Today is so lovely it just about defines fall on Cape Cod. It’s 65° and sunny. I went on the deck to fill the birds’ favorite feeder and sat a while. The dogs romped in the yard. The nuthatches, even more than the chickadees, flew in and out then perched on branches to dine.

My house is so filled with spiders’ webs it could be the setting for a black and white 50’s science fiction movie. The spiders are all babies, spiderlings. They link everything together with tiny webs. I carry a duster for the high webs and find my stocking feet work well in clearing the lower webs.

When I was a kid, I was never afraid of spiders. I remember some girls would scream and run as if a horde of giant spiders was chasing them, chasing their entrees. I might have had a spider bite, but it’s hard to know. The bites are tiny and red and don’t even hurt. The bigger webs are beautiful, like doilies crocheted into intricate patterns. My favorite web was at the end of the movie The Fly. The main character with his human head and fly body was stuck in a web and crying, “Help me. Help me,” because a spider was advancing with dinner on its mind. Two men, who knew what had happened, were watching. One grabbed a rock and killed the spider and the fly.

When I was a kid, I was exasperating. You probably will find this difficult to believe, but I had an answer for everything. My parents were not amused.

I have favorite places. Home is always at the top of the list. It is where I find comfort and warmth, where I can wear my cozy clothes and where I can sometimes eat out of the pan. Ghana is next. It is my other home. Other countries, Portugal and Ecuador, are also on the list. I have done amazing things I dreamed of doing when I was eleven, when I first promised myself I’d see the world. I stood in two hemispheres at the equator. I have ridden a camel in the Sahara. I have bargained in markets where I probably paid too much but still thought I was wonderful at haggling. I have ridden in a balloon, a helicopter, a glider and in wonderful old prop planes. I don’t know what will come. I just know I’ll find it wonderful and exciting. I always do.

When I went to get the paper, I could smell the ocean. I don’t live near the ocean, but some mornings everything is right for that wonderful smell to fill the air. I stood outside for a while. Today is another lovely fall day. The morning is chilly as fall mornings are. We have muted sunlight and a blue sky. Today will be in the 60’s.

Yesterday I hauled the storm door from the cellar to the kitchen. It is cold at night, and because I have to keep the door open so the dogs can come and go through the dog door, it was time. I had to move the door corner to corner to get it upstairs as it was heavy to lift. The difficult part was holding it to get it in the door, but I was successful. I think the bit of cursing helped. Other than my uke lesson, that was the only thing I did all day.

I had an aunt who was a nun, my father’s older sister. We used to have to visit her once a year in Connecticut. We’d wear our church clothes. We’d stop at a brick gas/relief station close to the convent where she lived. My mother would make sure hair was brushed and faces were clean. I remember in the convent we always sat in the living room. The convent was quiet. The visit was awkward. We didn’t have much to say to each other. She’d take us to her school to see her classroom. At some point another nun would bring cookies and milk for us and coffee for my father. My mother never drank coffee. I was never fond of my aunt. I don’t think any of us were.

I remember my first grade nun, Sister Redempta. She was scary. None of us dared to talk. We’d sit with hands folded on our desks just as she told us to do. There were so many of us the classroom was filled with long rows of desks. The room had two doors. One led to the cloakroom and the other to the hall. We were on the first floor. I always thought the school day was never ending. I was six.

When I was a young kid, I didn’t think of time as intervals, as seconds, minutes or hours. Time was a block. It was distance. I counted it in days. How many days until Saturday, until Christmas, until summer?

Two of my former students and I are meeting for lunch. We reconnected at their fiftieth class reunion a few weeks back. We’ll catch up today.

Today is fall. The sun is bright in a blue sky, for the meantime anyway, as clouds are predicted. The breeze is warm. The high today will be 66°. I’m still wearing flannel.

Nala loved her ride and loved the vet. She was so stressed, tongue in cheek here, that she fell asleep lying on the floor. She got her shots and her nails clipped. The tech who returned her to me said she is the nicest dog, a sweet girl. I agree, but I did have to bring in some hangers she stole and took outside and chase her for the bird seed loader.

When I was a kid, my mother woke me up every weekday morning, gave me breakfast, made sure I was dressed neatly in my school uniform, handed me my lunch and sent me on my way to school. It was the same each day, but I never noticed. I thought every day was special. Breakfast always included cocoa. I remember my mother made it with milk. There were always little bubbles on the top of the cocoa. Sometimes we had soft boiled eggs in chicken egg cups with sliced toast for dipping, oatmeal, always with a few lumps, or cold cereal, Rice Krispies for me. I’d hold the bowl to my ear and listen for the snap, crackle and pop.

