Mother Nature is running amok. The rain started last night and hasn’t stopped. Rain and, yes, even snow have been predicted. It is in the 30’s now, and the temperature will stay right there all night. It is an ugly day.

When I was a kid, my grammar school, St. Patrick’s, had one building opened in 1910. It was across from the convent and beside the rectory. We outgrew the school so a new school was going to be built. I attended the old school for my first, second and fourth grades. My third grade was in the rectory’s garage. In my fourth grade we had double sessions. The start of my fifth grade was in the next town. I loved that old school. It was brick and had two doors, but mostly we used only one. We walked through that door into the school two by two by grade level, maybe a throwback to Noah’s ark. The seldom used door faced houses. I figured out early on that if I exited by that door I could bypass the wait at the main door.

My favorite classroom was when I was in the fourth grade. The room had windows on two sides. They were long windows which could only be opened and closed using a wooden rod with a hook at the top to catch the lock. The lights hung down from the ceiling. On a day like today, a rainy day, despite the lights, the room was dark. The rain drops would hit the windows and would slide down on the glass. I’d watch the drops hit the windows. We were quiet, subdued by the rain. The only sounds were of pages turning and chairs squeaking. It always felt as if we were protected somehow.

My classrooms in Ghana had windows with no glass. Each desk seated two students. There were four classroom blocks with two classes in each. I taught the T2’s, the second years. Because the roofs were metal, heavy rain drowned out any teaching; instead, I assigned reading or writing and just walked around to check progress.

The bathrooms were in a separate building close to the classrooms. I remember the first time a student raised her hand and said, “Please, madam, I have to urinate.”During the mid morning there was break for tea and rolls. I went home and had coffee. One day, when I was returning after the break and was close to the classroom block, I could see my students throwing rocks at some bushes right outside my classroom. I stopped and asked why, “Madam, we are killing the snake.” I nodded and walked into my classroom to wait. It was just an ordinary day.

The morning is ugly, cold and cloudy. The air is damp. Rain is predicted. It is a perfect day to hunker down with a good book, but I have another concert. This one is at the mall. I’ll have to hunker later.

Lately my sloth has held sway. I’ve been lazy. This morning I swept down the stairs, the most cleaning I have done in days. I’ve become more tolerant of dust balls of Henry hair. I clean up a few as I walk down the hall, but mostly, I’ve learned to ignore them. Every time I pat Henry his white fur flies, and he has a lot of hair

I used to get an allowance of fifty cents. That doesn’t sound like much but back then fifty cents was a fortune. My father used to talk about the ant and the grasshopper. The ant worked and saved. The grasshopper played. I was a kid. I was a grasshopper. I remember buying books for forty nine cents which left me a penny. The books were mostly about girl detectives like Trixie Belden. They were published by Whitman. The library didn’t carry those books. I still have a few of them. They have colorful cardboard covers and are in a bookcase in my bedroom. I also read the classics. I remember the sadness of Black Beauty. I thought Jo, Little Women Jo, was brave. She was a rebel. She made choices contrary to the customs of the time. She had her hair cut then she sold it. Her family was appalled. Long hair was femininity, but she sacrificed it for money, for her mother to travel to see her father in the hospital. Jo was my hero. I read Zorro and Heidi and Robert Louis Stevenson. I was a quick reader. Once I started a book I got so enmeshed in the pages everything else disappeared. If my mother called for me and I didn’t answer, she thought I was ignoring her. She didn’t realize I was with Long John Silver.

I have a downstairs book and an upstairs book. I always have a book.

Last night it poured. The dogs stood at the door, looked out and backed into the kitchen. Later, though, they both went outside out of necessity. They both got soaked. It won’t rain again today. The sun has broken through the clouds. Blue had taken over the sky. Right now it is 41°, typical weather for spring here on the cape. Tonight will go down to the high 30’s. Winter is still holding sway.

I have traveled. I fulfilled the promise I made for myself when I was eleven, when I was in the sixth grade. Geography was one of my favorite subjects. I loved all the pictures in my geography book. They became part of my promise. The picture I remember the most is of Christ the Reedemer statue standing at the peak of Corcovado mountain overlooking the city of Rio. That went on the list. I remember the commercials with Juan Valdez and his donkey Conchita who is hauling Colombian coffee beans. Juan wore a soft hat which looked like a fedora. He also wore a serape folded over one shoulder. Going to the mountains and seeing coffee beans growing went on the list. Maybe I’d even run into Juan and his donkey. I made a scrapbook, a journal of my travels before I traveled anywhere. I cut pictures from travel brochures and made up stories about my trip. It was a dream book.

