Well, the weatherman was right. It did rain yesterday, and the rain continues today, but I have no complaints. All rain is welcome.

Today is busy. My inner sloth is screaming in protest. I have to leave shortly to take Nala to see Santa. She is my only dog without a Santa picture so I’ll remedy that today. She has a list of what she wants, but if I were Nala, I’d be a bit worried about possibly being on the naughty list. The other day I had to do another trash pick-up in the yard. She was so brazen she picked up some trash from my pile and ran with it. I had to trek to the way back of the yard where she had left it. That sounds like the naughty list to me.

When I get back from Santa, I have only a short while before I have to leave for a uke concert in Eastham for the turnip festival. We are playing bluegrass.

On the days before Thanksgiving, my mother was busy getting ready for the big day. Because she didn’t learn to drive until she was in her 30’s, my mother had to wait for my father to take her grocery shopping. Friday was her usual shopping day. I remember my father lugging in all those bags filled with the usual groceries and also the fixings for Thanksgiving dinner. The turkey was so large it took up the whole bottom shelf of the fridge where it defrosted. That took days. My mother would put a few groceries on the counter and on the floor because there was no room anywhere else.

The baking started a few days before Thanksgiving. My mother always made a few pies. For my father, she always made apple. He loved it with a slice of cheddar cheese. Lemon meringue was my favorite. I know it isn’t a traditional Thanksgiving dessert, but my mother baked it for us. Sometimes she made pumpkin, blueberry or custard.

Part of the preparation was my mother would hunt down and wash the serving dishes she only used on holidays. I remember the glass pickle dish and the dish she used for celery. A wooden bowl with crackers and picks was for the assorted nuts. I found the same type bowl years ago at an antique store and bought it. I always put it on my table right near the pickle dish I bought.

It is always before Thanksgiving and Christmas when I most think of my mother who made each of those holidays so special. She was in the kitchen for days. I used to be her sous chef. We’d chat the whole time and listen to music. Those were the best times.

The morning is clear and bright but best seen from inside the house. The wind is cold. I filled the bird feeders earlier, all 5 of them, and couldn’t wait to get back inside for a cup of hot coffee.

Despite the sun and blue sky, showers are predicted. I am a bit skeptical. It rained all day yesterday and last night. The rain was heaviest at night.

When I was a kid, our neighborhood was filled with kids. We lived in the project, not a brick city project but a project of duplexes with front yards and flower beds. We moved from South Boston to the project when I was almost five. We lived at the top of the hill. After my sister was born, we moved to a larger duplex. All my growing up was in that house. It was on the corner close to the top of the hill. We had a bigger front yard than the other houses. It was a grassy, little hill. Most fathers were World War II vets, my own included. Most kids were younger than I, only a couple were older. My best friend lived at the of the top of the hill in our first duplex.

I have so many memories of living in that house. Every Christmas the tree was in the same corner. We had to move the TV. My father’s favorite chair was by the picture window. There were two closets almost right beside each other. One held coats while the other was a sort of junk closet. The furniture was always in the same spot. It was never rearranged. The upstairs hall was small. My bedroom faced the backyard. It was right beside the bathroom.

My memory drawers hold all of my life in no certain order. The earliest days are now a single picture or a simple memory. The longer stories have faded. I am always surprised when a memory jumps, triggered by a smell or a picture or even a taste, from one of those drawers. Mostly they are small memories, not spectacular events. I think those are the most treasured. 

The rain has started, but it has been light. The forecast is for rain all day into tomorrow. It has been a long while since the last rain. This storm is welcomed.

My week has been busy with more to come. Today and Saturday I have concerts, but tomorrow’s concert has been cancelled, and I’m glad. Four in one week plus practice and a lesson is a bit over the top.

Life is filled with mysteries. Some are never solved. I was a part of one yesterday. I was on the mid-Cape, on my way home from my concert. I was moving along until I hit bumper to bumper traffic. It was slow going, start and stop, start and stop. Finally the traffic broke. I looked around. There was no accident, no hapless speeder stopped by the police and no car disabled on the side of the road. Why it was bumper to bumper is the unsolved mystery.

When I was a kid, the best part of Thanksgiving was the two and a half day school week, and Wednesday was a bust. We got out at 10:30 and spent the morning mostly coloring turkeys and making one out of a Dixie cup for the body and construction paper for tail. That became a Thanksgiving table decoration.

