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“St. Patrick’s Day is an enchanted time – a day to begin transforming winter’s dreams into summer’s magic.”

March 17, 2014

 My parents sometimes had a party to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day, and the house would be filled with friends and relatives. The smoky kitchen was always standing room only and it was where all the music happened, all the singing of Irish songs. My dad comes to mind, and I can see him standing by the sink, cigarette in one hand, drink in the other as he sang along. My uncle fancied himself a Bing Crosby sound-alike and knew the words to every song. My mother’s friend always sat on the bench along the window, and I never saw her move from there until it was time to go home. She sometimes asked me to make her a drink. She called me Kathleen. My family had great parties.

My mother always made corned beef and cabbage. One year the potatoes, my dad’s favorite, disappeared. They sort of melted away. My dad couldn’t believe there were no potatoes and went looking in the pot himself. He didn’t find any either.

My dog Shauna, another Boxer, and I were at my parents’ house for St. Patrick’s Day, Shauna’s first. My dad adored that dog and she adored my dad and followed him everywhere, about a step behind. To celebrate that first St. Patrick’s Day my dad made Shauna a plate with corned beef, carrots and potatoes. She ate every morsel.

Today I’ll wear green. Tonight I’ll celebrate with my friends. We are, of course, having corned beef and cabbage.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day!

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“It was Sunday morning, and old people passed me like sad grey waves on their way to church.”

March 16, 2014

This morning I filled the four sunflower feeders, and the spawn came back, the red one which jumps from the rail to the feeder over and over again. I chased it away, but it will be back. It always is. I thought about ways to encourage the spawn to pack its little bags and move elsewhere. I came up with a slingshot flinging paperclips, a pea shooter, a wire covering the food slots, electrifying the rail from where it jumps and a wee guillotine though I did reject that last one but only after giving it some consideration. I’m thinking the wire might be the best choice only because my aim with the slingshot and pea shooter mightn’t be up to the task.

The day is a pretty one. I found some more croci in the garden. Three of them are open and basking in the sun. I also saw a snowdrop, a lovely and delicate flower, by the stairs. The hyacinths are getting taller, and I can see their buds. It may only be 34˚ but it feels like spring to me. Flowers carry hope about them.

The mornings are noisier now. The birds have started greeting the day. Their songs are most welcome sounds.

In the church I attended in my hometown, there was a tiny pew in the back. It was the last one in the church and held only two people. I used to wonder why it was there and eventually decided they ran out of space but wanted balance at the end of the rows instead of a weird bare spot. I loved that pew and thought of it as the pew of the impious. I always sat, stood or knelt when everyone else did, but I never paid attention. Sometimes I sneaked in a book and read the latest adventures of Trixie Beldon. I tried to look saintly and reverent with my head bowed, and because all the people were in front of me and couldn’t see what I was reading, I think I pulled it off. When the ushers came by with their baskets, the book was hidden. I dropped my dime in the basket, waited for the usher to move along and then went back to my book. Mass went quickly when I was otherwise preoccupied so it was often a surprise when the priest said, “The Mass is ended go with God.” I took him at his word and scooted out the door and down the stairs. I was probably close to halfway home before the church had even emptied. I never minded going to mass when I had a good book to keep me company.

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“I think ‘lunch’ is one of the funniest words in the world.”

March 15, 2014

Today started out dark and rainy, but the sun and blue sky are making headway. The weatherman says warm, even into the 50’s for today, but the cold will be back tomorrow. The good news is we only have to suffer three days in the 30’s before the 50’s break through for a while. That sounds to me as if spring is getting a toehold. This morning I saw the yellow of a crocus poking up from my garden, and I stood there for a while taking in the color. It is so bright and beautiful against the drabness of the rest of the garden. Alexander Pope is right especially during this cusp between the spring and winter when it is neither, “Hope springs eternal in the human breast.”

I am at a loss for words today. This doesn’t happen often, but when it does I am easily distracted. I leave the computer and look out the front door, polish a table or clean the counter. All the while the keyboard sits undisturbed. I sift through my memory drawers hoping for inspiration but nothing captures my attention. It is just one of those days.

I was required to carry a green school bag in high school, the ones you sling and carry over your back. It always seemed heavy. The rubber inside used to split then peel off in pieces. That meant time for a new bag.

