The morning is a delight. It is a bit cool, but the sun is strong and quite bright. A breeze is blowing the leaves and the small branches on the oak trees. It is the perfect day to be outside.

This is a quiet week for me. I have only uke practice and a lesson, but I do have a few house and yard projects I hope to finish. Nana is a hole digger, and the last few days she has dug a few deep holes. I want to fill them in before I step in one and break a leg.

Last night I went out on the deck to turn off the white lights on the rail and fence. The timer doesn’t work. It was around 1:30. Everywhere except my yard was dark. Everything was quiet. The dogs followed me out, and they went into the yard. I stood on the deck taking in the night. It was lovely.

When I was a kid, I read everything. After I found mysteries, I read Trixie Belden, Donna Parker, Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys. I read all the classics. I remember the Christmas I got Little Women. I started reading it to the exclusion of everything else. I didn’t even hear my mother call me to dinner. I was totally absorbed into the pages of that book. Jo was my hero, a strong woman who bucked convention. Treasure Island was another book which held me enthralled. I didn’t want Long John Silver to be a bad guy. I read all the Doctor Dolittle books. I loved the pushme-pullyou. I always wished I could talk to animals. I wish it even now. I imagine the conversations Nala and I would have. I expect she’d be sassy and whiney. Henry would be personable. He has a constantly wagging tail. His whole rear end wags with it. He likes life. Doctor Doolittle proved he could talk to animals in a court case. He had the judge’s dog on the stand and questioned him in dog speak. By the dog’s answers, the judge believed Doctor Doolittle. I’d have Nala take the 5th.

The nights get cool, even cold. The days stay in the 60’s. The sun slants through the trees in the backyard. The clouds hide the blue. Pine pollen covers every surface. Welcome to spring on Cape Cod.

Today is a quiet day. I did vacuum earlier because the hall floor had clumps of Henry hair which flew into the air when I walked to the kitchen. The only item on my to do list is water the plants. Last night I even made dinner, a real dinner with potatoes. I’ve got leftovers for tonight.

My mother had sayings for every occasion. I don’t know if they came from the mother’s handbook given to her at my birth or from her own mother. I remembered one this morning. I made a pot of coffee with new coffee to me, coffee from Uganda. I ground the beans and eyed the amount to put into the filter. The coffee was strong, but I do like strong coffee, but it reminded me of my mother saying, “It is so strong it will grow hair on your chest.” I don’t what she was talking about, but I remembered growing hair on my chest. “Wait until your father gets home,” was a viable threat. There was the famous, “Stop crying or I’ll give you something to cry about.” My father liked that one too, but his threats seem real, not like my mother’s threats. I remember her telling me to wipe that look off my face. I’d say I had no look, and she’d counter with you know exactly what I’m talking about. She was usually right. I didn’t get, “Six of one and half a dozen of the other, until I was older.” One of her all time famous lines used to drive me crazy, “Because I said so.”

My father was the last resort, the threat from my mother if we didn’t do what she told us to do. He had his own sayings. In the car he’d threaten to turn around if we didn’t stop whatever we were doing. He often complained he was the only ant in a family of grasshoppers. He described people as being good eggs. He was never made of money.

It’s funny and wonderful how often my parents come to mind.

Last night was downright cold. I shut the windows. I also shut the back door as I could feel the cold coming through the dog door. This morning is warmer but only 52°. It is a pretty day with sharp sunlight and lots of blue. The breeze barely ruffles the oak leaves. The dogs stay out in the yard. They like these cool days.

Today I have a concert, my third uke event of the week. Tuesday was practice. Wednesday was my lesson. After today, my dance card is empty until Sunday when I have, yup, you guessed it, another uke concert. I do have a to do list, but the sheet is yellow with age.

When I was a kid, I wasn’t a fan of carrots. Peas were my favorite vegetables. I never saw fresh peas. I’m not even sure I knew they came fresh. Mine were the very young, small sweet peas in the silver can. We had potatoes almost every night just not on Fridays and Saturdays. Friday was no meat so no potatoes, maybe fried dough or little pizzas. Saturday was baked beans. I don’t even remember ever seeing sweet potatoes, maybe Thanksgiving but I’m only guessing. Some vegetables were never served. Spinach was one of those as were Brussels sprouts. I didn’t see Brussels sprouts until I was older, and I thought they were baby cabbages. Our mashed potatoes were sometimes streaked with orange. My mother hid mashed carrots in the mashed potatoes. I just went along with it.

