It is really cold. We’re at 26°, the high for the day. Yesterday, the snow melted then, last night, it froze. In places it looks like waves, ice waves cresting on the lawn. The rest of the grass is covered in frozen snow. My feet made crunchy sounds when I got the paper. I was most careful walking across the yard. Everything is slippery. The dogs and I have had enough of out so we are snuggling together on the couch. Every now and then Henry sighs.

When I was a kid, January was the most boring month. We had no holidays off from school, and, I swear, every day was bone chillingly cold, well below freezing. It always took a while to get warm once I arrived at school. My cheeks stayed red and my feet stayed cold. I remember my classroom and all of the winter sounds, the hissing radiators below the windows, the gurgle of water through the pipes, the scratching of pencils on paper, creaking chairs and pages turning. I remember hoping, maybe even praying, that we wouldn’t have outside recess.

A long while back, I passed a schoolyard where the kids were at recess. I paused to look, prompting memories of my own. Every recess, we stood in the divided geographically by sex and tradition school yard, the girls on one side, the boys on the other. The girls had their groups and games and the boys had theirs. Girls jump roped, mostly the younger girls, or played clapping games. The older girls stood in groups and boy watched and maybe gossiped a little. The boys played basketball at both hoops in the school yard. I don’t remember jump roping.

I do have one recess story. I remember standing in a group of girls talking, laughing when I was in the fifth grade then I noticed my friend. She hadn’t made it to the safety of the group and was being bullied by a boy saying horrible things to her and making her cry. I told him to stop. He didn’t. How silly! I punched him in the face. He stopped. I ended up in the principal’s office. Once she found out the story, she told me not to do it again and to find a peaceful way to protect my friend. She let the bully have it. I really wanted to applaud.

Last night it snowed, nothing appreciable, just a light cover on the lawn and the driveway. All of it is melting. On the deck, the dogs’ paws pressed right down to the wood through the wet snow when they first went outside. I was surprised. I thought the snow was more substantial. The snow will be gone from there soon. I have no reason to leave the house so the snow on the car will be left to Mother Nature’s devices.

I got to thinking about the snow as I watched it falling last night. When I was a kid, I could watch out the picture window at the snow as it fell. My favorite time to watch was at night when the falling snow was lit by the street lamp on the corner below my house. I remember when the wind was so strong the snow was whipped sideways.

I think snow is the most hopeful weather. When I was a kid, I remember how on snowy mornings we’d all be waiting and hoping to hear the no school alarm from the fire station. When we did, we’d settle back in front of the TV and laze a bit. In the afternoon, I’d get dressed in layers, slip my boot tops over the bottom of my ski pants, put on a sweater under my jacket, wear a knit hat stretched enough to cover my ears and on my hands, mittens, sometimes they even matched, and I’d go outside.

The snow looked magical. I could see the magic, and I could feel the magic. No footprints in front of us marred the surface twinkling in the sun. We would be the first. The snow covered the trees, the bushes and the cars but left their shapes sharp enough to notice. We’d run and jump in the snow. We’d leave snow angels. We’d toss snow balls, maybe go sledding or maybe build a fort. The possibilities seemed endless, hopeful, even joyful. That is what I first remember about the snow. We stayed outside until our cheeks were red raw from the cold. My mother made us hot chocolate. I let the steam warm my face and the cup warm my hands. I was exhausted, not grumpy exhausted but happily exhausted from a day in the snow.

As soon as the snow started, I’d move to the picture window so I could keep track of the snow, to how much was falling. My fingers were crossed. I was wishing and hoping. I did every time it snowed. I wished for more, never less.

Last night I checked the snow under the back light as it was falling. I wanted to keep track of how much. I even heard the plow. I have almost the same memories from when I was a kid when I loved everything about snow starting from the light shining on the snowflakes. The more there was of it, the more hopeful we were. I watched last night. This morning, not so much snow on the ground.

Today is warm, almost sultry at 48°. I have no reason to venture out though I am hankering for a piece of pizza with sausage and caramelized onion and that may just beat the sloth in me.

Snow is predicted for tomorrow. The amount of it varies by station. The common number has been 3 inches.

When I was a kid, weather, except for the exceptions, was no big deal. We walked to and from school every day whether in the rain, in the wind, in the snow, the sleet, the sun or the cold. I didn’t know a single family with a second car. The one and only family car was what my father and every other father drove to work so we all walked to school. On weekends, the car was reserved for usual activities, grocery shopping, the cleaners, maybe the barbershop. My father was the only driver. We were at his mercy. He was always early.

