The lumber is on order. I have the plans. Building the ark will commence.

It rained all night, and it is raining now, a rain heavy enough to be heard. The forecast is for snow and rain. Right now it is in the low 40’s, but by night, we’ll be down to 29°. With all this water, I expect ice.

Henry naps on the far end of the couch. He prefers the ball position when sleeping. Nala, more than not, will sleep on the other end of the couch with her head resting on the arm. My favorite of her sleep positions is when she lies behind me, straight out. I can feel her heart beating and her chest rising up and down. She keeps my back warm.

Christmas is gone except for the scrub pine. It is covered with plastic and still sits in the dining room corner. I’m leaving it there as I have yet to celebrate Christmas with my friends Bill and Peg and Jay and Clare. I’ll play songs of the season and light the tree and we’ll do presents.

When I was a kid, January was the worst month. We had no days off. It was always cold and rainy or snowy. My shoes and sometimes my socks were soaked from the walk to school. We often had to skip recess because of the weather. January had nothing to commend it. If humans hibernated, January would be my pick to sleep through and away.

When we visited my father’s parents, my brother and I would play in the backyard, mostly the neighbor’s backyard. It had a wire chicken coop but no chickens. Vegetables were planted instead. It had a small but thrilling hill for tricycles. All of the neighbors’ houses were built at the same time, all on a narrow strip of land between two busy roads. Houses faced each road, two on one road, three on the other. After my grandfather died, my grandmother sold the house. Years later I just happened to be going down one of those busy roads so I gave my grandparents’ house a look. I was surprised by what I saw. I always thought the backyards were huge, but over the years each owner had put up a fence around his house and yard perimeter so the backyards have pretty much disappeared superseded by the fences. Behind the houses I could see the old clothes lines with the wooden posts, there since my day, a couple of chairs, a small table and a grill, a not so big grill.

I had great memories of that backyard behind all of the houses. Mostly I remember the hill, a huge tree with a giant spreading trunk growing beside my grandparents’ house and the house next door and all of those clotheslines in a row from yard to yard. It was a neighborhood. Everyone knew everybody and waved and chatted.

I don’t know when the first fence went up, but I figure after it did the other neighbors were quick to protect their spits of land with their own fences. “Good fences make good neighbors,” would be the perfect commentary.

I’m going to run down the street screaming. Today is cloudy, raw and cold. Rain is predicted. I hate it. I need sun. Even a bit of sun will be enough.

Of late, my life has been quiet. I don’t go out much. I even need a dump run as my car is filled with trash and such. I just keep piling bags of trash in my trunk, bags of papers and magazines on the front seat and cardboard boxes in the back. My choices are to go today because the dump is closed the next two days, wait until Wednesday or call Skip, my factotum, for a dump run. I’m leaning toward the Skip call.

The keyboard on my Mac was replaced a couple of years back because some letters had stopped working. I remember well the demise of my beloved H. The computer was under warranty then as I had bought additional warranty so it didn’t cost me for a new keyboard. Well, it’s happened again. The c needs special handling as does the comma. I curse.

Today is yard clean-up. My vacant lot, think metaphor, is strewn with pieces of fabric from a once proud snowman, actually my favorite, now a mere shred of itself, pieces of paper plates and paper towels and who knows what else. Nala has favorites to tear into pieces, but she’ll steal just about anything.

I have a few things to glue, things with pieces needing mending. I have a couple of great kinds of glue. They are quick to dry and most things stick. Every time I use this wondrous glue, I remember the glue I used when I was a kid. The first kind I remember is LePage’s in the bottle with a rubber top which you had to slit. If you didn’t use it for a while, bits of dried glue covered the slit. Sometimes it leaked onto my fingers. Elmer’s was next. I was bad at Elmer’s. It used to come out in globs. Sometimes it globbed onto my fingers. I remember Crazy Glue and the guy in the hard hat hanging from the iron rafter, presumably up high. I skipped Crazy Glue. My fingers were safe. Next, I jumped onto the Super Glue bandwagon. It was sold in small tubes. Sometimes a couple of my fingers got glued together. It was some time later when Gorilla Glue came into my life. I had it in a bottle, and I had a tube of it. The plastic bottle is my go to glue. I use it all the time. I just read there is a Gorilla Glue Spray. Be still my heart.

