Fall weather is upon us. The days are in the 40’s, and the nights are in the 30’s though every now and then a day in the 60’s sneaks in and reminds us what we’ll be missing. Today is cloudy, dark. Rain is a possibility. I should have known, I washed the kitchen floor.

I had nuns for most of my school years. They wore black and white habits. Around their waists, they wore large rosary beads. I always thought of those beads as an early warning system: nun closing in. On their heads were wimples, and they had veils down their backs. I used to wonder what they looked like under their habits. Every now and then I could see a hairline under the wimple across their foreheads, and when I did, it was all I could look at, sort of like a peek behind the curtain. My grammar school nuns had a change in their habits which surprised all of us when we got back to school one September. The blinders their wimples had had were gone. The nuns could now see everything and all of us. We were doomed.

I was a busy kid. My time was filled during the day when I was young and sometimes even the nights when I was older. I was a brownie then a Girl Scout. I was in the drill team starting in fifth grade. When I was older, seventh and eighth grades, I played CYO basketball and was an officer in my parish CYO. Weekends were always busy. I remember pajama parties. They were the rage for a while. We ate snacks and didn’t fall asleep until the wee hours or until the parents couldn’t take it anymore. I used to ice skate in the winter, always outside. I roller skated on sidewalks and the parking lot up the street from my house, but when I was older, I roller skated inside at the Bal-A-Roue in Medford. I fell a lot.

Life now is pretty quiet. My dance card has plenty of empty spaces. My uke events are prominent. The rest of the time I entertain myself at home watching movies, reading and even cleaning, that last one is my least favorite.

The morning is fall at its finest. The sun is shining though the leaves still hanging on the trees in the backyard. The temperature is in the high 40’s. A slight breeze comes and goes. My deck and front yard are covered in brown, mostly oak leaves. The dogs bring pieces of the leaves in on their paws. I keep a broom close at hand.

When I was a kid, I watched The Creature from the Black Lagoon. He walked upright, looked like an amphibian, had webbed hands and quite the ugly face with eyes which never moved. Many years later I found out he was a piscine and amphibian humanoid, a creature of myth and legend. He scared the boat load of scientists and crew, even killed a couple after they attacked them. There was, of course, a woman who screamed and screamed and was captured by the Creature. I never questioned the effects. He looked like a gill man. He could breathe underwater. My nephew, who is now forty, saw the movie when he was a kid. He laughed most of the way through. He thought the movie was silly. His comments cut me to the quick. He said you can see the scuba tank the creature is wearing under his fake skin. I never noticed.

Phones were once a wonder. The first telephone I remember when I was young was the phone you picked up to get to the operator who connected your call. Next we got a rotary phone with a party line. The rotary phone made a clicking noise after you entered each number. I loved that sound. I used to listen to Mrs. McGafffigan, but she knew when we on the line and used to yell at us to hang up the phone. We did get our own line. Our first phones were black. All phones were black.

I used to be amazed at all the changes and historical events my grandmother lived through. She was born in 1898. I suspect my niece and nephews think about me in the same way. When I have to indicate my year of birth by scrolling through years, it takes a while to get to 1947. I have seen the plots of the science fiction books I read as a kid become reality, but I am still amazed by the world. I hold close my sense of wonder. I still don’t notice the scuba tank.

Today is another ugly day, dark, chilly and cloudy. I have nowhere I have to be. It is a stay at home day. It is a wash the kitchen floor day.

My house is dark. The TV is on pause. Everything is quiet except for the occasional blast of heat. The dogs have finally settled down on the couch. I’m ready for another cup of coffee.

The dogs are loving his weather. On sunny days, Nala lies on the grass soaking in the warmth. Henry wanders. On the chilly days they run all over the yard. Nala comes inside panting. Henry comes inside hoping for a snack. They both take a morning nap. They have tough lives.

Yesterday I watched a video about Ghana. It was filmed at Yeji, on the shore of the Volta Lake. A ferry leaves from Yeji, crosses the lake and takes the road again on the other side, in the Northern Region on the road to Tamale. I rode that ferry many times. Sometimes I had to wait for it to come from the other side. I bought food and water while I waited. I bought plantain chips cooked over a charcoal fire. The grills were large white enamel bowls filled with burning charcoal. A metal grid was across the top. The aunties also sold dried fish which never tempted me. I think it was the eyes looking at me. The water was sold in green beer bottles. I used to hold the bottle up to the sun to see how many floaties there were. I bought the bottle with the fewest floaties.

I know how lucky I have been to see a good part of the world. Even now, so many years later, I am amazed that I actually lived in Africa. When I was a kid, the only glimpse of it I had were pictures in my geography book. Usually there were giraffes. I never saw giraffes. I remember on the way to Ghana we flew over the Sahara. Later I would ride a camel in the desert, but on the plane I was thrilled to see it. I will never forget stepping off the plane. I felt the blast of heat and saw palm trees. I was in Africa.

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.”

The morning is cloudy, even a bit grim. It is in the mid 50’s, warmish for November, but the next few nights will be winter cold, down to the 30’s. I’ve put the blanket on my bed, a surrender, an acknowledgement to winter.

