Today is Mother’s Day. It is the day I honor my mother and my memories of her. I put my heart into this posting so every year I post basically this same entry with only a few little changes.

My mother was amazing. She was generous, fun to be with and was the perfect martyr when she needed to be, a skill I think most mothers have. It was her tone of voice so filled with pain that caused our guilt to well to the surface. “I’ll do it myself,” she’d say. We’d scurry to do whatever she wanted.

My sisters and I laugh often about the curses she inflicted on us: the love of everything Christmas and never thinking you have enough presents for everyone, giving Easter baskets overflowing with candy and fun toys and surprising people with a gift just because.

My mother had a generosity of spirit. She was funny and smart and the belle of every ball. She always had music going in the kitchen as she worked so she could sing along. She played Frank and Tony and Johnny and from her I learned the old songs. My mother drew all the relatives to her, and her house was filled. My cousins visited often. She was their favorite aunty. My mother loved to play Big Boggle, and we’d sit for hours at the kitchen table and play so many games we’d lose track of the time. Christmas was always amazing, and she passed this love to all of us. We traveled together, she and I, and my mother was game for anything. I remember Italy and my mother and me after dinner at the hotel bar where she’d enjoy her cognac. She never had it any other time, but we’re on vacation she said and anything goes. I talked to her just about every day, as did my sisters. I loved it when she came to visit. We’d shop, have dinner out then play games at night. I always waited on her when she was here. I figured it was the least I could do.

My mother loved extreme weather shows, TV judges and crime. She never missed Judge Judy. She also liked quiz shows and she and I used to play Jeopardy together on the phone at night. She always had a crossword puzzle book with a pen inside on the table beside her chair, and I used to try to fill in some of the blanks. On the dining room table was often a jigsaw puzzle, and we all stopped to add pieces on the way to the kitchen. My mother loved a good time.

She did get feisty, and I remember flying slippers aimed at my head when I was a kid and one time a dictionary, a big dictionary was thrown which luckily missed though the binding broke. I pointed that out to her and that made her madder. She expertly used mother’s guilt on us, her poor victims. We sometimes drove her crazy, and she let us know, none too quietly. We never argued over politics. She kept her opinions close. We sometimes argued over other things, but the arguments never lasted long.

Even after all this time, I still think to reach for the phone to call my mother when I see something interesting or have a question I know only she can answer, but then in a split second I remember. When I woke up this morning, my first thought was of her, and how much she is missed. No one ever told me how hard it would be.

My house was cold this morning. I decided to put on my sweatshirt and turn on the heat. I made a new pot of coffee and toasted an onion bagel then slattered cream cheese on it. I am happy, warm and content.

Today will be rainy. Yesterday too was rainy. The high will be 55°. It is a good day to stay close to hearth and home. I’ll stay in my cozies. I have some plants I’ve been rooting which need to be potted. I have a book to read. Maybe I’ll even sneak in a nap.

When I came downstairs this morning, I found a stick on the mat by the door. I also found a couple of pine cones, one chewed. Nala had been collecting again.

I used to love to watch Creature Double Feature on Saturdays on channel 56. That is when I started to love classic horror movies like Dracula, Frankenstein and the mummy, Japanese monsters like Rodan and Godzilla and all those wonderful black and white science fiction movies. Even now, if I notice they are on, I’ll watch. I have a wonderful collection of 50’s sci-fi. Some of the plots are silly, but they are the best parts, a crawling hand, a man with two heads, meteorite shards which petrify people and one of my favorites, The Brain That Wouldn’t Die, a scientist keeps the head of his girlfriend alive after she is decapitated in a car accident. She is not happy to say the least. One of my favorite lines, “I’ll give her a brain and a heart.” All he is missing is courage. I’m now watching Asteroid Down The Hunt for Hidden Aliens.

Many theme songs from TV programs occupy several of my memory drawers. I even remember the theme from The Real McCoys, and I was quite young when that was on. How about, “Robin Hood, Robin Hood, riding through the glen. Robin Hood, Robin Hood, with his band of men.” I could sing the rest but I figure this is enough. I remember the opening of Robin Hood with its dramatic music and the sound of the arrow hitting the tree. Superman’s opening had words. We found out he was able to leap tall buildings in a single bound and was faster than a speeding bullet. I still have trouble believing the Lone Ranger’s theme is really The Willian Tell Overture.