I had some groceries delivered the other day. Included with the bread, the dog food and the rest of the mundane, were some Oreos, double stuffed Oreos. It has been a long time since I last bought Oreos and I was taken aback by the changes. Either the double stuffed bag was mislabeled or the definition and measurements have changed. I can’t imagine what the cream in regular Oreos looks like, but, then again, I am old and maybe waxing nostalgic about a cookie long gone.

When I was in Ghana, my mother sent packages. The biggest and the best each year was her Christmas package. That first Christmas it came two months late as my mother didn’t realize it came by ship. The second year she overcompensated, and it came almost two months early. But time didn’t matter. Only the treasures inside the box did. I remember books, games, paint by number, origami, packaged foods and candy and the best thing ever, the paddle with the red rubber ball on an elastic. The paddle was labeled Paddle Ball on the front but it went by many names. It entertained us for the longest time until the elastic broke. When knotting the elastic didn’t work, the paddle was retired.

I didn’t have a TV in Ghana or a radio or a phone. I wore a watch when I taught so I could keep track of the time, and I wore one when I traveled except that last one, the traveling watch, was unnecessary. Nothing left on time. I was never late but always early.

I am still housebound by choice, but I am happy and comfortable and still wearing my cozies. I am much better but today I’m coughing again. This plague tends to reinvent itself every couple of days, but I do feel better.

I have been in deep thought these housebound days. I have entertained myself by reading, watching movies, lazing on the couch and ruminating. The over and under toilet paper debate surfaced. Why, I have no idea. I guessed lack of sleep and no Snickers. Well, to go on record, I am an over. I think it the quickest way to find the end of the paper. Why is there no controversy about paper towels? Do they all have to be over, some sort of unspoken kitchen law?

I have had a strange sleeping schedule lately. I’m up roaming into the wee hours and then waking up close to noon. I’m fine with this but am unsure as the right wording. Am I up late into the night or am I still awake early in the morning?

I have been watching sci-fi movies from the 50’s. One was new to me, The Slime People from 1963. It kept me quite entertained. The Slime People are huge, prehistoric creatures covered with scales. They are actually subterranean reptile people who ooze slime and who have come to the surface because of underground A-Bomb testing, a 50’s common cause of monsters surfacing in movies. Think Rodan and Godzilla and our homegrown Them!

This movie is terrible, and I love it for that.

I got a chuckle out of a cave being called their headquarters. They don’t speak so I wondered what they did in their headquarters where they seemed to meet often. The cast includes three men and two women. One man is the father of the women, another is a marine who lost his unit and the third is a pilot who just landed. The Slime need fog to survive. Their fog machines, generated for a special effect, went feral. There were so many and so much fog you sometimes couldn’t see the cast. You could just hear their disembodied voices. They quickly figured out how to dissipate the fog, using salt water, which they carried in buckets to the fog. One of the women, in appropriate attire for the early 60’s, a sweater and skirt, is carrying a bucket in one hand and her pocketbook draped over her arm in the other. That is my favorite scene. The next scene which was only closely defeated and came in at number 2, the screaming woman held by a Slime man. She screamed so much and so loudly I wanted the Slime Man to despatch her. She could have saved herself, but she waited for her guy. The water dissipated the fog and the Slime People died. All this happened only over a day or two but it didn’t take long for there to be couples and marriage proposals. The father gave his blessing. My favorite line was the pilot’s to his new love, the older sister, “I know we just met but I have a lot of things I want to tell you if we get out of this.” Her reply, “Me too.”

The weather is the same, a sort of boring rut of sun and cold. The sky is a bit cloudy, and there is a breeze, a small one though but it adds to the cold. I should go out as I need the usual, cream for my coffee and bread, but I don’t think I will. I’m still fighting that cold. I am tired and grumpy and probably should not be unleashed upon the world.

My life is quiet of late. I call people to let them know I haven’t died and been eaten by my dogs. That’s always a possibility. They are hungry critters.

I have the best mornings. As soon as I wake up, we all, the dogs and I, go downstairs. The dogs go outside, pee, then quickly run inside, well Nala quickly runs inside while Henry looks through the doggie door hoping I’ll see him to let him in. Once they’re in, the dogs follow me around the kitchen expecting their morning treats, a biscuit and a cookie, a real cookie, a doggie Oreo. It is then I get my coffee and toast, and the house smells of morning, of the coffee brewing and the bread toasting. My toast has been taken to a higher level. A friend sent me a jar of Black Mission Fig Jam. I have toast every morning just to have the jam. The jar is getting close to the bottom. I’d scream but I’m almost out of bread too. The end of this week is looking bleak.

