The sun is elsewhere. It has been gone for weeks. No one knows anything. No one saw anything. The clouds have taken over. It is 44° according to my Google, but I’m doubtful. It is cold. I am hibernating again. My dance card is empty until Tuesday. Yesterday was a banner day. I had a morning uke lesson. I went shopping for human and animal food, got gas and went to my first uke concert since the mighty fall and the plague. Life now has a familiarity about it.

Last night the dogs went crazy. When they play, they make growling sounds. They were loud last night, almost scary loud. They chewed each others’ muzzles. Nala chased Henry around the house. They weren’t two dogs from the sounds they made, but a herd. I pat them, feed them, give them room on my bed, but that doesn’t matter. They ignored me when I yelled for them to stop. I live to serve.

I remember the measles. I remember the dark bedroom. I remember staying in bed the whole time. Though I had every childhood disease, I don’t remember the rest of them. You’d think I’d remember chicken pox.

When I was a kid, I had mysteries in my life. The washing machine was one of them. I had no idea how it worked. It wasn’t until my freshman year in college that I bested the beast. I didn’t know how to cook anything. That was my mother’s job. I was a junior in college before I peeled my first potato. I was living in an apartment, an illegal one as juniors had to stay on campus, so I cooked my own food. I became a master chef with ground beef. My mashed potatoes were a bit lumpy but still tasty. I ate a lot of canned peas. I also ate a lot of spaghetti with ground beef and bottled sauce. There is some irony there as cooking and baking became hobbies. That started in Ghana where I made my first sugar cookies.

My friend and I used to camp in the backyard. We’d put a tarp on the ground first. We had our blankets and pillows. It was always her yard. My yard was an open one with houses up on the hill and all around it. Her yard had a fence behind it separating the project from the houses on Green Street. I remember a large white house with a front porch. Pear trees lined the fence on the other side, but a few branches hung over. We picked those pears. I remember they were always hard.

Today is cold, downright chilly, but for the first time in a while, the sun is shining though the sky is still a bit cloudy. The high today will be 30°. It seems so wrong to call 30° a high.

The dogs are out back barking. Well, mostly Henry is out back barking. Nala just goes along for the ride, so to speak. She follows him out then follows him back inside to the front door where he barks at nothing.

Yesterday I found the dogs’ nail cutter. I had hidden it from Nala as she has taken it outside a couple of times. The handle is chewed. I trimmed Nala’s nails yesterday. Henry had one look and took off running. He is not a fan of nail cutting, at least by me, but he definitely needs his nails trimmed. The last time I tried I managed to trim only a couple of nails on one paw before he got away. I will be persistent rather than pay to have them done.

Last night I was overcome with nostalgia. I watched the first Zorro episode, the Disney Zorro, and the first Spin and Marty. I was ten when Zorro started. Even then I always wondered why nobody knew Don Diego was Zorro, just like I wondered about Superman and Clark Kent. Even Don Diego’s father didn’t recognize him behind the mask despite the same mustache and a familiar voice.

When I was a kid, my mother always made her cakes and brownies from scratch. Her brownies had chocolate frosting and jimmies, sprinkles to those of you not from here. No other brownies come close. Hers still define chocolate for me. She also never bought biscuits for her strawberry shortcake. She made cream of tartar biscuits, my father’s favorite. That’s how I serve my strawberry shortcake. They are the tastes of my childhood.

The field and swamp near my house were bleak in winter. The grassy field was brown. The swamp usually turned to ice early on because it was shallow. We skated there. The swamp was a straight walk through the fields from my house, but if I turned right beyond the field, there was a small hill with a water tower at the top. I always wanted to climb that tower, but there was no way up, probably a good thing.

I saw a cooking video the other day. The cook had mealy flour. He explained that you could sift the flour to get rid of the bugs or pick them out. He went on the say that leaving the bugs in gave the food more protein. I immediately called my friends. In Ghana, our flour came in huge bags and flour weevils moved right in. We never bothered with them. We used to say they were added protein. That cook must’ve heard us.

Today is ugly. The wind is strong. The sky is cloudy. It is only 35°. We didn’t get any snow last night, but a snow shower with big, wet flakes has just started. It will amount to little or nothing.

Today I have a dentist appointment for just a cleaning. Tomorrow night is my uke practice, my first time back to the scene of the fall. Wednesday morning is my lesson. That’s it for the entire week.

