2023 did not have an auspicious birth. The last few days I had what I figured was the flu. The worst days were Tuesday and Wednesday. I was considering moving into the bathroom and bringing amenities given how much time I was spending there. I was thinking iPad, coffee and bon bons.

When I was a kid, I had all the usual kid illnesses: mumps, measles and chicken pox. I remember the measles and being in a dark bedroom so I wouldn’t go blind. I don’t remember the mumps too much except for checking in the bathroom mirror at how gross my face looked. Chicken Pox was the worst. It itched and scratching wasn’t allowed particularly on the face because if you broke the chicken pox blister you’d end up with a scar, with a small, round scar. My mother was ever vigilant, “Do you want scars on your face?” was not said gently or kindly. I didn’t scratch, but my neighbor did. She got chicken pox as an adult. She scratched and had the round scars on her face my mother had predicted if we scratched.

In Ghana, during my Peace Corps training I got sick. It was week 7 or 8 in Koforidua. My symptoms necessitated sitting all night by the bathroom door. Burnt into my memory drawer are those steps, the dorms to the left and inside the bathroom by the door. The Peace Corps doctor came.

After training, I periodically had the usual, diarrhea. The first few days meant sleeping on the kitchen floor close to the door so I could run to the backyard where my toilet room was. Speed was of the essence, but after those first few days, the diarrhea merely became an inconvenience and a topic of conversation. I only worried when I traveled, but I had trusty little pills.

I have told this story before, but it is one of my favorites if not the favorite story of my day to day life as a Peace Corps volunteer in Ghana. I had taken the magic pills and traveled to Old Tafo to visit my friends Bill and Peg. They lived on the second floor in a house with no plumbing. Bill hauled water in buckets for the house. Down the stairs were the necessities, a row of single seat outhouses. No longer taking the magic pills meant running down the stairs and staying awhile in one of the outhouses, my own single seater. Now that you have the background, here is my story. I was sitting there in my little house biding my time when I heard a sound behind and underneath me. I stood up and a head appeared below the hole. It was the night soil man whose job it was to empty the buckets. He saw me, gave a little wave and said, “Hello, madam,” as he emptied the bucket. When he was finished, I sat down again.

Today is a nice day, 41° and partly cloudy which also makes it partly sunny. That’s the part I notice. That’s the part I can see out my den window, the light blue sky part. The rain is gone. Everything is quiet. Nothing moves. The air has a chill, like an early spring chill. This is the oddest winter.

When I was a kid, I yearned for snow, especially if I had gotten a sled for Christmas. Back then all the sleds were wooden with metal runners. The steering was left to right or right to left in the front, one hand on each side, left and right. A rope was attached through a hole on each side of the sled’s steering, and pulling the rope was how we got the sled back up the hill. I have a picture in my memory drawer of pulling the sled up the hill. I can see my mittens covered in ice pulling the rope also covered in ice looped on the sled from side to side, left to right or right to left. That is my most vivid memory image of sledding when I was a kid. I remember the feelings, especially the glee at the down-hill speed. If you left from the top, it was a long hill, steep at the top, wider at the bottom. Sometimes the bottom got slushy before the rest of the hill. It was, nonetheless, a great hill with lots of options like sledding from the top or starting in the middle. I sledded from the top.

As long as there was no wind or snow, I could ride my bike. It always seemed a bit odd to be riding my bike in winter. It was also cumbersome. The bike had to be moved out of the cellar then back into the cellar any time it was used. It was mostly worth it, that sense of riding my bike and holding back winter.

I think the snow is pretty, but I have no interest in any snow activities. I do like watching the snow fall lit by the back light, but that is the extent of my interest. I look every now and then to check how high the snow is on the rail and how much snow is still falling. That snow check dates back to the start of my teaching career. I loved the unexpected day off even though I knew it had to be made up at the end. It was like a late Christmas present.

Today is a sloth day, one of the finest. I am taking a break. It is an ugly day, another damp, chilly day, a perfect day to be inside cuddled under a blanket. I think I might have a cold coming on so I’ll hang around, do nothing and see what happens. I am almost at the end of my book so today I’ll finish it.

Talk to you tomorrow!

