When I woke up, it was snowing. I made coffee then ran out to the deck and filled 3 of the bird feeders. I’d been meaning to do that for the last few days, but I guess I was waiting for cold and snow, as if. I didn’t grab a jacket, but it was warmer than I expected. The dogs joined me. While I was filling the feeders, they were playing on the deck. Well, the snow has already stopped. We have a dusting. 

My father bought my mother a hi-fi with his bonus money one year. I remember the turntable was in a sort of a case with a top which you lifted to play the records. I remember how carefully you had to place the arm on the record in the exact right spot where the grooves started. I remember the stack of records my mother had. One was Judy Garland, another Frank Sinatra. I know all the lyrics to Shrimp Boats. Sometimes the records got scratches and would skip or get stuck in one groove.

 I used to play my 45’s. First I chose 45 RPM on the speed selector knob. Next, I had to place a plastic disc in the hole in the middle of the records so they would fit the spindle. My friend had a turntable just for 45’s which I envied. It had a record changer in the middle, and you could stack 45’s records on it which then played in turn. I remember sitting on the floor holding the record in the middle and on the edge so as not to leave fingerprints while I was going through the pile of records, A and B sides. 

I still have a record collection of both 33 1/3’s and 45’s. I also have a few plastic discs for the 45’s. I keep those records stored in boxes just for 45’s. Every now and then I go through the boxes and pick a few songs to play. My 33 1/3 records go back to the 60’s when I bought my first album. I still love playing those, especially the oldest albums. The other day I listened to Gail Garnett and her album with We’ll Sing in the Sunshine.

I wish the same part of my brain which stores lyrics to all the songs I’ve loved would work for other things like names or dates. They take a while to retrieve. When my friend Peg and I are talking and we’ve forgotten something, the two of us try to figure out what word we mean. Sometimes we remember. Other times we don’t even get close, but ask me to sing the lyrics to songs I love, and I remember every verse.

My dance card has one last entry for the week, a uke concert tomorrow. 

We had a bit of snow last night, under an inch. Right now it is melting as it is 38°. The blue sky and the cloudy sky are taking turns. The weatherman calls it partly cloudy. I lean more toward the sun.

The only remains of Christmas are the trees. The dining room tree, a scrub pine, is still here upstairs because it is awkward to carry down to the cellar where it stays up and decorated. The tree is in two parts so I have to put one hand on each part when I take it down the stairs to the cellar. I go slowly, quite slowly. Stairs and I have a contentious relationship. The living room tree is in its plastic tree bag in the middle of the room. It is heavy to carry. I’ll give it a go today and then leave it upright in the yard so the birds can have a bit of shelter. 

When I was a kid, I loved to watch the snow fall. I wasn’t partial to big, wet flakes as I knew they wouldn’t last long. They carried no hope for a snow day. It was the smaller flakes which carried expectations. I remember watching the snow from the front picture window. The flakes were lit by the streetlight on the sidewalk in the front of my house. Sometimes the wind was strong enough to slant the flakes sideways. I’d keep checking to see if the snow was accumulating. When the sidewalks and the street disappeared, I was hopeful. The next morning, if the snow had been heavy and constant, we’d listen for the no school code from the fire department alarm. 

Geography was a favorite subject. I dreamed of seeing all those places in real life, and I was lucky. I got to see many. My favorite, of course, is Africa. How could it not be? It was exotic and wonderful. It was my home for two years, and I loved every day. The camel ride in the Sahara is high on the list. I wasn’t delighted when the camel took off on me, and I nearly fell off, but now it is a great story, even a bit dramatic. Standing on the Equator in each hemisphere is on the list. I saw the Andes before I saw the Rocky Mountains. On Corcovado in Rio I stood below the statue of Christ. I remembered the picture in my geography book.

Europe too is memorable but describing my favorite places would take more than a few musings. I’ll save that for a slow day when my muses have taken an unauthorized hiatus. 

Uke is back this week with practice, a lesson and a concert on Friday. The book for February is love songs of the 60’s, one of my favorite books. I’ll wear a heart sweatshirt, my heart fascinator and red Chuck Taylor high tops. 

Finally, my dance card is no longer empty.

