Earlier, clouds covered the sky, but the sun has broken through. After all the rain, the sunlight is brilliant. Some leaves are in shadows while others shine in the light. According to the weather report, though, the sun is transient. The day will be cloudy and in the high 50’s, but I’m skeptical or maybe hopeful. I see blue. (Aside, the sun is gone as is the blue. The day is dark.)

Some things are sacred. My morning coffee is on the list, always at least two cups with cream, not milk. I drink coffee from all over. My last coffee was from Vietnam. I don’t like girly coffees like French vanilla or peppermint. They are ice cream flavors.

Since my retirement, almost twenty one years ago, I have lived in mostly cozy clothes, a sacred ensemble. Every day when I worked, I wore a dress or a skirt and blouse and panty hose, yup I said panty hose from an egg. Now, I wear flannel and corduroy in the winter and short sleeves and light pants in the summer. The last time I wore a dress was Easter a few years ago. The dress was blue and flowered, perfect for spring and Easter.

My house is a sacred place. It is all of me. It is filled with treasures from my travels. They hold my memories. So many are from Africa, from my town and from my trips back to Ghana. I have baskets, tablecloths, napkins, art, wooden figures and gold weights. I remember a first time visitor to my house called them knick knacks. I was horrified. I wanted to snarl at her. I still have a few pieces from my South American trip in the 70’s and from my trips to Morocco, Panama and so much of Europe. I love the memories the different pieces conjure, of the singular experiences in each country, the different foods, the shapes of houses and shops, the smells, and colors. The strongest memories are of markets, of me wandering the streets and the souks and meeting new people. My memory drawers are the most sacred places.

Yesterday’s storm was epic. The trees were bent by the wind, and the rain was, at times, torrential. The thunder was so loud it scared Henry who began to shake. Usually thunder does not bother Henry. I held him tightly, and he stopped shaking. The lights flickered and died a few times, not for long but long enough to be annoying. You’d think that storm was the only excitement but it wasn’t.

At night the dogs sleep on the couch. Henry is to the left and Nala to the right of me. Last night they were not on the couch. I assumed they were upstairs on my bed sleeping off the storm. Around 1:30 I went upstairs to bed. The dogs were not there. I panicked, ran downstairs and opened the back door thinking they were by the back door, but they were not. It was pouring so I thought they might be under the deck. I grabbed a jacket and a flashlight, no dogs under the deck. I did a circuit of the yard to check the fence, and it was fine. I walked to the steps and saw the gate was open. The dogs were loose outside the yard for the first time. I screamed their names and Henry, some minutes later, came running through the gate. I put him inside and started screaming for Nala. I went out to the street and started calling as I walked, no Nala. I ran back into the house for a better flashlight. I turned around and there she was. She had found home.

Both dogs were soaked, as wet as I’ve ever seen them. I don’t know how long they were on the run, but given how wet they were, it was a while. I went out to make sure the gate was closed and heard a voice. It was my neighbor who had heard me yelling and came to help. I told her both dogs had come home. I could breathe again.

My dance card is empty, and I couldn’t be happier. I’ll stay in my cozies, read my book and nap if I feel like it. I earned a sloth day.

A rainy morning is one of my favorite starts to any day. Sun is easy to enjoy, not so much rain. I could hear the drops starting just before I went to bed. We’re talking around three this morning. The rain was singular, drop by drop, no deluge. It is the same now. I’m still waiting for the predicted nor’easter with its heavy rain and strong winds.

In this house, we are all creatures of habit. When we wake up, the dogs and I, we hurry downstairs, me to open the door and the dogs to run into the yard. I have at least two cups of coffee and some toast. The dogs enjoy a biscuit and a small treat. After their treats, the dogs have their morning nap time, one on each side of me on the couch. Meanwhile, Jack cries for attention, and he gets his morning pats and a treat. I then read the paper and do all the puzzles. Writing Coffee is last.

I take my time writing on rainy days. I watch out the window at the wind blowing the leaves, and I sit quietly in the house so I can hear the rain. I warm my hands by cradling the coffee cup. I am cozy and warm.