My kitchen floor is covered with muddy paw prints. Clumps of dog hair fly into the air when I walk down the hall. I ignore it all. My sloth instinct is strong.

When I was a kid, we always had turkey for both Thanksgiving and Christmas and at no other time of year. We ate turkey for days. We started with the big bird on the holiday, then, for supper, we’d have open turkey sandwiches with gravy and the rest of the fixings on the side. Sandwiches were next. The bread was always toasted, and on the turkey was usually stuffing and cranberry sauce and mayo or butter. I loved those sandwiches. Turkey salad, made with the meat my father stripped from the bone, was the next incarnation. The last of the turkey became soup made from the carcass. By then we were trukeyed out.

I had an aunt who was a nun. For most of my childhood, we saw her once a year, an obligatory visit. She lived in Connecticut. We were always dressed in our church clothes for the visit. We stopped once on the way. I remember the building was brick and close to where we were going. We went to the bathroom where my mother made sure we were all nun ready. The visit never changed from year to every year. We sat in the parlor. When she joined us, she looked formidable in her habit. Her questions seldom varied. She wanted to know how school was and what our favorite subjects were. During the visit, another nun would arrive with cookies and soft drinks. At some point we’d walk to the school to see my aunt’s classroom. That was it, the whole visit. I always thought once a year was too often.

The morning is an ugly one. It has been raining, and the damp air is chilly. I’m wearing my cold day ensemble of a sweatshirt, flannel pants and fleece socks. My heat keeps coming on to keep the cold at bay. Today feels like a winter’s day.

I have a concert today, the second this week. I organized my music book last night. Next week we start practicing Christmas music. We’ll start our Christmas concerts in a couple of weeks. I love Christmas concerts.

My father used to say he wanted to come back in his next life as a pet in any of our houses. I’m sure my dogs would agree, but they are curled up asleep on the couch, and I’d hate to disturb them.

I mostly live in my den. The TV is here, my computer too. It is just a few steps to the bathroom and down the hall from the kitchen. My table here is huge, a metal table. Anything I need, except food, is within reach. Right now my computer is on my lap and my feet are resting on the tabletop. I’m watching a movie with resurrected dinosaurs wreaking havoc on an island paradise.

When I was a kid, there were certainties. Oreos came in only one variety. Televisions were black and white. Cereal, except for oatmeal, was loaded with sugar, but we put sugar on it anyway, especially on the sugarless oatmeal which was always lumpy. Boots had shoes inside. We only took a bath on Saturdays. Sunday was the big family dinner. The rest of the week we ate supper. Vegetables mostly came in cans. My mother grocery shopped once a week. We had three sets of clothes: school clothes, play clothes and church clothes. You never mixed and mingled except for the shoes and the winter coats. Fathers worked. Mothers didn’t. We were free roamers. Santa Claus always watched, and we tempted fate by being bad.

My life now still has a regularity. Most days start and end the same way. Only the middles are different, but not very different.

The morning is rainy. I can smell the dead wet leaves on the ground. It will rain on and off all day though the sun will peek through every now and then. The sky is a light grey. I can see the oak tree branches in the back yard being tossed by the wind. The temperature is in the low 60’s where it will sit all day. Tonight, though, will be more seasonal, in the 30’s.

Fall and winter rain make for dreary days, perfect for comfy clothes and a good book. The dogs, who appreciate cozy, are asleep on the couch. Nala is resting her head on my hip. I can feel her warmth.

When I was a kid, my grammar school was old. It was a brick building across from the convent and beside the rectory. Out front there was a big statue of an angel with a child. The first floor was up a set of stairs. Outside each classroom was the cloak room. There were never enough hooks for all our coats as each classroom had large classes. My first grade had over forty kids. The desks were the sort where you didn’t lift the top. Your books were in the desk, below the stationary top. You had to bend over to find the right book. The top had a groove for my pencils and a hole for an ink bottle. It was an old desk. I remember it was dark wood. The bathrooms were downstairs in the cellar.

I don’t like bulky winter coats despite the coldest weather. I have a couple, but I don’t think I wore one all last winter. I wore a hoodie and once in a while added a vest, my interpretation of layering. I have boots but not rubber boots. One pair is ankle high leather boots from Timberland. The other pair is waterproof outside and fleece inside but also ankle height. I always hope for a light snowstorm.

I think my aversion to bulky coats was because of my childhood. My mother made sure I was dressed for the Arctic. I wore a sweater under a heavy winter coat. I wore pink longish thermal underwear which went to just above my knees. My knee socks went to just below my knees. Neither of them met in the middle. I wore boots over my shoes. I always had to wear a hat and mittens though I often ditched the hat when I was out of sight.

This week my dance card is filled with uke: tonight’s practice, a lesson and concert tomorrow and a concert on Thursday. My fingers will get a workout.

The morning is windy, raw and cloudy. Sun is only a possibility. The high will be 49°. Today is an inside day. I’ll be an observer looking at the world through my den window.