I am testy. Small things which I usually don’t notice or just ignore have me yelling, bats in the belfry crazy yelling. The dogs run away. It’s the weather. I am so tired of clouds. I can deal with the cold by dressing accordingly, but I can’t take any more cloudy days. Oh sun, where art thou?

When I was a kid, I either went to the early mass with my father, the usher, or the late mass by myself or with my brother. It was the Latin mass. The church was crowded every Sunday, both the church upstairs and the smaller one downstairs. Back then, women had to wear dresses or skirts. Women also had to wear hats. I was never one for hats so I wore a mantilla, a lace head covering, I could stash in my pocket. I’d sit upstairs in the last row, all the easier to escape. Once I heard go in peace, I was out the door. 

I thought a nickel or a dime was wealth. Most times I’d head for the white store to spend it. Their penny candy was in rows in a wooden case with a glass front. Choosing penny candy took time. Mostly I wanted candy with a long life. I liked Fire Balls or chewy candies that hurt your teeth like Banana Splits and Mint Juleps. Sometimes I’d buy a Bull’s Eyes. I’d unwrap the caramel and eat it first. The best part, the white middle, I’d save for last. 

I’d sometimes take hidden candy to school. I always choose candies with no wrappers. That was the key to a successful sneaky candy move. Every day, a metal lunchbox filled with candy bars was delivered to each classroom. They were nickel bars. I was partial to Welch’s fudge bar covered in chocolate. 

My dance card now has a few entries, all ukulele.

Today is a perfect day to see the world through windows. It is only 32°, the high for the day. A bit ago we had a snow shower which left a light coating of snow on the tops of branches and along the sides of the road. The snow showers will be around all day. 

Though my jigsaw puzzle, on the table here in the den, isn’t finished, I can see they’ll be a couple of missing pieces. I know we’ll all accuse Nala, my felonious dog, but we’d be wrong. I caught Henry with a piece of the puzzle sticking out of his mouth as he was trying to sneak out of the room with his booty, his loot. I yelled. He dropped it. Now I’m confused. 

When I was a kid, I went to the parish grammar school, grades one through eight, where I had nuns every other year because there were too many of us and too few of them. Every grade had two classes. Some years there were as many as 40 of us in one class. It was never chaotic. Most of us were a bit afraid of the nuns with their black habits and their white wimples. One of the schoolyard topics of conversation was those wimples. We wondered what their hair looked like underneath. How short was it? What color was it? Once in a while we’d see a tiny line of hair along the wimple’s edges.

I remember the nuns used to keep their handkerchiefs under their habits on their wrists. They wore huge rosaries, our early warning systems. You could hear the click of the beads as the nuns got closer. We learned over time to be covert. 

I remember learning to write. It seems just about every classroom had the alphabet in white letters on black cardboard across the tops of the blackboards. Each card had the cursive upper and lower case of one letter. We’d practice writing the letters during penmanship, a now and then class. We learned Palmer Method. We had writing drills. I was great with the up and down lines but not so great on the circles. Mine were messy. We’d practice one letter over and over. I remember a page filled with upper case A’s. The nun would wander the aisles checking on our work and commenting on our attempts. I never did great, no penmanship awards. My writing now is a combination of cursive and block lettering. 

I still have an empty dance card. 

The weather today is dark and rainy. I have no inclination to leave the house. I am not even getting dressed. Today is a sloth day. I ordered a grocery delivery. The larder is nearly empty. I did break away from my Snickers. Today I eat Butterfingers. 

My street has no lights. Some of the houses are seasonal so they stay dark. When I was in high school, I sometimes walked home at night. I was never afraid. I didn’t think there was anything to fear. I remember the street lights left a round circle of light on the road. I remember how quiet it was. I could see TV’s in peoples’ living rooms. I seldom saw other people. Only an occasional car broke the silence. I loved those walks. I loved the quiet. 

My street is short. My street is quiet. There are eight houses. The ones on either side of me are empty. One is a rental, the other a seasonal rental. Henry keeps an eye on those and on any traffic. He alerts me. Sometimes I’m thankful for that loud, constant barking while other times I wish I could mute him. I almost bought a mute the barking dog collar, but Henry, with his phobias, would be afraid and would avoid me. He holds grudges.