My house needs to be cleaned. Between the fall and the plague, it has been a while. The other day I did manage to clean one bathroom and water the plants, big accomplishments for a sloth.

When I was a kid, my favorite vacation was to Islesboro, Maine, an island. I was around ten or eleven. I remember it was the summer of the hat. I wore a visor the whole summer, before and after the vacation. It was the only time I ever wore one. We took a ferry to the island and stopped in town first. I remember the buildings were all white. My mother bought a few groceries.

We stayed in a house down a dirt road. It stood at the top of a small hill. No other houses were close. Below the hill was the ocean. There was a small dock and a rowboat. I have scattered memories of that week. I remember my father buying lobsters for him and my mother. They put one on the kitchen floor to see what Duke, our boxer, would do. He barked and pushed it a couple of times. The kitchen had a radio, and I remember listening to serials. Sergeant Preston of the Yukon comes to mind. My father used to row us to a small beach you could see from the dock. He made two trips to get us all there, including Duke. We’d have a picnic and do a bit of swimming in the cold Maine water. I remember a scavenger hunt. We followed the clues and found the prizes down the road, the Hershey Bars. One day it rained, and I went to the car to read. The rain hit the roof and window. That was the only sound. That is my most vivid memory.

The rain started around three, and it is still raining. The high today will be 41° so no freezing. Tomorrow will be both rain and snow. We have had such ugly weather.

Henry pulled a Nala last night. I had two sausages from the butcher shop. When I was putting them in the pan on the stove, Henry grabbed one from my hand. I was shocked but not too shock to yell. I didn’t realize he had dropped it until I stepped on it and squished it a bit, but the five second rule was in effect so I picked it up and washed it. The sausage was none the worse for wear and was quite delicious.

When I was a kid, we played games, mostly on Friday nights. My parents also played with us. We played board games and card games. I remember Go to the Head of the Class, but I remember Sorry the most. It was a wonderfully vicious game. Retribution was part of each move. I still have that original Sorry game.

I learned all sorts of card games from my father. Our favorite was cribbage. He was a fanatic. He hated to lose. I remember as an adult sitting at the kitchen table playing until he won.

Starting when I was young, we played whist. My father and brother were partners as were my mother and I. We won all the time. My brother used to beg to change partners. We never did. Whist was also the big card game at my college, but it was kitty whist. My father scoffed. We played Casino, Fan Tan and Gin.

Even when I was an adult we still played cards at the kitchen table. My Uncle Jack used to come as did my Aunt Mary. The bar was set up on the counter. The room was filled with smoke. Even in winter we kept the back door open. High Low Jack aka Pitch was the big game. My father was a mad man if he didn’t make his bid. All of us had a single purpose, trump my dad. Those nights were such fun.

Today is cloudy but warm. The rain will be back tomorrow. With all this rain, I’m beginning to feel like a character in Ray Bradbury’s All Summer in a Day, a short story which takes place on Venus where the sun appears for only an hour every seven years.

I remember when I got my first transistor radio. It was a Christmas present. The radio was big and square and made of leather, brown leather, with decorative holes in the front. It had a dial on the side for channel changing. On the other side was the on and off dial. We only got AM radio in those days, but we had so many choices. Up and down the dial were channels playing rock, 50’s rock. I loved that radio.

My bicycle would sometimes slip the chain. I’d have to turn the bike upside down and try to get the chain back on the sprockets. It was frustrating and took time. It was also dirty. My hands got greasy.

When I think back, I am amazed at what I ate when I was a kid. I’ve mentioned the sardines. Now, they gross me out sitting there headless side by side in the oval can. Many times for lunch I had Chef Boy-Ar-Dee spaghetti. I remember the picture of the chef on the can. He had a mustache and wore a puffy white chef’s hat. He sort of looked Italian to me, the closest his spaghetti ever got to Italy. When I was in Ghana, my mother sent me a few boxes of Chef-Boy-Ar-Dee’s pizza kits. I savored those. Wonder bread was always white and soft. It was the only bread we ate. I remember the big red Wonder on the package. I also remember it was Howdy Doody’s favorite bread. It made great toast. Creamed corn does taste good, but you have get by its looks. It used to spread across the plate and contaminate my potatoes. I can’t remember the last time I ate it except in corn bread.

My dance card is empty until Tuesday’s uke practice.

