The morning is lovely, already 62°. The birds are at the feeders which were filled yesterday. The dogs scared away the spawn, and I moved its favorite feeder hoping to thwart its thievery. Every time I see that bushy spawn tail, I see red, okay grey but you know what I mean. I’m tired of being a spawn lunch counter.

When I was little, the nuns scared me even though I had an aunt who was a nun. We saw her only once a year, an obligatory visit, so we didn’t know her well. On every visit, we’d sit in the living room of the convent. I remember a nun would bring cookies and milk for us and ginger ale for my parents. It was always the stiffest visit. Her habit was off-putting. We’d sit quietly on the living room chairs. She’d asked about school, and that was the extent of our conversation. Every though it was only once a year, we dreaded the visit.

I can close my eyes and still see the living room in the duplex where we lived for so long. The house, the duplex, was on a hill on a hill. The picture window was centered. It looked out on our front yard, a grassy hill. From that window, you could also see three roads, the houses across the street, a mail box and a street light. My father always parked his car by the steps which led to the house. In the living room the couch faced the picture window. A desk was by the front door. We sat on it for professional pictures one year. My father’s chair was also by the window. The TV was in a corner, the same corner where the Christmas tree always stood. The room was small, but I never really noticed. It had everything we needed and more.

In my kitchen, I have an old school chair and desk. My microwave is on the desk and on top of it are some cookbooks, all with African recipes. Included is Ghana Chop, a cookbook from my Peace Corps days. Measurements are in cigarette tins, like two tins of sugar. I don’t have any tins so I guess. When I was in first grade, my desk and chair were exactly the same as the one in the kitchen. The space for my school books is underneath. I used to have pull out a couple of books to find the right one. I keep my kitchen towels there. I pull them out to find the right one.

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.

Last night it rained, just as predicted, and the rain has left the morning cloudy, chilly and damp. It will be in the 50’s. I have no to-do list. I could have a list but I don’t choose to make one. The sloth is strong in this one!

The morning is a bit noisy. The birds are vocalizing their complaints. Feeders need to be filled. I watched the male goldfinches strutting their stuff. They are the brightest yellow. Yesterday I heard gobbles but didn’t see the turkeys. I figured they were down by the tiny pond at the end of my street. They roost on the branches there at night. A while later Henry was barking. I checked. The turkeys were across the street still gobbling.

I never saw much wildlife when I was a kid. I saw and heard birds, watched squirrels scurrying across the lawns to climb the trees and once in a while saw a skunk. I love the way skunks sort of waddle when they walk. Once, on a family Sunday ride, we saw deer munching grass in a field. We all screamed for my dad to stop. He did, and we watched a while. We thought it amazing. We had never seen deer outside the zoo before.

In Ghana, during my live-in, when I stayed with a Ghanaian family, I used to visit the wives who lived in a different compound than their husband did. The babies and the toddlers lived there too. I remember vultures were walking around inside the compound. Nobody seemed to mind. I thought it amazing, actual vultures. In the bush one time, I saw baboons. I kept my distance. I watched a snake eat a chicken whole. There was a chicken bump. I stayed far away from snakes, poisonous snakes.

In Mole National Park which I visited on one trip back to Ghana, I saw bush elephants walking by my deck steps on their way to the watering home. I saw gnus, all sorts of monkeys, a variety of deer including antelope, most of which were dining in fields. The ugliest animals were the warthogs.

Here on the cape, there are all sorts of wildlife. Coyotes are common. One used to cross my yard before I put up the fence. Nala will tell you Possums are plentiful. She has caught her share of them. I’ve seen foxes and their kits. I nearly hit a deer which jumped in front of my car. It stared at me and had the proverbial deer in the headlights look. It took me a while to breathe normally. Turkeys are everywhere. Given Nala’s penchant for hunting, I’ve added her to my list of wild animals

The morning is beautiful but a bit chilly, in the 50’s. The sun is squint your eyes bright. The clear blue sky is unmarred by a single cloud. It stretches across from east to west. The weather report, though, belies this lovely morning. Rain is predicted.

Having no car means I am housebound. In some ways I don’t mind. I like being home. I like having no expectations on my time and energy. I love my cozy clothes; however, there is one glaring loss, I am missing my ukulele events. I have already missed two concerts and will miss more next week. I do love playing my ukulele.

When I was a kid getting punished, I had to listen to my angry parents. They had stock phrases to meet any situation. I used to get myself in even more trouble as I had an answer for every one of them. “How many times do I have to tell you?” was too big a temptation. I always gave them a number. My father would get even more red faced when I did and the vein on his neck got more prominent. That was his tell by which we could measure how mad he was. My mother always threatened to tell my father. We ignored her threats so my mother escalated the confrontations and started throwing things. Once she even threw my dictionary, my red American Heritage Dictionary, across the room. The binding broke. “What do you think you’re doing?” was a trick question. When I’d question their authority, the answer was always, “Because I said so.” That was never enough for me, but that was all I got.

My mother used to tell me I had a wise mouth. She didn’t mean it as a compliment. I knew that she meant smart-alecky, fresh. She was right. Flippant answers just jumped out before I could stop them. I didn’t have a filter. I was a kid with a smart mouth.