In Ghana, in my day, the nights were quiet. I remember walking back to the hostel in Accra after dinner. I remember passing small groups of men sitting on the sidewalks in the slanted wooden chairs I hated. You had to lean back to sit on them. The men always wished me a good evening when I passed by them. I returned the greeting. I was never afraid then either. 

I think my house is quiet then I listen. I can hear blasts of hot air from the furnace. When the dogs walk in the hall, their nails tap the floor. Jack, not a small boy, thuds when he jumps down from the bed in his room upstairs. I can hear it down here. Jack is a meower, a loud meower. He never meows only once. He carries on a whole conversation. 

During the late night, I am usually the only one awake in my neighborhood. All the other houses are dark. During the summer I sit outside on my deck in the quiet. Lately I have been awake until the wee hours. I love that time. It always feels like I own the world. I could be the star of a science fiction movie, minus the usual zombies, walking dead and veracious animals hunting prey. 

In Ghana, I had my own chickens, hens mostly. I’m thinking it may be time for them again, a few chickens, a few eggs every morning. 

My dance card is yellowed. It is like one of those pieces of ephemerae. Okay, I am probably showing off here by writing the Latin first declension plural of ephemera, but I had four years of high school Latin and seldom get a chance to show off. Anyway, I have no reason to leave the house until Tuesday, no reason to get dressed until then. Mind you, I am not complaining. I am merely living the sloth life.

The weather is absurd. Yesterday on the way home from my concert, it started to rain, windshield wiper rain. A bit further up, no rain, then further up, rain. At two this morning, I let the dogs out. It had started snowing tiny flakes. The dogs were quick. Nala came back inside. When I saw Henry at the door, I let him in then I sat down, watched TV and did my jigsaw puzzle for another hour or so. Just before bed, I let the dogs out for the last time of the night. It wasn’t snowing. The weather is gaslighting us.

Today is a pretty day with a bright sun and a blue sky, but it is a cold day. We’re in the mid 20’s now, the high for the day.

When I was a kid, I knew certain things. I knew if you made Jiffy Pop you had to be careful. The popcorn came in its own pan, an aluminum pan with a handle. It looked like a pie pan or a frying pan. You had to shake the pan on the stove all the time or the popcorn would burn. We used to take turns shaking the pan. I loved watching as the popcorn popped. The sounds of the popping started out slowly then got louder and louder. The aluminum tent holding the kernels got higher and higher as the corn popped. It was fun to watch. The only way you knew the popcorn was all popped was when you couldn’t hear kernels anymore.

I knew that ketchup never went on a hot dog. Add mustard, relish or piccalilli but never ketchup. I won’t even discuss ketchup on scrambled eggs.

My father taught me that the laziest person in the world left a dirty glass on the counter. He raised his voice to tell us that. He taught us that several times.

I learned how to bob and weave to avoid my mother’s thrown slipper and, much later, her thrown dictionary, the big red one. Luckily that one never went far.

Mashed potatoes were sometimes white and orange, the orange coming from sneaked carrots. My mother explained it away. I believed her. I learned mothers sometimes lied.

According to my mother, if I didn’t wear a hat in the winter, I’d freeze. All body heat escapes through the top of your head.

My mother predicted the winter weather. She taught us it was, at times, too cold to snow. I know she believed it. We did too for a while.

The clouds and the sun are having their turns. Right now it is sunny. The wind is now and then. Snow flurries are predicted. I am still dismantling Christmas though all that is left is to put the gathered decorations in their boxes. The living room is clear and back to normal except for the tree in a white plastic bag standing in the middle of the room. It needs to go, to be hauled outside. The hall is an obstacle course of filled boxes. The dining room and living room have stuff on tables waiting for their boxes. I just have to get motivated.

When I was a kid, we all helped decorate the house, especially the tree. I remember my father and mother would pick the tree, set it up in the living room and then wait for the branches to fall. We’d decorate together. I remember it all. What I don’t remember is taking it down. My mother dismantled Christmas while we were in school. I remember the shock of getting home to a drab, undecorated house. I always missed the tree with its color and aroma the most. Now I have one incognito in my living room.