I never found many brochures about traveling in Africa. Egypt was about the only country highlighted with pictures of pyramids in my geography book. Africa seemed strange, excitedly strange. It appeared different than any other place. I put it on the list.

When I was a senior in college before I heard from Peace Corps, my friends and I planned a trip to Europe after graduation. My parents gave me the trip as a graduation present. It was one of those 5 countries in 7 days type trips then I heard from Peace Corps. I was going to Africa. I was fine missing the trip to Europe. After Africa, Europe seemed almost commonplace. People went to Europe. They didn’t go to Africa. I took out books from the library about Africa. Peace Corps sent information and a book about Ghana. I poured through it. I knew very little about Africa and pretty much nothing about Ghana.

I’ve had adventures. I fulfilled most of the dreams, most of the promises I had made when I was eleven, but I still have a few dreams. I think myself lucky in that way.

Mother Nature is pranking me. When I look out the window, I see a lovely morning, bright with sun framed by a blue sky. The air is still. Then I check the weather. It is warm but only in comparison. It is in the 40’s, hoodie weather, sunning on the deck weather. This is spring on Cape Cod.

Yesterday I noticed the daffodils are above ground. I can see the sheathed flower buds. The hyacinths too have poked their heads. I see purple. My grass, or what’s left of my grass, is showing bits of green. Pine branches are still strewn about the front and back yards. Some of them are huge. My front fence is done. It leans. It is rotted in places. I’m going to fence shop and replace it. My landscaper came and we walked the front yard and the back forty. He had one of his guys cut and remove the branch which had fallen across the walk in front. He said I’m on the list. I know he’ll clean the yard when he can. I can wait. He showed me the remains of trees which have to come down. Most are dying. I told him to do what he needs to do.

When I was a kid, I barely noticed the flower beds coming alive. Spring to me meant warmer mornings and no more layering. I loved skipping to school. There was a joyfulness about it, a recognition that spring was gaining hold, that my world was awakening and winter was on the run. Some mornings were still cold, but I had put winter away so I only added a sweater. That was enough.

Some warm mornings I’d ride my bike to school. A bike rack was on the back side of the schoolyard by the fence. It was wooden and painted green. There were slots for the bikes. I never had a lock for my bike. I never worried about it being stolen. It was just a regular bike with brakes on the back side of the pedals and one speed, pedal power. It was blue.

My dance card is still heavy with uke. I have another concert today. It will be my fifth uke event of the week, including practice and a lesson. Tomorrow is another concert. Sunday starts the next week of concerts. The only free day is Monday. I’ll spare you the counting. That means five more concerts after Sunday, all with Irish music. It will be a busy week.

I have been busy the last few days. On Tuesday, I had an early concert, a St. Patrick’s Day concert. We were dressed in all sorts of shades of green. We had noise makers, whistles, and slides. It was a fun concert. Yesterday was Wednesday, my uke lesson day. Today, tomorrow, Saturday and Sunday, I have concerts, still Irish. My poor sloth is hanging on for dear life.

I became a brownie in the second grade. I had the brown uniform, the beanie and the belt with a sort of change purse. The brownie pin was on my hat. I thought the brownie looked like a pixie. I was right. A brownie is a pixie. Next was my fly-up when I became a junior Girl Scout. My uniform was green with a yellow sort of kerchief round the collar. It was tied in a square knot. I still remember left over right and right over left. I had a green beret with the Girl Scout emblem on it, but I missed the brownie. It was a bit whimsical. I had a sash. On it were the badges I earned. They were listed in the Girl Scout handbook. I have one of those. My sister found it and gave it to me at Christmas. It is exactly like the one I had. I’ll admit I started with the easy badges looking to fill my sash. A few years later, I became a senior scout. It meant more badges, overnights at the scout lodge and day trips. I remember getting a tour of Hood Milk. My grandfather who worked for Hood set it up. When I was a junior in high school, I was part of a ceremony which celebrated my troop’s 10 years in scouting. My parents attended. It was special.

I still have friends from all the stages of my life. Some date back to grammar school. We just sort of moved along together. I see high school friends here and there around town. I have new friends, my uke friends. They get me out of the house. They keep an eye on me. I am lucky with my family and my friends.

The rain was heavy. I could hear it hitting the windows. The dogs looked out the door, decided they could wait then walked back into the kitchen and on to the couch. I read the paper. I heard the rain change. It became gentle, almost quiet. The dogs went out. It is warmish at 52°.