It rained all night, a whole inch of it, and it was still raining when I woke up. All in all it is an ugly day, a warm ugly day at 41°. I have no plans, nothing on my dance card until Sunday when I get to go to the dump, be still my heart, and perform at a uke concert at the mall.

My world is quiet. The rain has stopped except for the few drops which fall from the roof when the wind blows. The dogs, on the couch, stretch and moan. Nala is behind me. Henry is beside me. Both are curled into balls. I love the warmth from Nala leaning against me.

When I was a kid, we had an encyclopedia my mother bought one book at a time when she grocery shopped every week. The books had red covers. They were always kept in a bookcase in the living room. I used to pick one book randomly, open it then read the page where I landed. It was one of my favorite ways to spend time when I was stuck inside the house on a rainy day.

My grandmother, my father’s mother, was born in 1898. I always found that unbelievable, a whole different century. She never worked outside the home. She raised three kids. My father was the middle. We didn’t see her often even though she and my grandfather lived in the same town, just across town. After my grandfather’s death, my father used to visit er every Saturday. Once in a while I’d go with him. My grandmother always gave my father a couple of gifts like candy fruit slices, Circus Peanuts and a carton of cigarettes, Paul Mall’s.

While I was growing up, we mostly ate meat and potatoes, my father’s idea of a perfect meal, but, when we kids were older, my mother served us more exotic foods like her ground beef with bamboo shoots and chow mein. My father, however, seldom deviated from his meat, canned veggies and mashed potatoes. He was an easy man to feed.

Today is the fourth or fifth day of clouds or rain or both. I went out yesterday for the first time in over a week. Last week I clocked 3.5 miles. Yesterday I went over 16. Yikes! No wonder I was exhausted and needed a nap. Yesterday, the big adventures were my uke lesson then Ring’s. Either one would have lured me out, but both them, nope, no resistance from me. I got to learn a new book at uke, and I bought some goodies, blueberry turnovers, risotto and a Snickers, from Ring’s. It was a glorious day.

This morning was still and so is now the afternoon. I woke up close to noontime. I had gone to bed close to four. It is a weird pattern of sleep, new in the last couple of weeks. I don’t like it.

I have been on a YouTube binge of late. I like watching tours of little towns and old highways. I have been all over Europe, and now I’m traveling through the Southern United States. I have only been to a city here or there in the Southern United States so the tours are interesting for me.

When I was a kid, I used to make travel scrapbooks of places I’d been. I used to cut out letters then glue those letters, the names of places now, to the front covers of the albums. I don’t know why, but I remember the red leather cover, okay the faux red leather cover, of an album I got one Christmas. I had the best time for weeks putting together my travels in my new album. I remember cutting up brochures of rooms and hotels, adding pictures of planes filled with people, well-dressed people, eating, taking tours of cities. Chronicling my whole trip, but the thing was I had never been to any of them, never slept in any, never flew on any plane and seldom ate out, especially to a fancy place. I had put together a pretend album of my vacation. I think I was around nine, maybe nearing ten. We used to sneak to Logan Airport, my brother, my uncle and I, where I loaded up on brochures which I hid so I wouldn’t get caught having been to Logan. I’d pull them out at home. Nobody gave them a second thought.

Anyway, where am I heading you might be wondering. I think my story, which is real, is about imagination, story telling, given life by wishing. I even wanted to travel before my vow and my Barrett’s disease, still a year in the future. It seems it was brewing early. In each pretend vacation album, I wrote descriptions under every picture as if I had been there. I especially remember the tulips in Holland, the pictures of the fields of so many colors of tulips in rows and rows. What is remarkable is I had never been to any of those places. I had made up the whole trip, including that wonderful description of the tulips!

I saw that field in real life. I stood where the picture I had cut from the brochure when I was a kid had been taken. I recognized the field and the sense of glee, of amazement. I’m in the exact same place. I knew it.

I had saved that one picture from all the pictures. I had cut it out then pasted it in my red album, the album I got that Christmas. I think it was a gift, that field filled with tulips. It reached across years from one memory to another. It was a wish then it was real. It was always amazing.

Today is sunny and in the low 40’s, but it still feels raw and cold. I fell asleep on the couch last night. Both dogs joined me and were still with me when I woke up this morning. All the lamps were lit and the back door was open. It was 11:20. I jumped up, went and brushed my teeth, got dressed and left right away for PT at noon in Orleans. I was early.

