Despite the blue sky and the sun, today is winter. It is only 35°, and, with the wind, it feels much colder. I’m glad I get to continue my hibernation. I only stepped outside this morning just to get my paper and yesterday’s mail. That will be it for the day.

Yesterday I was not a sloth. I vacuumed the whole downstairs, polished and dusted. Today I will recuperate.

When I was a kid, my weekdays were regimented. I got up at the same time every day, my mother being the alarm clock. Breakfast was either cereal, oatmeal or eggs, whatever my mother wanted to make. I always drank cocoa. I never had to choose my clothes for the day. I just put on my uniform. I walked to school. We had pretty much the same subjects every day at the same time except art and music which were less frequent. The times for lunch and recess never varied. At the end of the school day, we lined up to wait for the dismissal bell. I walked home.

The strange part of all of that was I was never bored because every day felt different to me. I got to meet up with my friends, learn new things and have afternoon adventures. Life was filled with possibilities. I always knew I could do and be anything.

In Ghana, my weekdays too were regimented. I had the same breakfast every day, two eggs, toast and coffee, bad coffee but I stopped noticing after a while. I did have a choice as to what I wore, but it was always a dress. I wore sandals. I taught four English classes every day. Lunch was cut up fruit. Dinner was yam and beef in a tomato sauce and sometimes roasted chicken, cooked over a small charcoal burner, my stove of sorts. During the afternoons, after classes, I read, planned lessons and sometimes napped. The only change was on market day when I walked to town to shop.

I was never bored in Ghana. How could I be? I was living in Africa. I was surrounded by the most amazing colors, smells and foods. I had Ghanaian friends, and I had my students who often visited in the early evenings. I was an oddity being white.

Now, I don’t care if I am busy. I don’t care if my days are similar. I am enjoying being a sloth most days. Life is still filled with possibilities.

The morning is sunny but cold because of the wind. The dogs have been in and out and out again. Nala was among the missing earlier. I went out and called her. She didn’t respond. That is unusual. I finally saw her in the back corner of the yard. She was standing in one spot with her head down, a sure sign she had something. I didn’t give chase. I know better. I went back into the house. She came in later.

My dance card is now pristine, empty, for the rest of the week. I have no uke, no appointments, no grocery needs, and I went to the dump Saturday. My house could do with a bit of cleaning. I guess I’ll vacuum.

Tonight spring makes its official arrival. The day may be chilly and the weather no different than yesterday’s but knowing it’s spring brings a feeling of warmth, a sense of change. Spring is the hopeful season. The world is its freshest. Drab winter is disappearing. The first colors are blossoming in the gardens. The crocus is leading the way. The daffodils aren’t far behind. The air smells sweet. The new grass is a deep green. The birds are loudest in the morning. They’re happy to greet the new day.

When I was a kid, once the days got warmer, the heavy coats, hats and mittens were put away until the next winter. Every day the afternoons stayed lighter so we got to to play outside longer, until the sun went down and the streetlights came on. My bike spent more time out of the cellar than in it. It gave me a sense of freedom. I was all over town. Sometimes I rode it to school. The bike rack was wooden and painted green. It was under trees by the fence close to one corner of the old school, the side with the back door. I never locked my bike. It was always there when school was over.

Today is a mix. Right now the sun holds sway, but there are still clouds. It is a chilly day. In the front garden, the daf buds are so much bigger now that I can see a faint trace of yellow. The purple hyacinths are high enough for the buds to appear. The garden is awake.

My dance card for the week is down to a scheduled doctor’s appointment today. This is the month of appointments. I have seen my dentist, and this will be the third doctor of the month, the last of what I call my stable of doctors. All is good so far.

When I was a kid, I never much noticed spring flowers. The new season for me meant warmth and getting closer to summer. My father didn’t plant flowers until May. The front flower bed was small so he’d only add a few flowers between the bushes. We had no back flower beds, and the side of the house had just grass and a few trees. My father’s pride and joy was his lawn. He was always a lawn guy.

The second dog my parents had was Beebe. She was found at the dump when she was puppy. Beebe had wooly black curly hair. She was a big dog. She was a sweet dog. My father used to tell people Beebe was a Canadian sheep dog, a breed he made up just for her. People believed him. Beebe loved to catch rocks. If anyone tossed a rock into the air, Beebe was ready. In defiance of the leash law, Beebe used to lie on the front lawn in the sun, a free dog. She never left the yard, but Beebe was picked up somewhere by the dog officer. That night there were thundershowers, and Beebe was afraid of thunder. My father drove to where they had imprisoned his Beebe. He knew she was probably shaking in fear. No one was there. He looked around hoping to find a way inside. He didn’t. That night he worried. He picked her up first thing in the morning and lavished her with love.

I’m sitting in a dust bowl.

The morning is a bit dreary, damp. We still have clouds but no rain is predicted. The wind is small, periodic. Only the smallest branches are blown. The dogs are my barometers. The longer they are outside, the nicer the day. They were quick to come back inside today. They then decided to nap. I find that inspirational.

My once filled dance card is now empty. Our mighty uke leader has Covid. That means I miss practice, a lesson and three concerts. I’m thinking of finishing projects like a full scale cleaning.

