The morning is sunny with a partly cloudy sky. It is only 32°. Snow showers are a possibility. Tonight we’re predicted to get around an inch of snow. That will be our biggest snow storm to date.

My dance card for the week is pretty much the same as my dance card of last week and the week before and before that and on and on. This is a slow, quiet time of year.

Nala is a clever dog. She knows when to run away with her pilfered goods, and the dog door provides a quick escape. I joked a few days ago about the Creeping Garland. It moved, and I never saw the how though I knew the who. Yesterday afternoon Nala was busy in the hall. I should have been suspicious. Later, when I went through the hall to the kitchen, I saw the garland stretched out its full length in the hall. Nala had brought it through the dog door from the yard. I was amazed. She had to have pulled it through the door, and I never saw or heard her. I figured she did it during the nap I took yesterday. Nala is a tricky dog.

Yesterday I had a fluffernutter, a peanut butter and Marshmallow Fluff sandwich. The peanut butter was chunky. I remember when I was a kid my mother once bought chunky peanut butter instead of smooth by mistake. The taste was a divine revelation.

In Ghana, groundnut (peanut) stew is a staple. I used to buy groundnut paste, the stew’s main ingredient, in the market, not for stews but for sandwiches. It was thick, natural peanut butter using an alias. I had to make do with jelly for my sandwich.

When I was a kid, by the time I’d get home from school on a winter’s day, it was too cold to play outside for long or even at all. We’d watch TV. My mother would be cooking dinner. The kitchen was small. I can close my eyes and see my mother by the sink peeling potatoes. I remember the steam on the windows from the food cooking. The table was beside the big kitchen window near the back door. The kitchen was open to the living room, a construction detail way ahead of its time. After my sister was born, we moved down the hill to the house with one more bedroom, the house where I grew up.

We had snow yesterday, mostly a dusting, maybe an inch, maybe less. During the storm, I turned on the back light and watched the snow fall. It fell gently. I was going to sweep the front stairs and walkway this morning, but the snow is mostly gone from there. Last night was in the low 20’s. Right now it is 33°.

When I first got Henry, he wouldn’t let me pat him for months. He even saw a dog shrink three times. Finally, after six months, he let me pat him and scratch by his tail. I was thrilled. Jump ahead to now. Henry sometimes drives me crazy. If I get off the couch, he follows. I don’t go to the bathroom alone. I don’t go anywhere in the house alone. He does enjoy a nap upstairs on my, think our, bed, but if he hears me moving around he comes right downstairs. I have a shadow, a big white and brown shadow.

Life is quiet. Other than uke practice on Tuesday nights and a lesson every Wednesday morning I seldom go out. I do go to the dump but not on any particular day, and I sometimes skip a week. I used to feel guilty about doing nothing, but I have wholly embraced the sloth in me.

When I was a kid, clean laundry magically appeared in my drawers and closet. The bed made and changed itself. Trash walked out the door to the barrels. All of it happened without me. All of it happened when I was I school. I had no chores. That was the beginning of the birth of my inner sloth.

My mother used to mash carrots and potatoes together so we’d eat the carrots. I loved baby peas and corn though I was less enthused about cream corn. It looked a bit gross and spread all over the plate. In Ghana I ate vegetables I hadn’t ever heard of before then. Okra was one of them. I always ate it in soups. It was a bit slimy but that made it more interesting. Garden eggs were just as the name implies, small vegetables shaped like an egg. I didn’t know for a long while they were tiny eggplants. I ate yams, not sweet potatoes but actual yams with skin which looked like bark. In September FraFra potatoes appeared in the market. They were small but were actual potatoes. They were only around a short time soI always ate my fill. I added hummus to my diet with its chick peas.

My palate was greatly expanded in Ghana where I didn’t know what I was eating some of the time. I had learned not to ask.

Today is a winter’s day. The sky is steely grey. Pine tree branches stand as dark silhouettes outlined against the grey. Nothing is moving. It is 22°. The high will be a whopping 25°. It is the perfect day to stay in my cozies.

The dogs stay out a while. They chase each other all over the yard. Both come inside panting. Both have cold ears. They do have coats but not earmuffs.

Today is laundry day. I have finally begun to run out of my uniform of a sweatshirt and flannel pants. I also need to wash the spread from my bed. The CDC has been leaving messages about wanting it for testing.

For some odd reason, a singular memory of Ghana I haven’t mentioned before or I don’t remember mentioning leapt out of my memory drawer. I was in my house reading when I heard a, “Caw, Caw,” which a visitor always said to mention his presence in lieu of a doorbell, followed by a knock at the screen door. A man I didn’t know was there. He greeted me, and I returned his greeting. He told me he was looking for a white woman. I thanked him for the offer but said I wasn’t available. He asked if I knew any Canadians. I told him no. He thanked me and went on his way.