Today is pretty, sunny, but only 37°. I could feel the cold when I got the papers so I decided to forego yesterday’s mail until later. l’ll grab it on my way to the dump.

I didn’t get the Globe. I got The New York Times. I did get The Cape Cod Times, the paper often missing. I was happy for it.

What a glorious day say I with tongue in cheek; however, tomorrow won’t be much better. I’ll have a couple of stops, PT and the post office. My sister Moe in Colorado mentioned she was going to buy a calendar. I said no. I told her I had one for her and one for Rod, parts of their Christmas gifts. She said she’d wait a couple of days: hence, the stop at the post office. The gifts are late, I know, but think of the drama. More gifts are still to be found, let alone wrapped and sent, but I knew exactly where the calendars were. We’re still in Act I of Christmas 2022. More is piled in my bedroom. I’ll start dividing after I put my Christmas away, probably tomorrow.

I admit it. I watch Hallmark movie channels, and, today, much to my surprise, re-runs of Lori Loughlin, antique dealer detective, are back in the line-up. Hmmmm! I wonder.

Some days make me feel settled, not like an old house settles, but happy where I am. All my life I have had those sorts of days, even when I was young. I remember lying in bed on rainy afternoons and reading by the lamp light hung over the back of my bed. Those sorts of days became my favorites. I remember the rainy seasons in Ghana and sitting inside my house surrounded by rain.and reading by the light hanging from my ceiling ( I don’t remember, Bill, how high the ceiling was, 7′?) Anyway, the loudest sounds were the early rains pelting the roof over my head. They were the welcome rains after so many dry months.

I love the early rains of spring here. They too are often heavy and wonderfully noisy.

I find it amazing what you bring along with you all of your life. I feel comfort from the sounds of the rain.

A leisurely start to my day has become a fixture, de rigueur. The dogs have let me sleep beyond 8:30. This morning it was close to ten. I never know which of us is awake first, me or the dogs. They do seem to have an uncanny ability to recognize my change in breathing. Nala attacks, whacking me with her paws. I pretend to be sleeping, but she’s on to me and keeps whacking. I give in and get up. I take my time downstairs having coffee with my newspapers. Today I added an English muffin with blueberry jam. I like the day so far.

When I was a kid, I often got books of paper dolls for Christmas. In my stocking was always a pair of scissors, safety kids’ scissors which were never sharp enough, but in hindsight, maybe I should be glad of that, but scissors and I do well together. I remember so very carefully wielding the scissors and following the black lines, the cut-able areas, around all the clothes and shoes and accessories. The doll was usually cardboard while the clothes were paper. My big, and only, disappointment was when the doll wouldn’t stay standing. I’d have to lean her. Such was the life of a paper doll.

Uptown, when I was a kid, there used to be a J.P. Penney ordering shop. My mother would make her list from the catalog, bring it uptown and order, a big order at Christmas, mostly clothes, including our Christmas Eve pajamas. I think of my mother and her lists as the ancestors of on-line shopping.

Nala stole the tree skirt from the ugly pine in the dining room. I only know because I found it soaked with rain on the deck stairs. It is now draining in the sink. Nothing is safe from Nala. Things she has ignored for two years are now coming under attack. Well meaning suggestions from my readers in regard to her felonious behavior included getting rid of her, not ever, and moving things she’s likely to steal to safety but that would mean my house would have a couch, a bed, a TV and food hidden in caches and cabinets. Even then I suspect nothing is safe. Nala would find a way. It feels like we are living in a Road Runner world, and I am Wile E. Coyote,

Some days feel perfect. Today is one of those days. I can’t exactly say why. The weather hasn’t changed. It is still damp and rainy. The house is dark. My kitchen counter is filled with the Christmas decorations from the dining room, now empty of everything Christmas except the scrub pine. It always goes last of all. Everything else goes in bins. That means down and up and down the cellar stairs always carrying a bin: light up, heavy down. I’ll finish all but the living room today. That room will take the longest and will be the saddest. The Christmas tree will be stripped of all decorations, bagged and carried outside, destined for the dump and then the beach, a worthy end for such a beautiful tree.