The walk to school changed with the seasons. In the fall, the trees overhanging the sidewalk turned color then their leaves fell and covered the sidewalk. The leaves would turn brown and sort of crispy. They’d crackle underfoot. The walk was cold most winter days. Our cold breath made clouds, and we pretended to smoke. Sometimes the sidewalk had snow piled high on both sides. Most people shoveled the walk in front of their houses but a few didn’t. We’d stomp through the high snow. Spring was the best time. The air was sweet, flowers stated growing in the front beds of the houses lining the sidewalk and the birds sang. I wanted the walk to be longer.

I learned something new every day. I never knew what I’d see on my walk to school. I remember watching a frog jumping the tracks, and I remember a few birds’ nests on the branches of the maple trees. I saw flowers bloom and grow. It was a time of wonder.

When I was older, I forgot to notice the world around me, but that wonder returned when I was in Ghana. I found joy in everyday. I haven’t forgotten.

It is a fall day in New England. The only missing piece is a bit of a breeze to spin and twirl the fallen leaves. Right now it is 64°. The high will be 67°. It is a flannel shirt day.

When I was a kid, my parents took pleasure in duping us. They weren’t mean about it. In a way I guess it was sort of cute, to them anyway. One I remember is when my father would steal my nose. He’d show me my nose now held between his index and middle fingers. I’d panic and feel for my nose. My father always explained he just had the tip. I’d beg for my nose, and he always returned it. My mother did her Jack and Jill trick. She’d tape a small strip of paper on each index finger. One was Jack and the other Jill. She’d say, “Fly away, Jack,” and put her hand over her shoulder. She’d do same the with Jill. She’d then place both fingers back on the table, and Jack and Jill had disappeared. We’d check the floor behind her and the floor under the table. Jack and Jill were nowhere to be found. She’d have her hands behind her head and say, “Come Back, Jack. Come back, Jill.” She put the two fingers on the table and Jack and Jill had returned. It was magic. My mother always told us our tongues turned black when we lied. She’d question us under the hot lights to find the guilty party who had done something he or she shouldn’t have. We all said we didn’t do it. She’d tell us to stick out our tongues. The guilty party always refused. My mother had identified the miscreant who would run to the bathroom to check out his tongue. It was never black. My mother explained only mothers could see it. More magic.

Somethings are the reasons the air around me turns blue. When I am behind a car doing 30 or even 25 in a 40 zone, I get frustrated and wish I had a cattle catcher. Today I was in the queue on the phone. That disembodied voice told me where I was in the queue. I swear today I was 135th in line, okay maybe not but that is how it felt. That same voice kept telling me where I was in line. I’d be 330 then 250 then on and on (okay I really was 5th to start, but it didn’t feel that way). When she finally came on, her voice sounded as if she was eating the phone, but garbled voice or not, she did solve my problem.

Today Nala has a vet appointment for shots. She loves the car. I wonder if she will love the ride home today.

The sun keeps trying to break through the clouds. When it does, the leaves seem to sparkle. It will be in the mid 60’s today, a fall day. This morning I noticed the front garden. One side is summer as a couple of flowers have bloomed while the other side is fall. Some of the leaves have turned red.

I have always loved this season. When I was a kid, we’d carve pumpkins. I remember pulling the pumpkin’s guts to clear out its insides and pretending to throw the mess at my brother. I was never a talented carver. From year to year, my pumpkins always looked the same with triangular eyes and a triangular nose and a mouth with a few teeth. I guess you’d have to call him the traditional pumpkin. We’d put a candle inside, put the pumpkin on the outside stairs and light it every night. I remember the inside top always blackened.

My mother bought cardboard decorations. We’d put them on the picture window. I remember a witch on her broom, pumpkins, black cats and a skeleton with movable arms and legs. The skeleton was too long for the window so it went on an inside door. When I’d get home from school, l’d always stand outside for a bit and check out the window.

This time of year the air has a different smell. The flowers are gone. The leaves have started falling and rotting on the ground. The nights are cold. The night air is crisp. It is clear without the haze of the sun. I can hear crickets. I can hear the dogs crunching through the leaves in the yard.

This is soup weather. Chicken noodle was always my favorite. I’d crunch the Saltines and put them in the bowl of soup. The broth would disappear, absorbed by the crackers. If I buttered the crackers, the soup had an oil slick of sorts.

Because the mornings were cold, we sort of bundled, a different bundling than in winter. I’d wear a sweater under a jacket. That was enough to keep me warm.

I have started wearing a flannel shirt and socks. It is time to put summer away.

Last night it poured, and the clouds are still hanging around though the sun did break through a couple of times. It will be warm, in the low 70’s. I will be cleaning. Later I will also go to the dump, and I need a few groceries.

