I woke earlier than usual. I was shocked to find it only a bit after nine. I can’t remember the last time I had so much morning. so much extra time. I dawdled and had an English muffin and two cups of coffee. The day is pretty and warmish. It might even get to 40°. I have no plans except for a few household chores.

When I was in Ghana, my students wanted to know everything about my home. They would visit after study hours. I’d hear a knock then what sounded like caw, caw. They’d leave their shoes at the front door then come inside. I showed them pictures of my home and family and answered their questions. They wanted to know why I had no children being as old as I was, 22, and why no husband. They wondered how Mary had Jesus but was still a virgin. For that one, I just said it was God’s way. They asked about snow. Their understanding of cold was based on harmattan weather when the nights could get as chilly as the 60’s or 70’s and even colder. My students layered for those cold mornings. I chuckled and enjoyed the cooler morning. I used crushed ice cubes to give them an idea of real cold. I even threw a few snowballs. If they were here for this storm, they would have believed the world was ending.

I still can see in my mind’s eye the house where I grew up. It was on a corner lot so we had a bigger front yard than the other duplexes. Just beyond the steps was a grassy hill. Below the hill was a sidewalk. On it was mailbox and a streetlight pole. Sitting inside by the picture window was my favorite spot when it snowed. I’d watch the snow fall. It was highlighted by the streetlight. The snow would sometimes fall sideways, blown by the wind. There was a fierceness about it. Sometimes large, wet flakes would fall. They took a while to stick to the ground. The smaller flakes fell constantly and quickly covered the ground. I’d keep checking to see how deep the snow was getting. My last check was just before bed. I fell asleep hopeful that the snow was covering everything, that I’d hear the no school fire alarm. Back then, for every kid, snow was a good thing.

On Wednesday around ten the electricity came back on. By then my house was 39°. I was wearing so many layers you’d be hard press to identify the stack of clothes as human. The lights had gone off on Monday, early afternoon. Between then and now was an adventure of sorts but not the sort you’d chose.

I gathered my supplies. That was an easy task as I hadn’t many. I had a Rayovac lantern, a dim flashlight and several candles. It was while I was writing Coffee on Monday that the lights went out, around 1. At first I just sat and read. The wind was raging. I could hear branches making Halloween scary scratching noises on the house, on two sides. The dogs looked up a few times but then ignored the sound. All I could hear was the wind. The house started to get cold. I added a heavy sweater, grabbed more layers, a hat and some mittens in case I needed them. I was warm enough but only for a while.

The dogs wouldn’t go out during the storm. Who could blame them? The house temperature kept falling, but that first day was bearable. I slept through the night covered in blankets. From the next day on the house got colder and so did I. The days were spent reading using a flashlight and trying to turn the pages with my mittens on.

In front, on the side and in backyard of my house are fallen trunks of pine trees. One landed on the fence which is only standing upright as it is being held by the fallen tree. It is the same with the front fence.

Poor Henry didn’t fare well. Part of a fallen tree with all its branches fell cross the back steps. Neither dog would walk underneath the tree to the yard. I then broke as many branches as I could. Nala went under the branches to the yard. Henry did too but had trouble going up the stairs. I called and called and he finally came up. Later both dogs went out again. Nala came inside. Henry would not. He stood at the end of the stairs whining and crying. It went on too long. I decided to save him. I laid down on my back on the deck and tried to go under the branches to Henry. I got stuck in the branches and couldn’t get up the stairs. Finally I freed myself but couldn’t stand up. More of this part of the story in a bit.

My family and my friends were worried. I was alone with two dogs, a cat and no heat. The texts went back and forth between my family and friends. They sent a police officer to do a wellness check. I passed. My nephew in North Carolina called my nephew here, and he came. He checked in with me to see what I needed. Tim brought a pizza, hot coffee, Reese’s and a new flashlight and batteries. He cleared the front and back steps of snow. He left and said he’s be back the next day to shovel out my car. This is when the worst of Henry’s nightmare started. He wouldn’t come up the steps, too many branches in the way. He stood at the bottom crying and trying to go up the stairs. I got crazy that poor Henry wouldn’t climb the stairs. I did the slide on my back down the stairs and got caught again. This time was worse. I couldn’t get unstuck, too many branches grabbing at me. I was the character in the horror movie destined to die, killed by tree branches. Finally I got upright. I was soaked. Henry was still at the foot of the stairs. That went on for 40 minutes. I called my nephew, and he came and cleared the tree. Henry came inside but was nervous and jumpy all night. Yesterday he was back to normal.