My mother always bought an enormous turkey which I swear we ate for days and days, even weeks. It defrosted in the sink. My sisters and I remember my mother waking up in the wee hours on Thanksgiving to get the turkey ready. She made her stuffing first. I still love her stuffing. The key is the Bell’s seasoning. The Bell’s box which looks old, from an earlier time, has never changed. The turkey on the front looks like it belongs in the oven, plucked of course. It has long been a New England tradition but is now available all over. Before my sister could buy it in Colorado, we had to send her some. I remember the turkey cooked for hours. My mother would baste it, and when the oven opened, the aroma made my mouth water, and I’d beg my mother to give me a bit of the stuffing, hanging out of the turkey and crusted on the end. The windows steamed. The kitchen was hot.

My Thanksgiving memory drawer is overflowing, filled with the sights and smells of all those Thanksgivings of my childhood with my mother always the biggest, the most prominent part of all my memories of Thanksgiving.

The morning is partly sunny. It is a still morning, not even the hanging leaves are moving. It will again be in the 50’s during the day and the 40’s at night. Winter has yet to hold sway.

Henry is driving me to distraction. He goes out the dog door but still won’t come back inside through the door. He stands with his face peering through the door, and he cries. He even bangs the door a few times with his nose. I try to stand my ground and not open the door for him, but I don’t always succeed. I try to entice him by showing him treats, but that doesn’t usually work. My, “Come on, Henry,” doesn’t work either. I don’t know what happened to make him nervous coming inside. Henry does have several phobias.

Today is a Ghana day. I was looking through the pictures last night and was flooded with memories, small memories, mostly insignificant memories which I somehow remember.

I remember the flight with a stop in Madrid for refueling and a new crew. We got off the plane for a short time until we were quickly herded back to the plane. We mooed. When I got back on the plane, my seatbelt was stuck. I never did buckle my seatbelt. The new stewardess asked us if we wanted breakfast or more drinks. We opted for the drinks. Before we landed, a stewardess went up the aisle giving us the rest of the nips from the cart. I saved mine for the longest time. I remember in the terminal watching the crew buy leather and beaded goods at the stalls in the airport. Pan Am flew the Ghana route, but we had flown in a TWA charter so the crew was in Africa for the first time. I remember the welcome and toasts with warm Fanta, orange Fanta. I fell asleep on the bus ride to Winneba, our first training site. That first night, Peace Corps gave us a welcome party. 

In Winneba I saw my first palm tree, rows of palm trees. I remember we all went to greet the chief of Winneba. It was customary. I wondered what the Ghanaians thought watching so many white people, well over 100, walking down the street to the chief’s house. We were an odd sort of parade.

Training lasted nearly three months, and those first two weeks were the hardest. They are front and center in my memory drawer of that summer. I will never forget.

Today is like yesterday, sunny, clear and in the 50’s, still fall. The nights, though, have started to feel like winter, in the 30’s. My blanket is back on the bed. The dogs huddle beside me at night, Nala under the covers. We all fall asleep cozy and warm.

When I was a little kid, my mother decided when it was time for winter coats, when layering wasn’t enough. We all dreaded that day. The coats were heavy. They didn’t fit in the cloak room. We had to either zip or button our coats at the end of the day which took time and concentration. I remember sometimes, when I zipped, one end hung lower than the other, a zipper failure. Buttons were just a bit easier.

My school was old. The classrooms with their high ceilings were always a bit chilly. Radiators on the back wall hissed and steamed. The windows fogged. I wore a sweater over my uniform. We were allowed. I wore knee socks and sometimes pink underwear which went to my knees. We still had recess on cold days. We huddled in groups. We tried to stay warm. The end of recess bell was welcomed.

I don’t wear a winter coat. I do have one, but it sits in the closet waiting for the next ice age. My winter wear includes hoodies or a fleece top or a really heavy sweater, saved for the coldest winter days. I like my mittens better than my gloves. They keep my hands warmer. I have hats but don’t often wear them. My favorite is one from high school, one a friend’s grandmother knitted. My next favorite I bought in Peru. It has ear flaps. I bought it because when I got to Peru it was winter. I also have a few scarves. My favorite is red. I wear it just for the color.

I’m envious of bears. All summer and fall they get to eat and drink nonstop. They need to gain weight. I’m always trying to lose it. They get to sleep all winter. I aspire to do that.

Today is dump day. Perhaps I need a banner for my front lawn.