I am amazed at my industry. All of a sudden, I had the urge to start taking down Christmas, a little at a time, and managed to do three rooms, okay two and a half. Next, I have to gather the bins from the cellar. I’m taking breaks, having coffee, then starting again. I’m taking my time. I have all the time I need.

When I was a kid, Christmas was there then it was gone, all in a single day. While we were at school, my mother took down all the decorations and the tree. When I got home from school, I noticed the change right away. The living room looked drab. Everywhere felt dark. I missed the tree lights, but I liked the few compensations. The TV went back to its usual spot just vacated by the tree, and we settled in on the rug to watch. Sometimes we ate dinner on trays while watching TV. That always felt special and maybe a tiny bit wrong. The tree was forgotten.

I still collect cookbooks but not so often anymore, but if I find one to fill a hole in a collection, I’m on it. One of my favorite collections is books of recipes from works of literature. One of the first cookbooks I ever bought was Dining with William Shakespeare. I don’t remember the last one I bought. I know The Boxcar Children, Dinner with Tennessee Williams and The Outlander cookbooks are on my list, but I’m in no hurry.

I do enjoy reading cookbooks and imagining the meals. I also imagine the table decorations and the music to complement the meal. I find it all fun.

It has been a while since my last dinner party. I think it is time to get my imaginings working.

I will start taking down Christmas today. I’m ready. I already have a couple of bins up here waiting to be filled then stored for another year.

I will miss the colors of Christmas, the lights lit every night. It is no accident that Christmas comes in the dead of winter when everything is sleeping, when the trees are bare and the gardens empty. That is when we crave color most of all. I like to sit in the living room with the tree lit. It is beautiful, filled with lights, with white lights and colored lights. The white lights go down the middle inside the tree. They are the night stars. I will miss this tree.

Today is dreary. First off, I didn’t get my newspapers. It is a good thing I’m staying home today as no papers makes me grumpy. I read a bit on line, but I really missed my papers in hand. It has been raining. It started yesterday and continued for a bit into this morning. Right now it is just damp with a temperature of 47°, warm still for this time of year. Tonight will stay almost as warm. The rain will be back tomorrow.

My dance card is empty until Monday, PT, then on Tuesday and Wednesday uke. I prefer staying home this time of year. I get to be warm and cozy all day. Translate that into staying in my flannel pants and hoodie and slippers. I watch old movies and snack on crackers and cheese. Cheddar is my latest cheese of choice. Brie preceded it. Any meals are haphazard at best. Today is one of those days, starting after the missing papers.

When I was a kid, I got new pajamas and slippers to wear every Christmas. I loved both of them. The slippers were slipper socks with soft leather soles you could drag and make noise. The tops were knitted cotton. I remember my big toes eventually poked through . My mother sewed the holes shut. I have a really old pair upstairs, more thread than cotton. I wear them every now and then. They keep my feet warm if I wear socks too.

I see a dump run in my future, always something to look forward to, as if… I do have an errand at the grocery as my friend Tom used to say. I want some egg nog before it disappears from the stores. I’ll get a couple. I need tortillas and jalapeños. I hope there is risotto. I also like to be surprised by something which catches my eye but not today. Did I mention wam and cozy?

The morning is damp and chilly. Rain is predicted for today and for the next few days. Tomorrow is my busy day. Today is whatever I want it to be. I’m leaning toward a relaxed and quiet day at home. Outside is uninviting. I’m plenty comfortable right now.

My first school was old. It was built in 1910. It is still used today. The outside is brick. I always think most schools should be brick. The inside of the building had, in my day, wood everywhere. The wood shined on the tops of railings and the tops of the stairs. The stairs had a bit of a sag in the middle. I used to love standing on the bottom floor and looking up and seeing the winding staircase all the way to the top floor.

We outgrew that school so the parish built a second school. The two schools became forever the old school and the new school. I checked the parish history today, and it said the new school was erected in 1961. My memories differ. When the new school opened, I was in the fifth grade. It was 1957. I finished the sixth, seventh and eighth grades in the new school and graduated in 1961. The dates don’t jibe.

