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“The doors we open and close each day decide the lives we live.”

January 5, 2012

This is the strangest winter. Yesterday was freezing, literally. When I went to the dump, an open area all around, I thought I’d been whisked to the steppes of Russia. The wind was so cold my hands nearly froze when I got out of the car to toss the trash, lots of trash, in the bins, and by the time I got back into the car, my breathing was as heavy as if I’d be plodding through drifts of snow. Right now it is 36° and feels almost balmy. The paper says 40’s today and 49° by the weekend. I don’t quite know what to make of this winter.

My Christmas tree is gone, lying outside waiting for pick-up. I miss its aroma but most of all I miss its colorful lights and decorations. Winter is drab with its dead leaves, bare branches and early darkness. It is only Christmas which gives winter life and color. Now we’re stuck waiting for spring.

I have these weird bursts of energy. The other day I put away the rest of my Christmas decorations, did a load of wash, watered all the plants, dusted the shelves in my room, changed my bed and filled the bird feeders. I felt accomplished. Today, however, is a day of lethargy. I knew it as soon as I woke up. I didn’t have a single concrete thought, and I just stayed a while comfy and warm under the covers. Gracie sensed my mood. She didn’t move; she just stayed asleep at the foot of my bed.

I don’t know why we pick one road over another. I know I seem to have chosen the right ones for me. My life continues to be a good one. I have found the best of friends and have had the most wonderful experiences. I enjoy every single day even the most mundane of them. My former student, Francisca, is religious. She finds great solace and comfort in God and believes it is God who directs our footsteps. She said I had faith that I would find my students when I went to Bolga. It wasn’t, according to her, mere coincidence that Shetu was at my hotel for the first time in a few years the very night I had dinner there, and that we would find each other. Francisca believes it was God’s will. I would never dispute her. Even if I did, she’d laugh and tell me I was wrong. She’d say she knows better.

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“New Year’s Day is every man’s birthday.”

January 1, 2012

Happy New Year!

I remember when I was a kid, I was thrilled when I first stayed up until midnight on New Year’s Eve. It was a struggle, but I made it. New Year’s Day, however, seemed no different from any other day so I didn’t quite understand all the hoopla. Now, each year is another notch in my belt. I stay up without any trouble and watch the ball descend and hope to remember to change the year when I write out checks.

Today is still far too warm for winter at 48°. I remember a few years ago we had a terrific snow storm on New Year’s Eve, but this winter so far has been a bust. We had a sprinkling of flakes one afternoon, but they disappeared when they hit the ground. Mind you, I’m not complaining, wondering is all.

I can vividly bring to mind so many milestones in my life, and each New Year some of those jump out at me, and I remember becoming me.

I remember wanting to be thirteen, a magic number. It was like a giant step moving from twelve to thirteen. All of a sudden I was a teenager. The world was in front of me. I figured I’d have my first kiss, my first boyfriend, first slow dance, high hair-do and nylon stockings, and I got most of them.

After thirteen,  I couldn’t wait to be sixteen. I knew all the songs about sweet sixteen, and I had high expectations. Most of those weren’t met, but I was okay. The world was still in front of me. On the horizon was the end of high school and the beginning of college.

I loved college. I loved learning; I loved my friends, and I love the parties. We had a great time just about every weekend. Senior year was the year of Friday happy hour get-togethers at the bar owned by a friend’s father. It was a weekly tradition to be packed in that bar and take turns passing the trays of food over our heads to one another. It was a great way to start to say good-bye.

The Peace Corps was next, a defining time in my life. I had planned on applying since my junior year, and I did in October of my senior year. It wasn’t a long wait. In January I knew I was going to Africa. I couldn’t believe it.

The longest stretch of time in my life was from that January until the Sunday in June when I left for staging. When I arrived in Ghana, I was amazed, mouth opened amazed at everything I saw. My entire experience was like that: a joy, amazement. The two years went far too quickly.

When I came home, I had no job, but I found one and stayed at that same school for 33 years then I retired.

That brings me to now. I can’t find all the right words to say how much I look forward to each day. I wake up, go downstairs, make my coffee and then read the papers. Every day starts the same, but I am never bored.

Today starts another year of being retired, of having the world still in front of me. I can hardly wait.

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” I take care of my flowers and my cats. And enjoy food. And that’s living.”

December 31, 2011

The sound of the pouring rain woke me up this morning, but it was a quick downpour which had stopped by the time I went to get the papers. The day is mild, in the 50’s, despite the missing sun and the dampness. Gracie and I have a dump run later.

