Spring has sprung. Every day this week will be in the 40’s. Today is perfect. Everything is aligned. The blue sky is cloudless. The sun is brilliant. The wind is gone, replaced by a tiny breeze which ruffles the brown leaves still holding on, still hanging off the branches of an oak tree. 

Today is not a sloth day. I have a list, an inside, outside list. The bird feeders need to be filled. I’ll be out and about doing a few errands. The dining room is the room of the day to be cleaned. I’ll need a nap.

If I could go back in time, I don’t know when to choose, whether just an ordinary day or a special day, a one time only memorable day. The ordinary day would in summer when I was a kid, when every day was fun. I’d ride my bike. I remember when I learned to ride no-handed. I raised my arms to the sky in triumph and the bike almost fell over. Maybe I’d pick the day I rode my bike to East Boston to see my grandparents and nearly gave my mother a heart attack. I might choose a library day. I remember it was cool even on hot days. I’d walk up and down the stacks trying to find a book. The library, upstairs where the old books were, had a smell, a good smell. Sometimes I’d sit on the floor there and read. Nobody ever bothered me.

The memory of the walk to school on a warm spring day still gives me joy. I can see the sun shining through the leaves on to the sidewalk. The air was sweet with the aromas of new flowers and green grass. It was just the start of an ordinary day.

Special days are easier to remember. When I learned I had been accepted into the Peace Corps still sits prominently in my memory drawer. It was a Sunday when there was a knock on the door. A postman stood there with a special delivery letter for me, my acceptance letter. On another Sunday my parents and I drove to Logan for my flight to Philadelphia to start my Peace Corps journey. In my mind’s eye I can see my parents standing together at the gate waving goodbye. All of my time in Ghana is special, no day was ordinary. I was living in Africa.

I have far more both ordinary and special days, but this musing could get so very long I’d have to roll it into a scroll so I’ll stop here. I’ll save the rest for another day. 

Don’t let her sweet nature and all those pretty flowers deceive you. Mother Nature is laughing at us, spoofing us. When you look out my window, you see the prettiest day. The the sky is so blue it doesn’t look real. The sun is morning bright. Everything is shining in the light. The air is clear. After the dogs went out, I stepped on the deck. I was shocked. Right now it is 36°. In whose world is that spring? That is a winter temperature. Bundle up!

The dogs and I have a morning routine. After I wake up, they stand on the stairs waiting for me. When they see me, they run to the back door and get in line, a line of two. I let them out and watch. They run to the back of the yard. I get my coffee. Nala comes in, but I still have to open the door for Henry. I wish I knew what spooked him about the door, but it is a Henry thing. They get their biscuits. I wait. Like Hobbits, they have a second breakfast right but after the first, a treat. Finally, they are ready for their morning naps. Henry goes upstairs to nap on my bed. Nala naps right here beside me on the couch. They are exhausted.

Duke was our dog. We were given him as a gift from my aunt when I was six, the best gift I’ve ever had. He was a boxer, a clever, loving boxer. He came from a boxer breeder right in my town. He had been bought then returned. I don’t know why, but I’m thinking that first buyer had no idea the nature of boxers. Duke was six months. He started my love affair with boxers. He wasn’t a big dog, but he was fierce, protective. He pretty much did what he wanted. I remember when he got out of the house to follow kids to school. My father yelled for him to come. He stopped, turned to look at my father then took off. Boxers are stubborn. My father was so angry he got in the car to chase him. We just laughed.

I still think of Sunday as the quiet day. When I was a kid, it was a family day when we all sat down to dinner together. During the week, my father came home late from work, after we had already eaten. The Sunday dinner was always the best meal of the week with some sort of a roast, mashed potatoes and a couple of veggies. We stayed around the house unless we went visiting my grandparents. When I think back on those visits, I remember a houseful of people, my grandmother and my mother’s sisters sitting in the kitchen, lots of cousins and a few uncles who would watch football with my father. It was just an ordinary family day.