I love old buildings. That first school of mine was so neat and so beautiful, it started my love for old buildings. I live around many of them. Sometimes in the summer I take tours of the old houses. I’m always a bit embarrassed when I say Dennis to the docent’s question,”Where are all of you from?” I love to ride on 6A. It doesn’t matter up or down cape or the season. Many of the houses are on the historic register, especially the captains’ houses. The shops along the road are unique. I have a few favorites where I usually stop. I often take a ride on Route 6A. It is one of my isn’t life grand places.

I haven’t left the cape in a while. Every week three days have bookings: two uke and one PT. They break up the week. They make me feel busy. This week I also have a doctor’s appointment, just a regular check-ups, in Hyannis. That makes me really busy. I’m not a fan of busy.

I admit to a certain amount of lethargy. Today I am a sloth. I let the dogs out early this morning and then went back to bed for another hour. The dogs joined me after they came in and found me.

I only got one newspaper this morning. I read it slowly. The Cape Cod Times was missing. Deja vu? I hope not.

I have a quiet week. Only one day is marked on the calendar, Wednesday. I have a strumming class and PT, one right after the other. I’ll have to nap before the big day.

Christmas vacation ended on January 2nd every year. I think it was always a cloudy day. We walked to school just as we did every day. Nothing had changed. The walk was on the same streets it always was. The trees were still bare. It was quiet for most of the walk until we got closer to the schoolyard where kids were running around or just talking in groups, all waiting for the nun to ring the bell, to end Christmas vacation officially.

Saturday matinee at the movie theater uptown was our only established entertainment beyond ourselves. My mother would give us enough money for a ticket and some candy. The key was to buy long lasting candy, to last through a cartoon, a newsreel and a movie. The one movie I remember seeing there was The Wizard of Oz because of the jaw dropping awe I remember when Munchkin Land turned all color.

January has never been an exciting month. When I was a kid, each day had a routine. We had no holidays off from school. The weather was often iffy with icy rain and even snow. After school, most afternoons were spent inside watching TV. I remember loving Superman, and I knew all of the songs for each day of the week on the Micky Mouse Club. Talent Friday was my least favorite day. Supper was some sort of meat, ground beef was big on the menu, potatoes, usually mashed, and a vegetable or two. If there were cookies left, we’d grab a few for dessert. We’d watch TV after dinner then early to bed on a school night. Day after day after day yet I was never bored. Not once did I bemoan my fate. I liked every day.

Happy New Year!

I don’t know what to expect this new year, but I have my suspicions. It may very well be like the last year which would be such a disappointment. I’m wishing for better. I figure it depends on me. I’ll be my best me. Maybe that is the key.

When I was a kid, I remember how disappointed I was when I got my first look at the new year. Nothing had changed. It looked exactly the same. I didn’t understand all the excitement, all the hoopla back then, but I did when I was older. I understood the hope each year brought. I still hang on to that.

Yesterday it poured. I had a 5 o’clock uke concert in Chatham, but the God of parking was good, and I got a close spot. The concert was great fun. The crowd sang along and clapped and did the rhythmic arm waving. For the first time, I had friends in the audience. It was wonderful.

The evening was quiet, but I enjoyed it. I had bought a few munchies so I noshed on cheddar, crackers and quesadillas. I drank egg nog. I watched movies. At midnight, I cheered and spun noisemakers to welcome the new year and ring out spirits of the old. I do think of the old year proverbially as that tired old man using a walking stick. I don’t think of the new year as a baby. It comes in dragging stuff with it. A teen? Maybe.

In my town in Ghana, cannons went off at midnight to announce the new year. I don’t remember parties, but the cold room at the Hotel d’Bull was so filled you didn’t feel the cold. It was a bar, and it was the only air conditioned room in the entire Upper Region; hence, its descriptive name. I drank there a few times, always Coke. Beer was big, but I didn’t drink beer. I didn’t like the taste. I still don’t. Nonetheless, it was a great bar. When I went back so many years later, the Hotel d’ Bull still existed but under an alias, the Black Star Hotel. The saddest part was the cold room was gone, replaced by a tiny Internet cafe with 4 machines. My first return was in the days before all of Bolga connected with the wider world so I went to that Internet cafe a few times. When I looked around, I still remembered the Hotel d’Bull. It was, back in its day, the fanciest place in town.