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.

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.