Today is another lovely day. We are in the mid-50’s. We have a strong breeze. The sun is sharp, glaringly bright, the way it is this time of year. Many branches are bare while some just have hanging dead leaves. Fall is becoming a memory.

My friend was older than I by a decade. She was a bit stubborn and used to do things by herself which she shouldn’t have. Her son would have done whatever she needed, but she didn’t ask. I’d be after her to have the heavy stuff done by me or him. She ignored me. I get it now. To do it yourself is a form of independence, of still hanging on to the reins. Yesterday I put in the other storm door. I carried it up the stairs from the cellar, through the living room then lifted it into the front door. It went so easily into the door I had to save my curses for another day.

During the fall, my father did all the getting ready for winter chores. Every Saturday he’d rake. He used a green metal rake. A few of the teeth were bent. I remember the sound of that rake, the sort of grating swish. My father would rake over and across and build a giant leaf pile as he raked. The pile would be raked down the small hill, the same hill we rode our bicycles down, across the sidewalk and into the gutter. He’d set fire to the leaves and stand and watch as they burned. The smell of burning leaves is one of my fondest memories. My jacket would hold the aroma.

The small front garden was cleared of the remains of summer flowers. Only the dirt was left. It was bare and drab, but I knew Christmas lights would be soon be on the bushes and brighten the garden for a little while longer.

Next, the storm windows replaced the screens which were then stored in the cellar where the storms had been. First, my father washed the dusty windows, he was big on clean windows, then while carrying a storm, he’d climb the ladder. That was always suspenseful. Would he make it? Would the window make it intact? The hard part, the scariest part, was when he’d reach the window frame on the house and had to use both hands to angle the top of the storm onto the hooks at the top of the frame. It took a few attempts. I know from whom I learned my cursing.

My dance card is fairly empty this week with just the usual uke events. On the mice front, I forgot to report the other night. There were two. Last night there was only one. That brings the total to 10. I didn’t set the traps last night. This mighty hunter needs a break.

Today is still. Today is also dark. My house is quiet. The dogs are having their morning naps each on one side of me on the couch. Nothing is moving outside. Even the leaves are still. Last night was downright cold, but the morning is in the 50’s, typical for November here on the cape. The paper says rain for later.

When I was a kid, the weather was never really important to me except for snow and the possibility of a snow day. When it rained, I’d get wet on the walk to school. There was no way around it. I’d dry during the day but get wet again on the walk home. On cold days we’d be bundled. My mother always made sure we were in layers. I’d wear my mittens but balk at a hat. My mother always insisted so I’d wear it until I was out of sight. We used to pretend to be smoking when steam came out of our mouths on the coldest days. We’d hold something between our fingers as if it were a cigarette. It always made us seem elegant, not a word we knew but a feeling we had.

On one trip to Europe, my sister joined my mother, father and me. We flew into Brussels. We picked up our rental car and drove into the city to try and find our hotel. My father drove. I gave him directions. He was nervous and kept questioning me. I knew the hotel was in the center of the city so I had him follow the centro signs. He wasn’t happy. It was serendipity when he took a suggested turn, and there it was, the Hotel Amigo, within sight of the Grand Place. It was a beautiful hotel, the sort where they fold your pajamas and put them on the pillow next to the nightly chocolates. Our rooms were huge. The bar was perfect for a drink after a day of wandering.

After we left the city, we rode around and happened to find WWII sites. My father, a WWII vet, was delighted by our travels through history. He gave us a commentary. I remember all the Malmedy signs. Each time we saw one my father mentioned the massacre there during the Battle of the Bulge. We saw tank traps looking like teeth in the Ardennes forest. We were the only car on the road. My mother said we could be in Twilight Zone episode with Germans attacking. My dad asked for a picture of the tank traps. I went into the forest. I didn’t realize the ground was thick with mud. It sucked up both my shoes. I pulled them out and carried them on my walk back to the car. My socks later got tossed into the trash. My father loved the picture and laughed at the story behind it.