My family and friends were lifesavers. They tried to keep track of me. My dear, good friend brought me food yesterday. The surprise was a pastry so good my fingers got covered in chocolate and cream. She brought dinner and cream for my coffee. My family and friends kept in touch with each hoping one of them would hear from me. Once I had electricity back, I called them all. I am ever so thankful.

Now what did I learn? First, I’ll not be sliding on my back down the stairs again. I’ll have more light, more lanterns. I’ll have more than crackers and peanut butter in my cupboard. I’ll fill a closet with blankets. I’ll have more chocolate. that last one is critically important.

This is the Coffee I was writing on Monday when the electricity decided to hibernate. It gives you an idea of the storm. I will write another later today.

The end of the world is nigh. The snow continues. The weatherman calls it a bombogenesis. The snow is so wet and heavy branches are strewn about on the deck and around the yard. The dogs couldn’t get down to the backyard. A giant piece of the trunk of the pine tree by the back steps has broken off from the top of the tree and is covering the steps to the backyard. I tried to remove as much of the tree from the deck as possible, but the trunk is too heavy. I went to a backup plan I didn’t know I had and let the dogs out front without a leash. The snow is so high they had to jump to move. They stayed in front, but I lost them a bit so I don’t know if they peed or not. Henry came to the door first then a bit later Nala wanted in.

The wind is loud. It roars. The branches creak and click. Some brush the house. The pine trees especially can’t abide both the wind and the heavy snow. Their branches break and fall. The larger ones crash. The dogs sit up with ears perked, but it gets quiet quickly, and the dogs go back to sleep.

Last night was the worst. The nor’easter raged and the wind blew the snow sideways. The electricity went off four or five times for a minute or two. Each time it did, Henry shook. The sudden darkness scared him. He came to me so I hugged him through the fear. When the electricity went off, so did the cable. It disconnected from my network. I had to find the network and put in my password every time, twice. The cable box read boot. I left the TV on last night, and, by morning, it had righted itself.

When I went to bed, the dogs were right beside each other on my side of the bed. I left them there and slept on the other side. I didn’t read as I was afraid the light over my bed would suddenly darken and scare Henry again. When I woke up, he was stretched right beside me, something he never did until last night. This morning the light has been flickering, and every time it does, Henry growls. I’ve just turned off the light.

As long as we have heat and electricity we’ll be fine. The larder is filled. The pets have plenty of food though Jack will suffer. His treats weren’t delivered. As for me, I still don’t have any Snickers.

Oops, the lights just went off!

A nor’easter is on its way. The weather service has issued a blizzard warning starting at 4 pm today and extending into Tuesday morning. The latest prediction is 12-18 inches of wet snow accompanied by heavy winds. Most of the schools are already announcing their closings. The animals, Henry, Nala and Jack, and I will hunker down. The dogs do go out, but I swear they do their business on the run. I have everything I need; however, I did eat the Snickers. I’m thinking I’ll make some brownies.

My dogs don’t drool. They bubble. Nala’s bubble is always bigger than Henry’s. When I sit on the couch and eat something, each dog stands on one side of me, sort of cornering me. I do share but in their bowls. This morning they each got a piece of my toast. I think they were also hoping for coffee, but I didn’t share.

When I was a kid, we didn’t know it would be a snow day until the morning when the fire alarm rang out from the station. No school was a special alarm, its own alarm. We’d still be in our pajamas hoping. We’d listen to the alarm and count. We’d cheer. I think my mother grimaced.

Sunday was always a quiet day. We went to mass. Some times we’d ride with my dad, the usher, but mostly we walked. My father often brought home donuts. He was a plain donut man. He’d slather his donut with butter. Dinner was the special meal of the week. Every other day we had supper. On Sunday we had a roast, mostly chicken or beef. We always had mashed potatoes and some veggies. Corn was a favorite, kernel corn.

