The morning is again lovely. It is warm at 67°. The oak leaves are spinning and twisting in the breeze. The sunlight brightens even the darkness corners of the backyard. The sky has a few light clouds but is mostly blue. I love spring.When I was a kid, my neighborhood was filled with kids. Every house had kids. Most houses had many kids. It was only quiet in the evenings.

When we lived at the top of the hill, I played in the field and at the swamp, the four season swamp. We picked blueberries along the side of the hill to the water tower. Woods were on both sides of the field. We buried our turtle in a metal box in the lower woods. The turtle had been a painted Woolworth’s turtle. His house was oval and made of see through plastic. A small island in the middle had a palm tree. The house sat on the counter for years. Over time the turtle lost his paint. We used to swat flies to feed the turtle. We made sure the flies had a bit of life left as the turtle love catching them. That turtle lived into double digits. He got a little bit bigger but never outgrew his home. One day he just died. I think it was old age.

When I was in high school, my friends and I walked all over town. We were in that awkward age between bicycles and drivers’ licenses. We walked to drill and home again. Sometimes we stopped at O’Grady’s Diner for a brownie with fudge sauce. I walked in the early morning, before seven, to catch the bus to school. It was usually late afternoon before I walked home again. I never really minded walking, even at night.

I remember the circles of light below the street lights. I remember being able to see living rooms lit and TV’s flickering through the windows of the houses on the sidewalks. I could hear my footsteps. Few cars went by. The nights were quiet back then.

I live now in a quiet neighborhood. The house next to me is a summer rental, empty all winter. I am retired as are many of my neighbors. We greet each other with a wave. After the car crash, my neighbors stepped in to help. They were wonderful.

With no car, I have been house-bound. I have missed uke concerts which I thoroughly enjoy. Yesterday, I ended up cleaning just to keep busy. Oh, the horror! I have no cream for my coffee, no bread and no cheese. The larder is nearly empty, not a Snickers in sight.

The morning is lovely, already 62°. The birds are at the feeders which were filled yesterday. The dogs scared away the spawn, and I moved its favorite feeder hoping to thwart its thievery. Every time I see that bushy spawn tail, I see red, okay grey but you know what I mean. I’m tired of being a spawn lunch counter.

When I was little, the nuns scared me even though I had an aunt who was a nun. We saw her only once a year, an obligatory visit, so we didn’t know her well. On every visit, we’d sit in the living room of the convent. I remember a nun would bring cookies and milk for us and ginger ale for my parents. It was always the stiffest visit. Her habit was off-putting. We’d sit quietly on the living room chairs. She’d asked about school, and that was the extent of our conversation. Every though it was only once a year, we dreaded the visit.

I can close my eyes and still see the living room in the duplex where we lived for so long. The house, the duplex, was on a hill on a hill. The picture window was centered. It looked out on our front yard, a grassy hill. From that window, you could also see three roads, the houses across the street, a mail box and a street light. My father always parked his car by the steps which led to the house. In the living room the couch faced the picture window. A desk was by the front door. We sat on it for professional pictures one year. My father’s chair was also by the window. The TV was in a corner, the same corner where the Christmas tree always stood. The room was small, but I never really noticed. It had everything we needed and more.

In my kitchen, I have an old school chair and desk. My microwave is on the desk and on top of it are some cookbooks, all with African recipes. Included is Ghana Chop, a cookbook from my Peace Corps days. Measurements are in cigarette tins, like two tins of sugar. I don’t have any tins so I guess. When I was in first grade, my desk and chair were exactly the same as the one in the kitchen. The space for my school books is underneath. I used to have pull out a couple of books to find the right one. I keep my kitchen towels there. I pull them out to find the right one.