Today is winter. It is a drab day with a temperature of 38°, the high for the day. I could feel the cold when I opened the back door for the dogs. They didn’t stay out for long. I do have a coat for each of them, but they are not out long enough to need one. Nala’s coat was once Gracie’s. She wore it on every winter walk. Henry was fitted for his coat. He doesn’t like it, no surprise there.

When I was a kid, my mother was the arbiter of cold weather garments. She was a firm believer in layering. No one told her back then. She just knew, one of those mother things. I wore a sweater under my winter coat. I wore heavy socks, sometimes knee socks. I wore pink long underwear which came to my knees. The final touches were a scarf, my wool hat and my mittens. By the time she’d finish dressing me in the morning very little of me was open to the cold air, but all of this warmth came with a price. I had to take everything off at school except my sweater.

The classrooms in the old school had tall radiators below the long windows. They hissed and gurgled and steamed. They were the background sounds every cold winter’s day, but after a while, we stopped hearing them. On the coldest days, the windows were steamy, wet.

The windows at home sometimes had a layer of frost from the radiator steam. I used to write on the frost using my fingernail. I remember the steam hissing from the radiator under the window at the foot of my bed. Sometimes it also made a banging noise. They were the sounds of winter.

The sun was here earlier, but it has since retreated behind the clouds. Today it will rain. It is 56° but the breeze makes it feel colder. Much earlier, I stood on the deck for a while just to take in the morning. Leaves were being blown. I could hear the dogs crunching through the fallen leaves in the backyard. I could hear birds.

Every day I have a chore list, or maybe I should call it the chore list as it has become a permanent list, the same every day, as I don’t finish anything on it despite my great intentions. That used to bother me. It doesn’t anymore.

My dance card is, as usual, uke-centered, but with one exception. Tomorrow is shot day. I’m getting two. Starting Tuesday I have uke practice, a lesson on Wednesday and concerts on Wednesday and Saturday. I hate getting dressed for so many days in a week.

Last night I went through the pictures of my time in Ghana. The bus to the airport picture reminded me of my last phone call to my parents. It was the night before the bus and the flight. My mother cried about a sweatshirt. She said I had left it on the bed, and while she was folding it, she thought about not seeing me for two years and not folding another sweatshirt. My father said don’t worry if I want to come home, but I knew I wouldn’t. Don’t ask me how, but I just knew. They told me to write and let them know I had arrived safely. I promised I would. I did.

I am so very young in all those pictures. I was twenty-one when I arrived and turned twenty-two before the end of training. I had wanted to be a Peace Corps volunteer almost half of my life. I was excited about Africa, but I was nervous. I didn’t know what to expect, but I think I would have felt the same no matter where I was going. I didn’t know anyone who had been in the Peace Corps or even wanted to be. I was on my own. That was scarier than anything. As we stood in line to check in, we chatted. Come to find out we all felt pretty much felt the same way. That was our first bond, and we hadn’t even left yet, but we had something together. I wasn’t on my own anymore.

The rain started last night. I don’t know when it stopped, but it will rain again during the afternoon. It is warm at 56°. The sky is a white gray. The trees are still. (The sun just broke from the clouds. The sky is getting blue.)

When I was a kid, Saturday was the day my dad did dad stuff like bringing his shirts to the laundry, the Chinese laundry uptown, having his hair trimmed in the small barbershop with only a couple of stools and visiting his friend Pullo at the drug store. I remember Pullo, the owner and pharmacist, had a mustache and always wore a white shirt, the sort Dr. Casey wore. The drug store was small, but it had a soda fountain with a few stools. If I was with my dad, I sat there, spun the stool and drank a coke, a vanilla coke. Saturday afternoon was when my father did his chores. They were always outside chores, like mowing and raking the lawn in the summer, planting flowers in the front garden and in the fall, raking and burning the leaves. In the winter he shoveled if we had snow. Sometimes he’d visit his parents who lived in the same town. He’d come home with a bag from his mother: a carton of cigarettes and some sort of candy like fruit slices. Saturday evening, after our traditional New England supper, he’d watch TV.

