The morning is cloudy and windy but light and warm. It is already 58° and could actually hit 60°. That sounds almost tropical. I think I might just sit on the deck for a while and take in the day. I’ll watch the goldfinches at the thistle feeders.

When I was a kid, my bicycle was the best Christmas present I ever received. It was blue. It had a wire basket in front. It was my chariot. I rode it until the first snow. It was kept in the cellar. Putting it in and taking it out was difficult. The cellar was at the bottom of a flight of stairs, and a tall concrete wall was in front of the cellar door. I had to lift the bicycle so it was on one wheel outside the door in order to turn it to the stairs. That always took a bit of maneuvering. Pulling it up the stairs was the last obstacle to riding, to hitting the road. Despite everything, though, I always thought my bike was worth the effort. 

I remember in the fifth grade we were bussed to the next town over. They had empty classrooms. We didn’t have enough room so for half a year we were bussed while a new school building was being built catty corner to the old school. We used to line up on the driveway beside the church to wait for the busses. Each bus had a nun monitor. Our monitor was my fifth grade nun. She sat on the back seat as she was a hefty nun who needed room. It wasn’t a long bus ride. I remember  reading Little Women on the ride. I don’t remember much else.

We always ate white bread, Wonder Bread. I didn’t even knew other breads existed. I remember lunches and how the middle of the bread in my peanut butter and jelly sandwich sometimes got a bit soggy and sank. Jelly seeped through, purple Welch’s grape jelly. It was the only jelly my mother bought. We had a lot of jelly glasses.

My father was a coffee drinker, an instant coffee drinker by choice. My mother didn’t drink coffee or tea. She used to drink Coke in the morning. We called my mother the seagull. She used to eat cold hot dog sandwiches, sometimes with cucumbers. She’d slice the hot dog so it would fit into a sandwich. I remember seeing her stand by the counter to eat. She didn’t like coffee but she loved biscotti dipped in coffee. A tuna melt was one of her favorite sandwiches. She loved the lunch counter at Woolworth’s. 

Yesterday I overreached. I went to my uke concert. Last night I was exhausted and went to bed early for me. My chest is a bit sore today. I’m going to take it easy.

Spring seems to have the upper hand. The bushes have buds, and the forsythia has bloomed in the brightest yellow. The sun is so bright that every thing is lit by light. The sky is the deepest blue. The breeze is ever the slightest, and only a few brown leaves flutter from the scrub oak tree by the deck. More flowers have bloomed in the front garden. The morning is a poster day for spring.

When I was a kid, I had a spring jacket I loved. It had a zipper. It was lightweight. It was an acknowledgment of spring warmth. Gone was my winter coat, my hat and mittens, but I usually wore a sweater underneath my jacket as the mornings were still chilly. I had the best walk to school. The street was a straightaway with a sidewalk shaded by tall trees on both sides. I remember when the trees started to come alive. First came the buds then the tiny shoots opened. They were a light green, a different green than the leaves would be. By the time the leaves came, the mornings were warmer. It was time to ditch the sweater.

During recess, the girls stayed on one side of the school yard, and the boys stayed on the other. Both sides had small groups standing around just talking. The girls’ side also had rope jumpers. I was never a jumping rope fan as I wasn’t very good at it. The boys shot baskets. The hoop had green paint. When I was in the seventh grade, I played CYO basketball so I tried to get time at the hoops for girls’. I was told that basketball was for boys as girls’ had physical limitations related to being female. I protested, but it didn’t matter. We never played hoops. 

Today is Good Friday. We had it off from school but were required to keep vigil in the church for a time. I remember the church looked dark. All the statues were covered in purple cloth. People sat here and there mostly with heads bent in prayer. I was always bored. I had my missal with me, but it wasn’t an exciting read. The time passed so slowly I swear I was there for days. I was so excited when the nun gave us permission to leave. Freedom!

I feel almost back to myself today. I can reach without moaning in pain. My hand is almost clear of black and blues. My chest hurts only a little. It is a happy day!!

 Today is such a lovely sunny day after so many rainy and cloudy days. It will be in the high 40’s. Tonight, though, will be cold, in the 30’s. I think I’ll spend a little time in the sun on the deck.

The dogs love this weather. They stay out longer, and Nala either lies in the yard or sits on the deck stairs. She comes inside, and her fur is always hot. Henry goes in and out. He drives me crazy as he won’t come in the dog door and waits for me to let him inside; however, he’ll run inside if someone is out front. 