The day is a gray one. It seems like color has disappeared. Only the green shoots in the front garden give promise of spring and flowers. In the kitchen, my cactus has a pink flower and some buds. I was disappointed when it didn’t blossom at Christmas, but I guess it was waiting until I needed a bit of hope, a bit of color. Winter is taking its final bow.

When I was in the eighth grade, the nun I had was ancient. She was too old for the oldest class in the building, and we took advantage. She liked me so I got away with a lot. On really nice days, I’d hide my lunch in my jacket and leave with the going home for lunch crowd. I’d sit on a bench at the town hall and enjoy my meal. Sometimes I’d be late getting back, but I’d tell her I was at the church, and she was fine with that. I’d leave early telling her I needed to go to the library. She never stopped me. I wasn’t the only one. Every day one of my classmates purposely spilled milk in the basket and showed it to her. He left to clean it and was gone at least an hour. She barely taught. She made us memorize the Declaration of Independence. She used to sit at her desk and eat candy and even sometimes fall asleep. She told us she would thank God when we left. We felt the same way.

 As a kid, I always thought of spring as sort of a goddess dressed in a white, flowing gown and wearing flowers in her hair. I must have seen a picture somewhere. On the first warm day, I’d shed my winter layers, as many as my mother would allow. The winter coat was the first to go. I loved the walk to school. The early mornings were still a bit chilly, but not cold. When the shoots and flowers appeared in the gardens of the houses along my walk, the crocus were always first. I think they were all purple with a bit of yellow. The dafs came next. They were always yellow. The grass took a bit longer. Spring was official when my mother opened a window to let in the fresh , sweet air.

Spring comes late here. The first signs are always the tops of the green shoots in my front garden. When I am going to the car, I always check their progress, how tall they are. When the temperature is in the 40’s, I start wearing just my flannel shirt when I go out. I admit I am chilly sometimes, but I won’t give in to the last throes of winter.

The morning is lovely but cold, 34°. The high today will be 42°, but we have a strong wind. The pines are swaying, even the tall thick one in the back of the yard. That one scares me a little. The chimes, hanging from a branch near the house, are constantly blowing and sending sweet sounds into the air. The sky is clear, but clouds are predicted. Yesterday it rained on and off all day. In the late afternoon, the fog arrived, a thick fog. I could barely see the house facing my street. I do love fog.

I am not a fan of ketchup on eggs or on hot dogs. That last one is just wrong. I use mustard and relish or piccalilli, the more universal toppings. I do sometimes add chopped onion and cheese. I never top my dog with chilli. 

When I’d visit my parents for the weekend, Saturday was often barbecue night. The evening’s dishes included my mother’s delicious potato salad, but my favorite, though, was her peppers and eggs. They were sublime. She had gotten the recipe from my aunt. The secret was a bit of tomato sauce. My father cooked a great barbecue on his hibachi. I remember he used to sit outside to watch the meat. He’d have a drink and his cigarettes. “Pop me,” he’d say when he wanted another drink. We’d sit around the kitchen table together and eat. It was always fun.

I knew I would never use algebra in my lifetime. I thought maybe I’d use geometry, but I never did. I took four years of Latin in high school. Prefixes and suffixes helped me figure out the meanings of words. I still know the endings of all the declensions. My mind, my memory banks, holds on to weird things. 

I keep count of all the different airplanes and such I have taken. The best one is the balloon. We arrived at the airport just after dawn. We watched as the balloon was inflated. The balloonist gave us instructions especially about landing. When all was ready, we got into the basket and slowly rose into the air. The only sound was the hissing of the gas flame. The weather was so perfect for flying there other balloons aloft. We sailed. We flew over a pig farm. They scattered. I saw people run out of their houses to watch the balloons. A few were in pajamas. I could see the chase car. We braced for the landing, but it was wonderful. The basket landed upright. We climbed out of the basket. The balloonist gave us a glass of champagne to celebrate. At the bottom of the glass was a pin of our balloon. I still have it.