When I was a kid, my favorite breakfast was boiled eggs served with toast strips for dunking. My mother served the eggs in egg cups with a pile of toast strips on the plate. Her boiled eggs always had plenty of yolk. I drank cocoa with breakfast.

The morning continues except it is afternoon. No matter the time, I still finish my morning routine in the same order every day: wake up, go downstairs, give treats, make coffee and toast, slather jam, read the newspaper, do the word puzzles, read my e-mail, drink more coffee and finally start Coffee. Today I am quite late, well into the afternoon. It happens that way some days.

Today is sunny and warm, winter warm at 42°, but, despite the nice day, I’m still hibernating. I haven’t been out of the house except to get the paper and the mail in the front yard. I am fighting a cold. I’m winning. Today is a better day.

When I was a kid, I had the usual kid diseases, but other than those, I was seldom sick. I hated to miss school but an every now and then sick day was welcomed. I got to lie on the couch, watch television and be waited on by my mother. She always served soup for lunch, usually tomato with a grilled cheese sandwich, the most iconic pairing since Adam and Eve. Her grilled cheese sandwiches were the stuff of legend. They were perfectly browned and oozing cheese, Velvetta. The soup was thick. My mother made it with milk instead of water. That lunch made being sick worthwhile.

My dance card is empty. I have nothing uke until next Tuesday, my practice night. I’m enjoying this time off as the weeks before Christmas were so busy, so filled with concerts.

Winter got boring when it got too cold to go out to play and far too cold for a bike ride. My afternoons were spent watching TV or reading. Sometimes I’d sit at the kitchen table and watch my mother making supper. I remember her mashing the potatoes right in the pan with the metal masher. It clanged when it hit the sides of the pan. She’d add milk and keep mashing. Finally she’d add butter and let it melt into the potatoes. I love mashed potatoes. I love my mother’s mashed potatoes.

We had a lot of ground beef when I was a kid. I never minded as it was served so many different ways. I loved my mother’s meatloaf. She’d sometimes spread the top with ketchup and cover the ketchup with bacon strips. I’d try to steal some of the crispy bacon out of the oven but my mother was on alert. She’d also serve her meatloaf spread with a frosting of mashed potatoes which she browned in the oven. My mother served food from elsewhere adding an international flair to her ground beef. We ate Chinese, Italian, Mexican and, a hybrid, American chop suey, an oxymoron of sorts. I always have ground beef in my freezer.

In Bolga, I could buy meat, beef, at the meat stall in the market. It took very little time before I was inured to the meat market. I swear the butchers wore the same aprons my entire two years of shopping there. I came to recognize many of the stains. We got so close I should have given them names. Anyway, the butcher always cut me a piece of beef tenderloin, weighed it then wrapped it in banana leaves for me. For dinner the beef was either sliced then cooked in a tomato sauce or ground and also cooked in a tomato sauce, the same tomato sauce by taste. Choices were limited in Bolga.

I am taking my time this morning. During the night I was invaded by some evil bug. I think a cold is brewing. My nose is full, and I’ve been every now and then coughing. I cancelled my dentist appointment for today and will probably cancel my uke lesson tomorrow morning. I’ve only been up for a couple of hours, and I already want a nap. My sister’s first question was, “How did you get it?” That was a great question. I thought about it. It had to be the grocery store stop a few days ago as I haven’t been anywhere else since the uke concert on New Year’s Eve.

I’m not enjoying this, the coughing and the sniffing. I am reminded of my father and his white handkerchiefs. He was never without one. He used to keep one in his back pants pocket. If I sneezed, he’d hand over his wrinkled, used handkerchief. They didn’t start out that way, wrinkled. My mother used to iron my father’s handkerchiefs. Sometimes I did. The motions from one handkerchief to the next didn’t change. Iron the whole cloth, then fold in half and iron each half then fold again and iron each side. After that, only square handkerchiefs were left. They got piled then put in his drawer. There were always handkerchiefs needing ironing.

What amazes me is how sometimes a picture, a scene, jumps into my head from a way back memory drawer jogged by a smell or a look or a taste. The other day it was the smell of popcorn. My mother would make it standing at the stove and shaking the covered pan filled with a few kernels in oil. After one or two popped, she’d add all the kernels. When it had finished popping, she’d put the popcorn in the big tulip bowl and have melted butter to pour on the popcorn. Strangely enough, I remember the sticky feel of my fingers from picking up the popcorn covered in butter with only a little salt. I remember it was delicious.