When I was in the first few years of grammar school, the nuns used to pass out coloring book pages with holiday designs. We’d pull out our crayons and spend an intense afternoon coloring. I remember the turkey. The big part to color was the tail. Not ever having seen a real turkey, I multi-colored the tail feathers. I think the NBC peacock and my turkey were related. My mother always gushed at my masterpiece. She was quite believable. It was refrigerator art.

Thanksgiving is sandwiched between the two big days, Halloween and Christmas. I never counted the days until Thanksgiving. There was nothing surprising about it. My mother was always up really early, like 5 or 6 ish to stuff the turkey and get it in the oven. My sisters and I still wonder why she needed to be up that early. We watched the parade and munched on M&M’s, tangerines and mixed nuts in the shell. The bowl for the nuts was wooden and had silver picks in holes around the edge. The crackers too were silver. I actually found and bought an old bowl just like it. I fill it with mixed nuts more as a decoration and a memory.

When I think back to those Thanksgivings, images jump into my head. I can see my father carving the turkey. He always started with the legs. We had paper turkey napkins and a paper tablecloth with cornucopias. I always thought the table looked special, festive. There was a huge bowl of mashed potatoes and the gravy was in a boat. The boat name made perfect sense to me. It really did have the body of a canoe but one with a spout. Dinner was always around two.

The pies were on the kitchen table. One was always lemon meringue. That was my favorite. My father was an apple pie with cheese fan. I preferred custard pie over pumpkin.

My dance card this week is uke loaded. I have the usual Tuesday night practice and Wednesday morning lesson. There are two concerts. Wednesday is Hyannis and Thursday is Brewster. I’ll have to keep my fingers limber!

What a delightful day! It is warm and sunny. A breeze is swaying only the tallest pine tree branches. In my backyard, there are still oak leaves dangling from the ends of branches but already piles of fallen leaves cover the backyard, the front grass and the driveway. I like to kick through the piles.

When I was teen, I didn’t have a whole lot of dressy clothes. I didn’t need them. I wore a uniform to school. I had a few skirts and blouses, church clothes. I remember my stylish skirts were tight and had slits in the back. I couldn’t take big steps. I had a pair of saddle shoes and wore ankle socks with them. Even though I was older, I still called the rest of my wardrobe play clothes. One of my favorite outfits was a gift from Christmas, black ski pants with a loop at the bottom to go across and under my foot and a fuzzy pink sweater. I was stylin’.

Now, I only have a few dresses just taking up space in my closet. I bought the first one for my trip to Ghana. It is blue with flowers. The other dress is red with white flowers as the main motif. I also have a couple of dresses made for me when I was in Ghana. The cloth is beautiful. I can’t remember the last time I wore dress.

I am wearing my winter around the house ensemble, a sweatshirt, a Red Sox sweatshirt, flannel pants and slipper socks. It is a cozy outfit.

Our Sunday dinners were special, always a roast, mashed potatoes, gravy and a couple of veggies. My favorite was roast beef. It was always medium to well done so that is how we all still prefer our beef. I love mashed potatoes and adding gravy raises the potatoes to near perfection. Corn and baby peas top my list of favorite veggies. My mother never served spinach, cauliflower or broccoli so they are not on my list of acceptable vegetables.

Today is dump day. My car is just about filled with recyclables and trash bags. After the trash stop, I need a few groceries, coffee filters and bread are one and two on that list. They are life affirming.

Today is sunny and warm. It is 60°. It is the first weekend in a while that it isn’t raining. I have a couple of household chores I choose to ignore. The sloth in me is holding sway.

When I was a kid, Saturday was the best day of all. The morning was dedicated to sitting in front of the TV watching all the kid shows, munching cereal and slurping milk. The rest of the day was set aside for roaming. Sometimes I even biked to one of the towns around mine. I loved the railroad station one town over and would sit on a bench for a while hoping for a train. Supper on Saturday was always the same, but I never minded. I was and am a fan of hot dogs. The Saturday bath after supper was a ritual. I remember my sisters crying when my mother combed the snarls out of their newly shampooed hair. That too was a Saturday ritual. We got to stay up later. TV back then was filled with westerns like Sugarfoot, for which I can still sing the theme, The Roy Rogers Show with Happy Trails to You as the closing song which I can play on my uke, and my favorites like Maverick and Have Gun, Will Travel. I used to read in bed until my mother yelled up the stairs for me to turn off the light. Saturday was the perfect day.

When I lived in Ghana, Saturday was the day to go to town to pick up essentials in the market. I had my favorite egg man and my favorite vegetable lady from whom I bought onions and tomatoes. I used to roam the market hoping to find surprises like that watermelon, the only one I ever saw. From the kiosks lining the street, I’d buy canned goods like margarine and evaporated milk. From small girls carrying their goods on their heads I’d buy bread and bofrot aka puff puff which looked like donut holes only a little bigger and better tasting.

Saturday night was entertainment night at my school. There was tribal dancing and once in a while a movie. I remember Great Expectations and my students having no idea what was happening with the quick dialogue. My favorite was a cartoon about keeping flies off food. The movies and cartoons came from a USAID guy who occasionally dropped into town but whom I seldom saw.

I have an entirely empty dance card this weekend for which I am grateful. I’m going to loll.