When I was a kid, I always got really wet on rainy days because I walked to and from school. I’d have to sit at my desk waiting for my wet shoes and wet hair to dry. On chilly, rainy days, the radiators used to hiss steam. The classroom windows got foggy from condensation though I didn’t know that word back then. I’d watch the drops roll to the sills. Rain subdued classroom sounds. Mostly I could only hear paper rustling and the squeaking of chairs as we tried to get comfortable. Even the nun seemed to whisper. We ate lunch inside and had no recess. We could move around and talk during the whole of lunchtime. Afterwards, getting back on task wasn’t easy. I was an afternoon clock watcher. I wanted out.

In Ghana, I couldn’t teach on heavy rainy days. The classroom block had metal roofs. A heavy rain pummeled the roof and drowned out any other sounds. I did board work and gave my students written lessons. My house too had a metal roof. I loved the sound of rain on that roof. It surrounded me. The back room of my house had a big screened window, no glass. That room was where my kitchen table and chairs and the fridge were. A big rain storm would often flood the floor which was concrete and painted red. Over time, the paint started to wear away. That’s what I remember.

The morning is chilly and cloudy. The top branches of the oak trees and their leaves are being blown by the wind. Today is a sweatshirt day.

My to do card is uke heavy. My friends have been kind and have been driving me everywhere. I am still needing a car. I know nothing about cars beyond the need for oil changes and such. I’ve been checking used car lots. I hope for the best.

When I was a kid, the world was smaller and life was slower. We walked most places. My father had the only car, and he needed it for work. My mother didn’t drive anyway. She’d grocery shop on Fridays nights. My father drove her and waited. If my mother shopped uptown, she walked. She pushed my sisters in the carriage when they were young. Uptown had the shops and stores and the bank and the post office, all the stores except the grocery store which was down the street from the square. Back then it was the First National. The barber shop had only two chairs. Uptown also had the only movie theater and Hank’s Bakery. My mother worked there for a bit. The library is a Carnegie library. The town had two newspapers, the Press and the Independent, the one still publishing. The police news was mostly cats in trees and night noises. The town was first settled in 1634. Every day at 9 am and 9 pm the horn blows from the fire station. Some famous people came from Stoneham. A couple of them surprised me like Buffy Sainte-Marie and Killer Kowalski.

I never worried about walking. I always felt safe even if I was walking alone. At night, streetlights lit my way, and lights shined from house windows onto the sidewalks. Traffic was sparse. Few cars were on the streets at night. Most everything was closed. It was so quiet I could hear the sound of my shoes clicking on the sidewalks. Home was never far away.

The morning is again lovely with a bright sun, a breeze and lots of blue. It will be in the low 60’s today and the 40’s tonight, a typical spring day on Cape Cod. Yesterday’s uke concert was great fun. The crowd seemed to love the music.

Today is an open day, a no to do list day though there is much to do. I’ll just pick and choose. The kitchen floor is so dirty it is embarrassing. Every time I think to wash it rain is predicted. Light showers are predicted for tomorrow. I figure my floor and I bring rain. Henry should be bald given the giant fur balls of white hair all over the house. I probably will vacuum. Maybe I should shave Henry instead.

At school, when I was a kid, we celebrated May as Mary’s month. We had the May procession toward the end of the month. We started practicing the songs every day to get ready. We sang the same songs each year so even now I still remember them.

The parish complex was part of a square block. The church, the old school and the rectory were on one side of the street. The convent was on the other side. The May procession started from the school grounds and wound its way passed houses and the new school around the block. All of the school marched. The second graders wore their first communion clothes. The person crowning Mary walked at the end. The destination was the grotto beside the church where a statue of Mary was in a niche off the ground on the right side of the grotto. They put a small staircase against the grotto so the crowner could reach the statue. The crowner is always an eighth grader. It drives my friend Maria crazy that I crowned the statue. She always says, “Of course you did.” What I remember was how scary the staircase was as I was wearing a long white dress, an old wedding dress, with a train. The priest held my hand as I ascended the stairs. At the, “Mary, we crown thee with blossoms today, “ I placed the flowered crown on the statue then carefully descended the stairs. We marched around the corner to end the procession.