Friends I grew up with still live in my old home town. My sister lives there too, around the corner from where my parents lived. I don’t visit. I used to when my parents were alive because I could bring the dog. Now, with two dogs, I’d have to hire someone to feed them and let them out, but I worry about Henry. He doesn’t abide change, and he is a barker. He scares people. Nala is a jumper, a kisser. She’d be fine. Boarding too is a possibility. But for now, I have no plans to leave the cape.

I had to call my insurance company. I have just started a new medication which replaced one I was on for years. Instead of once like the old one, I take it twice a day. I put the bottle on my table so I’d remember. I suspect you know where I am going with this. The next day it was gone. I knew it hadn’t grown legs. I knew right away who took it. I went into the back yard to Nala’s usually spot for pilfered goods. It wasn’t there. I looked all over the yard, no bottle. Inside the house I checked under furniture in case it had rolled. No bottle. It was the dog ate my homework story, sort of. The woman at my insurance company was wonderful. She over-rode the old prescription and okayed the payment for a new one. I said I was sure this was a strange one. She said no. It happens more than you’d think, and people often forget where they’d put their prescription bottles. That comforted me. I’m not there yet.

My morning had such a late start it blended into the afternoon. I’m only now having my second cup of coffee. The day is cloudy bright. The breeze is slight. It is 50°, typical for this time of year. Having no need to go out, I am staying home in my comfy clothes. The dogs have been in and out but are now on the couch for their naps, the first naps of many.

When I was a kid, life was easy. School was my only obligation through I never saw it that way as I really liked school. I loved learning, except for arithmetic. It was my bugaboo. I used to hide my fingers under my desk for counting when I needed them to finish an arithmetic problem. I remember learning to carry a number. I’d put the number on top of the problem and say carry the one or whatever the number was so I’d remember. We had to memorize the times tables. That was easy. My favorites were one, five and ten.

I remember coloring turkeys during art. The nun passed out a single paper with the outline of a turkey. We had to color it. That may sound easy, but most of us had only see a turkey plucked, cleaned and ready for the oven. We had to guess the colors. I remember his tail. I made it look more like a peacock’s tail with tons of color. His body was brown. I signed my masterpiece and brought it home for the fridge, a Thanksgiving decoration.

I don’t remember exactly who it was, but I do remember the horror when she found out the stuffing went into the butt of the turkey, not the head. I remember the bags in the butt were filled with the neck, the heart, the liver and the gizzard. I didn’t learn until I was older that they are called the giblets. My mother baked the neck, and my father ate the meat on it. She never used the giblets for the gravy though I knew other people did. She cooked the heart and liver for the dog. My mother always cooked the stuffing in the bird. Everyone did back then. She made great stuffing and used Bell’s seasoning for the flavor. I remember we had to send some to my sister in Colorado as back then they didn’t sell it in the grocery stores.

One mouse last night, and I didn’t reset the traps. I’ll do that tonight. I did sweep today, and I do have plants to water. I could do so much more, but I won’t. I’ll save some for another day or for many days.

I’m sitting here looking out the window at a pretty day. The sun is bright, glaringly bright, at least for the meantime as clouds are waiting, biding their time. The wind is blowing even the biggest branches. Yellow and brown pine needles cover the already fallen leaves. Even the driveway has disappeared. Outside, the dogs crouched when the wind was the strongest. Now it is their nap time.

Last night I trapped two more mice. They are small. I don’t know how long they were in the mouse hotel, but they ate the bait. I let them go. I’m thinking under that bed in Jack’s room is like a clown car only with mice instead of clowns.

My dance card is empty. I already had my uke practice and lesson so now I’ll stay home to rest my leg. It is so much better, finally. I wish I knew what I did to injure it so I won’t do it again. There are a few oddities in my life. I love red licorice, Twizzlers, but not black licorice except for Good and Plenty, black jelly beans and black Chuckles. I do love the taste of anise, especially Italian anise cookies. My uncle used to make the best anise cookies. He always saved some for me at Christmas. I’m not one into schmaltz, but I do love Hallmark movies. I like that each movie ends happily. I’m a sucker for Christmas movies. I love music, but there are singers I’ve never liked, no complaints about my list please. I have never liked Elvis, Neil Diamond or Barry Manilow. Others are on the list but none are as prominent.