Another year ending. They go quickly now, but this last year I’ll remember. It was a favorite. I finally fulfilled my promise of getting back to Ghana and what a joy that was. I remember being 20 minutes away from landing and getting butterflies. It had been forty years, and I hoped to find pieces of my Ghana, and I did. I fell in love all over again. Finding my students was an amazing part of the journey, but that they remembered me was the most amazing. We spend all but one of my Bolgatanga evenings together eating and drinking and laughing. We shopped in the market and ate goat for lunch. They had so many memories of me, and I cried when they sang Miss Ryan’s song to me my last night in Bolga. They sang Leaving on a Jet Plane perfectly and told me they always sing it when they are together. I hated to leave, and I have promised myself I’ll go back again, and I never go back on a promise.

When I was young, I used to wonder how it would feel to be old. I sort of know, but I think of myself as older, not old. I have to admit, though, nothing works as well as it did. My knees groan and complain, and my back hurts. My hands get stiff. My hair is getting grayer. My word retrieval skills are less than satisfactory, and I hate getting to the kitchen and forgetting why. The one bright spot is I’m retired and have been since the day I turned 57. That means I have had wonderful years of owning every day, of doing whatever I want. I even banished my alarm clock. Every morning is leisurely, and I can spend the whole day reading if I want. I don’t even have to get dressed.

The new year starts tomorrow, and I’m making no resolutions. I’m not very good at keeping them anyway. I’m going to enjoy every day the same as I have been. Maybe that’s a resolution, but for me, it’s just living my life, and I love it.

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“Nothing compares to the simple pleasure of a bike ride.”

December 30, 2011

Today is warm, not your lie on the deck and read sort of warmth, but it is 45°, a long way from yesterday’s 30°. I call this sort of day sweatshirt weather.

One of the fattest gray spawns of Satan I have ever seen drops by each day. I watch him try to manuever around the squirrel protected cage to get at the seeds inside. He holds on to the outside wires and pulls himself around the cage then hangs on from underneath. His last desperate attempt is to try to pry off the top, but he never gets at the seeds. He generally ends up on the deck rail then waddles away. I give a yell of triumph and thrust my arm into the air.

The only time I didn’t wish for snow at Christmas was the year I asked for a bike. The last thing I wanted was not being able to ride it so bare streets were essential. I remember everything about that Christmas. When I came downstairs, the first thing I saw was my bike in all its glory off to the side of the tree leaning on its kickstand. It was blue and had a bell attached to the handle bars and a metal basket in the front. The first thing I did was ring the bell. The next thing I did was try on my bike. I sat on the seat and put one foot on the pedal and balanced the bike with my other foot to the rug. The bike was the perfect height. Right then and there, in my pajamas on a cold Christmas morning, I wanted to take my bike outside and give it a test run. All of the other presents were forgotten. All I could see was that bike and me on the open road riding all over town. My parents said no, maybe later, and reminded me of my other presents so I got to unwrapping, but I kept glancing at that bike hoping later would come sooner.

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December 29, 2011

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“The snow itself is lonely or, if you prefer, self-sufficient. There is no other time when the whole world seems composed of one thing and one thing only.”

December 29, 2011

Winter is here today. It’s mighty cold; it’s bundle up to keep warm weather. From my perch inside here at the computer, I can look out the window and see the sunshine, but I know it’s not the sort with any warmth. It brings only light. I can also see the bird feeders. The birds seem to be taking turns. Yesterday it was the goldfinches. Today nuthatches are at one feeder and chickadees at another. Three flickers dropped by the other day and ate the suet which I’ve since replaced, but they haven’t been back yet. The bird bath is frozen. I’m going to have to look again in the cellar to find the heater for it. Every spring I put the heater away, and the next winter I forget where I put it so I buy another one then I find the old one. This year, again, I found none of them. I am really good at putting things away.

I don’t ever remember feeling cold when I was a kid no matter how long I was outside. I wore ski pants, a sweater topped by a jacket, mittens and a hat. If there was snow, I wore heavy socks and shoes stuffed into my boots. One year we had so much snow the plow left six-foot high piles along the sides of the street. That was the year of our snow cave. We used shovels to dig out rooms and water to make the sides of the cave icy and strong. We went from room to room on our knees as the cave was wide, not tall. We even ate our lunches inside the cave. It kept our interest for days. When the weather got warm enough to melt the snow, our ice cave lasted the longest of any of the snow piles along the road. The top melted first so we could see all the rooms then the walls got smaller and smaller and soon enough nothing was left. I think that one was the best snow cave we ever made.