For the lesser holidays, I generally copy my past musings as they are remembrances of those singular days. This musing is from a few years past. I doubt I could do better.

When I was a kid, we always had St. Patrick’s Day off from school because that was the name of my parish, my church and school. Mostly I did Saturday sorts of thing like riding my bike or walking uptown to the library. I wore green in honor of the day. My mother didn’t make corned beef and cabbage as she knew we’d grimace and groan about all the vegetables. Cabbage smelled bad. The only parts of the meal we would have eaten were the meat and potatoes. That all changed when we were older.

My father loved a boiled dinner, a traditional New England name for corned beef and cabbage, any time of year. I remember the giant pot on the stove, and my father filling his dish more than once from the pot. When I was there one St. Patrick’s Day with my dog Shauna, my first boxer, my father gave her a plate filled with everything but the cabbage and onions. She ate from her dish on the rug while my father sat in his usual spot on the couch. They both had ice cream for dessert. One St. Patrick’s Day, my father hunted in the pot for the potatoes. He found none, at least none left. They had disintegrated. My father’s disappointment was so keen I could see it in face and in the way he walked back to the living room. My mother didn’t know what to say. Comfort would only have come from the potatoes.

When I marched with St. Patrick’s Shamrocks, a drill team or rather the drill team, we marched in the St. Patrick’s Day parade in South Boston a few times. I remember one really cold day. I also remember some spectators trying to join us in the march. They had been imbibing in some local establishments. They kindly offered us a wee taste before they were shooed away. 

Today I will celebrate St. Patrick’s Day by wearing green and dining on corned beef and cabbage. It will have potatoes, and I will not share with the dogs, well maybe not!.

We have clouds, and we have sun. It will be in the low 40’s. Rain is predicted for tomorrow. Surprise! Surprise! This is the spring of rain.

Today is another day for a bit of cleaning. A little cleaning is about as much as I can stand. I’m going to tackle table tops, the dusty tabletops. White hair is everywhere. I’m surprised Henry isn’t bald in spots.

Last night Nala gave me a fright. I was calling for her out the back door at bedtime, no Nala. Henry stood with me looking out the door, no Nala. I then tried the magic words, “Treat time!” She came running down the stairs. Nala had been sleeping on my bed and chose to ignore me.

Our dog, Duke, the boxer of my youth, was stubborn. That used to drive my father crazy. Duke would start to follow the kids to school, to the East School. My father would call him. Duke would turn around and look at my father then turn around and keep going. My father would be infuriated. He’d get into his car and chase Duke. Poor Duke always got caught. My mother tried the treat route to get him into the house. She’d hold out a piece of bologna and call him. Duke would go up to her, snatch the bologna and run. My mother would be left with only a corner of the bologna slice. He wasn’t allowed on the couch, but he always slept on the couch. We could hear him getting off the couch in the morning.

My favorite Duke story I’ve told before, but it is worth retelling. Duke was a wanderer. He lived in the days before leash laws. He’d follow his people. One day he happened to find my grandmother. He had stayed at my grandparents’ house while we were on vacation one year. They were not pet people. Duke used to take off and go home to an empty house. My grandfather would have to retrieve him. One day Duke ran into my grandmother uptown in the square. She went into Woolworth’s. He followed. He stayed with her while she browsed the aisles. As she was checking out, Duke lifted his leg on the comic book revolving stand. The manager yelled. he wanted to know if Duke was my grandmother’s dog. She said no which was the truth. He told her he saw the dog following her. My grandmother claimed innocence, shrugged a bit, paid for her goods, took her bag and left. Duke followed her out the door.

When I first woke up, I could hear the rain. I went back to bed and back to sleep. When next I woke, the rain had stopped and been replaced by muted light from the sun, but the sky is cloudy again. It will stay that way all day with the sun and clouds playing flip flop. It is warm, already in the 50’s.

I have an empty dance card for the next few days. I have nowhere I need to be until Monday. Next week is a busy uke week. Besides practice and my lesson, there are 3 concerts. I will definitely attend two of them.

When I was a kid, March was a boring month. It was the month between February vacation and April’s spring vacation so, despite having St. Patrick’s Day off, it felt like the longest month of endless days of school. The weather in March was always unpredictable as if the weather god, the storm god, couldn’t make up his mind. Some days were spring warm while other days were more like winter with chilly winds. I usually chose spring and wore a sweater under a spring jacket for my walk to school. That satisfied my mother.

My mother was less vigilant on Saturdays. I could get away with wearing just a sweater or just a jacket. Mostly on March Saturdays I’d ride my bike. When I was speeding down the hills, the wind would sometimes blow up the sleeves of my jacket, and I’d feel cold. I never admitted that to my mother. She would have demanded layers.

I loved my mother’s brownies. She always chocolate frosted them and then sprinkled jimmies on the top. The crunchy brownies on the corners were my favorites. I don’t remember my mother making a white cake. I just remember chocolate cakes with chocolate frosting. When I make a cake, it is always chocolate with chocolate frosting. That is heredity.

