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.

The snow showers will start tonight but will turn to rain here on the cape. The rain will continue into tomorrow, a warm tomorrow in the 40’s. Over an inch of rain is predicted. 

The birds were many at the feeders this morning. The two goldfinches from yesterday brought a friend. Mr. Cardinal joined his wife. A robin dropped by, the first time here. The stalwarts, the usual birds, were in and out, chickadees, nuthatches and titmice. I noticed a couple of the feeders need to be filled. I put that on the to do list.

When I was young, I saw the magic. I saw the field below my house bright with blinking fireflies. I’d check out the man in the moon. I swear he had two expressions. He was either smiling or open mouthed as if surprised. I saw the shapes of the snowflakes and sometimes stood outside to catch them on my tongue. My face would get a layer of snow. I always wondered how there could be so many flakes all different in shape. Jumping over the double O railroad ties saved my mother from a broken back. I wasn’t really sure about that one, but I didn’t want to tempt fate so I jumped. My mother never did get a broken back. Coincidence? I didn’t think so. On one trip to Boston, my father bought peanuts for us to give to the squirrels. Back then they hadn’t yet become the spawns of Satan. I remember being surrounded by  squirrels who knew I had peanuts, a bit of squirrel telepathy. They’d stand on their back feet to get closer to me. They took the peanuts right out of my hand. How could that be? 

 When I got older, I was so busy I didn’t take the time to see the magic, even forgot about it though it still surrounded me. I remember it all came back one night when I sat on my new deck. My backyard had fireflies. I saw the blinking. I saw the magic. 

The magic is all around me again. When it snows, I turn on the back light so I can watch the flakes fall. I am still amazed. The fireflies come back every summer. I sit on the deck and follow them with my eyes. I love light rides at Christmas. I ooh and ahh. I think the man in the moon is mostly smiling. He knows I found the magic again.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

While my coffee was brewing, I watched out the kitchen window at the birds and the feeders. I was thrilled to see two goldfinches dining at the thistle feeder. I had just filled it the other day. Today I’ll fill the sunflower seed feeders. 

When I was a kid, Valentine’s Day was exciting. Before the big day, we’d shop at Woolworth’s for my valentines. They had a picture on the front and a corny saying. I remember one with a camel which said, “I can go without water but not without you.” The backs were blank and that’s where I wrote my name. Kathleen is a long name which didn’t fit the back so my name was slanted or the last few letters of my name didn’t fit. I always added the R for Ryan as there were a few Kathleens in my class. I remember taking my time to write in my best handwriting. 

I remember art class a week or so before Valentine’s Day. We decorated shoe boxes and they became Valentine boxes. A slit at the top was where the valentines went into the box. 

We had a party at school on the big day but not until after lunch. I remember walking to school carrying my precious box and the cookies or cupcakes my mother had made for the party. The boxes were stashed under our desks. The morning was endless. We had our regular subjects, but we were more fixated on the boxes under our desks.

After lunch the festivities began. The nun’s desk held all of the goodies. The Valentine’s boxes were on our desks. We went row by row to pass out our valentines. I remember just hoping no one would pass me by. We all to wait until every row had given out their valentines. After that, we’d get our goodies, sit at our desks and open the  valentines. We’d show each other the special ones and the ones from the boys. 

The party lasted until the end of the day. We’d clean up the classroom just before the final bell. I put my valentines in my box, in my treasure chest. I’d carry the box home with solemnity befitting the treasures inside. I’d get home and show my mother all my valentines. I kept them safe in that box for the longest time. 

The rain makes the day gloomy. Right now it is 41° and foggy. The birds are back. They were missing for a while. This morning I saw several chickadees and Mrs. Cardinal. Yesterday I filled one of the feeders with a different seed. It is supposedly anti-spawn. I put the seed in the feeder the spawns usually sit on to dine, the one the chickadees favor. I’m thinking the seed might have some hot pepper which deters the spawns. 

Chickens are dirty. They are also creatures of habit. That comes into this story later. In Ghana, I had chickens. The first sitting hen was a gift. She was a horrible mother and lost her chicks, a few at a time, probably to snakes. We ate her. My next hen was a good mother. All her chicks lived and spent the nights roosting in my backyard. Other volunteers often visit. If they stayed overnight, the custom was they either brought food or gave a little money. One of the volunteers I trained with came to visit. I was cordial though I wasn’t fond of the guy. I don’t think any of us were. He was haughty and annoying. He went to John’s Hopkins and told us that all the time. We weren’t impressed. It was the harmattan when he came. I was sleeping outside on my mattress. I put another one outside for him and carefully placed it in the yard. Early the next morning I heard him scream. I wasn’t surprised. I had placed his mattress where the chickens always walk to go out the gate. The chickens jumped on him. He was directly in their path. I pretended to be surprised. 

Sometimes I have a flash, a picture, from my memory drawers. When I visit where I grew up, I take a nostalgia ride passing the places from my childhood. I always go by the duplex where we lived for so long. I can see my father raking the front yard and my mother hanging up laundry. The small hill where, to my father’s consternation, I’d ride down on my bike is there. All it is missing are tire tread marks. I go by houses where my friends used to live. I remember their names and can see their faces. Some even still live in town. 

I am sometimes surprised by the memories I have of when I was young. They aren’t of life changing events. They are small memories, ones I didn’t realize I was making, but I am always glad for them. They give me joy.

Here I am thinking the air feels warm, but it is only 33°. It is cloudy. The day looks gloomy, uninviting. I have uke practice tonight. We are playing love songs of the 60’s, songs from my heyday.

It is a typical morning. The dogs have been out twice. Nala comes in on her own while Henry whines at the dog door for me to let him inside. They’ve had their morning treats, Buddy biscuits. Both of them are now sleeping on the couch. It’s nap time.

My Christmas tree had been standing in my living room since Christmas. It was covered with the tree bag meant to capture the needles. I didn’t move the tree outside earlier as it was too tall and too heavy. Yesterday I decided to tackle the task. It was awful. I managed to get the tree near the door then I went outside hoping to pull it through the threshold. It got stuck. Nothing moved. I grabbed branches and pulled. All the needles fell. I cut my hand somehow. I changed my strategy and pulled the side branches out one at a time. It worked. The tree is on the front lawn still in the white bag. I couldn’t remove the bottom of the tree stand so I’ll have to try again today. I hope no one looks too closely at that tree bag. I can see the blood from my cut all over it. Maybe I should bury it in the backyard. 

When I was a kid, a penny was valuable. I could buy penny candy. Sometimes I could get two pieces of candy for a penny. That was a good day. Now, the penny will join analog time, cursive, dial phones, typewriters, yellow pages, maps and so much much more. 

I thought about all the sayings and idioms about pennies. Those too will be gone, thrown on the trash pile of archaic language. I’m thinking a penny for my thoughts is probably now worth a dollar and even more, but it just doesn’t sound right. How about the bad penny who always shows up? That phrase is centuries old. A penny saved is a penny earned. Some things used to cost a pretty penny. How can you change penny dreadful? Nothing else fits. How about penny pinching? The worse is no more pennies from heaven. We are now or will soon be bereft of divine intervention.