The morning is damp and ugly. It is cloudy and will stay cloudy all day. It is 44° now and won’t get much higher. I have a few errands, and that’s about it on my to do list. 

When I was a kid, Saturday was the best day of the week. I spent the morning sitting on the floor in front of the TV risking blindness, cereal bowl in hand, always Rice Krispies and watching my favorite programs. Most of the shows were westerns. I remember them all. I have never had a dog as well trained as Rin Tin Tin, familiarly known as Rinty. Annie Oakley was a woman sheriff, a novelty. She did great stunts on her horse. Sky King flew a plane, another novelty. I loved Captain Midnight, the first science fiction program I remember watching. The Lone Ranger was one of my favorites. I thought his theme song was exciting and perfect as Silver seemed to gallop to the sound. I didn’t know it was The William Tell Overture until I was much older. Even now I still call it the Lone Ranger’s theme song. Roy and Dale ended their program singing Happy Trails to You. I still know all the words. I think one of my memory drawers must be overflowing with the memories of those long ago shows. I remember the horses most of all: Silver, Scout, Champion, Buttercup, Trigger and Tornado, Zorro’s horse, all sit in one corner of that memory drawer. 

Saturday night’s dinner was a New England universal. We ate hot dogs, baked beans and brown bread. The brown bread was canned and had ridges from the can. My mother fried the brown bread and slathered it with butter. She bought canned beans, B&M baked beans, and doctored them a bit. Saturday night was bath night. What I remember most is my sisters screaming. My mother tortured them when she combed out the snarls after they got their hair washed. Back then there was no anti-snarl product. That screaming was also a Saturday ritual. 

Sometimes now, when I get to the kitchen, I forget why I’m there. I guess there isn’t  much room left in my memory drawers for any more memories, even one from the den to the kitchen. 

The morning is cloudy and chilly at 43 °, sweatshirt weather. I’m staying close to hearth and home today. I have bird feeders to fill and plants to water. I may even vacuum, but I don’t want to put undue expectations on myself. I did sweep the kitchen yesterday.

I am, by all external measures, old. My face is wrinkled, my hair mostly gray, and I tend to stoop. I can’t carry anything heavy or see without my glasses. I can’t walk far. I have to keep stopping. But despite all of these, I look through young eyes as if I haven’t aged. I am always a bit surprised when I look in a mirror. When I was young, I always wondered about old people, how it felt to be old. Now I know. 

To quote myself, “In many ways I have become obsolete. The words and phrases of my youth have disappeared. When was the last time anyone ever asked for a church key? I remember calling dibs for a window seat in the car. I wore thongs on my feet. We got blitzed at parties. Couples made out at the drive-in. Some couples even went all the way which might have resulted in the family way and the girl going to her aunt’s. Some people were stuck up; others were finks. Life was cool,  and groovy.” 

My mother and father had their words. My father used to take his clothes to the cleanser. I found out much later that the word is endemic to Boston. My father grew up in East Boston. Everywhere else it was the dry cleaners. My mother used the word nosh. I figured out it meant food, a snack maybe. It took me a while to figure out who Jack Robinson was. I just knew he was quick. None of these are used anymore. We are the last generation to hold on to our parents’ words. They will disappear just as our words will. 

In the car I always listen to oldies. I suppose golden oldies would be a more apt description. I sing along and keep the beat on my steering wheel. I don’t know contemporary music. I know the names of singers, but not what they sing. I’m okay with that. Right now Joni is singing from my turntable, on a 33 1/3 record.

Old age comes. I just don’t let it define me.

The morning is lovely, chilly though, in the low 40’s. Last night was downright cold, in the 30’s. We seem to be limping into spring. The shoots in the front garden are taller but have no buds yet. 

I stood on the deck for a while watching the dogs. I could hear the birds and saw more at the feeders than I have in a while. Yesterday I bought some more seed, sunflower and thistle. The gold finches are here every day, five of them this morning. They are starting to get more color. 

The house behind me used to keep the outside light on every night, but I noticed a few days ago it had gone dark. Another house had lights on, inside lights, all night. That too is dark. The houses on each side of mine are empty. Across the street, beside each other, are two houses with people, but their shades are down so I don’t see their lights. Unless there is a bright moon, darkness envelopes my neighborhood, except for my yard. I still have Christmas lights shining outside every night. When I was last out and about, I was surprised that several houses are still lit with either white or colored lights. We are all trying to keep the darkness at bay.

When I was a kid, a street light was on the sidewalk below the small grassy hill in front of our house. It wasn’t just a light. It was a clock sending us inside when its light came on. In the winter, when it snowed, the light shined on the flakes and highlighted their shapes. I’d watch from the picture window in our living room. I’d watch a long time.

When I was young, my family often had parties. My mother’s Aunty Clara, my grandfather’s sister, was the oldest of everybody. My grandparents, my mother’s parents were there. My mother and some of her siblings were there, Uncle Jack, Uncle Joe, Aunt Bunny and Aunt Barbara. I was the oldest grandchild and was usually there with some of my cousins. Singing was always a part of every party. I remember everyone gathered around the kitchen table at my parents’ house drinks in hand and voices raised. St. Patrick’s Day was one of my favorite parties. They sang all the Irish songs. It was the best time. 