The other day I needed to put my date of birth on a website. I scrolled so long through the years my hand got tired.

Life is good. I can walk without moaning on every step. My dogs have stopped cocking their heads and looking sympathetic when I moan. They ignore me again. The morning is lovely with not a single cloud and the deepest blue sky. The sun brightens every corner. Nothing is moving in the stillest air. We’ll get to 59° today. I have a concert this afternoon. The music is The Beach Boys, fun music or should I say Fun, Fun, Fun (No groaning. I’m injured).

The first album I ever bought was Peter, Paul and Mary. I found folk music before I found rock and roll. They are neck and neck but folk has a slight edge. I remember going to a coffee house. It was in Boston in basically a cellar. It was dark. People wore black so they sort of disappeared. I sat in the back. I don’t remember who sang. I do remember it was folk music. Joni, PP&M and Simon and Garfunkel made the trip to Ghana. I had to rewind the cassettes by hand because of the heat and the humidity. Bic pens were the perfect tools. CSN&N also came. One of my friends gave me the soundtrack to Easy Rider. His mother had sent it to him but he didn’t have a cassette player. Her lapse was my good fortune.

The only concerts I have attended have been mostly folk singers. I’ve seen Lightfoot, PP&M a few times, Judy Collins a couple of times, Nanci Griffith a couple of times just after I discovered Other Voices, Other Rooms, James Taylor, The Kingston Trio and Odetta. There are probably more, but it has been a while. I remember Roy Orbison and America. I can’t dredge any others, but I’m sure there are more rock concerts as well. I have a record player, a repro of an old one. I love playing my albums.

I remember my first transistor radio. It was a Christmas gift. The cover was brown leather with sound holes in the front. The radio was part of the cover. It wasn’t huge, but it was big. I was thrilled. AM radio stations were prime. WMEX was king. We all listened to Arnie Woo Woo Ginsburg’s Night Train Show. WCOP was the second station where we heard rock and roll. I used to sneak my radio under the covers so I could listen to music. One Christmas a few years later I got another radio, a small one you could hold in your hand. I remember the dial and the front of the radio. I had that radio for years.

I listen to mostly oldies, soft rock, stations in my car with the exception of WOMR in Provincetown, an eclectic station I really enjoy. Every now and then I drift over to an AM station for weather and traffic but mostly my dial stays on FM. My taste has expanded over time. I love Ghanaian High Life which was popular when I lived there. I have a few High Life albums.

Learning to play a musical instrument has been one of the high points of my life. Now I play concerts. Who would have thought?

The last couple of days have been painful and frustrating. Yesterday, when I was closing the front door, my thumb caught (I won’t explain just that it was silly). When I pulled my thumb free, I fell down the front steps, hit the planters and a garden sculpture and fell onto the grass. My thumb was bleeding down my hand to my arm. The wound looked like a smiley face without the eyes. It was a skin flap. I got into the house, put on bandaids then washed the front door which looked like the scene of a house invasion or a murder. I then left for my uke lesson. By the time I got home my leg was so swollen you could see the lump through my pants. It is painful to sit and painful to walk. My lower leg has abrasions but just a little swelling. As falls go, this one was spectacular.

Last night I could not watch the Sox. My Xfinity Stream had an error message. I looked to find out more and still had no idea what had happened. It opened my iPad. I checked YouTube and did a few of the suggestions. No luck. I have spent this morning in a rabbit hole of frustrating suggestions, none of which worked. I do not know what to do next except scream out the back door.

My first spectacular fall was when I was four. I had learned to jump off the high fence backwards. It was almost an Olympic worthy maneuver. I asked my mother to watch, and she did from our apartment window. I hit the ground and braced myself with my hands. My Olympic hopes were dashed. Later my mother took me to the hospital. I had a buckle fractured wrist. I was proud of that cast. The next fall requiring medical attention was when I was 10. I fell down the stairs, hit a table against the wall and opened my chin. I got stitches.