I have the makings of a cheesy science fiction movie in my backyard. Call it The Case of the Creeping Garland. Last week I finally removed the pine garland from my mantel. I had left it there so long after Christmas because green is a hopeful color, the color of new beginnings, but the garland had dried and the needles had sharpened. I moved it slowly and unwrapped the lights around it. The needles fell all over the floor and rug, but I managed to get it out the back door where I threw it down the steps. A few days ago I noticed it was missing. I found it in the backyard. I left it there. This morning it is back on the stairs closer to the door than it had been so I’m keeping an eye on the movements of this potentially murderous garland. I will not answer knocks on the back door.

Today is a day to stay close to hearth and home. At times the wind is blowing fiercely and flailing branches back and forth. It is only 36° but feels much colder. When I went for the papers, there was a snow shower which lasted about two minutes. I almost missed it. Winter is back.

I must be bored. Yesterday I watered plants, cleaned Jack’s room, swept the kitchen and hall and rearranged corners in the den, not because they offended my eyes but because I wanted stuff out of Nala’s reach. I watched her case the room yesterday looking for something or anything to take. She left empty pawed.

When I was a kid, the walk to school could be freezing cold. The wind whipped across the field at the bottom of my street. We often turned around away from the wind and walked backwards but kept an eye behind us which was usually in front of us. Sometimes the wind blew right up the sleeves of my jacket. I remember arriving at school and waiting outside for the bell to ring, but mostly I remember walking into the warm school and hearing the hissing of the steam through the tall radiators.

My classrooms were always crowded. Our desks were so close together we had to , e sideways up the aisles. The parish had to add a second class to each grade to accommodate all of us. I have my eighth grade graduation class picture. We are all in front of the statue on the lawn of the convent. In the middle of us, the pastor of our parish, Father Sexton, was seated. I counted and found there were 90 of us in the picture which meant each class had about 45 students.

The nuns scared us. We were trained to fear starting in the first grade with Sister Redempta. That I still remember her means the experience of being in school for the first time coupled with a nun in a black habit and a permanent scowl on her face kept us in line. I don’t think we even dared whisper. Nuns had supersonic hearing. Our only advantage was the sides of her wimple blocked her vision. She had to turn to catch us. A few years later, we were shocked to see the sides of the wimples had disappeared. We were stuck, even doomed.

The rain started around eleven last night, but it was a light rain. The dogs barely got wet on their last trip to the yard, but around 2:30, when I was lying in bed and had just turned out the light, the wind began howling, think freight train, and the rain was heavy and loud. That was my last conscious memory before Morpheus lulled me to sleep. This morning I didn’t wake up until almost 11, and it was still raining.

Yesterday, I was replacing the toilet paper roll when out of a back memory drawer jumped a flash memory from my childhood. I remembered my mother and her tissues. When we were in the car going someplace like my grandmother’s house, my mother would pull those tissues out of her handbag where they had been sitting at the bottom of the bag for God only knows how long. They were crumbled and sort of stuck together. My mother would spit on one then use only one finger covered in tissue to wipe our faces so we’d look presentable. I didn’t think it was gross. I was young.

My dance card is empty until next week. I do need a trip to the dump as my old, faithful TV is in the backseat waiting for a burial of sorts. It served me well.

Yesterday I was busy around the house, my least favorite way to spend any part of a day. I carried the garland, which had been across the mantle, to the kitchen. It dropped needles all the way from the living room to the backdoor, sort of a variation of Hansel and Gretel and the crumbs. After I’d thrown it out, I dusted the mantel, swept the floor, vacuumed and took down my snow decorations. I moved stuff around in the den though it is still cluttered.

Yesterday, Nala ran outside with a paper towel she had stolen from the recycle bag. I pretended to chase her and out the dog she went lickity-split. I went on the deck and watched her tear apart her treasure. It was then I noticed my upstairs bathroom basket, the one from Ghana, was on the driveway. I went to get it and, as I was picking it up, a brilliant idea, say I modestly, jumped into my head. I found a biggish rock, cleaned it and put it into the basket. It was heavy for me to carry upstairs so good luck, Nala.

The rain comes and goes. It will be the same all day. Right now it is 38°, but the wind makes it feel colder. I went on the deck earlier as Henry had come inside but not Nala so I went hunting. She was under the deck staying dry. I got wet looking for her. That brings to question which of us was the dumb animal.

My mouth is permanently open in wonder. My new TV is mind blowing. I realized, when watching it for the first time, my old TV had faded colors. All of a sudden I can see reds and facial complexions. The TV picture looks like 3D. People with close-ups look as if they are in my den with me. Right now I am enjoying the company of Mr. Bond. Yesterday afternoon I reloaded all of my apps. Luckily I had the passwords. Today, though, a couple had to be reloaded. It took all of three or four minutes. I’m now watching Paramount+.