One of most glorious events in my life was when I learned to read. My mother used to read to me all the time, Golden Books when I was really young. She used to brag I was only two when I knew every animal on the ring of animals on the back covers of the Golden Books. I loved nursery rhymes. They tickled my fancy. My first library card was an occasion, a big event, my entry into the most wonderful world, one I still cherish.

When I was a kid, I dreamed of seeing the world. It was my all encompassing dream. I never dreamed of what I wanted to be. When I was asked by adults what I wanted to be when I grew up, a stupid question I always thought, I was stymied. Back then the choices for girls were sort of limited: teachers or nurses. My heroes were women who ran counter to custom like Amelia Earhart. I didn’t want to be a pilot. I just wanted the choice.

When I first woke up, I checked the outside world thorough my bedroom window. The morning is cloud bound. It looked chilly, but I was wrong. It is a warm day and already 71°. It is a day to ditch my sweatshirt for short sleeves. The sun is even beginning to make an appearance. I think it will be a lovely day.

Nala is outside at her usual spot by the back fence lying in the sun. Henry is here with me. It is just about time for their first naps of the day.

I have a couple of errands. My car is nearly empty of gas so the gas station is on the list. My larder is empty of essentials like cream and bread so a short trip to the grocery store is in order. I always buy a Snickers bar as a treat for me and biscuits for the dogs.

My dance card has a few items for the week. I hate busy weeks. I prefer to stay home and just enjoy the day, every day. I have uke practice tonight and a lesson and a doctor’s appointment, a regular appointment, tomorrow.

When I was a kid, we had a May procession every year. The whole school marched. The oldest kids were in front and the youngest in back. The second graders were all in white, the outfits they’d wore for their first communion. In school we practiced the songs we’d sing at the grotto, at the end of the march, songs like Mary We Hail Thee with Blossoms today and Hail Holy Queen Enthroned Above. Parents lined the parade route which was a square around the block from the school to the grotto. An eighth grader always crowded the statue of Mary with a crown of flowers. During my eighth grade, I was the crowner. I wore a wedding dress belonging to a neighbor. I was at the end of the parade. I stopped a lot as people wanted pictures, and I was happy to oblige. At the grotto, we sang a few songs then it was time. The statue was in a niche on the front of the grotto. A sort of step ladder with a railing had been put there so I could reach the statue. I was scared stiff I’d step on the hem of my dress and fall. The priest saw my fear and held my hand as I ascended the ladder. At the Mary we crown thee line, I crowned the statue then gingerly walked down the ladder. I have a picture somewhere of me climbing the stairs. It was a momentous occasion.

These spring mornings are sunny and warmish. Right now it is 65°, but the house feels nippy. It still carries a bit of a chill from the cooler night. The high today will only be 68°, but it will be sunny.

I have been bitten by an unknown bug. It causes horrific responses. On Saturday I organized all my music books, all 13 of them. I labeled each spine with the theme of the book, themes like Christmas, Folk, Colors and Motown. I stood the binders up like books so I don’t have move a pile to find one book. They do look good.

Under my serving table in the dining room are two large Peterborough baskets my mother filled with stocking gifts. On Sunday, I decided to pull each out and check what was stored. I was amazed at what I found. There are Christmas serving dishes, pottery casseroles, bowls and several sets of napkins and place mats. Many of those dishes were filled with the shells of sunflower seeds. At the bottom of the basket were piles of kernels. It seems mice once lived in my basket. The next basket had assorted serving bowls and plates. I found wooden bowls with natural edges, but I knew they were there. I also found several napkins and I also found a set of matching place mats, napkins and a table cloth. I have no memory of them whatsoever. At the bottom of the basket were the telltale signs of mice, the empty sunflower kernels. The mice have moved on, perhaps to their heavenly rewards. It took me close to two hours to finish the task.

When spring arrives, Cape Cod has its own traditions. First, the landscapers wake from their hibernation. They fill the road with trucks towing equipment storage trailers. They break the silence of the mornings by mowing lawns and blowing leaves. They cut down trees, mostly pine trees. I can hear people talking. They too come out of hibernation. The cape turns yellow. The forsythias bloom, and the daffodils fill the gardens with pops of color. A layer of green-yellow pine pollen covers every surface, inside and out. Next, all the snow birds appear. They leave the heat of Florida to return to the cooler cape. They fill the roads with their slow moving cars. They bear the brunt of a great deal of cursing. The peepers herald the arrival of spring. They fill the night air with their chorus of trills and chirping. The birds greet the dawn of every morning. The feeders are filled with chickadees, cardinals, blue jays and a few titmice. Doves coo. The aroma of wood burning in fire pits and chimineas sweetens the air. People open their decks at the first sign of any warmth, of any day over 60°. I put my flannel away. I wear my sandals. I sit outside with my coffee and papers. I relish the arrival of every new day in spring.

