Today is such a lovely sunny day after so many rainy and cloudy days. It will be in the high 40’s. Tonight, though, will be cold, in the 30’s. I think I’ll spend a little time in the sun on the deck.

The dogs love this weather. They stay out longer, and Nala either lies in the yard or sits on the deck stairs. She comes inside, and her fur is always hot. Henry goes in and out. He drives me crazy as he won’t come in the dog door and waits for me to let him inside; however, he’ll run inside if someone is out front. 

Yesterday in the paper was a picture of daffodils. The caption, bold and in caps, read Pop of Color. The picture was in black and white. In an article in the same paper, the writer mentioned that a woman had two twins. I bet she is glad she doesn’t have three twins. 

When I was a kid, my weekdays all had the same schedule. Most of my day was spent in school. It was only in the afternoons I could be creative with time. Some days I rode my bike. Other days I played outside. Sometimes I stayed inside and read or colored or watched TV. I remember sitting at the kitchen table to color while my mother was making dinner. I watched her peel potatoes. There were always potatoes, always mashed potatoes. They are a comfort food for me. 

My dad had no talent when it came to fixing up the house. He once ravaged a toilet. The plumber wanted to know how that happened. When he was painting the side of the house, the ladder started to slide. My father went with it and held the brush against the house. The strokes followed the slide sideways of the ladder. Another time he was cutting a branch off a tree in the backyard. He was sitting on the wrong side of the branch. He sawed and the branch fell with him on it. He hit the ground. I had seen it happening and called my mother to watch. The branch wasn’t far from the ground so he was fine. We just shook our heads. It was definitely a dad thing. He got a shock from some appliance he was trying to fix. He got cut fingers from a fan. When my father retired, he was given a set of tools. The man who presented them to him mentioned how my mother said my dad liked to putter round the house. What she meant was he liked to empty ashtrays and do dishes. 

Long ago I took a woodworking class. I made a small table. The saws scared me a bit given my genetic make-up. I could envision the saw cutting off the tips of my fingers. Luckily, it didn’t happen. I made the table, and all of my digits were intact. 

Last night it rained again, and the clouds are hanging around as showers are predicted. It is in the 50’s, Cape Cod spring warm. The dogs have been out a couple of times. Nala is disappointed by the weather. She likes to lie in the sun, but, instead, she is on the couch. Henry is on my bed upstairs. He likes to stretch out. My dogs live better than I do. 

When I was a kid, our dog Duke was not allowed on furniture, but he had ways around it. He’d lie across the bed with only the tips of his nails on the floor. At night, he’d sleep on the couch, and we would hear him get off the couch s we went downstairs. He never got caught. My dogs think the couch is theirs. I sit in the middle and one dog is on each side of me. They are comfortable, but I am not. My dogs definitely live better than I do.  

I still moan a bit when I move, but it is getting better. I don’t moan as loudly. My hand is still ugly. If I had a job as a hand model, I’d be out of the job. My friends have been wonderful. They feed me and keep me company. They call to check on me. My neighbor stops by every day. My sister calls every morning. I am being well taken care of.

My front garden is lovely, filled with color. The dafs and the hyacinths are high. The dafs are yellow while the hyacinths are purple, red and orange. More flowers are getting close to blooming. I can see buds on my lilac tree. Spring is barreling through the cold nights and mornings. It is taking its turn.

My yard is littered with Nala trash. It looks like an empty lot. I haven’t been vigilant enough with used paper goods and such, but I have protected my food. From the deck I can see paper plates, my stolen cough drops strewn around, a few stray pieces of paper and some paper towels. I am tolerating the trash. 

I have no lists. I am bereft. My house is filled with tumbleweeds disguised as balls of fur. I grab them when they float in the air as I walk by them, mostly in the hall. My sweatshirt sleeve is my duster. I run it across table tops. I think of it as piecemeal cleaning. 

I am about to be throned sloth queen. There are no other contenders.