My muse seems to have taken a vacation. I keep writing then I delete what I wrote. Coffee has been around for close to twenty years. It started on Blogger, got kicked off then moved here to WordPress. Some of my videos do get taken down, but there no threats of WordPress kicking me to the curb. I’m going to get more coffee, the liquid sort, and hope for inspiration.

When I was a kid, my father had a savage index finger. When he reprimanded any of us, he’d use it for emphasis by pointing at us and sometimes jabbing us in the chest. Walking backwards didn’t help. He just followed. We learned the response was just to nod and agree. My sister tells the story of one summer night. Both my sisters and our cousin, who stayed with us over the summer, sneaked out to swim in the pond near our house. They got caught. My sisters went up the stairs to their bedroom first with my cousin last. My father walked behind her and jabbed her on the back with that lethal finger all the way up the stairs while reprimanding them the whole while. My sisters laughed quietly. They had planned perfectly. They knew what my father would do.

When I was a kid, I’d eat what was served because my mother never cooked foods she knew we wouldn’t eat. Beans were on the cusp. The first weird food I ate was spaghetti with clam sauce. That was at my aunt’s house. She lived in East Boston right across from the tunnel entrance. Her apartment was over my uncle’s fish market. I remember thinking the spaghetti smelled weird, and it had no red sauce or gravy as my aunt called it. Her husband was Italian, my Uncle Lorrie, and that’s what his family called it. She urged me so I tried it. It was, to my surprise, tasty. From then on, I was willing to give strange foods a taste.

Let’s see. I have eaten eel, not so strange, octopus, also not so strange, goat, a bit bony, bush meat, a rodent I learned latter was grass cutter, snake, just weird, Guinea pig, good but I couldn’t shake the feeling I was eating someone’s pet, chocolate covered grasshoppers, eaten on a dare, and a variety of odd foods in Ghana. When I travel, I eat the food of the countries I am visiting. Many times I don’t ask questions. I just eat.

The morning is dark, breezy and chilly. Rain is predicted. The dogs aren’t anxious to be out in the yard. One is upstairs on the bed, and the other is asleep on the couch. The label of dumb animals doesn’t apply here.

When I was a kid, I thought my world was huge. I could wander all over, anywhere I wanted. I had favorite places in town. I used to stop at the horse barn behind the town hall. Around the corner was the ragman’s house. Its porch was tilting from the weight of all the papers stored on it. The tracks weren’t far from there. I always thought of them as a shortcut. When I walked the tracks, I’d sometimes walk on the rail. I’d use my arms to help my balance. They didn’t help much. Usually, I wandered alone. My neighborhood friends and I walked to school together, but they weren’t roamers. I wanted to see everything.

My mother was a master at ground beef. My favorite was always her meatloaf. I also liked her ground beef in gravy over mashed potatoes. We didn’t have it often, but I liked her Chinese dinner. It was Chinese because it had water chestnuts and bean sprouts with the ground beef. She’d make it in her electric frying pan on the counter. It was topped with chow mein noodles. All we needed were chop sticks.

On cold days, my mother sometimes gave us soup in our thermoses for lunch. Mostly it was chicken noodle, the universal soup for kids. She’d include Saltines, and she always remembered to add the spoon. The rest of lunch was a half sandwich and dessert. I remember there was a skill in pouring the soup into the thermos top, into the cup. A plop of the meat meant a splash landing on the desk or sometimes on my blouse.

Today I have a concert, the second one of the week. Right now I am watching Attack of the Crab Monsters from 1957. I love these old black and white science fiction movies. In this, the navy is checking to see if radioactive dust did anything to the plants and animals. They have a surprise coming.

When I woke up, I saw a bit of blue and a glint of sunlight. When next I looked, both were gone. Clouds had filled the spaces. Clouds will be the weather today and for the next few days. We might even have some rain. The sun isn’t predicted to return until Friday. I guess we all hoped too hard when we wished for rain.

When I went to get the paper this morning, the air smelled sweet. Some flowers are still in bloom. I could hear the birds. Nobody was around, no dog walkers or carriage pushers. It was quiet.

There are so many birds in and out of the feeders they have to take a number and get in line. While my coffee was brewing, I watched from the kitchen window. I saw chickadees, nuthatches, titmice and Mrs. Cardinal. I’m glad I bought a bag of sunflower seeds yesterday. I also bought a mum and a pumpkin, ‘tis the season.

My storm doors are heavy, and it is time to haul them up from the cellar. I go slowly, step by step. The harder part is getting them in the door frames. When I was a kid, the house l lived in had wooden doors and wooden window frames. The storm windows were taken off every summer and put back in the late fall. The windows hung on hooks. When my father changed the windows, we all watched. He’d climb a tall ladder to each second floor window. He’d carry the window with him when he climbed. I remember how frustrated he’d get leaning against the house for balance while trying to hook the windows. It was an all day affair.