I have reached a new low. I am watching about the worst science fiction movie I have ever seen. It is Invasion Earth released in 1983. The film has mostly teens watching horror and sci-fi movie clips in a theater while aliens are replacing people with pods. Sound familiar? How about Invasion of the Body Snatchers? Rodan made a visit. Many clips were from War of the Worlds. The scenes from the Claw were perfectly chosen. That is one ugly bird. Tarantula also dropped by to commit mayhem. As bad as this movie is. I really want to know how it ends. I’m thinking maybe I’m spending too much time alone.

I have a well honed suspension of disbelief. When I watch old black and white sci-fi movies and the low, low budget current science fiction movies, I sort of chuckle at the absurdity of it all but I keep watching. Right now the biggest croc I have even seen is dining on local fishermen. He is the star of this movie. I guessed that as the movie is called Croc.

I taught English. I taught it in Ghana, my first teaching experience, and at the high school level. I caught the virus, that’s what I call the pieces of English which became embedded. I correct grammar, mostly in my head so as not to offend. The worst is the object of the preposition, when it is me instead of i. Example: a package came for Jake and I. Wrong. It should be for Jake and me. I saw pieces from Them, the giant ant movie. The professor told the police chief to aim for the antennae. The chief shot one then the professor said shoot the other. Obliviously the police chief does not know Latin. Antennae means more than one, ending in ae, first declension plural, nominative. I would love not to remember stuff like this, but it doesn’t work that way. I am doomed.

We have sunlight despite the clouds. The light is diffused, a pale imitation of itself. It is cold, 39°, but the high 40’s are predicted for later. It is Sunday quiet. I don’t even hear any cars. Even the birds are quiet. The dogs are napping as they do every day about this time. They’ll also nap later. Such is a dog’s life, at least my dog’s life.

I often think back to my childhood Sundays. I went to mass, sometimes early with my father the usher. Other times it was mass at mid-morning. The last pew in the upstairs church had only room for two people, and it didn’t have a kneeler. I rushed to get that seat. I’ve have to sit the whole mass, such a tragedy say I with tongue in cheek. The church was always filled for Sunday mass. It was still expected that women would wear dresses and a hat. Most men were in suits. Fedoras placed on pews beside them. The mass was short or long, logical I know, but the length wasn’t a given. It was dependent on the priest giving the sermon. The oldest priests gave the longest sermons. When one walked out to start the mass, the entire church sighed, dismayed, knowing what was ahead.

On Sundays, we always had dinner, and it was always a roast of sorts, mashed potatoes, gravy and a couple of vegetables. Corn was the universal choice for favorite vegetable. Carrots and green beans were tolerated. After dinner, we’d sometimes visit my grandparents in East Boston. The house was always filled with relatives.

On Sunday night, we’d watch TV for a little while then were sent to bed early so we’d be bright eyed and bushy tailed and ready for school on Monday.

Sunday dinners stayed around. We still had a roast, mashed potatoes and vegetables, fresh and canned. I’ve mentioned before my last dinner at home before Ghana. It was a roast beef, my choice. It was the perfect way to finish.

What a pretty morning it is. The sun is bright. The sky is a deep blue. Though clouds were predicted, there are none. It is 45°. It feels warm with no wind. Dare I say this is a preview of spring?

Since I was a kid, Saturday has been my favorite day. I used to wander on my bike. I had routes I followed. Near the golf course, I hunted for wayward golf balls. I always found a few across the street from the course. Uptown, I walked my bike on the sidewalk and checked out all the store windows. Two had smells. The bakery smelled of bread. The aroma wafted up and down the street and seemed to swirl around the sidewalk in front of the store. Once in a while I had enough money to buy a loaf, a warm loaf. I’d tear off pieces and eat it as I walked. The last store, the fish market, was down a bit from Hanks’ Bakery. It had a fishy smell, an unpleasant smell, which carried to the sidewalk. In the store window was a tank with lobsters. I used to watch the lobsters swim around. That was my last stop in the square.

Winter Saturday fun depended on the weather. If it was snowy, we’d sled all day right down our own hill. If the weather was ugly, we’d go to the matinee in the theater uptown or just hang around watching TV. I remember westerns more than any other programs. Fury, My Friend Flicka, The Adventures of Rin Tin Tin, Sky King and my favorite, The Lone Ranger, were all on Saturday. I always sat on the rug right in front of the screen. Some Saturdays I ate not only breakfast but also lunch in front of the TV. I never went blind.