Before I left for Ghana and the Peace Corps, my mother asked what I’d like her to make for my last dinner home. I didn’t need to take any time, roast beef, gravy, mashed potatoes and LeSueur peas from the can. It was a quiet dinner with small talk filling the spaces. It was quiet enough to hear the clinks of forks on plates. I was excited and nervous. They were worried. I left the next day. My father drove my mother and me to Logan Airport. It was nearly two hours away. We didn’t talk a lot, didn’t want to trigger the emotions we were barely holding back. I remember saying goodbye at the gate. We hugged. When I turned for my last look, my mother gave me a tiny wave. That is what I most remember.

Weather is coming. Starting tomorrow night a nor’easter is expected, a classic nor’easter. The forecast calls for heavy, wet snow and strong winds. Here on the cape we could get 8 to 12 inches of wet snow. I shutter at the thought. We still have snow on lawns and such from the last storm. It has been too cold for the snow to melt, but I do sense the coming of spring in the air, not from climate but from tradition. The Red Sox are on TV today.

When I was a kid, snow always brought anticipation. Would we get a day off from school? Would there be enough snow for sledding? We never gave thought about the mechanics of snow. That had nothing to do with us. That was my father’s job. He shoveled the front steps and walkway, the back steps and around the car to get it out. The plows came often. Giant snow piles were left on the sides of the roads. I remember the streets always had a snow layer, even after the plow.

My street was great for going, not coming. It was a hill. I’d ride my bike down the hill with my hair flying. I’d crouch from the wind, not knowing I was practicing aerodynamics. I just had to be watchful for cars on the street at the end of the hill. Pedaling up the hill was never easy. I often stood up on the pedals hoping for extra power. Many times I didn’t make it all the way.

Sledding was wonderful on the hill. I’d pull my sled a short way from my house to the top, get it poised in just the right spot then jump on the sled stomach first, legs in the air. I’d fly. My hands steered using the metal piece at the front of the sled. We whizzed down the hill but still wary of the cars on the street at the end. Going back up the hill meant using the sled rope to pull the sled all the way back to the top. I remember the rope would get clumps of snow stuck to it as did my mittens. They’d feel so heavy on my hands. We’d sled all day. When I was finished, I’d push my sled upright into the snow, leave it there in the backyard, slide down the snow covered steps to the cellar where I’d shed my winter clothes and hang them up to dry. I’d put on warm, dry clothes. When I went upstairs, my ,mother sometimes made us hot chocolate. I remember holding the cup with both hands so they’d get warm.

I have to go out today. I have an errand and a bit of shopping. I’m thinking storm goodies, maybe even some pizza.

The morning is beautiful. The sky is cloudless, the air still and the sun is glint your eyes bright, but it is, after all, winter. The temperature is 38° but, in the scheme of things, it is warm or at least warmer than it has been. Snow is still covering lawns. It is crunchy snow, noisy snow. It sort of squeaks when you walk on it.

I really enjoyed my breakfast this morning. My coffee is from Nicaragua. I savored every sip. I had an English muffin. On it, I had a bit of butter and then a slathering of fig jam. Sadly, it was the last of my fig jam. I ate it slowly. The dogs did not even get a taste. I know you’ll find this unbelievable, but Nala stole something this morning. I know because I heard the noise of something falling on the kitchen floor. I ran to check. Nala grabbed whatever was on the floor and ran out the dog door. I didn’t have shoes on so I couldn’t follow. I did watch her run to the yard, drop something to the ground then look at me standing at the door. I think it was a look of defiance, an I won you lost sort of look.

My dance card is top heavy with uke events. Already I have had my lesson, practice and two concerts, one on Sunday and one yesterday. I have another concert today and one tomorrow. It is still Motown. I feel as if I am a throwback to the Supremes. I wish I had a sparkly long dress and the right moves.

The town where I grew up had a slew of drug stores, three in the square and two more off the square. My favorite was the Middlesex Drug Store. It was the biggest and the fanciest drug store in town. It sat in the middle of the square. The soda fountain had a marble top and stools which spun. A Coke A Cola was made at the fountain. I remember watching the soda jerk filling the glass with syrup and carbonated water. I always got a splash of vanilla. I tried cherry once but decided to stay with vanilla. I used to do some Christmas shopping at that drug store. I think it was always where I bought my father’s white handkerchiefs and perfume for my mother in a fancy bottle with a tassel around the cover.