In high school, I bought my lunch then my friend and I volunteered to work dish patrol. That meant I didn’t have to pay for my lunch, but my mother still gave me lunch money. I’d use it to take the T to Harvard Square or for festivities at Brigham’s. That’s where we celebrated Mardi Gras. As for the school lunch, no matter what was served, the lunches always came with corn bread because the government gave free corn flour to the school. I still love corn bread. I think we got green beans more than any other vegetable. I don’t like green beans any more.

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“Own only what you can always carry with you: know languages, know countries, know people. Let your memory be your travel bag.”

March 14, 2014

The day is bright with sun but it’s a cold morning, a 25˚ morning. Icicles hang from the edges of my roof. Snow still lies on the ground but the roads are clear. The weatherman says tomorrow will be a warm day. We might even hit 50˚,  but this winter has made a skeptic of me. I don’t trust a warm day. It’s Mother Nature toying with us. She probably giggles when a warm day makes us hopeful knowing that the cold is just biding its time, waiting for its turn. It’s inevitable.

When I was last returning from Ghana, my carry-on was so heavy I couldn’t lift it into the bin. I asked the man beside me, and he was quite happy to help, but he did mention how heavy it was. The reasons were two pottery bowls and a few other breakables I didn’t trust to my checked luggage. The bowls were nothing fancy but are common ones for grinding peppers or ginger.

Souvenirs are tricky. When I was a kid, I tended toward pennants, magnets or plastic gewgaws made in China. Each had the name of the place we were visiting. I remember buying snow globes and plastic dolls dressed in regional costumes. Quality wasn’t an issue for me.

From the beach I brought home colorful shells and dead starfish. The shells stayed around a while, but the dead starfish would start to smell, and my mother would make me throw them away. The round nautilus type shells were always my favorite.

When I was in Africa as a Peace Corps volunteer, I bought cloth and had it made into dresses which I wore every day. They weren’t really souvenirs. I sent home as gifts wooden animals, heads and giraffes. Ghana didn’t have any giraffes. I bought leather bags and woven baskets, but I used them. One basket became a lamp shade. When I was leaving Ghana, I bought a whole collection of the African Writers’ Series, a fugu (smock), some cloth and not one gewgaw. I would have bought a snow globe but it would have been weird to find one in Ghana.

No matter where I have traveled, I’ve bought souvenirs. Among them are a pottery tea set from England, platters and dishes from Portugal, wooden figures from Russia, cloth from Ghana, a tagine from Morocco, curtains from Dublin and a tablecloth from Hungary.

I didn’t think about it when I was buying everything, but in retrospect it seems as I had grown-up so had my souvenirs.

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“Things have their time, even eminence bows to timeliness.”

March 13, 2014

Yesterday Gracie and I went to the dump then we went for a ride. It was sunny and warm and a perfect day to wander. It was even 51˚, a gift of sorts. Last night it poured. I could hear the rain pounding the roof as I fell asleep. When I woke up, it wasn’t raining anymore. It was snowing and it’s still snowing. The lawn has disappeared. The tops of branches are covered in white. Mother Nature is not that sweet old lady who turns the world beautiful with one swish of her wand. She is, instead, the witch with the poisoned apple knocking on Cinderella’s door. Winter continues.

I don’t remember how old I was when the changing seasons made a difference. When I was a kid, they came and went and I just followed along. I liked all of them for different reasons. Summer was easy: no school and day after day of playing or bike riding all over town. Fall was back to school, but I don’t remember minding all that much. I liked school. Fall also meant yellow and red leaves all along the sidewalk on the walk to school. The days were still jacket warm. Winter was the most difficult of all seasons. We hurried to school most winter mornings. The wind was sometimes so cold my nose froze. Maybe not really but it felt that way. I’d get to school, and my feet would tingle as they got warmer. My hands stayed cold for a long while. I wasn’t thrilled with that side of winter, but then it would snow, and I loved snow. I’d watch the flakes fall and hope for so much snow everything would be covered, including the hill for sledding. I’d be outside so long I think my lips turned blue, but I didn’t notice. I’d keep going up the hill for another slide down. Usually my mother called a halt to the day. She wanted us in to get warm. I think winter taught me perspective. I could smell spring coming. The air had the rich scent of dirt, of gardens turned. The mornings were chilly but the afternoons were warm. The trees had buds which became light green leaves which would unfurl into deeper green leaves. I think the sun shined every day.