I wrote this on a past Mother’s Day. I don’t think I could write better than this about my mother.

Special days have special posts. 

Today is Mother’s Day. It is the day I honor my mother and my memories of her. Every year I post basically this same entry with only a few little changes. 

I am amazed at how long ago I lost my mother. Sometimes it seems like a day while other times it feels like forever. I keep her close always, in my heart. 

My mother was amazing. She was generous, fun to be with and was the perfect martyr when she needed to be, a skill I think most mothers have. It was her tone of voice so filled with pain that caused our guilt to well to the surface. “I’ll do it myself,” she’d say. We’d scurry to do whatever she wanted. She was tricky, that woman.

My sisters and I laugh often about the curses she inflicted on us: the love of everything Christmas and never thinking you have enough presents for everyone, giving Easter baskets overflowing with candy and fun toys and surprising people with a gift just because.

My mother had a generosity of spirit. She was funny and smart and the belle of every ball. She always had music going in the kitchen as she worked so she could sing along. She played Frank and Tony and Johnny and from her I learned the old songs. My mother drew all the relatives to her, and her house was filled on holidays and weekends. My cousins visited often. She was their favorite aunty. My mother loved to play Big Boggle, and we’d sit for hours at the kitchen table and play so many games we’d lose track of the time. Christmas was always amazing, and she passed this love to all of us. We traveled together, she and I, and my mother was game for anything. I remember Italy and my mother and me after dinner at the hotel bar where she’d enjoy her cognac. She never had it any other time, but we’re on vacation she said and anything goes. I talked to her just about every day, as did my sisters. I loved it when she came to visit. We’d shop, have dinner out then play games at night. I always waited on her when she was here. I figured it was the least I could do.

My mother loved extreme weather shows, TV judges and crime. She never missed Judge Judy. She also liked quiz shows and she and I used to play Jeopardy together on the phone at night. She always had a crossword puzzle book with a pen inside on the table beside her chair, and I used to try to fill in some of the blanks. On the dining room table was often a jig saw puzzle, and we all stopped to add pieces on the way to the kitchen. My mother loved a good time.

She did get feisty, and I remember flying slippers aimed at my head when I was a kid and one time a dictionary, a big dictionary, was thrown which luckily missed me though the binding broke when it hit the wall. I pointed that out to her and that made her madder. She expertly used mother’s guilt on us, her poor victims. We sometimes drove her crazy, and she let us know, none too quietly. We never argued over politics. She kept her opinions close. We sometimes argued over other things, but the arguments never lasted long.

Even after all this time, I still think to reach for the phone to call my mother when I see something interesting or have a question I know only she can answer, but then in a split second I remember. When I woke up this morning, my first thought was of her, and how much she is missed. No one ever told me how hard it would be. Happy Mother’s Day, Mom!!

Today is another delightful day with temperatures in the low 70’s. The sun is warm. A small every now and then breeze blows the low branches. Clouds come and go. Flowers are blooming. My front garden has new, tall white and purple flowers. I can hear my neighbors working in their gardens. Spring has arrived but so has the yellow, dusty pine pollen. I can see a light layer on my car. I don’t need to shut the windows yet, but that is coming.

I noticed some lily of the valley shoots across the street. They are probably from my side garden which is covered with lilies of the valley. More are on the small hill beside my house. My back yard too has lilies of the valley. Every shoot reminds me of my mother. Her front yard had lilies of the valley and violets. I brought some plants down here. The lilies closest to the violets had turned a light purple. Those I planted in my front garden, but they didn’t survive. The violets too have disappeared, but the lilies have survived and spread. They are everywhere.

When I was a kid, I wore the typical girls’ uniform of the day on Saturdays. That consisted of girls’ jeans, blouses and low rider white pointed sneakers, dirty white sneakers, but I was young and didn’t care. Many of my blouses had no sleeves. That was the style back then. My jeans had a zipper in one front pocket, but the pocket wasn’t deep so it was more of a half zipper. On the warmer days I substituted shorts for jeans, but the rest of my sort of ensemble stayed the same.

I wore dresses all the time in Ghana. It was the custom. I knew ahead of time so my mother and I shopped and found a few dresses and some skirts. I am not really a dress person. I did wear one to school here every day but changed in a heartbeat to cozies when I got home, and I never wore dresses on the weekends. On our shopping spree, we found a really ugly after shower sort of cotton robe which I wore every day in Ghana. It was white with black blotches. It had a zipper. I used to take it off and jump into bed still wet so I’d air dry and be a bit cooler to fall asleep. That was as close as I got to casual clothes in Ghana.

