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!

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.