Nala has been coming in from the yard with dog food cans in her mouth. So far the number is 4. The yard also has all sorts of paper trash strew about the area nearest the deck. On my to do list is to grab the prisoner stick and clean the backyard before the villagers attack. I’m envisioning screaming neighbors carrying lit bundles of sticks standing in front of the house yelling, “Clean that yard. Clean that yard.”

Last night I went out on the deck. It was slushy and getting icy. Given my track record, I held on to the railings. I was on the hunt for one of my new Christmas pillows which had gone missing from the storage bag. From my vantage point, I saw it among the backyard trees and decided to get it. Nala saw me move and ran back toward where she had dropped it, but I distracted her and beat her to the pillow. It was a bit dirty but cleaned well. I’m putting it and all the other Christmas pillows down cellar today. I just hope this pillow is the last of Nala’s Christmas victims.

I get in the mood for certain foods when my larder is mostly empty so I think about ordering delivery. Three weeks ago I had an Italian sub, and it was exactly what I wanted. I knew that at the first bite. The other day I ordered Chinese food. It was perfect that day but less perfect the next one when I had leftovers. Today I’m thinking something hot for supper, maybe even soup. I think about holding a warm bowl of soup with steam escaping from the middle. I think about hands warned by the soup hot bowl. I also think about Saltines.

Today is Martin Luther King Day so I have posted excerpts from Martin Luther King’s speech delivered on August 28, 1963 at the Lincoln Memorial during the March on Washington.

“And so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.

I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.”

I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia, the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood.

I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a state sweltering with the heat of injustice, sweltering with the heat of oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.

I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.

I have a dream today!

And this will be the day — this will be the day when all of God’s children will be able to sing with new meaning:

My country ’tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing. 

Land where my fathers died, land of the Pilgrim’s pride, 

From every mountainside, let freedom ring! 

And if America is to be a great nation, this must become true.”

Ugly is the nicest thing I can say about the day so far. It was 11 when I woke up, let the dogs out, made coffee then went outside to get the papers. It was cold and windy. Snow showers were falling or rather blowing sideways from the north. I had to fix my fence again. The fierce wind last night knocked it over so it was leaning on the stick I had used earlier to keep it upright. The fence is back to upright. The stick is doing its job. The cow too hit the deck last night, but he is still lying on the grass feet up. I was too cold to stay outside. When I next see the sun, I’ll go out and stand him up so he can enjoy it too.

My living room still has Christmas, but it has no extraneous boxes or bags. Yesterday, I opened, emptied and hauled everything away, mostly to upstairs. Even the empty boxes are gone, brought to the car. I feel accomplished. The living room looks good except for the tree standing in the corner. It will be last, and I’m getting close though maybe not any closer today. I am actually enjoying the lethargy.

By the time I was eleven, I had pretty much planned out my life. I knew I would travel the world. I didn’t know what I wanted to be, but I did know I’d need time from whatever it was I had become for traveling.

I’ve told you how my first flight ever was from Hyannis to Boston, an Easter gift. The next plane ride was Boston to New York, just a girls’ weekend away when I was in college. The third flight was Philadelphia to Accra, Ghana. I have a few vivid memories of that flight. We flew over the cape, an unexpected last goodbye. We stopped in Madrid for refueling and restaffing. We all got off and walked to the terminal, the furthest we could get from the plane. We stayed for only a little time. When it was time to go back to the plane, we were herded by the soldiers carrying weapons. We mooed. My next memory is about my seat belt after we returned to the plane. One side of the belt got stuck between the seat and the plane wall. I couldn’t pull it free. The seat belt sign mocked me. I put the one free side across my body so I looked as if I was in compliance, and the ruse worked. I have no idea why I just didn’t ask for help. Maybe, I thought later, it was the beginning of real independence, maybe even a little civil disobedience.

When I woke up this morning, the day looked the same as the two days. It had been raining. Everything is newly wet. The grey covering the sky looks entrenched. The wind is sometimes heavy. I’ll be home today. My energy has returned so I’ll finish putting away the Christmas stuff from the living room, the only place left with any, and put the tree, covered by a bag, outside to wait for its dump trip. I brought laundry down here, not all of it but enough to make room in the basket. I’ll intersperse doing the laundry with bringing bins up and down stairs. I hope this burst of energy lingers all day. Tomorrow will be dump day, and if I’m successful today, my only chore.

