When the temperature reaches the 40’s, I celebrate the coming of spring. Those shoots in the front garden are the harbingers. Soon enough spring flowers will return color to the garden. I am so tired of browns and grays I can barely wait for the yellow of the dafs, the deep purple of the hyacinths and the earliest of all, the crocus.

When I was a kid, I had a spring jacket I loved. It was blue and it zippered. It had no lining, no added warmth. I’d beg my mother to let me wear it on a warmish winter’s day. She said no every time I asked, but she did let me remove one layer, the sweater under my winter coat. I conceded. When I was an adult, I bought a spring jacket. It was gray with a zipper and no lining. I wore it on the first warm day, but I admit I was chilly. As usual, my mother had been right.

Every day this month, we’ve gained 3 minutes of sun. The streetlights come on later. When I was a kid, that meant we could stay outside longer in the afternoons after school. That meant summer was getting closer. 

I found a small black book called My Sunday Missal behind some books on the shelves in my bedroom. The front cover is loose and faded. Only the letters sal can be seen. On the first page at the top, my name is written in green ink, in cursive. Below that is the phone number Sto6-3021. I don’t remember when that was our phone number. The book has prayers and a mass calendar through 1949. One of the neat pages has a drawing of the altar with every part labeled. One of the new ones for me was the exposition throne at the top of the altar. Mass prayers are in both English and Latin. I found the copyright 1940. I also found bookmarks, missal marks. One is cut from a larger piece of paper. It has just the face of Christ on the cross. He has blue eyes, the reddest of lips and a small beard on his chin, artistic license I figure. The next one is a picture of Mary on the front and a prayer, The Memorare, on the back. I don’t recognize it. The last one is a card with a Prayer of St. Ignatius on the front and an address on the back for the Society of Jesus with a phone number. The number is Ken 6-3611.

This book is a piece of my past I didn’t remember. It is well worn. I found a spot for it in the living room among my treasures. 

Today and tomorrow are going to be a bit warmer, today in the 40’s and tomorrow around 50°. It is a perfectly lovely day. The sun is bright bright, even squint your eyes bright. The deep blue sky is clear. The wind has disappeared. When I went to get the paper today, I saw the stirrings of spring. It was a huzzah moment. Tiny green shoots are above the ground.

When I was a kid, life was pretty much day to day. Planning for the future meant wondering what I’d do on Saturday. Relatives I seldom saw used to ask me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I had no idea. I was young. I always thought that a silly question. My aunt the nun always asked me that question the once a year we had to go visit her. That was always her only interaction with us. I made up answers. That was the fun part. She never figured it out.

One time I was on a bus in the days when smoking was still allowed on buses. On the front seats, two on each side facing each other, were women who were together. They talked and talked. One of the woman took a cigarette out of a pack. She didn’t pay attention. She kept talking. I watched her put the cigarette into her mouth and light it. She had the wrong end in her mouth and lit the filter. She sputtered and coughed. I chuckled quietly.

When I was eleven or twelve, I had a white visor. I wore it all the time. I thought I looked cool. I probably didn’t. Back then I had categories for clothes. I wore school clothes, a uniform, every day. After school, I’d put on my play clothes, usually jeans, girl leans with the zipper in a side pocket, and a blouse. On Sundays I’d wear church clothes, a dress or a skirt. I was too young to care about style. 

I have only one category for clothes now, comfy, but I do have two dresses, my spring and my summer dress. They are old. They are flowery. I have few occasions requiring a dress so they are far back in my closet. The last time was Easter four or so years ago when I went out to eat. I also wore a fascinator, a round white one with a flower, a bit of whimsy to counter the dress.

I have come full circle. Happily I am too old to care about style.

Ditto is my description of the weather though it will be warmer today at 41°. I have lots of I could’s on my to-do list with cleaning on top, but I’m ignoring the list today. I might say it is my sloth exerting its influence, but I’m going to use Sunday, the day of rest, as my reason. 

In the cold of yesterday’s late afternoon I filled the bird feeders. To the three feeders I usually fill, I added a fourth. Each was filled with a different seed: sunflower, thistle for my goldfinches, a mixed seed and one which spawns are supposed to hate. The dogs followed me to the deck where they played and ate each other’s faces. It didn’t take long for my fingers to get cold and stiff. I hurried inside and warmed my hands around a steaming cup of coffee. Today is little library day. I need to add new books, clean the window and organize. 

When I was growing up, I had it easy. I had no chores. My bed got made, my clothes got washed and my room was cleaned, all while I was in school. When I went to college, I didn’t even know how to work a washing machine. I panicked when the buzzer sounded. What had I done? Someone explained the machine had an overload of wet clothes on one side so I needed to move the wash round. I never cooked dinner or baked anything. I was in the Peace Corps when I baked my first ever cookies, sugar cookies for Christmas.

 One of my favorite culinary adventures was also in Ghana when my friends, Bill and Peg, and I tried to make bagels. I remember the boiling, but mostly remember how awful they tasted. 

