesterday with a high of 57°. Partly cloudy is the forecast. When I woke up, the sky was all clouds, but right now, I can see a glimpse of blue and some light trying to break through the clouds. It might just turn out to be a spring day.

Lately, I have been into jigsaw puzzles. 500 pieces is just a perfect size for my table. A new one came yesterday, an Easter puzzle with eggs, chocolate and peeps. I ended up buying a few peeps after starting this puzzle. They are open and on shelves so they can get hard. 

When I was a kid, I never counted the days until Easter. That was only a Christmas thing. We’d get new clothes and the Easter Bunny would leave a basket, the only festivities to celebrate the day. 

One Christmas, when I was in high school, I got a bulletin board with pink fabric instead of cork. I hung it over my door. On it I put paper memories like tickets, letters, pictures and some invitations. I always kept it current. When I lived in Ghana, my parents moved. They brought along my bulletin board still covered with my memories. When I got home, I took it with me to the cape. Somewhere along the line I had to replace the pink board. Old age had taken its toll.

I still have a bulletin board in my den. The middle is cork. It is really old. It is covered with all different memories. A sloth calendar hangs from the cork. Hanging off the corners are lanyard name tags from different events, a lei, a Mardi Gras mask and some green St. Patrick’s Day necklaces. I hung a few things on it from my time in Ghana. I have an invitation from the governor of the Upper Region where I lived to a cocktail party at his house in 1969. I always got invited. I never understood why. I have a luggage tag for Ghana Airways and the front of a Ghana Tree chocolate bar celebrating the second republic dated 1969. I have some pins, a Peace Corps cloth decoration and an invitation to the 50th anniversary of Peace Corps Ghana in 2011, my first trip back. I don’t keep this bulletin board too current, not from disinterest but more from lack of stuff to hang. I rearrange things which I enjoy doing. I get to remember when I hold each piece. 

Back when I got that first board, I never realized how important a bulletin board could be. Now, I know. Each board is a repository of memories of people and places and most especially of my life across time. 

The morning is damp and ugly. It is cloudy and will stay cloudy all day. It is 44° now and won’t get much higher. I have a few errands, and that’s about it on my to do list. 

When I was a kid, Saturday was the best day of the week. I spent the morning sitting on the floor in front of the TV risking blindness, cereal bowl in hand, always Rice Krispies and watching my favorite programs. Most of the shows were westerns. I remember them all. I have never had a dog as well trained as Rin Tin Tin, familiarly known as Rinty. Annie Oakley was a woman sheriff, a novelty. She did great stunts on her horse. Sky King flew a plane, another novelty. I loved Captain Midnight, the first science fiction program I remember watching. The Lone Ranger was one of my favorites. I thought his theme song was exciting and perfect as Silver seemed to gallop to the sound. I didn’t know it was The William Tell Overture until I was much older. Even now I still call it the Lone Ranger’s theme song. Roy and Dale ended their program singing Happy Trails to You. I still know all the words. I think one of my memory drawers must be overflowing with the memories of those long ago shows. I remember the horses most of all: Silver, Scout, Champion, Buttercup, Trigger and Tornado, Zorro’s horse, all sit in one corner of that memory drawer. 

Saturday night’s dinner was a New England universal. We ate hot dogs, baked beans and brown bread. The brown bread was canned and had ridges from the can. My mother fried the brown bread and slathered it with butter. She bought canned beans, B&M baked beans, and doctored them a bit. Saturday night was bath night. What I remember most is my sisters screaming. My mother tortured them when she combed out the snarls after they got their hair washed. Back then there was no anti-snarl product. That screaming was also a Saturday ritual. 

Sometimes now, when I get to the kitchen, I forget why I’m there. I guess there isn’t  much room left in my memory drawers for any more memories, even one from the den to the kitchen. 

The morning is cloudy and chilly at 43 °, sweatshirt weather. I’m staying close to hearth and home today. I have bird feeders to fill and plants to water. I may even vacuum, but I don’t want to put undue expectations on myself. I did sweep the kitchen yesterday.

I am, by all external measures, old. My face is wrinkled, my hair mostly gray, and I tend to stoop. I can’t carry anything heavy or see without my glasses. I can’t walk far. I have to keep stopping. But despite all of these, I look through young eyes as if I haven’t aged. I am always a bit surprised when I look in a mirror. When I was young, I always wondered about old people, how it felt to be old. Now I know. 