Last night I could hear the rain on the roof. It was such a heavy rain the dogs chose not to go outside before bed. The morning is gray and damp. Scattered rain is predicted. It will be warm if the wind stays away.

I have a to-do list. The paper has yellowed. The list never gets shorter. I sigh and swear I’ll get busy. I do that every day.

I grew up playing board and card games. We’d sit at the kitchen table to play. Every Christmas we’d get a new game. We started with Candy Land, Shutes and Ladders and Go to the Head of the Class. We worked up to Sorry and Monopoly. I loved Sorry but not Monopoly. It was too long and boring. 

My parents taught me to play dominoes. I didn’t even know it was a game. I just thought you built with the tiles. I didn’t question the pips. We always played double sixes. Much later I bought double nines to try, but I didn’t like it, too many pips to plan ahead. I taught some friends to play dominos. They thought you just built with them.

We learned card games and played Go Fish and Steal the Old Man’s Pack. Go Fish demanded trust, but sometimes I doubted the go fish from my opponent thinking he had my card in his hand. I wasn’t always wrong. We used to play Pokeno on Friday nights. It is sort of a bingo game but, instead of the letters, the boards have cards you cover. My mother kept a huge jar of pennies. We had to buy the pennies. I hated to lose.

One of our adult card games was Hi-Low Jack aka Pitch. You bid for the hand, how many points, tricks, you’ll take. If you win the hand, you call trump, no not that one!!! You get all sorts of points for all sort of cards. My father was a rabid Hi-Low Jack fan. One of the joys of playing the game was beating him. If we did, we na na’ed to make it worse. One time my father’s card, his ace, got trumped, no not that one. He screamed. He fell off the bench in the kitchen, but even lying on the floor didn’t stop him. He kept playing. We couldn’t stop laughing. Life with my father was never dull.

The sun, the blue sky and a temperature in the 40’s beckon me outside to work today. Let the inside dust sit and grow. The bird feeders need filling and the backyard needs clearing. Pine branches blown down by the wind litter the backyard. 

I went to the parish grammar school for eight years, no kindergarten back then. There were so many of us we had two different classrooms for each grade, and those classes were filled, forty or more in each room. The rows of desks stretched from the front of the room to the back and only a little space separated each row. We were quiet and attentive for the most part. The nuns scared us just by their looks and their black and white habits. You could only see their hands and faces. They weren’t people in the same way my parents were. They were a different breed. 

In the sixth grade, I promised myself I would travel. I would see the world. When I was in high school, one family vacation was at Niagara Falls. We went into Canada, my first foreign country. It seem didn’t foreign, but I still counted it, number one on my list. 

My next country was Finland. My friend and I flew to London where we caught the PanAm flight to Helsinki. The flight also stopped in Oslo and Copenhagen. Most of the other passengers left at those two stops. What had been a full plane was down to about fifteen people for Helsinki. I wondered why. What was it about Helsinki? I never found out as Finland is one of my favorite countries. I stayed in a hostel which had been housing for the 1952 Olympics. I shopped at the market, the one where boats filled with goods were tied to the pier. Because the second language was Swedish, I didn’t know what the dishes I ate were called. I went by looks and smell. I took a train to Rovaniemi, the capital of Lapland. From there I took a bus to Inari, above the Arctic Circle. It was midnight sun time, 24 hours of light. Herds of tended reindeer were on the sides of the road. I had reindeer meat for dinner, not one of Santa’s I assure you. I loved Inari.

From Helsinki, I took a train to what was then Leningrad. There were only three passengers and one train server in the car. The server would come to each of us and say,”Tea?” I drank more tea on the trip than I ever drank in one place. When we got to the Russian border, our car was disconnected from the train and soldiers boarded. They checked our passports and backpacks. They didn’t find the tomato I hid.

I’m ending today’s story with the soldiers and the tomato. There is so much more I’m saving for another day.