I know spring will come, but that doesn’t make me any less impatient for winter to be gone. I am so tired of the cold and the snow.  I groaned this morning when I looked out the window. 

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“Oh, my roads and their cadence.”

March 11, 2014

The best part of today is the warmth. It is already 51˚, a heat wave of sorts. I was on the deck earlier filling the sunflower feeders and the air smelled fresh so I lingered a while. Gracie lingered with me, postponing her morning nap until she could follow me in the house. We both came in and Gracie is now sleeping quite soundly on the couch beside me. The day doesn’t look at all inviting, but I can’t let 51˚ go to waste so we’ll go out and ride a bit. I never know what adventures I might have.

When I go to my childhood home town, I take familiar routes. I go by my old elementary school still standing strong after over 100 years. The windows are new and look strikingly white against the old brick. The convent that used to be across the street was bought, torn down and replaced by condos. I wonder what happened to the angel statue which used to stand on the convent’s lawn. My eighth grade picture was taken on that lawn in front of the statue and the top part of convent could be seen in the background. When I continue driving down the street, I take note of all the differences. I knew every house that used to be on that route and I name them as I drive by where they once stood. On the corner was a two-decker, but I didn’t know who lived there. The Brophy’s lived in the next house down, and the Seventh Day Adventists who ran a bakery for a while lived in a really old house a couple down from the Brophy’s. The old lady whose walk I shoveled lived in the red house. I drive by where the tracks once were, and if no cars are behind me, I stop and look down both sides. I know the tracks on the left used to go by the old factories, across Main Street to where the corner store stood, by the gatekeepers house then they continued, but I never knew to where. The tracks on the right led to the old station house and then ended, but there was a turnaround so the train could go back from where it came. My old street hasn’t changed at all. The same houses are there going up both sides of the hill. At my old house, the only differences I see are the trees are even taller than the house, and the lawn needs care. I pause on the street and close my eyes. I can see every room in my mind’s eye, and I remember where the furniture was placed and how small a kitchen it was. I wonder about the in-ground garbage can in the back. It’s probably still there, but nobody collects garbage anymore. I finish my trip back in time and continue driving on to my sister’s house. It’s always nice to visit and stir my memories.

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“Slotted spoons don’t hold much soup…”

March 10, 2014

Mother Nature has unkindly struck again. She grants us a couple of warmer days, note warmer not warm, and the snow melts, lawns reappear, the shoots of spring bulbs stand tall in the garden, and we are hopeful that winter is finally coming to an end. How silly of us!

This morning I woke to a snow shower. It left very little on the lawns but enough to remind us that winter has a strong grip and spring is still waiting in the wings. I put my optimism away for a little bit longer.

The house is warm, I am in my cozy clothes and I have nothing that needs doing today. I did have a few houses chores planned but they can wait until tomorrow or even the day after that. Very little in my life has an urgency about it.

When I was a kid, my mother packed the best school lunches. On days like today, they’d be chicken noodle or tomato soup in my thermos, always still hot at lunchtime. I’d pour the soup in the cup-top and sip it even though my mother packed a spoon. The sandwich bread was white, and usually it was Wonder Bread. I didn’t know bread came in any other colors or flavors until I was older. Bologna was the most common sandwich filling. I liked mine with mustard, and it was always that bright yellow mustard. She never gave me peanut butter and jelly. They always made the bread soggy and the sandwich ugly-looking by lunch. Fridays I’d get tuna salad. It was a no meat day. Sometimes they’d be potato chips. Mostly I had cookies for dessert. Oreos were my favorite. The day or two after my mother had grocery shopped, I’d sometimes be surprised to find Hostess cupcakes or pink Sno Balls tucked into my lunchbox. I drank milk from the little carton sold at lunchtime. I think it was a dime, and my mother used to put in the lunchbox so I wouldn’t lose it. We could talk at our desks during lunch but only in low voices. It was the highlight of the day.

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“Sunday, the day for the language of leisure.”