None of us ever complained about supper on Saturdays. It was traditional. It was a New England thing. We had baked beans, brown bread and hot dogs. The beans and the bread came out of cans. The brown bread had the markings of the can. It looked sort of decorative. The hot dogs were boiled or sometimes fried. The hot dog rolls always opened at the top. I used mustard and piccalilli on my dogs. No one would have ever have given any thought to using ketchup. That was sacrilegious. In summer the hot dogs were grilled, and the rolls were browned on the grill. We’d have ice cream for dessert. My father back then worked for an ice cream company.

As for me now, I am not a fan of westerns with a few exceptions like Blazing Saddles. I don’t sit close to the TV, but I do eat in the den. I love hot dogs. My sisters make fun of me as it is my go-to supper. I always have hot dogs and top loading rolls on hand. I never have brown bread, decorated or not.

Last night around 11:15 the electricity died. I was reading when the room went dark. It took me totally by surprise. Henry is not afraid of the usual darkness but is afraid of sudden darkness. He sat up, started shaking then came to me for a hug. He got many hugs and scratches. I had grabbed the flashlight and started reading hoping the lights would be back quickly. Nala then went out and Henry followed. I opened the door and used the flashlight to light the stairs. In a while Nala came back inside but Henry did not. The bottom of the stairs was dark. He just stood there. I went out and shined the light on the steps, and he braved the stairs and came inside. He got a treat. I went to bed early. The electricity was back when I woke up.

Last night got cold rather quickly, and we had snow flurries. This morning is still cold, 37°. The sunlight looks faded. The sky is cloudy, a grey blue color. Light rain is predicted for later. This is an almost pretty day gone bad.

When I was a kid, my family had a hierarchy. The grandparents and their siblings were the oldest and at the top. At family parties the aunties came, my grandmother’s sisters. “Are you Chickie’s daughter? They always asked. That’s how I was known to the aunties. My parents and their siblings came next. My mother was the third of eight, my father the second of three. I had cousins galore. We were the bottom of the hierarchy. Now I am at the top. I am the oldest. That astonishes me. I can’t believe time has so quickly passed.

When I was in Ghana, Mr. Edwards was the local education chair. He spoke at my school often. I always thought him pompous. His speeches each time were filled with clichés. The one I remember from every single speech is, “Time and tide wait for no man.”

The hahaha was loud this morning. I think it was Mother Nature reminding me who is in charge. Winter is coming back, not that it really left. Two warm days just made us hopeful. Tonight the high will be 28°, and there will be light snow. It will be in the 30’s the next two nights. Today is ugly, cloudy and damp.

Because my dance card is totally empty until Tuesday, I’m stuck doing the house chores I have been ignoring. The clumps of dog hair on the floor are lifted into the air when I walk by. I can leave messages in the dust on the tables. The kitchen is the cleanest room because I usually clean it while I’m waiting for dinner to cook. The floor does need to be washed, but I won’t because we may have snow flurries and paw prints would be back.

When I was a kid, winter, after Christmas, was mostly boring. The weekdays were the same month to month. Darkness came early. I’d get home from school, change into my play clothes, do any homework I might have then I’d watch TV until dinner then I’d watch TV after dinner. My mother dictated bedtime. “It’s a school night,” she’d remind us as if we hadn’t heard it most weeknights. I’d go to bed but then I’d secretly read under the covers. Sometimes I got caught but only sometimes. I don’t know what time I’d give in and go to sleep, but it was always at the end of a chapter.

I could smell word burning this morning probably from someone’s fireplace. It is one of my favorite smells. I love sitting on the deck close to my chiminea on a cool evening while wood burns. I use piñon wood from New Mexico. When I lived in Ghana, my food was cooked on a sort of habachi, no oven. The charcoal was wood charcoal with the sweetest aroma. Charcoal villages make the wood charcoal. One time I was hitching from Tamale to Bolga, about a hundred miles. One ride dropped me at a small village along the main road. It was a charcoal village. Smoke rose from burning tree trunks on the ground. The aroma was everywhere including on my clothes. I got a ride because small boys from the village stood in the road and stopped cars for me. The ride took me right to my road off the main road in Bolga. My clothes still carried a bit of the aroma of the charcoal.

I need a few groceries, cream for my coffee being paramount. The problem is I don’t want to get dressed to go out. Ugly days like today should be spent close to hearth and home. Even the dogs don’t want to go out. The question is which is more important, staying warm and cozy or making sure I have cream for my coffee. I need to ponder.