When I was a freshman in high school, we had a sex orientation lecture in the gym which also served as the auditorium. The chairs were stored under the stage. They were directors’ type chairs with red canvas seats. They were fun chairs because if you sat on one with a bit of force you bounced as did everyone in your row. I remember the girl sitting beside me at the lecture. I don’t remember her name. She was slight. She had several siblings. Those are the only identifiers I have. I remember her hands. During the lecture she constantly rubbed her hands together and she shook. That meant we all shook, the whole time.

When I was a kid, name calling and making fun of other kids was common. “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names can never hurt me,” was the usual response. I always liked, “Takes one to know one.” And the ever popular, “I know you are but what am I.” Sometimes your mother got maligned, “So’s your mother.” The grammar school playground was a dog eat dog world.

The morning is lovely. It is also cold but not outrageously. The sky is as blue as any sky can be. I don’t see a single cloud. The air is mostly still. It is a pretty winter’s day.

Yesterday was busy. I made it to the dump, finally. My trunk was filled with trash bags. My back seat had the cans and papers and such. It was an overdue chore. My tree is empty, ready to go outside. My living room is back to pre-Christmas. It makes me sad. I love all the Christmas colors and decorations. Taking them down has made my world a bit drab.

When I was a kid, my grandparents lived in the city. We used to visit them often, on Sundays. I loved the city. My grandparent’s house was in the middle of the block. At one end of the block was a small corner store. That’s where I’d spend the dimes my grandfather would give us. The dimes were bribes. He wanted peace and quiet. The other end of the block had a house which opened its front window to sell Italian ice. I found that amazing. I ate cold, square Italian bakery pizza for the first time during one visit. I loved it.

I remember playing stickball on the street in front of my grandparents’ house. We used a broomstick and a half pink rubber ball. I was mostly the gofer. We also played stoop ball. The ball, an intact red rubber ball, was thrown at the front stoop by the batter. Fielders were spread out in the street. The batter hoped for distance off the stoop to get a high score. The fielders hoped for fly balls off the stoop. There were no real rules, and the scoring was often contentious. These were city games. We never played them at home.

My dance card actually has some entries for this week, all uke. I have been home most of the last two weeks. I have really missed people. The dogs are the worst conversationalists. They tend to spend their days eating and sleeping with an occasional trip to the backyard. The dump was actually exciting. I saw people, even said hello to a couple. They said hello back. I was thrilled.

I have designated today as finish the damn chores day. The hall is almost impassable because of the boxes and bags of Christmas waiting to be hauled downstairs. When I went to get the paper, I had to clean up trash pulled from the bags of the trash I had put by my car as part of my dump prep. I knew I was tempting fate as the bags were the perfect targets for the creatures of the night. They had a party! I definitely need to go to the dump.

I will finish here today and then add a picture. I just have to get Christmas put away which means hauling boxes, lots of boxes, up and down the cellar stairs, and I need to go to the dump. I’ll thwart those creatures of the night.

Until tomorrow!

The weather hasn’t changed. We tend to stay around the low 30’s, today we’re 30° exactly. We have a slight breeze. It spins the hanging brown leaves on the oaks. I still have trash. I also still have a bit of Christmas piled on the table. I need to bring more bins upstairs. I should finish today though I’ve said that every day for the last few days. I think I have a severe form of winter lethargy.

My high school graduation was outside, the first ever at my school. The girls wore white, the boys green. The boys sat on one side, the girls on the other. I could see my father and mother from my seat. During the ceremony, the scholarships were given out. I got a couple, but it is the first one I remember. After I got back to my seat, envelope in hand, I looked to my parents expecting applause or a way to go, girl. I got neither. Instead, there was my father asking, “How much? How Much?” I ignored him.

The first time I heard a rooster crowing was in Ghana, on a very early morning. It became a significant event. When I returned to Ghana, a rooster crowed outside my window on my first morning. I thought of it as a welcome.

In Ghana I learned to operate a motorcycle. It was a Honda 90, which was what I could afford, barely afford, from my living allowance. I bought it in Tamale, a little over 100 miles away from Bolga, learned how to operate it from the dealer then left for home. One road was all I took. It was straight up from Tamale to Bolga. I stopped a couple of times for water and to stretch my legs. It was a long ride and on the left. It was a significant event. I rode over a 100 miles, my first ever trip on a motorcycle.