We have another rainy day, a preview of the weekend. It might rain Saturday, will rain Sunday and will likely snow on Monday. This sounds like a weekend to hunker down.

When I was growing up, I never thought of my life as routine. I was seldom bored, except maybe on Sundays. Every day was fun.

When I was a kid, we didn’t have sleepovers. We had pajama parties. They were usually a birthday celebration. We’d arrive in our pajamas, and we’d be toting pillows, blankets and presents. Usually we’d set up our blankets and pillows on the living room floor. A nearby table was always groaning under the weight of snacks like popcorn and chips and candy. We’d sing and laugh and even dance to music. At sometime during the evening, they’d be a birthday cake, a happy birthday song and presents. One parent was the designated sentry. That parent’s job was to tell us when it was time to settle down and get to sleep. That always made us snicker. Eventually, though, we’d tire out, lie down, get quiet and fall asleep.

After Christmas, winters were always quiet. The days had routines. The weekdays were school, a short playtime until the street lights came on then TV until dinner. Even dinners had routine menus, except for Friday, the no meat day. We ate chicken or ground beef, potatoes, usually mashed, and a vegetable. For dessert, we’d grab cookies if there were any left. The weekends were less regimented. Saturday was movie day or bike day or sledding day or a day of exploration. Saturday dinner, though, was always the same. I think just about everyone in New England ate hot dogs, beans and brown bread. I always thought of it as traditional, not routine. Most Sundays were boring. We had to go to church. We had to hang around for Sunday dinner. We went to bed early. It was a school night.

This is a good time. My face has healed. I am finally rid of that cough. I have rejoined the world.

Another rainy day after a rainy night. The good thing, though, is today’s rain will be intermittent. Last night it was steady. The bit of snow on the ground from the dusting, too little for a memory, is gone.

My day started late and poorly. I went to get the newspaper and noticed the front fence leaning so I decided to prop it with pieces from a metal pole. I knocked the fence down instead. I pulled it up with difficulty, propped it and went back inside to get my coffee. When I got to the den with my cup of coffee, I somehow spilled it all over the table. The fallen fence and the spilled coffee occurred within 5 minutes of the start of my morning. I can’t wait for the rest of my day to unfold.

When I was young, I had no fashion sense, the result, I think, of wearing a uniform to school. My clothes were chosen by season. I wore cool clothes in summer and warm clothes in winter. I wore whatever I found in my bureau drawers. I mostly wore my sneakers, my play shoes. They were white in the beginning. In the winter my ensemble was a flannel shirt and dungarees as we used to call them. In the summer it was a blouse and shorts.

I do miss places that are gone. Woolworth’s is probably at the top of that list. It was the perfect store. The big one in my town had a lunch counter. I’d usually order a hot dog and fries or a hamburger club and fries. The waitresses were old. I remember one lady who wore a colorful handkerchief with crocheted edges pinned to her uniform with her name tag. She always moved quickly. She called everyone hon.

I went to my uke lesson yesterday. It was so good to get back. We practiced strum patterns and songs which had those patterns. I then did a little shopping. I needed bread, milk, animal treats and Snickers, my human treat.

A little while ago I noticed neither dog was on the couch with me which is odd as it is their nap time and comfort is supreme for both dogs. I got up to go to the kitchen to get coffee. All of a sudden a herd came stomping down the stairs. Both dogs had been asleep on my bed.

Today is a sloth day.

Today is supposed to be warm, at least 40°. It is also supposed to be sunny. It isn’t. There is a moderate chance of rain. Very little snow is left. My walkway is clear. I let Mother Nature do the work.

When I was a kid, snow was a delight. I remember the piles on the sides of the roads left by the plows. I remember one pile in particular. It became a sort of igloo with rooms, a Fortress of Solitude. We had dug out the rooms and splashed water on the walls to turn them to ice. I remember eating lunch in the back room. I also remember snowball fights using the walls as protection. Those walls lasted into spring.

Even in winter I walked everywhere. I bundled to stay warm on freezing walks to school. I remember ski pants under my skirt, knee socks, long underwear which went to the knees, a sweater, a coat, mittens, a hat and boots. Undressing in the cloak room took a while. The hat and mittens went up the sleeves of my coat. The boots took the longest. They were the kind you wore over your shoes. I left the sweater on.

My mother would have been horrified to see me go out for recess. I only wore my coat. I put the hat and mittens in my pockets. I don’t remember being cold.