Yesterday in the paper was a picture of daffodils. The caption, bold and in caps, read Pop of Color. The picture was in black and white. In an article in the same paper, the writer mentioned that a woman had two twins. I bet she is glad she doesn’t have three twins. 

When I was a kid, my weekdays all had the same schedule. Most of my day was spent in school. It was only in the afternoons I could be creative with time. Some days I rode my bike. Other days I played outside. Sometimes I stayed inside and read or colored or watched TV. I remember sitting at the kitchen table to color while my mother was making dinner. I watched her peel potatoes. There were always potatoes, always mashed potatoes. They are a comfort food for me. 

My dad had no talent when it came to fixing up the house. He once ravaged a toilet. The plumber wanted to know how that happened. When he was painting the side of the house, the ladder started to slide. My father went with it and held the brush against the house. The strokes followed the slide sideways of the ladder. Another time he was cutting a branch off a tree in the backyard. He was sitting on the wrong side of the branch. He sawed and the branch fell with him on it. He hit the ground. I had seen it happening and called my mother to watch. The branch wasn’t far from the ground so he was fine. We just shook our heads. It was definitely a dad thing. He got a shock from some appliance he was trying to fix. He got cut fingers from a fan. When my father retired, he was given a set of tools. The man who presented them to him mentioned how my mother said my dad liked to putter round the house. What she meant was he liked to empty ashtrays and do dishes. 

Long ago I took a woodworking class. I made a small table. The saws scared me a bit given my genetic make-up. I could envision the saw cutting off the tips of my fingers. Luckily, it didn’t happen. I made the table, and all of my digits were intact. 

Last night it rained again, and the clouds are hanging around as showers are predicted. It is in the 50’s, Cape Cod spring warm. The dogs have been out a couple of times. Nala is disappointed by the weather. She likes to lie in the sun, but, instead, she is on the couch. Henry is on my bed upstairs. He likes to stretch out. My dogs live better than I do. 

When I was a kid, our dog Duke was not allowed on furniture, but he had ways around it. He’d lie across the bed with only the tips of his nails on the floor. At night, he’d sleep on the couch, and we would hear him get off the couch s we went downstairs. He never got caught. My dogs think the couch is theirs. I sit in the middle and one dog is on each side of me. They are comfortable, but I am not. My dogs definitely live better than I do.  

I still moan a bit when I move, but it is getting better. I don’t moan as loudly. My hand is still ugly. If I had a job as a hand model, I’d be out of the job. My friends have been wonderful. They feed me and keep me company. They call to check on me. My neighbor stops by every day. My sister calls every morning. I am being well taken care of.

My front garden is lovely, filled with color. The dafs and the hyacinths are high. The dafs are yellow while the hyacinths are purple, red and orange. More flowers are getting close to blooming. I can see buds on my lilac tree. Spring is barreling through the cold nights and mornings. It is taking its turn.

My yard is littered with Nala trash. It looks like an empty lot. I haven’t been vigilant enough with used paper goods and such, but I have protected my food. From the deck I can see paper plates, my stolen cough drops strewn around, a few stray pieces of paper and some paper towels. I am tolerating the trash. 

I have no lists. I am bereft. My house is filled with tumbleweeds disguised as balls of fur. I grab them when they float in the air as I walk by them, mostly in the hall. My sweatshirt sleeve is my duster. I run it across table tops. I think of it as piecemeal cleaning. 

I am about to be throned sloth queen. There are no other contenders. 

I am getting a bit better. I just have to be patient. I spend most of my time on the couch, and as long as I sit still and not reach for anything, I’m okay. I did find a gigantic black and blue I had missed before. My hand is still swollen but not as much. The bruise looks red and goes all the way up to the knuckles of my fingers. It is ugly. 

The rain keeps coming. My lawn and garden are flooded. The dogs are soaked when they come back inside after a trip to the yard. They are now having their late morning naps. Such is a dog’s life in this house.

Ghana has only two seasons, rainy and dry. I lived in the driest part of the country. Both seasons were uncomfortable in their own ways. The dry season was longer, and temperatures were usually in the high 90’s and low100’s. The roads turned to dust. Everything was brown. My lips and heels cracked. I learned not to dry myself after my shower so I could feel cool enough in bed to fall sleep. Sometimes they turned off the water. I became quiet adept at taking bucket baths. I even left enough water in the bucket to flush the toilet. I could buy tomatoes, onions, tuber yam and rice. I ate so much rice I didn’t eat it for the longest time when I got home. The dry season was never enjoyed. At best, it was tolerated. 