My dance card has one more event, another concert this afternoon. 

The morning has been hectic, my sort of hectic. I couldn’t find the paper. I wandered around and found it. Next, I couldn’t find my keys. I looked through the car windows, nope. I checked under the hat tree, nope so I got my extra key and grabbed a bag of laundry to put in the car. Aha!! There they were. The keys were on the ground by the car. The take away from this was I remembered where my extra key was.

Yesterday I went wild. I washed and waxed my kitchen floor. It was a chore I had been avoiding. It took a while, a long while, but it was worth it.

The morning is warm, 50°. It is another lovely day. I’m going to do those errands I didn’t do yesterday, and I’ve added a couple. It is a wonderful day to be out and about.

This morning I thought my right leg was paralytic. I tried but couldn’t raise it. I couldn’t even sit up but then I noticed. Nala was lying across my leg, all 65+ pounds of her, and Henry’s head was on my feet. It took a while to wake them up and disengage them. 

When I was a kid, on Ash Wednesdays, we all went two by two from the school to the church, a short walk, to get ashes. We were told by the nuns we had to give up something for Lent as a sacrifice. I wanted to give up something I wouldn’t miss, but that sort of defeated the whole purpose. Some actually gave up candy. That seemed far too broad. Chocolate was the big one. That was painful, and it was a long way until Easter and an Easter basket filled with chocolate bunnies. I admit I did cheat.

I lived in the project for close to 12 years. We always called it the project despite the connotations. All the houses were duplexes. Some had two bedrooms while others had three. We lived first in a two bedroom then moved to a three. The project was filled with kids. Most of them were younger than I, but I had a couple of friends my age. One even lived in the first duplex where we had lived. The stairs in that house had a landing breaking the stairs into two parts. I loved that landing. I used to read with a pillow behind my back and I’d color there. Our stairs just went straight down. 

I bought some yeast. I am not a bread baker, but I thought I’d give it a try. It is my challenge for this week. 

Spring has sprung. Every day this week will be in the 40’s. Today is perfect. Everything is aligned. The blue sky is cloudless. The sun is brilliant. The wind is gone, replaced by a tiny breeze which ruffles the brown leaves still holding on, still hanging off the branches of an oak tree. 

Today is not a sloth day. I have a list, an inside, outside list. The bird feeders need to be filled. I’ll be out and about doing a few errands. The dining room is the room of the day to be cleaned. I’ll need a nap.

If I could go back in time, I don’t know when to choose, whether just an ordinary day or a special day, a one time only memorable day. The ordinary day would in summer when I was a kid, when every day was fun. I’d ride my bike. I remember when I learned to ride no-handed. I raised my arms to the sky in triumph and the bike almost fell over. Maybe I’d pick the day I rode my bike to East Boston to see my grandparents and nearly gave my mother a heart attack. I might choose a library day. I remember it was cool even on hot days. I’d walk up and down the stacks trying to find a book. The library, upstairs where the old books were, had a smell, a good smell. Sometimes I’d sit on the floor there and read. Nobody ever bothered me.

The memory of the walk to school on a warm spring day still gives me joy. I can see the sun shining through the leaves on to the sidewalk. The air was sweet with the aromas of new flowers and green grass. It was just the start of an ordinary day.

Special days are easier to remember. When I learned I had been accepted into the Peace Corps still sits prominently in my memory drawer. It was a Sunday when there was a knock on the door. A postman stood there with a special delivery letter for me, my acceptance letter. On another Sunday my parents and I drove to Logan for my flight to Philadelphia to start my Peace Corps journey. In my mind’s eye I can see my parents standing together at the gate waving goodbye. All of my time in Ghana is special, no day was ordinary. I was living in Africa.

I have far more both ordinary and special days, but this musing could get so very long I’d have to roll it into a scroll so I’ll stop here. I’ll save the rest for another day. 

Don’t let her sweet nature and all those pretty flowers deceive you. Mother Nature is laughing at us, spoofing us. When you look out my window, you see the prettiest day. The the sky is so blue it doesn’t look real. The sun is morning bright. Everything is shining in the light. The air is clear. After the dogs went out, I stepped on the deck. I was shocked. Right now it is 36°. In whose world is that spring? That is a winter temperature. Bundle up!

The dogs and I have a morning routine. After I wake up, they stand on the stairs waiting for me. When they see me, they run to the back door and get in line, a line of two. I let them out and watch. They run to the back of the yard. I get my coffee. Nala comes in, but I still have to open the door for Henry. I wish I knew what spooked him about the door, but it is a Henry thing. They get their biscuits. I wait. Like Hobbits, they have a second breakfast right but after the first, a treat. Finally, they are ready for their morning naps. Henry goes upstairs to nap on my bed. Nala naps right here beside me on the couch. They are exhausted.