I am a purist when it comes to coffee. I drink coffee from all over the world. I love the different nuances. Ghana was a glaring exception. It is a tea drinking country, a former British colony. I had to drink instant coffee with canned milk, an abomination, but I had no choice. After a while my taste buds went numb, and I didn’t notice. When I went back, it was still the same. Everywhere I stayed served instant coffee in little packets with packets of sugar and canned Carnation milk. It is still an abomination but being without coffee is worse. My taste buds knew what to do. They went numb.

Today is another lovely day. We are in the mid-50’s. We have a strong breeze. The sun is sharp, glaringly bright, the way it is this time of year. Many branches are bare while some just have hanging dead leaves. Fall is becoming a memory.

My friend was older than I by a decade. She was a bit stubborn and used to do things by herself which she shouldn’t have. Her son would have done whatever she needed, but she didn’t ask. I’d be after her to have the heavy stuff done by me or him. She ignored me. I get it now. To do it yourself is a form of independence, of still hanging on to the reins. Yesterday I put in the other storm door. I carried it up the stairs from the cellar, through the living room then lifted it into the front door. It went so easily into the door I had to save my curses for another day.

During the fall, my father did all the getting ready for winter chores. Every Saturday he’d rake. He used a green metal rake. A few of the teeth were bent. I remember the sound of that rake, the sort of grating swish. My father would rake over and across and build a giant leaf pile as he raked. The pile would be raked down the small hill, the same hill we rode our bicycles down, across the sidewalk and into the gutter. He’d set fire to the leaves and stand and watch as they burned. The smell of burning leaves is one of my fondest memories. My jacket would hold the aroma.

The small front garden was cleared of the remains of summer flowers. Only the dirt was left. It was bare and drab, but I knew Christmas lights would be soon be on the bushes and brighten the garden for a little while longer.

Next, the storm windows replaced the screens which were then stored in the cellar where the storms had been. First, my father washed the dusty windows, he was big on clean windows, then while carrying a storm, he’d climb the ladder. That was always suspenseful. Would he make it? Would the window make it intact? The hard part, the scariest part, was when he’d reach the window frame on the house and had to use both hands to angle the top of the storm onto the hooks at the top of the frame. It took a few attempts. I know from whom I learned my cursing.

My dance card is fairly empty this week with just the usual uke events. On the mice front, I forgot to report the other night. There were two. Last night there was only one. That brings the total to 10. I didn’t set the traps last night. This mighty hunter needs a break.

Today is still. Today is also dark. My house is quiet. The dogs are having their morning naps each on one side of me on the couch. Nothing is moving outside. Even the leaves are still. Last night was downright cold, but the morning is in the 50’s, typical for November here on the cape. The paper says rain for later.

When I was a kid, the weather was never really important to me except for snow and the possibility of a snow day. When it rained, I’d get wet on the walk to school. There was no way around it. I’d dry during the day but get wet again on the walk home. On cold days we’d be bundled. My mother always made sure we were in layers. I’d wear my mittens but balk at a hat. My mother always insisted so I’d wear it until I was out of sight. We used to pretend to be smoking when steam came out of our mouths on the coldest days. We’d hold something between our fingers as if it were a cigarette. It always made us seem elegant, not a word we knew but a feeling we had.

On one trip to Europe, my sister joined my mother, father and me. We flew into Brussels. We picked up our rental car and drove into the city to try and find our hotel. My father drove. I gave him directions. He was nervous and kept questioning me. I knew the hotel was in the center of the city so I had him follow the centro signs. He wasn’t happy. It was serendipity when he took a suggested turn, and there it was, the Hotel Amigo, within sight of the Grand Place. It was a beautiful hotel, the sort where they fold your pajamas and put them on the pillow next to the nightly chocolates. Our rooms were huge. The bar was perfect for a drink after a day of wandering.