The sun is shining, and we have a snow shower. The flakes are so tiny they look like bread crumbs. They shine and glint in the sun. It is cold, 22°. Tonight will be colder. Today is winter. Tomorrow will be spring, in the 40’s. Nala will sunbathe on the only strip of grass in the backyard. 

When I was a kid, the night sky was filled with stars. I would lie on the grass in the field below my house and watch the sky. I always thought the stars moved. Sometimes I’d see a falling star. I always made a wish on the first star I saw. In Ghana, where I lived, the stars were so bright you could sit outside and read by their light. I could see the Milky Way, and every night there were falling stars. During the dry season, I’d lie outside on a mattress in the back yard of my house. I was a kid again watching the sky. When I saw a falling star, I’d ooh and ah out loud. Now I go to the beach to watch the stars. I always sit in my driveway to watch meteor showers. I still on and ah.

My grandmother was born in 1898. She was part of the housedress, apron age. She never went outside without wearing a hat. When it rained, she’d wear those ankle high see through boots with a button for closing the top. Her shoes were tie shoes, clunky and ugly. Her dresses were flowered. She was a big woman. She stooped when she walked. She had a loud voice and an annoyingly loud laugh. Once, when she was out to dinner with my father and my aunt, she was so loud they were asked to leave. She wasn’t a kind woman. She lived in wrinkle city, as my father called it, in an apartment in elderly housing. He used to visit her just about every weekend. If I visited my parents, he’d beg me to go with him. I’d give in and go. Every time I visited I swear she told the same stories she always told. I remember telling my father if she told the Japanese restaurant story again, I’d cough, and that was the signal to leave. Well, she did tell that story, and I coughed. My father started to laugh and to hide it he pretended to cough. My grandmother whacked him on the back thinking he was choking. He laughed even harder. She whacked him harder. Finally, he was able to stop and we left, but he started laughing again in the car. It was pretty funny.

My dance card is again heavy on uke events, practice, a lesson and two concerts. We will be singing Irish songs. I have my Irish fascinator, a green sweatshirt with a harp and Ryan on the front. I also have white high tops with green flowers, shamrock socks and shamrock earrings. I’m ready. 

Mother Nature is using clickbait. When I look out the window, I see another lovely sunlit day with a cloudless blue sky. When I go outside, I wish I was wearing layers. It is 27°. Tonight will be between 15° and 20°, and tomorrow will be the same.

When I cut onions, I always cry. Why is it that no TV cook ever cries? What am I missing? I actually bought an onion mask. It didn’t work. I cried in the mask. I then decided to look up solutions. If I cut onions with a strong fan facing me, I’d be cry-less. Also, I could cut them under running water. That, though, seems a bit dangerous at least for me. The best solution was to submerge the onions in a bowl of water to cut them. That’s the one I’ll try.

Last night, while talking to my friend, she asked me how I was doing. I told her I was bland. She laughed, but it is the perfect word to describe me right now. I think February did it to me. 

When I was a kid, I always went to Sunday mass. Sometimes I went with my father, the usher, to an early mass. He ushered at the 8 o’clock. Other times, I’d walk to a later mass. My church had an upstairs and a downstairs. The upstairs was the main church. I preferred the downstairs. The mass was quicker there with no sermon. I was into obligation, not reverence.

My father always carried a white handkerchief. My mother used to iron them. He’d carry one in the back pocket of his suit pants. He was a loud blower, especially in the mornings. I used to think it was gross to use a handkerchief. My father always said it was stronger than Kleenex. 

My socks have holes. That used to drive my mother crazy. When I was a kid, she’d toss the holey socks away. I keep them. No one sees the holes. Mostly, one big toe breaks through. The socks also wear at the heels. I turn the holey part under my toe when I put my shoes on. I walk on the lump. I do buy new socks but I wait for more holes.