The rainy season was a rebirth. The first storms were magnificent. I once saw lightning hit the ground. Because of the dryness of the ground, the water made rivulets which turned into small streams. I used to watch the one in front of my house. Fields were planted. Leaves returned to trees. The air felt cool. The nights got as low as the 70’s. I needed a blanket. More citrus fruits from the south were sold in the market where the tables had pyramids of oranges and bananas piled high. The pineapples were sweet. Aunties, the women who sold food along the roadsides, would use a single edge razor blade to peel around the top of the orange then slice the top so you could suck out the juice. Their dexterity was amazing to watch. Millet, maize and corn grew tall in the fields. I was surrounded by green.

When I travel back to Ghana, I go during the rainy season, but Bolgatanga, my other home town, still feels hot and the humidity is thick from the rain, but I have always loved the rainy season. I love the sound on the metal roofs and sitting outside under an umbrella surrounded by rain but staying dry. The fields are filled with crops. The air smells sweet.

Yesterday started out like any other day with coffee and the paper. I think I even had toast. I left to do a couple of errands. My last one was to buy a few groceries. I started for home. I saw a truck stopping on the road before turning. I didn’t see the car. It hit me. It was most decidedly my fault for not looking. I was shocked by the hit and sat there for a little bit to process. My car was totaled. The police and the fire department came then the EMT’s. It was quite a crowd. The EMT’s insisted I go to the hospital. I declined. Meanwhile, I started taking my uke book and my music stand out of the car. I took my groceries. My neighbor stopped and came over to me. She said she’d pick me up at the hospital. I went into the ambulance. I went to the emergency room.

At the hospital I was examined. The decision was for x-rays and a CT-scan. I was wheeled to both places and back again. It was quick. I sat in my room for a long while. It wasn’t quick. The doctor said there were no broken bones. I was in pain but only when I moved, talked or breathed. 

At home I moved as little as possible. My neighbor sent over dinner. She also sent cinnamon buns. Those I ate. Nala was upset. Her boxer eyes just stared then she licked me. She knew it was not a usual day. 

This morning, my hand is just a little less swollen. I still try not to move because it hurts. I had to cough a bit, and it hurt a lot. 

I should have known something would happen. I just bought two new tires. Yesterday was not a good day!

Winter is still heavy handed. The other night the water in my birdbath froze. It was in the low 30’s. Last night was only a tiny bit warmer. The days, though, are giving me a bit of hope, a hint of spring. They jump into the 40’s and feel warm if there is no wind. Right now it is 46°. The sun, with its deep blue background, is bright and magnificent, after all the rain. The vibrant yellow of the goldfinches at the thistle feeders cuts through the drab. There are so many of them they have to wait in line. I swear I saw one goldfinch take a number from the deli machine on a branch. 

When I was a kid, I knew I would travel. It was the only known. I made that vow to myself when I was eleven. The when and the where weren’t part of my vow. The idea of traveling was enough. 

Over my lifetime I have been surprised by experiences I never imagined. 

It is sixty-six years since my vow to travel. My young self would be amazed at where I’ve been. I still marvel that I lived in Africa, that it holds a special place in my heart. About Africa, I only knew what the geography books taught me. I could talk climate, capital cities, exports, rivers and mountains. I had so much to learn, so much to experience, and I took in everything I could. Ghana became a comfortable place. I think my eleven year old self would have thought that remarkable.

I can play a musical instrument. I thought my debut with the triangle in the second grade would be it. I saw no symphony hall in my future. I saw no ukulele in my future. I didn’t even know what a ukulele was. Big Brother Bob Emery played the uke on his TV show when he sang The Grass is Always Greener, his theme song. I thought it was a guitar. When I decided I wanted to play a musical instrument, the uke came to mind. I thought it might be easier than the guitar. It only has four strings. I still don’t see Symphony Hall in my future, but it doesn’t matter. I love my uke.

When I was growing up, I never did laundry, make a bed or cook. I was just fine with that. During college I had to figure out how to work the washing machine. I seldom made my bed. Cooking was out of a can. Dinty Moore’s beef stew was a favorite. I loved chicken noodle soup. In Ghana, I never did laundry. I always found someone to pay to do it, by hand as there were no machines. Ironing was a necessity. It was a charcoal iron. I didn’t do that either. I didn’t cook. I had no stove, only a small charcoal burner, a sort of forerunner for the hibachi but round. I cook and bake now. I’ll try to make anything, nothing phases me. That was a surprise. I still seldom make my bed. My washing machine died so I have my clothes washed at the laundry. Some habits don’t change. 