Today has a hint of spring about it. It is a warmish morning, in the mid 40’s. The sun is about, but the sky is cloudy probably practicing for tomorrow when it is supposed to rain. The wind is gone. The dogs are out longer on days like today. Miss Nala naps in the sun. Henry wanders the yard.

I have a concert this afternoon. We are still playing our St. Patrick’s Day music.

My housecleaning has been intermittent. Yesterday it was a few sweatshirt sleeve wipes on the dusty tables in my living room. The hall got vacuumed. That was enough.

When I was a kid, I read all the classics. My mother had bought me Little Woman for Christmas, and that was the start. I loved Treasure Island. In my mind’s eye I knew exactly what Long John Silver looked like, and, when I saw my first Treasure Island movie, he looked just as I had imagined. Books took me away to the most amazing places. I met all sorts of people. One of my favorite characters was Doctor Dolittle. I always wished I could speak with animals. I even wish it now. Nala would be getting a piece of my mind about her thievery, but I do expect she’d talk back. I remember the Bobbsey Twins, two sets of them, Nan and Bert and Freddie and Flossy. I envied their travels. As I got older, I moved into The Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew. I never stopped to think that their adventures were unrealistic. I was too immersed in the pages.

I could spend an entire day and night reading without noticing the passage of time. On one trip to England, I brought Gone with the Wind with me. I read the whole flight. I was shocked when we got ready for landing. For so many reasons, I was lucky being stationed in Ghana. One reason was because there were libraries and all of the books were in English. I went to my town library often. A shop in my town sold the African Writers’ Series. I brought many of those books home with me.

I can’t imagine a life without books.

Today’s a delight. It has a hint of spring about it. The sun is bright against a blue, blue sky. It is 45° and may even reach 50°. A remnant of yesterday’s wind is still blowing just a bit. The highest branches on the pine trees in my backyard are swaying every now and then.

This hint of spring has a drawback. I find myself eying the vacuum and the mop thinking it is time for a full scale assault on the dust. I have already started cleaning upstairs in a small way. Jack’s room has been vacuumed, and my bedroom has been a bit decluttered, but it remains a dust bowl. I keep wanting to write Clean Me on the bookcase.

Nala has topped herself. Her thievery was at its worst yesterday. Chicken, two thighs, were frying on the stove. I was planning a couple of real dinners, even with potatoes and a veggie. All of a sudden I noticed she was in the hall chomping on something. When I went to see what she was eating, she ran out the back door, her tell. I checked the stove. One of the thighs was missing. I saw her run off the deck into the yard with the thigh in her mouth. This is her first theft from the stove. It reminded me of Duke, our boxer when I was a kid. He stole the Sunday roast beef from the counter. My brother and I caught him. We had to wrestle the meat from his mouth. That dog was a real judge of quality meat. Anyway, once we got it, we washed it and smoothed the teethmarks on it. My mother never knew.

When I was a kid, the first spring-like day had me wanting to shed my winter layers. I wanted to wear just my spring jacket with maybe a sweater for my mother’s sake, but she usually nixed that plan. Sometimes she did give in a little and let me go without a hat and mittens which wasn’t really a concession as I usually ditched the hat once I was out of the house. I wanted my heavy winter jacket in the closet for the duration. I wanted spring.

A new phenomenon has risen today. We have sun, yup sun. We also have a blue sky. The only snag to a perfect March day is the cold and the wind. It is only 39°, and the wind is making it feel so much colder. I will be content watching the world from my window.

My coffee is especially tasty this morning. Maybe it is the warmth it brings on a cold day. Maybe it is the country of origin, Nicaragua. In any case, I’m heading for cup two.

When I was a kid walking to school, I had to pass the field at the end of my street. On a day like today the wind whipped across it. Sometimes I’d open my arms and let the wind take me. It was almost like flying. Other times I’d keep my head down and my hands in my pockets. The wind would rock me, and the cold would blow up the sleeves of my coat. I was always so glad to get by that field to the street leading to my school. The street was protected by houses and trees on both sides.

My mother always made great school lunches, but they were the best after my father got paid. Usually I’d have a bologna sandwich, sometimes chips in a sandwich bag and cookies, but on pay weeks we’d have surprises like something Hostess, especially Hostess cupcakes. Sometimes we’d get money to buy lunch. I’d leave school and walk down the street to Santoro’s Sub Shop. The older man, I always figured he was Mr. Santoro though we were never officially introduced, would take my order and make the sub. On the walls around the shop were menu boards. On Fridays, I never had a choice. It was always a small tuna sub with pickles and hot pepper. I’d sometimes have enough money for chips and a drink. Santoro’s had no tables. Against one wall was a counter with stools on one side. I’d usually eat there.

My dance card is uke filled this week with practice, a lesson and two concerts though I probably will only go to one. I do need to do more cleaning. Nala is in the hall eating a toilet paper roll from the trash and chewing a pine branch she brought in through the dog door. I guess I’ll start there.

Today I am running late. I miss that hour we lost. Right now I need to get ready to go to Hyannis for my uke concert. We are playing St. Patrick’s Day music. I have my green all ready to wear including my fascinator. I will be festive!

I’m taking a forced break today. I’ll be back tomorrow!!