When I was a kid, we had a boxer, Duke. He was a bridle. Because he was the runt of his litter, he wasn’t very tall, but he was strong and muscular, and he was stubborn. Boxers are known to be stubborn, and Duke epitomized the description. He used to drive my father crazy. There were no leash laws back then so dogs could just take off, and Duke did. My father would yell. Duke would stop, look at him then take off again. My father would yell louder than would jump into his car and chase Duke if he was headed to the East School, where Duke was an unwanted guest, an official unwanted guest. Most times my father caught Duke.

If Duke followed us, we’d stop, turn around and tell him to sit. He’d sit. We’d tell him to stay. He’d pretend to stay. We’d start walking again, and in a bit, we’d turn around to see Duke no further back than we’d left him. Smart boy! He only moved when we were walking and stopped when we turned around.

My school was mostly tolerant so my father never chased Duke when he was following us, but after a few too many visits, the nuns had different reactions to him being in the schoolyard with us. When I was in the third grade, he just slept on a mat under the clock in my classroom in the garage under the rectory. I remember the wall with the clock was a bumpy white plaster wall. When I was in the seventh and eight grades, the nuns’ responses changed; instead, because I was the oldest of my siblings, I got the directive to walk Duke home when the nuns wanted him gone. It was wonderful. I left school, walked Duke home, had a bit of a snack and walked back to school, all sanctioned by the nuns. I dearly loved that dog and our walks together, but even his trips to my school had to end. The poor boy watched us through the storm door, imprisoned by my father. I know it is because of Duke I always have boxers.

The rain started last night, a slow rain at first then it got both heavy and loud. Neither dog would go out before bed. It was late or early, depending on your perspective, before we all went to bed. It was after 3, maybe even closer to 4.

While I am with Jack for my long visit, Henry stands outside the gate watching me and wagging his tail in anticipation of the treat he knows he’ll get when Jack is done with me. Nala is uninvolved and is usually asleep on my bed in my spot. She lifts her head for her treat and chomps slowly. That’s when I first try to move her. I am not very successful. It takes a while. Finally, she gives me a scorned look and moves.

It is still raining. I am glad for that. Even when I was a kid, I loved rainy days. I found them comforting in a strange way as the rain was all around me. I was inside my house but I could see the rain and hear it. In the summer I could smell it coming. In the summer I could go outside during a soft rain. I’d run and dance and get wet. I’d feel a sense of joy.

During my Peace Corps training, (I know! Not another Peace Corps story you think, but this one is different), we lived by the ocean for the first two weeks. It was the rainy season there. Just about every day a gentle rain, almost a mist sometimes, fell. That was my first introduction to a rainy season, and I was led astray. Where I finally lived in Ghana, after training, was in Bolgatanga back then the capital of sorts of the Upper Region. We had two seasons, rainy and dry. Of the two, I survived the heat of the dry season, an accomplishment of sorts I was told later, but I loved the rainy season. The storms early in the rainy season were the most amazing storms I had and have ever seen. The sky would darken with the most menacing clouds. The wind would start then the lightning and thunder. I saw my only ever lightning bolt hit the ground in front of my house. It was spectacular, but I was quite glad I was in my house and not on my outside porch sitting under a metal awning where I might usually have been. The rain was so heavy at first that I could see the dirt paths and roads being washed away leaving rivulets filled with moving rain water and only mud between them.

I watched the rain. It was sometimes a little mesmerizing, but it was after the rain stopped, when the almost miracle happened. I like to think of it that way. The sky got light. The sun came back. The tree branches popped back up, their leaves unfurled, but the best part was the dirt. The rivulets were gone. The ground was flat. The dirt was no longer dusty. One rainstorm, one miracle. When the rains kept coming, everything was planted. Green replaced the brown color of the fields. Market stalls were filled with plentiful fresh fruit for sale, finally from down south. I’ll never forget the sweet taste of a pineapple cut fresh from the bush.

All those amazing experiences were thanks to the rain. They are reasons I love the rain.

I have many rain stories yet to tell, but I’ll save them (drum roll here) for a rainy day!