After we left the city, we rode around and happened to find WWII sites. My father, a WWII vet, was delighted by our travels through history. He gave us a commentary. I remember all the Malmedy signs. Each time we saw one my father mentioned the massacre there during the Battle of the Bulge. We saw tank traps looking like teeth in the Ardennes forest. We were the only car on the road. My mother said we could be in Twilight Zone episode with Germans attacking. My dad asked for a picture of the tank traps. I went into the forest. I didn’t realize the ground was thick with mud. It sucked up both my shoes. I pulled them out and carried them on my walk back to the car. My socks later got tossed into the trash. My father loved the picture and laughed at the story behind it.

The morning is just so pretty. The sun is bright. It is fall sharp. Everything seems to pop in the light. It is in the high 50’s, and the strong wind is finally gone, but an every now and then wind still blows. The world is awash with leaves and pine needles. They cover everything. Even my driveway has disappeared. Some fallen branches and limbs are strewn about the yard. Leaves still hang from branches but most are brown. I have no plans for today. I do have a list of things to be done, but there is no timetable. I may vacuum Henry hair. It is back.

The mouse count is now 6. Only one of the mouse hotels was occupied last night. The mice are all small. I’m thinking a family, and the first mouse I saw, bigger than all the others, might be the patriarch.

Last night I had maybe twenty trick or treaters. The first group was the largest, 6 boys around 11 or 12. Each of them wore a costume. Every one of them was polite and said thank you. I heard them talking as they leaving, marveling at getting big bars. I know that feeling. Little kids were next. Their parents hovered around near the car. One little girl had a cascade of lights hanging behind her. She was a dancer. A parent yelled and said this was the best house on the street. She had seen the Hershey bar in her daughter’s bag.

When I was a kid, we always had the day after Halloween off. It is a holy day of obligation, All Saints Day. I had to go to mass or suffer the pains of hell. I used to go early to get it over with. I sometimes saw the public school kids walking to school. They didn’t get to stay home, watch TV and eat candy.

I always thought of fall as my favorite time of year even back then, but for different reasons than I do now. They were kid reasons. First came Halloween. Everything was good about it, and we got the next day off. Thanksgiving was close. We got to have turkey. When I was young, we only had it for Thanksgiving and Christmas so it was special. After Thanksgiving, all my thoughts were of Christmas. It took so much planning. It was the best day of the whole entire year.

Last night the wind howled. The windows shook, branches bent sideways and the leaves and pine needles fell like rain. Oh yeah, about that rain! It poured. It beat against the windows. The dogs took one look and backed into the kitchen. Later, though, the rain stopped but not the wind. The dogs got brave and went into the yard. Henry was alert. He watched the trees. He jumped a few times.

The clouds are hanging around, but the sun is making an appearance. It is relatively warm at 58°, but the wind is still strong. It is a day best seen through the windows.

The mouse count is now 5.

On Halloween, the school day seemed endless. At recess we all talked about our costumes. Most, like mine, were homemade. We talked about witches, ghosts and goblins haunting the night. None of us admitted to being afraid. We scoffed at the thought. We were too old and sophisticated to believe in scary creatures, but at night, it was different. I remember walking home in the dark. Most house lights were off letting us know their Halloween was over. The sidewalks were dark. There were still streetlights and below them on the road were circles of light. We talked loudly as we walked. We were sometimes the only kids still out. We’d eat a piece of candy or two on the way home to keep us fortified. We were always glad to get home.

My mother would give each of us our own bowl for our candy. I remember the bowls with tulips on them. We’d empty our bags into the bowls and then the negotiations would begin. We’d swap candy giving up sometime we didn’t really want for something we did. We’d munch on our candy as we watched scary movies on TV. They were the black and white movies like Dracula, Frankenstein, The Werewolf and The Mummy. I still love those movies and am watching The Invisible Man on TCM right now as sort of inspiration. I’ll be watching TCM all day. They are showing the classics.

Happy Halloween! Keep an eye out, be alert. You never know what might be lurking in the night.