Most places are dark now. All the colors of Christmas are gone. In my neighborhood, the house diagonally across from my backyard always leaves an outside light on. It is the only light anywhere around. Sometimes I like that light as it shares its light with me. Sometimes I hate that light. It ruins the dark sense of the night, the calmness of the night, by its garish brightness. Sometimes I forget about that light until I let Henry inside and see the light on. I think winter is its best time.

We are stuck in a new ice age. Every day is freezing, actually below freezing as it is only 22°. I even hated going out to get my paper in the front yard. I walked gingerly on the icy, brick walk. The sky is filled with clouds. The backyard trees are silhouettes against the grey. Grim best describes the day.

When I was a kid, I had time to see the awesome. I could stop and be awed by the beauty of the snowflakes falling on my face, on my tongue and on my mittens held out to gather the flakes. I stood under the streetlight in front of the house, my face tilted to the light, and I watched the flakes. They glinted. They looked like diamonds.

This Christmas season I took light rides. Some neighborhoods were so amazing I had to stop and look at the designs and colors. A ride by was just not enough. I was back to being a kid again oohing and ahhed at the lights.

I used to hold my Rice Krispies to my ear before I ate them so I could hear the snap, crackle and pop. I had exciting cereal.

My father sometimes would pull my sled behind his car. The rope was long, and he went slowly. I’d sit upright with my feet on the sled’s steering and hold on to the sides of the sled. At least two of us sat on every sled. We had the best time almost flying over the snowy street. I still remember the sensation. It was laugh out loud fun.

Living in Ghana was exciting every day. I loved hearing the roosters greet the dawn. I loved teaching and learning. The market, occurring every third day, always felt like a circus of sorts with animals for sale with lines of chickens and sheep and goats and all the sounds they brought with them. I loved wandering among the fruit and vegetable stalls. Sometimes I’d find a treasure. Market day with all its usual goods and with some surprises was always one of my favorite days.

I stop now. I take my time. I watch the snowflakes fall into the back light. I put my hand out for the flakes. I’m finding the joys I knew when I was a kid are still here. I just have to look. I have the time.

I am a prisoner to the cold. We are at 24°, the high for the day. I choose to stay home and keep warm. I just ordered a grocery delivery. I even ordered some goodies, some Snickers. The old buy 2 get 2 free hooked me. I think putting the groceries away will be my only exertion for the day as I’m thinking I can’t count turning the pages of my book. I am a sloth and proud to be one.

When I was a kid, there wasn’t really much to do all winter. On the cold, snowy days we could sled or skate until the cold got to us. Sometimes it was a bicycle day but not on the days I had to bundle to keep the cold at bay. I remember one Christmas Eve when my mother sent me to the corner store for bread or milk. I don’t remember which. I just remember I rode my bicycle. First, I had to wrestle it out of the cellar then turn it so I could pull it up the stairs. After that I was free to ride down the grassy hill, a route forbidden by my father, then ride down a couple of streets to the store. I was not a fan of that errand. It was Christmas Eve, not a day for ordinary yet there I was on my bike buying bread, the most ordinary of errands.

Getting to the big day was filled with fun, growing anticipation, lights, and trees lit inside and outside, Advent calendars and Santa and a constantly updated list of what I wanted for Christmas. When we had disagreements as to whose turn it was for the Sears Catalogue, my mother intervened. I think she gave us deli numbers.

Christmas Eve was so exciting it took a while to fall asleep. Christmas morning was a whirl. We had breakfast, opened presents, and I remember showing my mother what Santa had left for me, and she oohed and ah-ahed. We went to my grandparents. The whole day was filled. I was exhausted and fell asleep early.

The wonderful feelings hung around. I loved my presents. I had a variety, enough to make the gifts interesting and even some fun. I did hate when it was time to put Christmas away.

I do less for Christmas now though I like it more. I pick and choose among all my favorites as to what my house will look like. Maybe it will be winter or all my plastic Santas or my Putz houses, my uglies. I do love my uglies, those Putz houses and churches. I also have many snowmen. Other than the Santas, and, if need be my tree, the house decorations seldom come down and are fitting through the whole winter. I still get enjoyment from lights on garlands of mistletoe and pine and draped across the fire screen to the giant basket from Africa where they end in a circle. Other nooks you might have missed get small strings of colored lights. I don’t have to put the feelings of Christmas and the lights of winter away until it is time to put all of winter away. By then I’m ready.