I grew up with TV’s. I don’t remember a time when we didn’t have one. The small screened black and white pictures were a marvel to me. Sitting on the floor in front of the set was the best spot for viewing. We didn’t go blind though my mother warned us about the effects of sitting so closely. I guess it was all those bulbs in the back which scared her. Back then, the stations went off the air some at 11, others at 12. I remember the first time I stayed up late enough to watch the end of the evening’s programming. It was a jet flying with Off We Go into the Wild Blue Yonder playing in the background. After that it was the Indian test pattern. I even watched that for a bit.

I also remember our first color TV. Watching Star Trek was my favorite. I got to see which poor crew member wore the red shirt. The channels we could watch were limited. We had a rooftop antenna as cable was not yet available. In the afternoon I watched The Lloyd Thaxton Show, an imitation of American Bandstand. As soon as cable was available, we got it. That was like a whole new world. It was the we noticed our TV had faded colors. My father blamed it on the cable so he called the cable company to come fix it. The guy who came told my father it was the TV, not the cable. The TV died not too long after. My father right away got a new set. The colors were vibrant. Deja vu.

The rain started sometime after 1 am. It was not unexpected as I had seen the forecast on the news. Later I checked my weather app. It said the rain would stop in 58 minutes. I didn’t wait. We all went to bed and were lulled to sleep by the sound of the rain on the roof.

The morning is warm, 49°. It is partly cloudy. Tomorrow it is supposed to rain again which is a great excuse not to wash the kitchen floor today. The paw prints would be back.

When I was a kid, we celebrated both Washington’s and Lincoln’s birthdays by having school vacation the same week. What we did during winter vacation was dependent upon the weather. February was always iffy. Snow meant sledding. Freezing meant ice skating. Good days meant anything we wanted like biking or walking around town. As usual, my mother never knew where we were. We didn’t tell her because we didn’t know where we’d be. Our routes were spontaneous choices. I do remember going to the library so I’d have enough books to read during vacation. I used to grab lunch to take with me so I wouldn’t have to interrupt my adventures to go home to eat. That week we had no schedules except the street lights. That never changed. We got to stay up late. I remember all those westerns on nighttime TV. I used to read in bed, and my mother never yelled up the stairs of me to turn off my light. I loved vacations.

Right now I am watching the Monolith Monsters from 1957 on my iPad. I love the absurdity of this movie: a meteor lands and fragments. When those fragments are exposed to water, they separate. They get taller. They move by fragmenting into small pieces then those pieces rejoin and become huge monoliths. That keeps happening as they move closer to town, a bad thing as the fragments turn people into stone. I hunted for this movie. It’s a favorite.

I have a few things on my dance card this week but mostly I get to be a sloth, my favorite alter ego.

The clouds and the sun are taking turns. The weatherman calls that partly cloudy. I’ve always wondered why it isn’t partly sunny. Anyway, it is a warm morning, in the 40’s. The air is so still the dead leaves aren’t even moving. The dogs haven’t come in for their morning naps. Henry has been running in and out and insistently barking at the front door. I checked to see why. I didn’t see anything or anyone, but I figure Henry did.

Today is dump day, and I have a uke concert at the mall. I’ve already brought out the trash. It sits by the trunk ready for loading. I’ll stop at the dump before I leave for Hyannis and the concert.

When I was a kid, Sunday was sacrosanct. Most stores were closed. The only ones open were one corner store, the red store, and Dunkin’ Donuts. In front of the church, a guy sold papers every Sunday. He had a wheeled, gray wooden storage sort of wagon for his papers. He used to keep it under the church stairs the rest of the week. On Sundays he’d fill the wagon and roll it to the front of the church. There was always a line.

When I lived in Ghana, Sunday was different than any other day. Most people went to church dressed in their finest. I remember being in Accra and going to the cathedral for Sunday mass, more out of curiosity than fervency. It was within walking distance of the hostel. I only went that one time. At my school in Bolga, we always had a service of sorts in the dining hall on Sundays. The students all wore their Sunday clothes made from traditional cloth. Each class had a different pattern for their dresses so you knew what year they were. My students were second years. On Sundays after the service, students were allowed to dress in mufti, have visitors and even have photographers come to take pictures. Many students went into town, the only day they could.

As for us, Sunday was traditional food day. We used to buy fufu or t-zed and soup at the lorry park. We always ate together every evening and every Sunday afternoon outside, usually on the Sandford side of the backyard.

Sunday for me now is generally a quiet day. When it is warm, I sit on the deck drinking my coffee and reading the papers. Sometimes I even make a Sunday dinner. Usually I take a nap, a long nap.