The sunshine is sharp on this lovely day. Bright rays pierce through spaces left between the pine branches. The air is clear. I can see every gnarl on the tree trunks, and the buds on the oaks and the maples are shining in the light.

Today I’ll visit the garden center. I want flowers for my deck boxes. They look forlorn standing there empty, and the deck needs color. The plants I pick will have to be hearty as this is a neither season. The days aren’t really all that warm yet, and the nights are still cold.

My body aches from all that hauling and standing yesterday. When I get up from a chair, I look a bit like a question mark until I stretch. I think it’s philosophical.

Gracie jumped the six foot fence and got in the back neighbor’s yard. He and his dog were out, and she wanted to join them. I had to race around in my car to get her. The neighbor thought it was funny. He kept asking me what I fed her and said she was about the most athletic dog he’d ever seen. I was not amused. Yesterday we added another foot to the fence by nailing boards every three pickets apart. The boards and the spaces between are uniform so it doesn’t look as awful as I thought it would. I’ll have to see if Gracie can beat her old record of six feet.

The deck is now in the sun, and I swear I hear it calling my name.

Today was my day to work at the Boston Marathon. The day started when my alarm went off at the ungodly hour of 5:5o. I gulped one cup of coffee, read a bit of the paper then left the cape at 6:30 for Boston. I got home a short while ago.

The day seemed longer than it was. I guess it was the work: setting up tables, breaking down tables, opening boxes, arranging food, standing around to hand out the food then finally hauling trash. I am not used to work. I am far more used to writing checks to pay people who do the work. I think that’s the best system of all.

My first job was as a substitute papergirl for a friend. I delivered a weekly from my hometown. I’d fold the papers, put them in the canvas holder then ride my bike from house to house. The papers got tossed on the lawn. Once a month I had to collect. My favorite houses always gave me tips, a nickel or a dime. I had the job three or four months then my friend took it back.

Babysitting was my job for the next several years. It was easy, especially at night. All I ever did was watch television. The kids were usually in bed when I got there. Snacks were provided.

My first real job was at Woolworth’s. I did almost everything, including the pets. Woolworth’s sold hamsters, mice and parakeets. I also worked the register, filled shelves and did inventory, all for very minimum wage. I worked in Woolworth’s only one summer, right after high school.

For three summers I worked in the post office. My job was to sort mail. It was great money. I even enjoyed it. I was quick and accurate so I often got stuck with postcards. They were on what was called a two foot tray. I’m talking hundreds of postcards on that tray. My foreman always swore the cards had all been cancelled, but they never were, too thin for the machine. If I found one not cancelled, I threw it on the floor. It drove the foreman crazy. If I found some not addressed, I’d send them to friends. That drove them crazy wondering who people like Uncle Paul and Aunt Ethel were. I even sent a few of those postage due.

It’s raining still.

A friend called this morning and wanted a grammar question answered because I am considered an expert of sorts. Senior year in college I actually had a full semester grammar course. It was among the hardest I’d taken. It was right up there with dummy physics and freshmen math.

In Ghana, I taught English as a second language. Grammar was big in Ghana, and every lesson had a grammar section. I remember teaching  the contrary to fact subjunctive. One of my students raised her hand and asked how I knew if I didn’t go. That was such a Ghanaian question, and I loved it. I tried to explain, and I failed. Finally, I resorted to sing song and rote. My students would chime in rhythm, “if + present + future,” and we’d move on from there. After all of that, though, I don’t doubt they still wondered how I knew, but they would never ask. My students were unfailingly polite.

I know enough vocabulary to travel, and I can point. That’s all I’ve ever needed. In the Francophone countries of Africa, I got bus tickets, directions, food at restaurants and goods from the grand marchés, all in pidgin French. I even bargained in French. I just needed numbers and no.

During my South American trip, I traveled from Venezuela to Brazil. I got where what I wanted and where I needed to be, all in Spanish. My friend, with whom I traveled, knew no Spanish at all. I taught her cerveza, and she was happy.

I do wish I could speak a language other than English, but then again, lots of native English speakers can’t really speak it all. I hear them all the time struggling with I and me and hopefully.

The day is dark, and it’s already rained a bit. More is predicted for later, but I won’t complain. There are so many reasons to love a rainy day. It makes its own music. The rat-a-tat of drops falling from the eaves sets the beat. Rain on the windows is the crescendo. I like to close my eyes and listen. A rainy day invites laziness. I can never waste a sunny day sitting inside, but a rainy day is perfect for dawdling. I pored over the papers this morning, even read all the ads. I’m not dressed yet, and my bed is still unmade. I have a new book so I’m thinking my afternoon is already scheduled.

Every April vacation when I was a kid meant outside time, playing and riding bikes. Sometimes it was still cold, but that never mattered. We were free of school for a whole week, a cause for celebration. We never had plans. Life was haphazard. I sometimes think that was the best part of growing up.

Some days we played wiffle ball in the street. We’d use the new ones from our Easter baskets. The bases were rocks or trees or pieces of cardboard. The teams were small. At the most we were five: a pitcher, two infielders and two outfielders. The batter had to throw the ball back to the pitcher. There were three strikes, no balls, and we’d yell at a batter who was taking too long to swing. We’d yell stuff like, “No batter, no batter, ” and the whole team yelled and called a runner out. We’d play until our hands got too cold or we were hungry or it had gotten dark.

We’d ride our bikes all over town. We never had a real destination. We were just out for the ride. The schoolyard parking lot had a steep paved hill, and sometimes we’d head there. It always seemed fun to be at school when it was closed. The golf course wasn’t all that far, and we’d go and look for golf balls in the trees and across the road. We had our whole world to explore and all day to do it.

My mother would call today a pretty day. It’s filled with sunshine and birds and the bluest of skies. I keep going out on the deck to take in the morning. On days like today, Coffee takes forever to finish.

I used to be the oldest grandchild. Now, I’m the oldest cousin. While my sisters are close to the cousins, I’m not. Age is mostly the reason as I am old enough to be the parent of many of them. We don’t see each other often. I don’t get up there much, and they never get down here. Amazingly, though, we share a lot in common. We are a family of huggers. All of my cousins are huggers. Even my nephews are. A kiss on the cheek is always part of our hugging. I like that about my family. We are all Christmas fiends. We love every part of Christmas. It was handed down to us from each of our parents. Baseball and the Red Sox are another passion we share. Some of my cousins and I are even going to Colorado in June to watch the Sox play the Rockies. We have it all planned. We’re going to one game then getting together for huge parties to watch the rest. My sister’s house will be family central. Two of her kids have taken the whole week off from work. We’ll be loud. We always are. Parties are part of our genetic make-up, and we love to give them. One cousin always hosts the special parties, the ones that are milestones. I never miss those. It gives me a chance to celebrate and to catch up with everyone. We also share a love of music though our tastes vary greatly. We do part company at karaoke. They love it. I don’t. They get up and sing. I can’t carry a note. We love food. The most famous family dish is my uncle’s sausage cattiatore, and it passes from generation to generation. We all make it. Our parties are noted for groaning tables.

My age and experiences may be far different than those of any of my cousins, but I know when we get together, no matter how long since I last saw them, they’ll be glad to see me, and I’ll get lots of hugs.