I can ice skate, not very well, but I do stay on my feet. On Saturdays when I was young, I’d skate at the town rink. I could glide, and I did learn to go backwards but not very far. I’d skate until my feet hurt. I’d walk home with my skates tied together and slung over my shoulder, and my feet feeling weird in shoes.

I still take delight in watching the snow fall. I turn on my back light so I can see the flakes. I keep track of how much snow has fallen by checking the height of it on the deck railing. I use ice melt safe for pets outside the back door and on the deck stairs so the dogs don’t fall. They don’t mind the snow so much.

Today is another lovely day. It is also another cold day. I still have a walkway covered in snow, but my car is clear. I’m glad for that as I do have an errand.

The cold breaks tomorrow. We’ll be in the 40’s. In comparison, it will feel like summer. I’ll sweep the walk later today so the sun can melt the walk clear.

I have been home for what seems like forever. I don’t see people so I talk to the dogs to maintain my communication skills. I want to be Doctor Doolittle so I can carry on a conversation in dog.

I don’t remember feeling cold when I was a kid as I was bundled with several layers, and I had my mother. She helped. She’d reach up my coat sleeve to pull down my sweater. She yanked and pulled my boots over my shoes, not an easy task. The mittens were last. She’d put them on my hands and tuck the tops in my jacket sleeve. I was prepared for a new Ice Age.

When I was a kid, I had to walk by a huge field on my way to school. When it was snow covered, the field was like the tundra, a vast expanse. The wind whipped across that field. I’d sometimes walk backwards to keep the wind chill from my face. I’d open my arms. They were like sails.

In Ghana, the seasons were the rainy season and the dry season. I lived in the hottest part of the country with the shortest rainy season. During the dry season, I remember watching the fires in the fields burning the detritus, the left over debris from the crops, from mostly millet and corn. The air was filed with smoke. I could see the line of fire moving across the fields. Even the field behind my house was burned.

My eleven year old self would be amazed and thrilled at where I have been. That was how old I was when I vowed to travel the world. Ghana was my first country. I was going to Africa. I was going to live in Africa. That still amazes me.

I let the dogs out around 2:30 before we went to bed. It was snowing. It was freezing. They peed on the run. Luckily, that snow was only a dusting. I hope it melts. I don’t shovel. I don’t even own a novel. I noticed the snow on my car is melting so I am optimistic. If I have to, I’ll sweep. It is 23°.

No concert for me today. My croaky voice has yet to disappear. It is the only symptom left so I have high hopes that by Tuesday, my uke practice day, my voice will be back to its usual dulcet tones. We have two concerts this week.

When I was a kid, Saturday was my day while Sunday was a family day. I sometimes went to the early mass with my dad then we’d go to Dunkin’ Donuts. He was a plain donut man, an old fashioned donut man. I was a butternut fan. Once home, my father would make his coffee, always instant, and slather his donut with butter. He’d sit at the table and read the paper while enjoying his breakfast. I still have a vivid memory of my father at the table. He always faced the windows.

My favorite Sunday dinner is still roast beef, gravy, mashed potatoes and peas. My mother made the best gravy. I always drowned my potatoes. It was my last dinner at home before I left for Ghana.

I used to love to color. I’d get a coloring book in my stocking and in my Easter basket. I’d also get a set of crayons. I remember the set of 64 which came with a sharpener. I have a few unopened boxes of crayons I’m saving. One box includes all the retired colors. It came in a tin. One of my Christmas presents from Moe this year was a coloring book, My Coloring Book About Ghana. It has animals, masks, women dressed in cloth and a map of Ghana with all its regions. It is for kids under 8 years of age.

I am watching the very first episode of The Lone Ranger. The description says the Lone Ranger and his Native American partner fight for law and order. Tonto, when I was first watching this, used to be described as his Indian companion. It is Tonto who saves John Reid, the only Texas Ranger to live, after the ambush by the Cavendish Gang. I had forgotten that Tonto and the Lone Ranger had met when they were both young when it was John Reid who saved Tonto. Tonto calls the Lone Ranger Kemosahbe. I looked it up. I found, “Derived from gimoozaabi, an Ojibwe and Potawatomi word that may mean ‘he/she looks out in secret’, it has been occasionally translated as ‘trusty scout’ (the first Lone Ranger TV episode) or ‘faithful friend'”. I’m now on Episode 2. The Lone Ranger has just found a wounded Silver.