I have had other falls resulting in broken teeth and broken bones including that after uke practice fall followed by an ambulance ride, but, of late, my falls had been commonplace. Yesterday broke that streak.

My safari continues to be successful. Yesterday I caught and released 3 mice bringing the total to 5. I set 4 traps last night and will check later. This time I used a bit of cheddar. I figured they were tired of peanut butter. I have had mice periodically over the years. I remember when my mother was visiting and we were in the den. She saw a mouse. She didn’t freak. She thought it was cute. She wasn’t afraid of bugs either. She one told me when they were kids, she and her sister, used to catch flies and take off their wings. That didn’t bother me. Flies are filthy.

When I opened the door to let the dogs out, yup, I am still the one, the wind blew the door out of my hand. Everything is being blown. Even the heaviest limbs are bowing. Still, today is another lovely day. It is 62°. The sun and blue sky have hung around since yesterday. Nala will be sunning herself lying on the grass in the backyard. She is my barometer.

When I was a kid, I loved my spring jacket. After the layers of winter, it felt like a freedom of sorts. It had a zipper and two pockets. It was light blue. Sometimes I had to wear a sweater under it but mostly the jacket was enough. Things stay with us, sometime big memories but sometimes small memories we don’t realize we’re tucking away. A long while back I saw spring jackets on sale. One was gray. It had a zipper and two pockets. I bought it prompted by a small memory from way back in my memory drawers. I’m going to take it out of the closet. Its time has come.

Yesterday was a day for the birds, literally. I saw a cardinal couple. First I saw her but he quickly followed. His feathers were just so striking. I was sorry when he flew away. A chickadee was gathering material for a nest. She was pulling grass off my deck steps. I was amazed by how much she carried. My wild rose bushes in front bloom once a year. My landscaper keeps wanting to cut them down. I don’t let him. They are a part of old Cape Cod. Not only that, but there is always a nest when he trims them in the fall.

I am still a victim of plagues, not the Plagues of Egypt, but more localized plagues. First it was the gnats. Some still haunt me, but they are mostly gone. The ones left are in Jack’s room. I vacuum them up with my hand vacuum. They scurry then take to the air. I am good enough to catch them in flight. Now there are ants, not many and soon to be less. I bought ant traps. The mice are back in Jack’s room. They have been eating his treats. I had 4 mouse hotels for the last infestation but can’t find two of them. I did clean and bait the two I had and also ordered 4 more. I’ll check the traps when I go upstairs again then rebait them if my hunt has been successful. I choose not to imagine what’s next.

I should be standing on my deck singing O What a Beautiful Morning. Everything is perfect: the sun, the sky, the temperature and the still air. It is already 62°. The sky is dark blue with not a single cloud. The breeze sways mostly the smaller branches. The sun is brilliant.

The forsythias are still in bloom. The bright yellow bushes dot yards and lend color to the remnants of winter. The oak trees have just started to bud. We are always late to spring on Cape Cod.

When I was a kid, I loved everywhere around me. I had the woods, the field, the swamp and blueberry bushes. Every season gave me something wonderful. I watched the tadpoles grow into frogs at the swamp. I ate the blueberries. I chased grasshoppers and fireflies. I ice skated on the swamp in the middle and followed the frozen channels. One day, though, all of that started to disappear. Heavy equipment took down the trees, plowed under the field and destroyed the swamp and the blueberry bushes. All of these wonderful places, enchanted places, were replaced by brick buildings, apartments for the elderly, what my father called wrinkle city. The woods where we had buried my turtle disappeared one day when I was in school. The first brick buildings were built around there. My grandmother moved into one of the first buildings. I remember how small her apartment was. My father visited her just about every week. He’d con me into going with him when I visited my parents for the weekend. That visit could not be short enough.

My sloth has been holding sway for a while. I did sweep the hall but only because the amount of dog fur had formed clumps which covered the floor. My mop has been in the kitchen for weeks. I had intended to wash the kitchen floor but haven’t yet. I just step over the mop. The polishing cloths are on the counter. They haven’t moved in a while. I have a list. It is gathering dust.