Duke was our dog. We were given him as a gift from my aunt when I was six, the best gift I’ve ever had. He was a boxer, a clever, loving boxer. He came from a boxer breeder right in my town. He had been bought then returned. I don’t know why, but I’m thinking that first buyer had no idea the nature of boxers. Duke was six months. He started my love affair with boxers. He wasn’t a big dog, but he was fierce, protective. He pretty much did what he wanted. I remember when he got out of the house to follow kids to school. My father yelled for him to come. He stopped, turned to look at my father then took off. Boxers are stubborn. My father was so angry he got in the car to chase him. We just laughed.

I still think of Sunday as the quiet day. When I was a kid, it was a family day when we all sat down to dinner together. During the week, my father came home late from work, after we had already eaten. The Sunday dinner was always the best meal of the week with some sort of a roast, mashed potatoes and a couple of veggies. We stayed around the house unless we went visiting my grandparents. When I think back on those visits, I remember a houseful of people, my grandmother and my mother’s sisters sitting in the kitchen, lots of cousins and a few uncles who would watch football with my father. It was just an ordinary family day.

The day is a gray one. It seems like color has disappeared. Only the green shoots in the front garden give promise of spring and flowers. In the kitchen, my cactus has a pink flower and some buds. I was disappointed when it didn’t blossom at Christmas, but I guess it was waiting until I needed a bit of hope, a bit of color. Winter is taking its final bow.

When I was in the eighth grade, the nun I had was ancient. She was too old for the oldest class in the building, and we took advantage. She liked me so I got away with a lot. On really nice days, I’d hide my lunch in my jacket and leave with the going home for lunch crowd. I’d sit on a bench at the town hall and enjoy my meal. Sometimes I’d be late getting back, but I’d tell her I was at the church, and she was fine with that. I’d leave early telling her I needed to go to the library. She never stopped me. I wasn’t the only one. Every day one of my classmates purposely spilled milk in the basket and showed it to her. He left to clean it and was gone at least an hour. She barely taught. She made us memorize the Declaration of Independence. She used to sit at her desk and eat candy and even sometimes fall asleep. She told us she would thank God when we left. We felt the same way.

 As a kid, I always thought of spring as sort of a goddess dressed in a white, flowing gown and wearing flowers in her hair. I must have seen a picture somewhere. On the first warm day, I’d shed my winter layers, as many as my mother would allow. The winter coat was the first to go. I loved the walk to school. The early mornings were still a bit chilly, but not cold. When the shoots and flowers appeared in the gardens of the houses along my walk, the crocus were always first. I think they were all purple with a bit of yellow. The dafs came next. They were always yellow. The grass took a bit longer. Spring was official when my mother opened a window to let in the fresh , sweet air.

Spring comes late here. The first signs are always the tops of the green shoots in my front garden. When I am going to the car, I always check their progress, how tall they are. When the temperature is in the 40’s, I start wearing just my flannel shirt when I go out. I admit I am chilly sometimes, but I won’t give in to the last throes of winter.

The morning is lovely but cold, 34°. The high today will be 42°, but we have a strong wind. The pines are swaying, even the tall thick one in the back of the yard. That one scares me a little. The chimes, hanging from a branch near the house, are constantly blowing and sending sweet sounds into the air. The sky is clear, but clouds are predicted. Yesterday it rained on and off all day. In the late afternoon, the fog arrived, a thick fog. I could barely see the house facing my street. I do love fog.

I am not a fan of ketchup on eggs or on hot dogs. That last one is just wrong. I use mustard and relish or piccalilli, the more universal toppings. I do sometimes add chopped onion and cheese. I never top my dog with chilli. 

When I’d visit my parents for the weekend, Saturday was often barbecue night. The evening’s dishes included my mother’s delicious potato salad, but my favorite, though, was her peppers and eggs. They were sublime. She had gotten the recipe from my aunt. The secret was a bit of tomato sauce. My father cooked a great barbecue on his hibachi. I remember he used to sit outside to watch the meat. He’d have a drink and his cigarettes. “Pop me,” he’d say when he wanted another drink. We’d sit around the kitchen table together and eat. It was always fun.

I knew I would never use algebra in my lifetime. I thought maybe I’d use geometry, but I never did. I took four years of Latin in high school. Prefixes and suffixes helped me figure out the meanings of words. I still know the endings of all the declensions. My mind, my memory banks, holds on to weird things. 

I keep count of all the different airplanes and such I have taken. The best one is the balloon. We arrived at the airport just after dawn. We watched as the balloon was inflated. The balloonist gave us instructions especially about landing. When all was ready, we got into the basket and slowly rose into the air. The only sound was the hissing of the gas flame. The weather was so perfect for flying there other balloons aloft. We sailed. We flew over a pig farm. They scattered. I saw people run out of their houses to watch the balloons. A few were in pajamas. I could see the chase car. We braced for the landing, but it was wonderful. The basket landed upright. We climbed out of the basket. The balloonist gave us a glass of champagne to celebrate. At the bottom of the glass was a pin of our balloon. I still have it.

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.