Ironically, cooking and baking became favorites. I had special dinners and celebrated with different cuisines. My friends dined on Indian, Chinese, Cajun and so many more. I decorated the table to complement the cuisine. For the Russian meal I made Russian churches with onion domes. I played Russian music. I made everything for every dinner, most dishes for the very first time, risky but always successful. The only foods I have never been tempted to make are bagels. The memory lingers. 

The day is lovely, but we are still stuck in the cold. The high will be 32°. I have no list today, nothing I need to do and nowhere I need to go. I will lounge in my cozies wrapped in my afghan. I will honor my inner sloth. 

When I was a kid, the high point of my week was always Saturday. I seldom stayed home. I was out and about with my bike in the warmer weather, even on a warm winter’s day, or I would ice skate at the town rink or the swamp. I remember skating at the rink. You never went straight ahead. You skated in a circle. I followed the skaters in front of me and had skaters following me from behind. I skated until my feet hurt. I remember walking home, my skates over my shoulder and my feet tingling for a little while. The matinee was always a choice on rainy Saturdays. Snowy Saturdays meant sledding on the hill until my hands were so freezing they’d stop working. I’d call it a day, stand my sled up in a snow pile then slide down the stairs to the cellar where I’d hang my wet clothes on the clothesline and put on my cozies. I have been a long time lover of cozies.

I used to love buying copies of Classics Illustrated. Two of my favorites were Treasure Island and Kidnapped. I had read Treasure Island but not Kidnapped though I did see the movie. The Classics Illustrated were the same price as the regular comics, only a dime, and I thought they were bargain. One time, I was walking the tracks. On one side of the track by the road was a big green wooden box which held sand. I remember opening the top just to look. I found a tied bundle of comic books. I had found a treasure. One of the comics was Little Lulu, a favorite, another was Dondi. I never liked Dondi, the World War II orphan. Scrooge McDuck was in the pile. I sat all the rest of the day reading those comics.

I finished my book last night and am ready for another. I have several books saved to my iPad, but I love reading real books more. I love the feel of them, the sound of the pages turning and the joy of finishing one and shutting the cover with a satisfaction that on-line books don’t give me. I have several choices including books by Ngaio Marsh, Mary Wesley, James Patterson and Winston Groom’s Forrest Gump. I’m leaning toward the Mary Wesley. I’m thinking to lie on the couch, read and maybe treat myself to hot chocolate with marshmallow floating on the top.

Today I have another concert, my fourth of the week. It is up cape and early so I don’t have time to write Coffee today which usually takes at least two hours and sometimes closer to three. I don’t like to miss Coffee, but time doesn’t stretch.

We are still in North Pole weather. The sun is bright but useless. The high today will be in the mid-20’s. I would love to let my inner sloth loose, but I am stuck going out, back to bundling against the cold. 

I’ll be back tomorrow!

The early morning was sunny with a blue sky. Since then, the clouds have taken over, darkening clouds. Snow is predicted starting this afternoon. The paper says three inches while Alexa and Google both say an inch. I figure the paper’s prediction is an older one so I’m hoping for an inch.

Today is my only uke-less day so I’m doing errands. The dump tops the list, then gas, a few groceries and a blood test. I figure to beat the snow. 

Yesterday I saw another robin on a branch near the feeders. The goldfinches too were back as were my usual birds. I’ll fill the feeders this afternoon. I wouldn’t want to disappoint the birds.

My favorite grammar school teacher was Miss Quilter, my sixth grade teacher. She wore mostly suits. She had thick glasses. Unlike some of the nuns, she didn’t have favorites. On the bulletin board in the back of the room, she’d place names on lists like best speller and highest grades in history. I wanted to be on every list. She encouraged learning in all of us. She made me want to do my best. My name was on every list because of her. 

In Ghana, during training, we were divided into language groups based on where our posts would be. The Twi group was the largest as that was the most common language other than English. My group was learning Hausa, and we were the smallest language group. Our posts would be in what was then Upper Region. There were nine of us. First came learning the greetings, and there many greetings. Our language instructor was Lawal, from Bawku. He was gentle and sweet. He was patient. 

We had language almost every day we were together, but I stopped going after a while. A couple in our language group still had trouble with greetings so language lessons were a waste of my time. In Koforidua, where we started our 7th week of training, I found out Lawal was no longer my language instructor. Three of us, more advanced in Hausa, were assigned to Bosco Alhassan. He was brutal. Lawal could be distracted by questions, but not Bosco. He was a task master, but I do admit I learned so much more.

When I went back to Ghana after 40 years, I stayed in Bolga, my town. On the first night, I went to the hotel restaurant for dinner. As I passed a table I greeted them, ina wuni, good evening in Hausa. It was the first time I used Hausa since I had lived there. They looked shocked at this random white lady who had greeted them in Hausa. I was both thrilled and surprised I had remembered. While I was there, I remembered and used so much more of Hausa and was able to greet people, introduce myself and ask questions. Lawal and Bosco had trained me well. 

The morning is cold. Outside even looks cold. Right now it is 22°. Tonight it will go down to 17°. We currently have a wind advisory. All the trees and branches are swaying. When I went to get the paper, I gasped at the cold. It is a day to stay close to hearth and home. 