To quote myself, “In many ways I have become obsolete. The words and phrases of my youth have disappeared. When was the last time anyone ever asked for a church key? I remember calling dibs for a window seat in the car. I wore thongs on my feet. We got blitzed at parties. Couples made out at the drive-in. Some couples even went all the way which might have resulted in the family way and the girl going to her aunt’s. Some people were stuck up; others were finks. Life was cool,  and groovy.” 

My mother and father had their words. My father used to take his clothes to the cleanser. I found out much later that the word is endemic to Boston. My father grew up in East Boston. Everywhere else it was the dry cleaners. My mother used the word nosh. I figured out it meant food, a snack maybe. It took me a while to figure out who Jack Robinson was. I just knew he was quick. None of these are used anymore. We are the last generation to hold on to our parents’ words. They will disappear just as our words will. 

In the car I always listen to oldies. I suppose golden oldies would be a more apt description. I sing along and keep the beat on my steering wheel. I don’t know contemporary music. I know the names of singers, but not what they sing. I’m okay with that. Right now Joni is singing from my turntable, on a 33 1/3 record.

Old age comes. I just don’t let it define me.

The morning is lovely, chilly though, in the low 40’s. Last night was downright cold, in the 30’s. We seem to be limping into spring. The shoots in the front garden are taller but have no buds yet. 

I stood on the deck for a while watching the dogs. I could hear the birds and saw more at the feeders than I have in a while. Yesterday I bought some more seed, sunflower and thistle. The gold finches are here every day, five of them this morning. They are starting to get more color. 

The house behind me used to keep the outside light on every night, but I noticed a few days ago it had gone dark. Another house had lights on, inside lights, all night. That too is dark. The houses on each side of mine are empty. Across the street, beside each other, are two houses with people, but their shades are down so I don’t see their lights. Unless there is a bright moon, darkness envelopes my neighborhood, except for my yard. I still have Christmas lights shining outside every night. When I was last out and about, I was surprised that several houses are still lit with either white or colored lights. We are all trying to keep the darkness at bay.

When I was a kid, a street light was on the sidewalk below the small grassy hill in front of our house. It wasn’t just a light. It was a clock sending us inside when its light came on. In the winter, when it snowed, the light shined on the flakes and highlighted their shapes. I’d watch from the picture window in our living room. I’d watch a long time.

When I was young, my family often had parties. My mother’s Aunty Clara, my grandfather’s sister, was the oldest of everybody. My grandparents, my mother’s parents were there. My mother and some of her siblings were there, Uncle Jack, Uncle Joe, Aunt Bunny and Aunt Barbara. I was the oldest grandchild and was usually there with some of my cousins. Singing was always a part of every party. I remember everyone gathered around the kitchen table at my parents’ house drinks in hand and voices raised. St. Patrick’s Day was one of my favorite parties. They sang all the Irish songs. It was the best time. 

My dance card has one more event, another concert this afternoon. 

The morning has been hectic, my sort of hectic. I couldn’t find the paper. I wandered around and found it. Next, I couldn’t find my keys. I looked through the car windows, nope. I checked under the hat tree, nope so I got my extra key and grabbed a bag of laundry to put in the car. Aha!! There they were. The keys were on the ground by the car. The take away from this was I remembered where my extra key was.

Yesterday I went wild. I washed and waxed my kitchen floor. It was a chore I had been avoiding. It took a while, a long while, but it was worth it.

The morning is warm, 50°. It is another lovely day. I’m going to do those errands I didn’t do yesterday, and I’ve added a couple. It is a wonderful day to be out and about.

This morning I thought my right leg was paralytic. I tried but couldn’t raise it. I couldn’t even sit up but then I noticed. Nala was lying across my leg, all 65+ pounds of her, and Henry’s head was on my feet. It took a while to wake them up and disengage them. 

When I was a kid, on Ash Wednesdays, we all went two by two from the school to the church, a short walk, to get ashes. We were told by the nuns we had to give up something for Lent as a sacrifice. I wanted to give up something I wouldn’t miss, but that sort of defeated the whole purpose. Some actually gave up candy. That seemed far too broad. Chocolate was the big one. That was painful, and it was a long way until Easter and an Easter basket filled with chocolate bunnies. I admit I did cheat.

I lived in the project for close to 12 years. We always called it the project despite the connotations. All the houses were duplexes. Some had two bedrooms while others had three. We lived first in a two bedroom then moved to a three. The project was filled with kids. Most of them were younger than I, but I had a couple of friends my age. One even lived in the first duplex where we had lived. The stairs in that house had a landing breaking the stairs into two parts. I loved that landing. I used to read with a pillow behind my back and I’d color there. Our stairs just went straight down. 

I bought some yeast. I am not a bread baker, but I thought I’d give it a try. It is my challenge for this week.