The rain has stopped as has my work on the ark, but scattered showers are predicted so I’ll keep the tools handy. The kitchen floor is filled with paw prints. The backyard is soaked. 

My sloth must have been napping this morning as I have already changed my bed, taken my shower and cleaned down the stairs. I’m exhausted!

In the winter, my mother usually made us a hot breakfast before school. My favorite was soft boiled eggs. She used to serve the eggs in yellow Fanny Farmer duck egg holders. She would cut off the top of the egg and have toast around the plate. The toast was cut into strips the perfect size for dunking. When I first moved into this house, I had only a few pieces of furniture, a frying pan and two pots, a few dishes, a TV and a couch for my bed. My parents came to visit to see the house. My mother brought a few memories. She brought down two duck egg cups. Each duck had lost its beak. I loved those ducks, beaks or no beaks. They are still in my kitchen.

I remember classmates from grammar school. Many of us were together for eight years. After graduation, I lost touch with most of them. I wonder about them. I had a crazy, old nun in the eighth grade, Sister Hildegard. It was our life’s mission to take advantage of her. She hated us. One poor classmate was somehow related to her. Her name was Eleanor, and she sat in the last desk in the fourth row. I remember one day when Sister Hildegard went off on Eleanor who had rolled her skirt at the waist to make it shorter. Somehow Sister Hildegard noticed and went up the row toward Eleanor so fast her veil was blowing behind her. She yelled and pulled the skirt so far down you could see the top of Eleanor’s slip under the skirt. Eleanor started crying. No one made fun of her or laughed. We were horrified for her. I have never forgotten.

When I was a junior in high school on a late Friday afternoon, only a nun and I were left to finish decorating the gym for a dance that night. She was on a ladder. At some point she dropped the decoration and said, “Shit.” I was taken aback. A nun swearing? I never really thought of nuns as regular people. They were a breed unto themselves. We had three sexes: men, women and nuns. 

My dance card has three entries, all uke related. I have practice, a lesson and a concert on Friday. We are still singing funny food songs. 

I keep checking my hands and feet for webbing. It is raining, again, and it is supposed to rain all day. I was going to do a couple of errands, but I’ve decided to stay home, to stay warm and dry. 

My muse has gone to sunnier climes. I don’t blame her. We seem to be stuck in the last bit of winter. The next few nights will be downright cold, down to the 30’s. Where did I put my mittens? I need to wear a bed cap like Scrooge and the man in The Night Before Christmas did. I’d like mine to be colorful. Their’s were white.

I remember my hometown so very well. I was roamer, sometimes on foot but mostly on my bike. There used to be a small train, a narrow gauge, which took riders through the trees behind the China Moon and Hago Harrington’s miniature golf course. Sunnyhurst Dairy’s bottling plant was close to the route of the train. Sunnyhurst also sold ice cream, cones and such, from the front of the brick building near where the Italian bakery is now. My friend Pat and I used to stop there. I have a couple of Sunnyhurst milk bottles. The square had an army-navy store. I never shopped there, but I wish I could now. The town horse barn faced the road behind the town hall. It was one of my stops. I think if I could go back in time, I’d go back to the the late 50’s, early 60’s, and spend a Saturday on my bike riding all over town. 

I have shelves filled with cookbooks. I store many of the books in wooden boxes against one wall here in the den. The boxes are old. One is from a cranberry bog and is labeled 1982. Another is a Gnome beverages box. A beverages’ box has slots for bottle storage, for 12 bottles of flavored drinks sold at a small plant I remember was near the Fellsway. I have an insulated Hood box which used to sit on the back steps of our house. The milkman left the bottles of milk in it so the milk could stay cold. Many of the books are Christmas books filled with crafts and recipes. My mother used to send me one every year. 

The floor to ceiling bookcase in the kitchen is filled with all sorts of stuff. I have a collection of glass cocktail shakers and old drink stirrers, some from TWA and hotels and bars which are long gone. My favorite cookbooks are ones with recipes from books like Nancy Drew, Barbara Pym, Anne of Green Gables and Shakespeare. I have an ugly collection of souvenirs. A fondue pot is on one shelf. Dishes and bowls are on the lower shelves. 

I love all my collections.