March 9, 2014

Today is another pretty day though nowhere near as warm as yesterday when we got to 49˚. The sun this morning is bright and the sky is a dark blue, but the air is chilly. It’s only 37˚, the new average temperature for this time of year. I was outside on the deck chasing red spawns away from the feeders and watching Gracie running in the yard, but I got cold and came back inside to a hot cup of coffee to warm the innards as my mother used to say.

I easily fall into a Sunday mindset and find myself lingering over the newspapers. I am one to read from front to back, each section in turn. It relates, I suspect, to my need for straight pictures, alphabetical herbs and spices and things in their rightful places. That last one helps me to find what I have lost. I know where to look, where it ought to be and most times that’s exactly where I find it. Peculiarities are sometimes a good thing.

I am still a gas hog. The report came in the mail yesterday. I think it strange as from eleven at night to eight in the morning my house is only at 62˚.  During the day it is always at 68˚. I wonder if my neighbors sit with afghans around their shoulders and on their feet and knees so their thermostats can be kept at lower temperatures. I can imagine them exhorting each other: walk around, flap your arms, get another blanket and stop complaining.

It is Amazing Race night. I am doing desserts this week, and we’re having brownies with hot fudge and vanilla ice cream. Just think about it: an evening with friends, one of my favorite shows, fun games, appetizers and dessert. What a wonderful way to start a week.

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“Springtime is the land awakening. The March winds are the morning yawn.”

March 8, 2014

A sunny day with a blue sky and warm temperatures almost makes me wonder if I’m delusional. My mind is having trouble wrapping around this change in weather. It’s hard to believe, I know, but it is actually above freezing and will get to the 40’s today. The sides of my street are a stream of water from the melting plow piles. My birdseed barrel is no longer frozen to the deck. My front lawn is snowless. I wore my slippers to get the papers, and my socks didn’t get wet. My mouth is agape.

My furnace needed a new blower motor. It was around 62˚ in here by the time it was fixed, but it didn’t take long for the house to be warm and cozy again. The furnace even blows more quietly now. The bill will be in the mail.

When we’d have a string of warm days, I’d start riding my bike to school. It was mostly downhill in the morning until the straightaway which led directly to school. The bike rack was in the schoolyard under the trees. It was made of wood and painted green. We never used locks, and I don’t remember anyone ever having a bike stolen. The ride home was uphill, and by the time I was halfway up the hill by my house, I was walking my bike. It was early in the season, and my legs weren’t hill ready yet. They wouldn’t be until closer to summer when I would always ride all the way up the big hill and never think of stopping.

A day like today meant putting the winter coat, the hat, the mittens and the scarf away even if only for this one day. It was a wonderful freedom of movement. I loved my spring jackets. They were always light colors, usually pastels. I’d wear a sweater underneath until it got warm enough for just the jacket, for when spring was in full bloom.

In the spring I always felt like skipping. Walking wasn’t joyous enough.

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“The flush toilet, more than any single invention, has ‘civilized’ us in a way that religion and law could never accomplish.”

March 7, 2014

It’s a grey day with pine tree limbs silhouetted against the sky. Today is above freezing. Before this winter, it never crossed my mind that the simple phrase above freezing would be welcomed news in March. There is still snow on the ground, but sections of my front garden have surfaced, and I can see the shoots of spring plants. I recognize a hyacinth, some potential daffodils and what I think are snowdrops. They are hopeful signs that winter can’t hold us for too much longer.

I’ve had such a busy day which explains, I hope, the lateness of my post. This morning it was the dentist then a poetry reading. It hasn’t just been a busy morning but a busy week as well. My dance card was almost completely filled, and I have traveled more miles than I had in the previous three weeks combined. All of it, except the dentist, sprang from a need to be out of the house despite the cold. Tomorrow we are supposed to hit 40˚. Let the celebrations begin!

If you have a split infinitive or a dangling participle, I’m your woman. I can fix both. Words are my friends. But when it comes to leaks, electrical problems and faulty furnaces, I’m scared to death. I envision cartoon dollar signs dancing out my house to the tune of a rumba. Today is one of those days. My furnace has been blowing all morning, but the temperature in the house has only risen a few degrees. I think the good news is the furnace works, but the bad news is it can’t seem to do its job well so the repairman is coming, the one with the truck which gets those dancing dollar signs.

I am proud I was able to stop the toilet tank water from running. All it took was a well placed rock, no need for a plumber.

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