The morning is already warm at 68°. It might even get as high as 70°. Earlier, the sky was cloudy, but now the sun has chased the clouds away. The sky is a pretty deep blue. I’m thinking the warmer days are finally here, and it’s time to switch seasons, time to change my clothes from winter to spring.

 The rental car went back yesterday. My life has come to a standstill. I guess it’s time to make a to-do list, a keep me busy while I’m homebound list. Upstairs is my target. The dust is thick and heavy. My bedroom would please Mrs. Haversham. 

During Peace Corps training, I was in Bawku, Ghana in July 1969. I remember sitting around the radio listening to VOA. It was broadcasting the moon landing. The newsman described in detail what was happening, what most of the world was watching. I remember listening to a play by play as Armstrong sort of jumped from rung to rung down the ship’s ladder. I remember the excitement when he became the first human to step on the moon. We all cheered. VOA had taken us to the moon. 

Some things give me pause. Ketchup on eggs is one of them. Ketchup on hot dogs is another. Refried beans even look disgusting. Baked beans look better but still look unappetizing to me. I’m not a fan of eating rare or medium rare steaks or burgers. I think my mother never served beef even a little red in the middle. I love seafood but am not a fan of oysters. I like my seafood cooked. I like okra but not when is is slimy. I always think it needs a Kleenex. Crooked pictures need to be straightened. My psyche demands it. 

I don’t mind bugs. They don’t scare me. I do tend to disrupt web building but not from a dislike of spiders but rather for a dislike of webs which question, by their very existence, my housekeeping skills. The biggest insect I’ve ever seen was a centipede crawling down a tree behind my house in Ghana. The cockroaches there were so big you could saddle and ride them. Okay, I admit I am exaggerating, but they were huge. They were in the kitchen where we used to hunt them wielding brooms as our weapons. I remember the sounds of them scurrying. 

I have a few outside chores. I’m glad for those. I think today is a wonderful day to sit on the deck and read, as a sort of dress rehearsal for summer. 

Sorry! It has been a couple of days. Yesterday it was Henry. I woke to hear him making the most ungodly cries, as if he were getting beaten. I was terrified for him. I quickly got dressed and took him to the emergency vet’s office. He was checked, but the vet found nothing wrong though I knew it was something as Henry just wasn’t Henry. He wouldn’t let me near him. He’d run if I got close. I had to herd him to get him inside the house. Next, it was Nala’s turn. When I got Henry home, he and Nala got into a fight. Nala started it after she smelled Henry. I figured he might have had an I was at the vet’s smell. Nala, though, got the worst of it, two deep teeth marks on her leg. She couldn’t walk on it. I put antiseptic on the wounds and covered them with gauze. I lifted her up and down the stairs when she wanted out. Both dogs took medication. 

Today is better. Henry is his happy self. Nala limps but is walking on that foot. When I changed the gauze, the wounds looked better, and she goes up and down the stairs alone. As for me, I barely slept last night as I woke up to every sound or movement from both dogs. Today I napped. Like the dogs, I am feeling better. 

Last night it rained. I was still awake to hear the first drops on the roof. I don’t know how long it rained but everything was wet this morning. Today is cloudy but warm in the 6o’s.

When I was a kid, our dog Duke, a boxer, was fierce. He protected us and the house. Once, he got into one fight with the dog from down the street, equally as fierce. The dog grabbed onto Duke’s neck before the fight was broken up, and Duke ended up with a horrible wound. My mother wanted to take him to the vet’s, but my father said Duke could take care of it himself. My father worked away all week. As soon as he was gone, my mother took Duke to the vet’s office. The vet treated the neck wound and put Duke on antibiotics. By Friday when my dad got home the wound looked much better. My father checked Duke and told my mother, “See, I told you he could take care of it himself.” My poor father lived much of his life in the dark!

 Today will be warm and sunny. It is already 61° and will get a bit warmer as the day moves on. The branch pile in my backyard is much larger. The Nala trash is gone. The bird feeders are all filled. I was busy yesterday.

The older I get the more often I have bouts of nostalgia. I remember my hometown as it was. When I drive on Main Street through the square, I can see in my mind’s eye the buildings of my childhood, but the years have not been kind, and most buildings just exist in my memory drawers.

 The square is much less interesting. I used to love to window shop. I’d ride my bike up town and walk it on the sidewalk. Woolworth’s had fun windows which changed with the seasons. My favorite was the Christmas window. Grant’s was far less interesting. Lobsters floated in a tank in the window of the fish market which had an unpleasant smell even outside the door. The diner was right below the square. Sometimes my dad took me there for breakfast. We always sat in a booth. He’d give me money to play the jukebox. When bread was baking at Hank’s, you could smell the aroma around the whole square. The movie theater had Saturday matinees and nighttime movies. I used to spend many a Saturday seeing a movie and a couple of cartoons and watching Oscar patrol the aisles with his flashlight while chomping on his cigar. Later the theater was sold but didn’t stay open long. It was closed for years and deteriorated. But it is back as a live theater and is anchoring the square. Three drug stores were in the square. The Chinese laundry and the barber shop were on the same block. A bank was near Woolworth’s. It had a sort of awning.