My dance card is fairly empty for the week. I have a doctor’s appointment today, my usual uke practice Tuesday and my lesson on Wednesday but only one concert, on Friday. The book for the month is Beach Boys.

Last night it rained. The rain was loud and heavy for a while. Surprisingly, both dogs went out before bed. They didn’t mind the wet. The rain just started again. I saw it against the den window. It will rain on and off all day.

I had a late start this morning. I slept in for the first time in a while. The dogs stayed with me. I woke up first. Nala was reluctant to get off the bed. Henry got up and waited on the stairs for me. I love that he does that. They both went out, came in for treats and then got comfortable for their morning naps. My father used to say he wanted to come back as a pet in any of our houses.

Sundays in Ghana were different than any other day of the week. The cafeteria was reconfigured so that the benches became pews for a morning service. My students wore their three piece traditional dresses. Each of the four classes had their own prints. Religious figures from town sat in chairs at tables in front of the students. Hymns were sung and there was one sermon. The speakers alternated from among the town’s religious leaders: the white father, the minister from one of the churches or the imam from the mosque. One Sunday I got stuck. It was about the scariest thing I did in Ghana. My inspiration wasn’t the Bible. It was Aesop. I talked about the grasshoppers and the ants and the boy who cried wolf. I still remember the look on my principal’s face. She never asked me again.

After the service, the older students were allowed to go to town. Photographers came to the school grounds and took pictures. My students changed from their uniforms to their best dresses. Every Sunday was a sort of celebration.

If I could, I would travel back in time to my favorite Sunday dinner, roast beef, gravy, mashed potatoes and peas. It was the meal my mother cooked for me before I left for Ghana. I left on a Sunday. I remember the ride to Logan. We didn’t talk much. They walked with me to the gate. We waited together until the gate was open, and I could board. We hugged. I told them I’d call to let them know I had arrived in Philadelphia, our staging area. When I looked back before I went into the jet way, my mother waved. I think we both cried.

I am going to the dump today.

Saturday is special in itself. When I was a kid, it was the day to do whatever I wanted. It always started the same with Saturday morning TV and a bowl of Rice Krispies. I sat on the floor to eat and sat close enough to the TV to risk blindness.

I had Saturday choices of what to do usually dictated by the weather. In the winter, I could ice skate either on the swamp or the rink the town built in Recreation Park. The rink had a small building with a wood stove and benches where you sat and put on and took off your skates. Under the benches were all the shoes. Uptown, the movie matinee was in the early afternoon, a cartoon and a movie for a quarter and candy for a nickel. I bought chewy, long lasting candy like Sugar Babies or Jujubes. During the rest of the year I often rode my bike. The route was wherever my bike took me. In the summer, I’d hunt grasshoppers in the field below my house or catch frogs from the swamp. Sometimes I went to the library. I’d pick as many books as I was allowed. I’d put them in my bike basket. Often, when I went over bumps, some books would go airborne and fall out of the basket. On the worst weather days, I’d stay home nestled in my bed and read.

Today is cloudy. It is 55°. Rain is predicted. The house is quiet. The dogs are napping. Nala is stretched out on the couch. Henry is on my bed upstairs. Jack, the cat, is in his room asleep on a pillow. I’m on the couch with my feet up on the table. I’m on my second cup of coffee. I’m going to make toast. I just bought fig jam.

I wondered about toast. Who decided to toast bread and why it is mostly a breakfast food? My only guess was maybe bread got stale and toasting it saved it. Over time I’ve had toasters, the kind where the bread goes down and pops up when it is done. I remember bread getting stuck on the coils and using a knife to get out the bread. I didn’t unplug it. The toasters were chrome. They always sat on the counter. One of my Christmas gifts was a toaster oven. It was multi-functional. I could toast bread and cook food like pizza slices. I still have a toaster oven, my third.

Today I have a concert at Margaritaville, a hotel in Hyannis. It is their Jimmy Buffett convention. I’ve got my Hawaiian shirt and my Hawaiian uke. We’re playing not only Buffett songs but also summer songs. I have to organize the songs and tune my uke.