Each morning, when I first wake up, I look out the window in my bedroom. This morning I saw the brightest sun and a deep, deep blue sky, a beautiful day with a high of 78° and a low of 54°. The weather report, though, does say a moderate chance of scattered showers after 3 PM, but I figure moderate makes it unlikely.

It is time to put my factotum, Skip, to work. I have a long list of spring work, things like replacing boards on the deck rail, power washing the deck and wooden chairs, planting pots with flowers and herbs and decorating for the summer with flags and candles and the fish table. I’m ready for coffee and papers on the deck.

I need a new dump sticker. The town calls it a transfer station sticker, a euphemism. The cost is $190.00. That gives me the privilege of dumping my own trash and recycling five days a week. How exciting!

Once, on a bus, I saw a woman who was constantly talking light her cigarette then put the lit end in her mouth. She sputtered and spit. I have no idea why I remember that.

I have a confession. On my way to Sandwich a long time back when I was young and reckless I got stopped for speeding, not once but twice. I got a warning each time. I have never had a speeding ticket.

I loved riding my Honda in Ghana. When I bought it, they taught me how to shift. My trip home from buying it was 100 miles on a paved road. The ride took well over four hours. I was a bit nervous when the lorries and the buses passed me. I could feel the breeze. I only stopped once to stretch my legs and buy some fruit from an auntie selling along the roadside in some small village. I noticed people walking on the roads or in the fields without seeing a compound or a village. I wondered where they came from and how far they were walking. I had a helmet. Peace Corps insisted we wear one and sent one to me. I didn’t wear it much. It was hot and bulky. I was attacked, sort of, by a herd of goats. They turned into me and hit my bike. That surprised me, and I dropped the bike and got burned from the exhaust. Another time, in the bush, I saw a troop of baboons cross the road. I stopped. One of them gave me a long look, but I never moved and he lost interest. I used to ride into town for market day. I brought shepherd’s bags with me to load with my purchases. They are woven bags which stretch. I’d fill the bags with oranges, plantain, yams, eggs and even a pineapple. I’d put the heavy bags on each handlebar. They hung to my knees. I’d hope for the best.

It is a beautiful day. The sun is bright. The air is still. It could even get as warm as 70+°. The Cape is inching toward summer, and today is a preview, a delightful preview.

I have a concert this afternoon, the first in a busy concert season. In June alone there are ten. The fingers on my left hand are getting meaty.

The dogs scared the heck out of me around four this morning. Both of them, at the same time, jumped off the bed and ran downstairs. Henry was barking though that is not unusual. He is a loud boy. I decided not to go check, but, instead, went back to sleep. The dogs joined me.

In reading the paper this morning, I saw scrum used in a different way. I had only known it as a rugby play. The sentence read, “A scrum of reporters…” I checked and it also means a disordered or confused situation involving a number of people. It was used to describe the reporters surrounding Santos and yelling questions.

When I was a kid, I used to keep a dictionary close in case I ran into a word I didn’t know. Even now there is one by my bed but down here I just ask Duck.

When I was growing up, my house and yard were filled with sounds. I loved the turning sound of the phone dial, the click click. My father always used a hand mower. It too had a click click sound. Our fridge didn’t hum. It always made all sorts of what sounded like grunting noises as if it were having trouble keeping up with its responsibilities. Floors creaked. The stairs creaked even more. The back door always slammed despite my mother yelling about closing the door. We knew when the milkman and the garbage men came. They had a metallic sound. The milkman’s bottles hit the wire basket. The garbage man used his foot to open the metal cover then pulled out the metal bucket filled with garbage. When he was done, he’d use his foot to slam the cover down.

I remember the sounds of the stores uptown. Cash registers had bells sounds and their drawers had metallic clangs when they slid open. There was no music in stores, but every now and then the supermarket had an announcement. Bells hanging on the door frames rang when shop doors were opened. At the bus stop by the movie theater, the bus engines were noisy and smoke always came out of the exhaust.

In my house and yard the sounds are intermittent. The sweetest sounds are the birds greeting the day, and the chimes ringing in the wind. When the school bus goes noisily down the street, Henry barks. The landscapers are the noisiest. Henry barks at the sounds of the motors. In the house, I can hear the furnace working, and the clink of ice cubes falling into the tray. I hear the beep when the coffee is brewed and when the microwave has finished.

In the darkness, the night birds sing and the frogs croak. The streets are quiet. It is my favorite time of the day.