My dance card is dependent on the kindness of friends, my uke friends. I have my usual practice and lesson and also two concerts.

I am actively seeking a car.

Yesterday I was out and about with my friend so I didn’t get time to muse. I was able to get some errands done, including filling the larder. Today I have a concert and another friend is picking me up. Being without a car on Cape Cod is challenging at best so I am so grateful for my friends.

I am a night person. Usually the dogs and I head to bed around two. I let them out first then we all go upstairs. This early morning I stood on the deck while the dogs were in the yard. It was after 2:30. The night was warmish. I noticed lights in a few of the houses. Most nights only mine are lit. The house across the streets had all its outside lights on. I wondered if she heard or saw something. The house behind mine often has one lit room. This time several windows showed lights. I could see outside lights lit on houses on the street behind mine. The house a bit down the next street usually has a picture window lit most of the night. I noticed several lights this time. I found all these lights puzzling. The night was so quiet I heard nothing except the dogs rustling in the yard. Did Henry and I miss something?

Today is brilliant. I can see patches of the bluest sky through the leaves of the backyard trees. Only a few scattered white clouds mar the deep blue. The sun is bright and warm. It will be in the 70’s today.

I have never been fond of Sundays. Even as a kid, I wasn’t welcoming to the day. Sundays started with church, with mass. I had no choice but to go. I didn’t want to risk mortal sin, that black bottle in my catechism. I drifted off during the sermons. They were always a bit dire. I was a kid. Eternal damnation seemed a bit over the top. The best sermons were the short sermons. I liked the downstairs at my church where mass was quick and usually sermonless. I didn’t even mind standing in the back if the pews were filled. Upstairs was grand with stained glass windows, fancy carvings on the ends of the pews and a huge altar. There was always a long sermon. The priests took full advantage of captive audiences. Two altar boys dressed in starched black and white sort of short cassocks led the priest in and helped during the mass. It seemed endless.

Sunday was saved by dinner. It was always the best meal of the week. My favorite was roast beef. It was medium well and accompanied by mashed potatoes, a thick gravy and a couple of vegetables. My favorites were peas and corn, kernel corn, not creamed. I didn’t like that it spread. That was the dinner my mother cooked for me before I left for Ghana.

Well, I need to get ready to leave. I’ll finish this blog when I get home.

Today is cloudy and warm. It is 67°. It is a quiet day. The air is still, thickened by the dampness and the clouds. It is the sort of day which encourages laziness. The dogs are napping on the afghan on the couch. I’m thinking they’ll have to make room for me later.

My mother never learned to drive until she was in her late 30’s. I remember when I was a kid we took busses and trains to visit relatives. We’d take a bus from uptown to Sullivan Square where the bus station was downstairs, and the subway station was upstairs. There was a kiosk selling papers, magazines, drinks and candy on the bus level. I loved riding the subway. We waited on the platform for the train. My mother kept an eye on us so we didn’t get too close to the edge. I could hear the train coming. There was a breeze from the few cars which passed me before the train stopped. I’d kneel on the seat and look out the window. In the tunnels, I was still glued to the window looking through the darkness. I loved the clicking sound of the train on the tracks. We never got separated, but if we did, the plan was always to go to the next station and wait.

My love of trains continues. When I travel, I often take trains. I rode the Metro in Paris, the Underground in London and the Moscow Metro in Russia. The most beautiful stations were part of the Moscow Metro. They were elegant architectural works of art. I remember an escalator down to a station that was so long you couldn’t see the bottom. In those days, a woman sat at the end of every escalator. I guess she was watching for any problems.

I’d take night trains so I wouldn’t need a hotel or a hostel. Sometimes I’d pay extra for a sleeping compartment while other times I’d sleep in a chair as best as I could. I slept in a couchette from Helsinki to Rovaniemi. There were two bunks on each side of the car. I slept the night away. I was in a compartment from Copenhagen to Hook of Holland. In Ghana I often took the train from Accra to Kumasi. I went first class. I always felt like a character in an Agatha Christie mystery, maybe Miss Marple. The first class compartments had soft chairs and sliding doors. I rode an overnight train once from Kumasi. I went first class and had my own compartment. It had a sink. I was asleep when the train derailed. It was a rude awakening.