Today is just like yesterday and the day before: sunny with a light breeze, a deep blue sky and in the mid 50’s. It’s a pretty morning. For today, I have a small, easily accomplished, to do list. I have bird feeders to fill, a kitchen floor to sweep and a hall to vacuum. The trash sits in the trunk waiting until tomorrow when I’ll go to the dump.

When I was a kid, uptown was filled with stores. It was about a fifteen or twenty minute walk from my house, but I usually rode my bike unless I was going to the movies. I’d walk my bike in the square on the sidewalk so I could check out the store windows. I loved the fish market window where lobsters were in a pool in a sort of aquarium. They were walking around on the bottom. The lobsters were blueish with a bit of orange on the shell. The bakery, about in the middle of the square, had a great window with baked goods and breads. Through that window I could see the ladies behind the counter, always ladies, and the shelves behind them filled with bread. I always wished I could buy a cupcake, a chocolate cupcake with chocolate frosting. I was never one for vanilla cupcakes. The movie theater had posters on the side walls by the entrance, but they were the night movies, not the matinees. The window where I spent the longest time looking was Woolworth’s. Sundry is how I describe it now. It had notions, sewing stuff, a few toys, socks and some dishes. The window changed with the seasons. The Christmas window was the best. Down from the square just a little way was the fire station. In the summer the firemen sat outside the truck bays on wooden chairs just taking in the sun. I always stopped to chat a bit. From there, I’d sometimes stop at the town stable then ride through the school yard to go home. I always thought of it as a short cut.

I’m watching a really bad movie. Five people in their twenties are staying in a camper in the woods which had belonged to one of their uncles who disappeared two years ago. That spooked the other people. On their hike, they heard noises and one heard screams. Now, back in the camper, they are discussing aliens and probing. They found newspaper articles the uncle had saved which claimed a connection between aliens and trees. Really bad is probably being generous.

Today is another lovely day, warmer than it has been. The morning light is squint your eyes bright. Shadows dot the trunks of the oak trees. The blue sky shows through the leaves still on the branches. It is a day not to be wasted, a day to be out and about.

My dance card has just one item, a concert today, but I do have a list. I always have a list. I need to go to the dump. I need to vacuum the mounds of Henry hair in the hall which fly into the air when I walk to the kitchen. I just had a weird memory jump into my head. In Ghana, what is called the hall is what we call the living room.

Fall has always been my favorite season. When I was a kid, I loved the colors of the leaves, especially the yellows and the bright reds of the maples. I loved walking on the piles of dead leaves in the gutters and hearing the crunch as they crumbled underfoot. I remember cool mornings and warmer afternoons and layering for the walk to school. The streetlights came on early in the afternoons. That was my only complaint.

Being a kid was easy when I was growing up. School on weekdays and church on Sundays were my only responsibilities. I never minded school, but I wasn’t a fan of going to church. I remember sitting in a pew in the back, close to the exit, so I could make a run after the Pax Vobiscum. I’d sometimes sneak a book in my pocket to read during the mass. I think I looked devout. Back then it was a Latin mass, and all we saw up front was the priest’s back as he stood at the altar. I remember the pews were filled every Sunday. The older women wore real hats. The younger women wore mantillas and even Kleenex held by two Bobby pins. I wore the mantilla as I could stash it in my pocket.

We were the duck and cover generation. We’d practice crouching under our desks with our hands and arms covering our heads in case of a nuclear attack. I really had no idea what a nuclear attack was. I just figured whatever it was I’d be safe under my desk.

Yesterday was downright cold, and when the wind whipped through, it made the day feel even colder. It was a fleece day, an acknowledgement to the coming winter. Today is a pretty day. It is in the mid-40’s with a bright, bright sun. The few red leaves and the pervasive brown leaves on the oak trees shine in the light. We still have a wind.

When I was a kid, I loved walking to school in the mornings. We lived on a hill. Across the street from the bottom of the hill was a huge field, a tended field with baseball diamonds. I always thought of the field as a shortcut so I’d cross it to get to the sidewalk on the street which led to school. The sidewalk was long, the whole length of the street, and was interrupted only by the railroad tracks.

When I was growing up, the living room was where we spent the most time. The TV was there in a corner. We’d sit on the rug close to the set and watch it. We never went blind. In the late afternoons, my mother would be in the kitchen making dinner. In my mind’s eye I can see her standing by the sink peeling potatoes. The stove was behind her. The fridge beside her. The kitchen was small. We always had potatoes. My father never had supper with us. He’d get home late from work. He was a salesman. I remember a photo of him coming in the front door. He is wearing a fedora and a top coat, the unofficial men’s winter wardrobe back then. Both were black.