Earlier this morning it rained. When I went to get the paper, I could smell the flowers and the wet soil. It is a spring smell, the smell of growing things. The rain will return this afternoon, a light rain. It will be in the low 50’s all day.

When I was in Ghana, I learned not to mind the bugs. They’d fly onto my food or land in my glass. I’d just pick them out. I’d sift my flour as the bugs loved flour. I wouldn’t get all of them, but I figured the rest were protein. Lately I’ve been the victim of another plague, gnats. It started in Jack’s wet food. The gnats multiplied. They attacked. They reminded me of World War II movies when swarms of planes attacked carriers. I vacuumed them. I swatted them. I grabbed them in mid-air. I killed the ones on the back door glass. They left streaks. My sister suggested I get one of those fly strips. I remembered them from my childhood. One used to hang over the lobster tank at the fish store. It was covered in dead flies stuck to the strips. It was gross but mesmerizing in an odd way. I looked up how to kill gnats. There are natural ways. I’ll try those before the sticky tape.

I love the early mornings when the air is filled with the songs of birds. When I get downstairs, the first thing I do is let the dogs out, yes I do. They run downstairs to the yard. I often stand on the deck to watch them. This morning I saw blue jays, robins, a couple of doves and a woodpecker. The morning was bird noisy, and Henry added a bark or two.

When I was a kid, I didn’t know birds except pigeons, blue jays and robins. I thought of robins as the harbingers of spring. The pigeons were city birds. The blue jays were the biggest birds, and I thought they were bullies. I remember bird houses, but I don’t remember seeing bird feeders.

At the zoo was a tropical bird exhibit, an aviary. The building was huge with a high ceiling. The air was thick with humidity. It was free flight. The birds flew overhead and sometimes dive bombed us. I remember people squealing and covering their heads with their hands. That was fun to watch.

I have two concerts left this week, one today and one Saturday. Tomorrow I need to grocery shop. I have a list.

My life, of late, has been mostly routine. The weather hasn’t changed in the last few days. We still have sun and a blue sky. It is 50° and will stay 50° all day. I have been a sloth wearing my cozies most days, reading and eating bonbons, but yesterday I did a few chores. My sloth screamed. I started putting my winter clothes away. My bedroom is in disarray. Folded winter clothes destined for bins are on chairs. I just have to substitute winter for summer in the bins. Today I started cleaning my dining room. I’ll finish that and the living room. I’ll also water the plants. I’m thinking I already need a nap.

My dance card for the week is uke heavy. Today is practice, tomorrow is my lesson and a concert and another concert on Thursday. The big concert is Saturday at Margaritaville in Hyannis for the Parrot Head Convention. I’ll use my Hawaiian uke and wear my favorite Hawaiian shirt.

I am a collector. I define that as three or more similar items. I have lanterns, baskets, decorations, glassware, special Christmas ornaments, commemorative tee-shirts, cake decorations and, one of my favorites, cook books with recipes from literature. I have too much from Ghana to list, but I think of them as memories, treasures.

When I bought my house, my parents came down to see it. My mother brought some of my childhood memories with her. One is a wooden chair. My grandmother’s brother made it for me when I was around three. It has been painted white. It has survived all of us. Yellow ceramic chickens from Fannie Farmer always held soft boiled eggs. My mother would cook the eggs, put them in egg cups and slice off the tops of the eggs. She’d served them with toast cut to fit the eggs. It was one of my favorite breakfasts. She brought down a few of the chicken and rooster cups. A couple have no beaks. They are on the window sill in the kitchen. I still use them. My mother brought my childhood books. Many were gifts while others I bought with my fifty cent allowance, leaving me a penny. Those were mostly girl detective books like Trixie Belden and Donna Parker. The classics too were in the pile, books like Heidi, Treasure Island, Black Beauty and Zorro. I bought a bookcase just for those books.

One of my siblings, who shall remain unnamed, lacks sentiment. The treasures my mother brought down were junk. I didn’t bother to explain. They are way beyond my sibling’s ken.