Further down the road, Hago Harrington’s Miniature Golf was adjacent to the China Moon which closed first. The Moon used to be the dinner spot before proms and special dances. My sister said nothing remains of Hago’s.

The bowling alleys are also gone. They were Saturday night spots when my friends and I would bowl a few games. I was an awful bowler. 

I have a fun singular memory. I had read about square dancing at Marconi Hall. My friend Jimmy and I decided to go. When we got there, we were told it was for adults only, but we asked to stay. They let us. We do-si-doed all night. 

Sometime last night thunder boomed overhead. The sound was like canon shots, not the usual claps. We all woke up, the dogs and I, but it didn’t happen again so we fell back to sleep. It was odd. 

Last night it rained. I didn’t hear it. Everything is still wet. The sky was cloudy this morning, a light gray, but the sun has made an appearance as has the blue sky. It is warm at 62°. Rain is predicted for later. 

When I think about growing up, I have good memories. I had everything a kid could want: a bike, a sled, roller skates and ice skates. I was equipped for every season. My roller skate key was on a string around my neck. I used it to tighter the grip of the skate clamps to the top sides of my shoes. Sometimes my shoes fell out of the clamps, and I had to reattach the skate to the shoe. I remember the silly walk with my skate hanging, still attached to my foot by the strap. It was lift the leg and swing the hanging skate in the air. I’d then sit on the curb and retighten the clamps. I loved the clicking sound of my skates on the sidewalk, and the way the bottom of my feet felt when I wore the skates. 

The eighth grade was the last grade in my grammar school. I had attended the school since first grade. I had nuns one year and lay teachers the next, all women. One, my second grade teacher, Mrs. Kerrigan, was an old time teacher. She had gray hair she wore in a bun. Her dresses were flowered. Her shoes, her black shoes, had clunky heels. She always carried a pocketbook. Mrs. Kerrigan lived on the second floor of a house across from the church. She walked to school. She was soft-spoken. In my mind’s eye, I can still see a glimpse of her.

I remember a trip we took, my family and I, to the White Mountains. We saw it all. We took the last bus to the Flume and had to walk back to the parking lot. The Man in the Mountain still protruded from the ledge. I thought the man looked amazing, craggy, grizzled. He would fall in 2003. I was so glad I had seen him in all his glory. My father drove up Mount Washington. I remember how slow he drove. I kept looking over the edge glad for the slowness. When we got to the top, it was cold. I couldn’t imagine living on the top of the mountain in winter. When we went back to the car, a bumper sticker had been attached, “This car climbed Mount Washington.”

My dance card has a uke concert tomorrow then nothing until Tuesday. I’m going to do some yard cleaning of Nala’s trash and fill a couple of feeders. That’s it.

The morning is pretty but a bit chilly, only in the 50’s. The last few days had me thinking that the warmth of spring was here to stay so the chill is unwelcomed. Yesterday was a tee shirt day. Today is a sweatshirt day. 

Right now I am watching the very first Perry Mason. I remember watching later episodes when I was in high school. I love this episode with the men in their fedoras, the ancient looking cars and the women’s fashions, the small hats and the white gloves for every day wear. Perry is quite dapper in his patterned sports jacket with a handkerchief in his pocket. He is wearing light slacks. The music is dramatic. Perry is facing the forever prosecutor Hamilton Burger, and Lieutenant Tragg arrested his client. Years back, Perry Mason was on in the afternoons, and my friend Joan and I watched together a few afternoons a week. It was a tradition of sorts. I thought of her today when I started watching.

Memories, even some of the smallest memories, seem to hang around forever in the far back corners of my memory drawers. They jump to the fore when something clicks, when something taps that memory, sometimes something unexpected. I know smell triggers memories. The smell of wood burning takes me back to Camp Aleska, the Girl Scout camp in my hometown. It was in the woods at the end of a dirt road. The main room had a giant fireplace. It had seating all around which also served as storage. That’s where the cots were. I remember the room always smelled of wood and fire. We’d light the fireplace, and I’d fall asleep watching the light from the fire flickering and jumping. The sweet aroma of the wood burning filled the room. 

In Ghana, in the mornings, the compounds behind my house lit wood fires for cooking. I woke to the aroma of the burning wood wafting across the fields. One time, I was hitching from Tamale to Bolgatanga, my home, a hundred mile trip. One of my rides was turning off the main road so he dropped me by a tiny village. It was a charcoal village. Trees were lying on the ground and smoldering in the middle, in a sort of hewed trough. The smell from the smoke was sweet. It clung to my clothes and my hair. It stayed with me.

I am hanging around the house today. I’m missing a concert. I overdid the last few days thinking all was well. Today I’m hurting. I figure I shouldn’t have collected all the fallen pine branches in parts of my yard. I have a concert Saturday I’m looking forward to so the day of rest is in preparation. The dogs and I are comfortable on the couch. It seems the perfect spot.