I didn’t question much when I was a kid. I went to school every weekday, played outside if I could in the afternoons, watched TV, did my homework, ate dinner, watched more TV then went to bed. I was never bored. Kids seldom were.

The sun and the blue sky pushed away the earlier morning clouds, but I don’t know how long they’ll be around as cloudy is the forecast. It is windy. All the high branches are being blown. I can see the leaves falling. It is 54° but could get down to the high 30’s tonight. Right now it is a perfect fall day.

When I was little, my mother used to read to me. She told me I loved Golden Books. She said I could name all the animals in the circles on the back covers of the books. I was smart she told me, parental exaggeration I suspect. When I got a bit older, my mother switched to reading to us, to my brother and me, books, chapter books before we went to bed. I always hated it when she’d stop for the night, and we had to turn out the light. When I could read by myself, I’d read in bed until my mother told me to turn off my light, but I didn’t really turn it off. I’d hide the light under the covers so I could keep reading. Sometimes I got caught.

When I was growing up, I was never really girly. I grew out of dolls early except for that dancing doll I got for Christmas one year, the one whose feet you attached to your shoes with elastics so you dance together. I always wanted trains, but they were boy presents. I did like new clothes but nothing too fancy, usually sweaters and a skirt or a pair of ski pants. I always wanted books for my birthday and for Christmas, and my mother never disappointed me.

In Ghana, I wore a dress every day. At first I wore the dresses and skirts I had brought with me. I remember a purple dress, a white blouse and a wrap-around skirt with flowers. I’m sure I had more clothes, but I just remember those because I seem to be wearing them in so many of my pictures from Ghana. I also remember a zippered sort of house dress. It was black with white designs. I wore it every night after my shower. All the clothes were new. We had shopped in Hyannis for clothes and other items from the packing list sent by Peace Corps. We got most everything on the list and managed to reach the 80 pounds of luggage allowed for the flight.

Right now I’m watching the very first episode of The Lone Ranger. He has donned the mask made from the vest of his dead brother, a Texas ranger, killed in an ambush by the Cavendish gang. He and Tonto just rescued Silver from the buffalo ready to gore him.

On my dance card is mostly uke events. I have my usual practice and lesson and also three concerts. It will be a busy rest of the week.

This is my traditional post for Veteran’s Day.

On the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month in 1918, World War I ended. This day became known as “Armistice Day.” In 1921, an unknown World War I American soldier was buried in Arlington National Cemetery. Similarly, unknown soldiers had been buried in England at Westminster Abbey and at France at the Arc de Triomphe. All of these memorials took place on November 11th to commemorate the end of the “war to end all wars.”

In 1926, Congress resolved to officially call November 11th Armistice Day. Then in 1938, the day was named a national holiday. Soon afterwords war broke out in Europe and World War II began.

Soon after the end of World War II, a veteran of that war named Raymond Weeks organized “National Veterans Day” with a parade and festivities to honor all veterans. He chose to hold this on Armistice Day. Thus began annual observances of a day to honor all veterans not just the end of World War I. In 1954, Congress officially passed and President Eisenhower signed a bill proclaiming November 11 as Veteran’s Day. Due to his part in the creation of this national holiday, Raymond Weeks received the Presidential Citizens Medal from President Reagan in November 1982.

In 1968, Congress changed the national commemoration of Veterans Day to the fourth Monday in October. However, the significance of November 11 was such that the changed date never really got established. In 1978, Congress returned the observance of Veterans Day to its traditional date.

National ceremonies commemorating Veterans Day occur each year at the the memorial amphitheater built around the Tomb of the Unknowns. At 11 AM on November 11, a color guard representing all military services executes “Present Arms” at the tomb. Then the presidential wreath is laid upon the tomb. Finally, the bugler plays taps.

Each Veterans Day should be a time when Americans stop and remember the brave men and women who have risked their lives for the United States of America. As Dwight Eisenhower said, “…it is well for us to pause, to acknowledge our debt to those who paid so large a share of freedom’s price. As we stand here in grateful remembrance of the veterans’ contributions we renew our conviction of individual responsibility to live in ways that support the eternal truths upon which our Nation is founded, and from which flows all its strength and all its greatness.”