My father was a great believer in the magical properties of Vicks. He had a Vicks sweatshirt, one he’d wear every time he lathered himself. My parents’ living room always smelled of Vicks during the winter. When I visited, if I even sniffled, he’d tell me to use the Vicks. I didn’t. It was that smell.

Today will be a quiet day. I have a long to do list, but it will wait. I’m ordering a grocery delivery. I’ll water my plants and put the trash in the trunk for later in the week. My sloth is clapping my inactivity. 

The day is sunny but breezy making it feel colder than it is. Rain is a possibility starting around two. I have no plans for today except maybe a little cleaning. The cobwebs are back. I can see them in the sun. 

When I was a kid, my town was an amazing place. Uptown, in the square, was a Woolworth’s and a Grant’s. Hank’s Bakery had the best smells especially when bread was baking. The aroma wafted from the store to the sidewalk. If I had money, I’d buy a hot loaf straight from the oven. I’d pull off pieces to eat as I walked. The worst smells came from the fish market. I remember the men behind the counter wore full white aprons with stains on the front. The case inside was filled with ice. Fish were laid on top of the ice. The lobsters swam in a container in the front window. Back then there seemed to a drug store every few stores. They varied in size. I used to love to go to the biggest drug store where the counter was marble and always felt cold. That was where I drank my vanilla Coke made with real vanilla. It was served in a thick glass with a paper straw. Another drug store had the smallest counter, only 4 stools. Kennedy’s had a pickle barrel out front. I remember the cheese and soda biscuits you could buy. Children’s corner sold pouffy dresses and books for 49 cents. I spent my allowance there many times. These were more stores, but I remember these the most.

If I could go back in time for one day, I’d go back to when I was about ten, and I’d roam my town. First, I’d check out the store windows. I’d watch the cobbler in his narrow store behind his counter filled with shoes, filled with pairs of shoes tied together by their laces. I’d have that Vanilla Coke. I’d watch the lobsters swim. I’d look at all the pastries in Hank’s window. I’d walk by the fire station as I was leaving the square. Sometimes the firemen were sitting outside in chairs. I’d say hi. They’d say hi back. I’d go behind town hall and stop at the town’s stable to see the horses. I’d walk along the tracks. I’d be gone all day.

What a glorious morning it is. The sky is brilliant, as blue as blue can be. The sun is so bright everything shines and glints. It is even warmish, 46°. Nala is sleeping in the sun on a patch of grass in the backyard. Henry goes outside but still won’t come in the dog door unless someone is on the street or near my house, and he needs to bark. That’s when he rushes into the house. This afternoon I have a uke concert, our last Love Songs of the 60’s concert. Irish starts next week. 

My inner sloth is on vacation. Yesterday I cleaned. I vacuumed a couple of rooms and the stairs. I also washed and waxed those stairs. I cleared the backyard of all of Nala’s stolen good. I was exhausted. Today, when I looked out the back door, I saw what appeared to be white stuffing. I knew Nala had done it again. The victim was a gnome I had bought new this year. I had put it on the table in the living room where she couldn’t get it. I was wrong. She stood on the stairs and bent her head over and took it.

I do not like black licorice, but I love black jelly beans. One of my favorite cookies is Italian anise cookies with a tinge of licorice. My taste buds are a conundrum. 

My mother was a wizard with ground beef. She had so many recipes we never tired of it. My favorite was American chop suey. We thought it exotic and adventurous with the water chestnuts and chow bmein noodles on the top. I still think my mother made the best meatloaf. I remember she’d cover the top with ketchup and strips of bacon then she’d put it in the oven. I tried to steal the crispy bacon, but my mother was always on alert for bacon thieves. We had hamburgers on the grill. We had spaghetti with ground beef in a thick sauce. We all loved it except my father. His mother, the worst cook, used to serve spaghetti with canned tomatoes on top so my mother would serve my father the same. I make pretty much all the ground beef recipes my mother had, but have added tacos to my recipes. My freezer is never without ground beef. I count it among the staff of life foods. It joins bread, coffee and chocolate.