The house where we lived when I was a kid was close to the top of a hill. Across the street from the bottom of that hill was a field. Sometimes I’d walk to school across that field. I don’t know if it really was a shortcut, but I thought it was. The alternative was to take the sidewalk, turn the corner then walk the straightaway to school. I remember when the wind used to whip across that field. It was so strong and cold I’d turn my body away from it and walk backwards. My jacket would billow. The cold would blow up my sleeves. It made me shiver. I stopped taking the shortcut on cold, windy winter days.

I remember listening on snowy mornings for the fire alarm to blow the signal for a snow day. I remember cheering when it did. What I don’t ever remember having was a day too cold for school. There were no school buses so we all walked. Some kids even walked as far as a mile. 

We were the bundled generation. I lost track of the layers my mother made me wear. The only part of my body exposed to the cold was my face. My cheeks and nose turned red as if chaffed. My eyes teared from the wind. My nose ran. I had no tissues. I just had my mittens. 

Chicken noodle was my favorite soup, Campbell’s chicken noodle. I’d eat the chicken and the noodles then I’d add crushed Saltines to sop up the soup. The top of my bowl was all soaked Saltines. I’d have to wield the spoon carefully or the Saltines would slip back into the bowl with a plop and a spray. 

My mother always made pea soup after she’d serve bone in ham for Sunday dinner. My father and I loved her pea soup. She would always freeze some for me. I remember with the last batch she ever made she froze my soup in a Tupperware container with a blue top. I kept the container in my freezer. After my mother passed away, I still didn’t eat it. I wanted to save that soup. I wanted to save the taste, the memory. Finally I defrosted the soup and had enough for a few dinners. Every spoonful was a gift from my mother. 

Looking out the den window, I can see bright sun, a gorgeous blue sky and pine trees bending and swaying from the wind. When I got the paper, I gasped from the cold. The wind went right through me. I was out and back in record time. The high today will be 32°. I’ll be bundling.

No birds are at the feeders this morning. I figure they’re hunkered down somewhere warm. The dogs are sleeping on the couch. Jack, the cat, is sleeping curled inside his teepee. I am the only one up and about. I am jealous of them. 

When I was a kid, winter Saturdays often meant going to the Saturday matinee. It was always crowded. It was always loud. The balcony was usually closed because of projectiles, but that didn’t matter. They got tossed from behind us, from the back. I remember getting hit in the head with Jujube candy. They hurt. We saw a cartoon or two and a movie. The only movie I remember is The Wizard of Oz because of the awesome change to color. I didn’t know it was an old movie, one we couldn’t see on TV because of that color. The back side rows always had couples making out. I used to sneak peeks when I went to the bathroom.

I’d buy long lasting candy which didn’t include Jujubes, the hard candy used as weapons. The work to chew them was wasted. They really didn’t taste good. They were only good as weapons. I’d often buy a Sugar Daddy or Sugar Babies. They lasted. 

My world is slushy. The snow fell for only a short while then the rain came. It is still raining, a heavy rain I can hear on the roof. What is left of the snow is now the top of the slushy mess. When you step down, you step into water up to the tops of the boots, and you leave footprints which quickly fill with water. It is an uninviting world, but I have to go out to a concert this afternoon. 

I have always loved rain. I loved summer rain the most. I used to love getting wet on a hot summer’s day. I’d walk in the gutter and kick the water running down to the sewer. We’d splash each other and laugh. We’d air dry. 

Winter rain was uncomfortable. I didn’t have a rain coat, and I always got wet, and I always got cold. My shoes were soaked. I’d take them off, and my socks were so sodden they’d leave footprints on the floor. My hair dripped water. I sat by the radiator trying to get warm. After school, I’d put on my pajamas, my cozy clothes. I’d lie in bed and read.

Sunday was my least favorite day. First was church. I’d have to wear a dress or a skirt and a hat. I never understood why a hat was necessary. I hated hats. I was glad when mantillas appeared. They were easy, a lace head covering you could keep in your pocket until walking into the church. I did love Sunday dinners. They were special. I knew they’d always been mashed potatoes and a couple of vegetables. The meat was a roast, sometimes beef and sometimes chicken. I favored the beef. 

Some Sundays we stayed home. I’d hang around the house, maybe watch TV or read. Other times we’d go to my grandparents’ house as did my aunts and uncles. I was the oldest cousin. I had no one near my age except an aunt, 5 months younger under than I. Her room was upstairs. No one was allowed there. She and I never got along. Other than the spaghetti always on the stove and the fun of grating the cheese I didn’t enjoy going to East Boston. 

When I was in Ghana, there was a service every Sunday in the school cafeteria. The tables were stacked, and the chairs were arranged in rows facing the table where the principal, guests and the speaker who was giving the sermon sat. I used to go. It was expected, but I never really minded. I was in Africa where I savored every experience. 

My concert today is at the mall. We are singing love songs of the 60’s. I still don’t have a raincoat.