The animals are all asleep. Henry is on his side of the couch, and Nala is right behind me with her head resting on my back. Jack is upstairs. He likes to sleep in front of the vent. I have no illusions about my spot in the hierarchy of the house. I am on the bottom. Both Nala and Henry take turns on the top. I never win.

We still have clouds, and we still have temperatures in the 30’s. This is only February. The winter with its cold, snowy days still stretches in front of us, but winter is losing its grip. The 40’s feel temperate. Since the winter solstice, we have gained sunlight. The sun hangs around three minutes more a day this month.

My grandmother was always old to me. She wore flowered dresses and clunky shoes. She never once wore a pair of pants. She pulled her wire basket behind her to the First National. It was just up the street from where she lived. My grandparents had what was then a traditional marriage. She was in charge of the house, of cleaning and cooking and washing and such. My grandfather handled the money, the shoveling, the driving. They lived in the same town we did, but we seldom saw them. Only my father visited, mostly on Saturdays. Years later, my grandmother lived in what my father called wrinkle city, apartments for the elderly. Once in a while, he’d coerce me to go with him. I did.

I remember how disappointed my father was when he realized the eggs on the table for breakfast were hard boiled. We, my parents, my sister and I, were in the Netherlands at a small hotel right beside a river dike and were having breakfast. My father wanted fried eggs, bacon, hash browns and toast. Instead, he got hard boiled eggs, fresh bread, different cheeses and deli meats. He kept complaining that this was not breakfast food. It was lunch. He made do but was not happy. That happened many times as we traveled through Europe. Finally, in London, we had breakfast, my father’s definition of breakfast. We had fried eggs, thick slices of back bacon and toast. I passed on the baked beans. My father was in his element.

In Ghana, for the Ghanaians, breakfast was no different than the other two meals. In my town it was t-zed, tuo and zaafi, and soup. The t-zed was made with millet flour. It was a glob. You pulled off a piece and dipped it in the soup. You ate with your right hand. I sometimes had it for supper, never breakfast. In the morning, I had coffee, fried eggs and toast. The eggs were fried in groundnut (peanut) oil. They were the best tasting eggs. In the Peace Corps hostel in Accra, for breakfast, cereal was offered first then the eggs and bacon. I have a weird memory of eating there. I remember the dishes were red or green or a gold yellow. They were unbreakable, sort of a combination of rubber and plastic. They had scratch marks from the cutlery. They were served already plated.

The reason breakfast came to mind today was I was hungry and have no eggs. I heated chili soup instead. I ate it with Saltines. My father would have been horrified.

Today is cloudy and cold. I should know not to expect anything different. It is winter, seemingly an endless winter. After the dogs go out, I stand at the back door watching for them. I can feel the cold coming through the dog door. I’d shut the back door, but Nala would ring the poochie bells over and over for me to open the door. She’d do that until I left the door open. I give in to her so I don’t have to keep jumping up and down. She knows that.

When I was a kid, Italian and Chinese were, to us, ethnic foods, a little exotic. We ordered Chinese from The China Moon or as we always called it The Moon. We didn’t eat there. My father ordered take-out. We usually had fried rice, maybe a beef dish and a couple of appetizers. My parents sometimes ordered a lobster dish. It wasn’t offered to us. My father said it wasn’t for kids as if that were a rule. We believed him. We had Italian food at Kitty’s. It is in the next town over from where I grew up. It was always filled with diners and was loud. The waitresses, many of whom were older, could carry trays lined up on their arms. I was awed. I remember we sometimes went there during my father’s vacations, the ones when we stayed home and did stuff every day. It was a treat to go out to eat. I never ordered spaghetti. We had spaghetti at home. I ordered chicken or sausage parm or cacciatore. The waitress always delivered the freshest Italian bread for the table. I loved to sop up the sauce.

Kitty’s is still there, but it has been years since I last ate there. When I did, it looked and sounded exactly the same. Even the parking lot was filled. I didn’t order spaghetti, in keeping with tradition, but I ordered some sort of pasta. When I was an adult, we often ordered take out from the Moon, but we also ate in the restaurant. They had a great buffet one day a week. When I visited my mother, it was where I wanted to have lunch especially on buffet day.