It is time for me to car shop.

The day is cloudy and rain is predicted, but it is warm at 65°. I went to the deck to clean the mess caused by a spawn. The thistle feeder had a hole, and all of the seed was on the deck. One of the clay pots was in pieces and shards. Its soil was in a mound also on the deck. My prayer flags had fallen and were hanging, no longer attached to the deck rail. I cursed all spawns while I cleaned.

The morning has been leisurely. My sloth is in full rein. I took my time reading the paper and doing all the puzzles. The aroma of coffee has filled the house, and I’ve already had a couple of cups. The dogs are sleeping beside me on the couch, one on each side of me. It is that sort of day.

The dogs have become whiners. Henry stands outside the back door, bangs the dog window and whines. Nala looks at me and whines. Her stub tail wags her whole back end. They are guilting me.

The classrooms in my grammar school had banks of floor to ceiling windows. The lights hung down from the ceiling. On days like today, the room was shadowed. Noise seemed dampened by the darkness. Only the rustling of paper, the shuffling of feet and the creaking from our chairs as we shifted could be heard. Even the nun seemed a bit listless. She had us silently read from our literature books and then answer the questions at the end of each story. I could have done that all day.

In grammar school, My classes had at least forty kids in each room. We defined baby boomers. Each grade had two classes, one with nuns and one with a regular teacher. All the teachers were women. I had nuns in grades one, three, five and eight. My sixth grade teacher was Miss Quilter. She had thick glasses and wore her hair in a bun. She wore mostly suits. She was the stereotypical spinster teacher. She was the best teacher I ever had. I flourished in her class. She challenged me. She awakened in me a love for learning I still have. She has my thanks for ever.

The last couple of days have been busy. My friend Holly picked me up on Tuesday for uke practice, and we stopped at a store for bread and cream and a couple of snickers. Yesterday morning another uke friend picked me up for my lesson and even stopped at the dump so I could dump my trash. I went to the concert yesterday, again thanks to a uke friend. I’d have been homebound without them.

No car yet, still waiting for my check.

The morning is again lovely. It is warm at 67°. The oak leaves are spinning and twisting in the breeze. The sunlight brightens even the darkness corners of the backyard. The sky has a few light clouds but is mostly blue. I love spring.When I was a kid, my neighborhood was filled with kids. Every house had kids. Most houses had many kids. It was only quiet in the evenings.

When we lived at the top of the hill, I played in the field and at the swamp, the four season swamp. We picked blueberries along the side of the hill to the water tower. Woods were on both sides of the field. We buried our turtle in a metal box in the lower woods. The turtle had been a painted Woolworth’s turtle. His house was oval and made of see through plastic. A small island in the middle had a palm tree. The house sat on the counter for years. Over time the turtle lost his paint. We used to swat flies to feed the turtle. We made sure the flies had a bit of life left as the turtle love catching them. That turtle lived into double digits. He got a little bit bigger but never outgrew his home. One day he just died. I think it was old age.

When I was in high school, my friends and I walked all over town. We were in that awkward age between bicycles and drivers’ licenses. We walked to drill and home again. Sometimes we stopped at O’Grady’s Diner for a brownie with fudge sauce. I walked in the early morning, before seven, to catch the bus to school. It was usually late afternoon before I walked home again. I never really minded walking, even at night.

I remember the circles of light below the street lights. I remember being able to see living rooms lit and TV’s flickering through the windows of the houses on the sidewalks. I could hear my footsteps. Few cars went by. The nights were quiet back then.

I live now in a quiet neighborhood. The house next to me is a summer rental, empty all winter. I am retired as are many of my neighbors. We greet each other with a wave. After the car crash, my neighbors stepped in to help. They were wonderful.

With no car, I have been house-bound. I have missed uke concerts which I thoroughly enjoy. Yesterday, I ended up cleaning just to keep busy. Oh, the horror! I have no cream for my coffee, no bread and no cheese. The larder is nearly empty, not a Snickers in sight.