My play clothes this time of year were mostly flannel shirts and dungarees, girls’ dungarees with the zipper in the front pocket. I wore sneakers all year. I added socks in the fall and winter. Sometimes the socks had no elastic left at the top. They’d slide into my shoes. I walked on lumps.

When I’d get home from school, one of my favorite snacks was peanut butter or just plain butter on Saltines. Afterwards, I’d head out on my bike if the weather was pleasant enough. I never went far. The afternoons were too short.

I haven’t yet decided if I want to be busy. The house does need to be vacuumed. Henry hair is in clumps everywhere. Spiders’ webs stretch between even the smallest spaces. I saw one across the inside of a cup handle. My other option is the sloth option. I always favor that one. I’m thinking the only things I really need to do are to take a shower and go to uke practice tonight. I figure I can handle both of those.

We still have clouds. It is still in the low 60’s. It is a damp, dark morning. The weather forecast says it will be a partly cloudy day, but I think partly is a misnomer. The sky is socked in leaving no room for the sun.

Yesterday, I was so involved with bemoaning the day I missed welcoming the first day of fall, my favorite season. Today I’ll remedy that.

I noticed that some leaves on the backyard trees are turning color, a perfect welcome for fall. Some leaves are yellow. Other leaves are red. The deck is covered in yellow leaves blown by the heavy winds. The blanket of leaves in the backyard is getting taller. I can hear Nala doing her zoomies. The leaves crunch under her paws as she runs. That sound, that crunching sound of the leaves, is bright in my memory drawers and part of the melody of fall. I remember walking to school on sidewalks covered in the red leaves of the maple trees. The leaves crunched under my feet the whole walk to school.

I remember the first cold mornings of fall. The light had a shimmer to it. Everything looked brighter in the clear air. I bundled by wearing a sweater under my jacket. The day would warm as the sun rose higher.

I always think of soup this time of year. The most perfect lunch was tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich. My mother would put the soup into the pan and fill the can with milk, not water, then add it to the pan. That made for the thickest, creamiest tomato soup. The cheese was always yellow American cheese. In the frying pan, the bread got deep brown and the cheese melted, even oozing a bit from the sandwich. I always dipped the sandwich into the soup. It was the perfect bite.

I have a couple of errands. I have to open a new checking account and get another ATM card so I can get some money. The dollar I have won’t go far. I can’t even buy a Snickers. I also need to stop at Agway for dry dog food, bird seed and a mum for my front steps. Today is the only open day for errands as I have a uke event every day for the rest of the week.

We’re coming into cocoa weather.

The rain has gone and left us with a damp, cloudy, chilly morning in the 60’s, but the sun might peek through later. The bird feeders need filling and the deck needs clearing. I’ll throw the fallen deck branches into the growing pile I made when I cleared the yard. The deck is covered in acorns. I was thinking maybe I’ll put a few in soil to grow my own oak trees. One can never have enough oak trees. I found a connection between eggs and acorns. If you put water into a bucket until it is about half full, you then put the eggs or the acorns into the water. Discard the ones which float.

My dance card is uke loaded this week. I have practice, a lesson and four concerts, including one on Saturday. I don’t know where I can fit in an afternoon nap.

I’ve always thought of Sunday as a wasted day. When I was a kid, every Sunday morning, I begrudgingly dressed in my church clothes, a skirt and a blouse, and usually walked to mass, the same walk I always took to school. The upstairs of the church is sort of grand. It has a vaulted ceiling, old wooden pews, and when I was a kid, a huge altar by the back wall. I remember the altar boys would go behind the altar and bring out stuff like cruets needed for mass. I wondered if there was a room or just shelves behind it. I never checked. A small altar is on each side of the big altar. I remember one early, dark Christmas morning when the mass was at a side altar. Five or six old ladies and my brother and I were the only people at that mass. In the annals of my mass going, it was my favorite mass, the perfect mass, short with no sermon and no collection. There wasn’t even an altar boy.

At every wedding and funeral in my church, a man called Chewy was in attendance. He probably didn’t know who died or who was getting married, but no one minded him being there. Everyone knew Chewy. My father always stopped to shake his hand and say hi. Chewy was intellectually disabled, what was referred to as retarded back then, but it wasn’t cruelly used to describe Chewy. It was just the language of the times. I remember Chewy usually wore a grey jacket and khaki pants. He waved at the people in the cars passing by the church. I didn’t know anything about Chewy, even his real name. I don’t know how long he was the official greeter.