The China Moon was around almost longer than I had been alive. We expected it to be there. I remember it was where we ate before the prom or before a big dance or event. It had been owned by the same family since 1953. The Moon closed in 2020. The land was sold, another piece of my home town gone. It now lives only in my memory drawers.

Yesterday I didn’t post because I had an early concert, the start of another uke week. I have practice and my lesson and three more concerts. We’re playing Motown.

I wish I could stay home cozy and warm, but I’m out of the usual, cream for my coffee and bread. Almost anything else I could do without but not my coffee.

Today’s weather is the same as yesterday’s and the day before that and on and on. It is in the low 30’s. We have sun, but its light is muted by a sky full of clouds. Only the dead leaves hanging off the ends of the oak branches are moving.

When I was a kid, Valentine’s Day was special. It needed lots of planning. First was a trip to Woolworth’s to buy my valentines. Back then they came several in a package. On the fronts were red cheeked often roly poly boys and girls or cute animals all hoping for a valentine to say yes. The requests were often puns related to the pictures. The backs were where I wrote my name. Each valentine had its own envelope where I’d write my classmates’ names. I used to make my valentine box, usually a shoe box. My mother would gather decorations. I’d cover the whole box with red construction paper on which I’d drawn hearts with crayons or colored pencils. Sometimes I’d add lace. I tried to be artistic. On the top, I’d make a slit so my classmates could put in their valentines to me. We’d go row by row up and down the aisles to give out our valentines. I remember sitting and holding my breath hoping I’d get valentines. Some classmates would just pass me by. It always hurt a little.

On the night before Valentine’s Day, I’d address my valentines. My name, Kathleen, is long so it barely fit on the backs of the valentines. I’d use pencil and write my name from top to bottom, usually slanted because I wasn’t all that great at straight. I’d put them in the box to carry them to school. I’d also bring cookies or brownies or cupcakes for the party after lunch. We all brought something.

We set up for the party. The goodies were on my teacher’s desk. All our books were put away to make room for our boxes. First we’d each pass out our valentines. They’d sit unopened in our boxes until all of them had been passed out. We’d then go for the goodies. While we were eating, we’d open the envelopes. We’d show each other the funniest ones. None were romantic. We were too young.

When the party was done, we’d clean up. Not long after, the dismissal bell would ring. I’d carry my box all the way home making sure not to crush it. At home, I’d go through my valentines again. I’d show my mother my favorites then I’d put the box away for safe keeping. I’d look through it every now and then. I even kept a few for the longest time.

Today is lovely if you’re looking out the window. Everything is beautiful, the deep blue sky and the bright sun highlighting the trees in the backyard. The problem is the temperature, only 30°. The high will be 32°. Where did I put that sunscreen?

I didn’t go to kindergarten. Neither did my classmates. There were no kindergartens back then. My mother did attempt to put me in the nursery school offered by the project where we lived. That was when we lived in South Boston. The nursery school was across the street. I remember it was a brick building just like the one where we lived. I also remember I hated it. The first day my mother brought me I left and went home. The same thing happened the second day and the third. I never went back. The first grade was where I started. The school was about three or four blocks away. It was across the street from the convent and beside the rectory. My classroom was up the stairs on the first floor. I remember the room was filled with desks and nearly fifty of us. We had to turn sideways to go up and down the aisles. Sister Redempta was my teacher. She looked old to me. I had an aunt who was a nun so I wasn’t scared of Sister Redempta in her habit. I remember learning to write. First we learned block letters, upper and lower case, then we moved on to cursive, also upper case and lower case. Over the blackboard and around the room were posters of the cursive alphabet. We had a class called penmanship every day.

My favorite subject, because it entailed nothing and because I didn’t know I was being judged was silent reading. The grades in first grade were either S for satisfactory, U for unsatisfactory or I for needs improvement. I always got an S for silent reading. I never knew why. I wondered if it was because my lips and head didn’t move when I read.

I have my eighth grade class picture or rather a copy of it. The original had remained rolled and stored away for so many years it cracked in a few places when I opened it. I decided it was worth keeping so I took it to a camera shop. They reproduced the original without the cracks though you can faintly see them on the copy. It was expensive. It is hung in the bathroom. That sounds strange I’m sure, but my bathroom has all sorts of school memorabilia and some Ding Dong School souvenirs. When I wash my hands or brush my teeth, I look at that picture. I still remember names.