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December 24, 2011

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“Christmas Eve was a night of song that wrapped itself about you like a shawl. But it warmed more than your body. It warmed your heart… filled it, too, with a melody that would last forever.”

December 24, 2011

Christmas Eve has finally arrived. It’s cold, and there were a few flurries when I went outside to get the papers. It seems Mother Nature is catching up with the season. The day is bleak looking, but that doesn’t matter. Christmas Eve brings its own brightness, its own joy. It doesn’t need the sun. It has the Christmas tree bright with lights and candles in the window. Today Gracie and I have a dump run, and I need a few things at the grocery store. My friends are coming over tonight, and we’re going to put together and decorate our gingerbread houses. We’ll snack on hors d’oeuvres, and I’ve got egg nog.

This special night seemed so long before we felt the least bit sleepy. Every other night of the year we fought to stay out of bed, to stay up longer, but on this night, we wanted to be sleepy as soon as it got dark. We never were. The night crawled along until my mother decided it was time for us to go to bed. I think we might have cheered. The last thing we did was hang our stockings. They were hung on the bannister in birth order. Mine was at the top, and my sister Moe’s was at the bottom. The stocking were red with a white cuff, and our names were written in glitter on the cuffs. The stocking weren’t very big, but they seemed to hold gift after gift, and they were always stuffed, filled to the very top.

When we got to bed, we talked between bedrooms for a while wondering what Santa might bring. My little sisters fell asleep first while my brother and I lingered a bit longer. I never remember being tired but somehow I always gave in to sleep. Morning seemed to come in a heartbeat. I’d wake up and it would take a few seconds before I’d remember it was Christmas morning and Santa must have come.

My first look at the living room was over the space in the bannister. The tree, always lit on Christmas morning, was surrounded with gifts. Some presents from my parents and grandparents were wrapped but Santa’s were never wrapped. They were sitting under the tree just waiting for us. We were overwhelmed, and it usually took a while to see all our presents. We’d show my mother and father who acted surprised and thrilled at what Santa had given us. On the bannister the stockings were bulging, and we’d each grab our own and sit on the floor to empty them one gift at a time. I don’t remember ever eating breakfast, but I do remember eating a candy cane or two. The usual rules just didn’t apply at Christmas. It was too magical a morning for toast and cereal.

The sun is starting to come out and the day is brightening. It’s only 31°, but that sounds about right for Christmas Eve.

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“Like snowflakes, my Christmas memories gather and dance – each beautiful, unique and too soon gone.”

December 23, 2011

It is by all accounts a dreary day, dark and rainy, but being so close to Christmas, it looks, to me anyway, to be bright and beautiful. The tree is lit, and the house is filled with the scent of pine. I’ll be baking most of the day, my orange cookies, my mother’s favorite, and one more kind yet to be determined. My mother used to hide some of the orange cookies so they wouldn’t disappear too quickly. I’ll share mine with my friend because they remind her of her mother’s orange cake. That’s what Christmas is, remembering Christmases past, making new memories and carrying traditions from one generation to another.

Today is the last day before school vacation. I remember my high school kids were almost giddy. Santa hats were a common sight in the halls, and the spontaneous outbreak of carols was a lunch time treat to hear. One year a junior boy stood on a table and sang a solo. It was beautiful. Age is never an impediment to the joys of the seasons.

My sister is buried deep in snow. We’re having rain again, but I’m okay with that. I’ll just dream of a white Christmas. That’s enough for me.

I used to love my Christmas stocking. It was always stuffed and filled to the very top. Reaching my hand in and pulling out one thing at a time was the best approach. That way emptying the stocking lasted a long time. My mother was the stocking stuffer of legend. When we were kids, nothing was wrapped, but when we were older, she wrapped every single thing. Our childhood stockings had crayons, coloring books, baby bottles and a stuffed animal hanging out of the top. The rest of the little gifts were always a surprise. When we were grown, my sisters and I knew they’d be a pair of earrings for each of us in our stockings, but that was all we knew would be there. The rest of the stuff, just like when we were kids, was always a wonderful surprise because my mother found the neatest, most original stuff for those stockings.

My nephew used to call today Christmas Eve Eve.

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Mr. Snowman Dance: The Crewcuts

December 22, 2011

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