Mother Nature is gaslighting us. When I looked out the window this morning, I saw a bright, beautiful sunny day with a deep blue sky. I thought how lovely and went outside on the deck to enjoy the sun. I turned right around and went back into the house. It is cold, jacket cold. It is still more winter than spring. You got me, Mother Nature.

When I was a kid, Sunday was my least favorite day. I had to go to mass or risk eternal damnation. I was never devout. I’d smuggle in a book to read hoping people would think I was reading my missal. I’d sit and stand at the appropriate places and that was my total involvement. We had Sunday dinners, a special meal. Every other day we had suppers. Some Sundays we stayed home while on other Sundays we went to East Boston to see my grandparents, my aunts, uncles and my cousins. In every way Sunday was family day.

At my school in Ghana, Sunday was a special day. In the morning there was a service. The cafeteria tables were moved, and the chairs were set in rows. The students wore their Sunday dresses, a uniform of sorts, to the service. The fabric for those dresses was different for each class. The dresses were in three parts, a top, a sort of skirt which was long like a gown would be and a matching piece of cloth which was wrapped around the waist. After the service students could wear any dress.

Sunday was visitors’ day. A photographer also came on school grounds, and many students had their pictures taken. Many of them gifted me with a picture. I still have a few of them. We, my friends, Bill and Peg, and I always ate local food on Sundays. Bill and I would drive to town, to the lorry park to one of the chop bars and buy fufu or t-zed and bring it home for Sunday dinner. That made Sunday special.

My Sundays now are quiet. I make a pot of coffee and sometimes eggs. I read the Sunday paper. I call my sister in Colorado, and we always talk at least an hour to catch up with each other. The rest of the day is unplanned, maybe the dump, maybe a nap and just maybe Sunday dinner. Today it will be a Sunday dinner, a chicken dinner. 

Today is a spring day. The sun is brilliant, and the blue sky is deep and layered and without a single cloud. The air is crisp, morning crisp. It will get warmer as the day passes. We could even get into the 50’s. It is only in the mid-40’s now, but, without a wind, it feels warmer. The nights, though, are holding on to winter still and might even get down to the 30’s. 

I can smell wood burning, one of my favorite smells. Maybe someone is using a chiminea. In Ghana, I loved the mornings. The air was rich with the aroma of burning wood from the compounds behind my house. Breakfast was being cooked.

Today I have some chores. I need to move a few things down to the cellar, water the plants, sweep the kitchen and clean the dining room, though it’s a maybe on that last one as I don’t want to over-do. My inner sloth would object loudly.

On Wednesday I noticed a nail sticking out of my tire. It was a shiny new nail. Oddly, it was the head of the nail embedded in the tire, not the point. I made an appointment and got a new tire. They told me I need a second new tire. I made another appointment.

The morning is filled with the songs of birds. The goldfinches are so many at my feeders that they have to sit in line on a branch for a spot on one of the two thistle feeders. I filled the feeders a couple of days ago, and I filled them again this morning. Joining the goldfinches are chickadees, nuthatches, house finches and sparrows. Yesterday Mrs. Cardinal dropped in as did a couple of mourning doves. One pig of a blue jay grabbed some seed from my open feeder. I love watching the birds.

When I was a kid, my mother had bits of wisdom to impart to me. She followed the mother’s handbook in not letting us swim after eating for fear we’d have cramps and maybe even drown, and that we courted blindness by sitting close to the TV. I learned certain vegetables had magical powers, like carrots which would give me keen eyesight. If I swallowed gum, the wad would stay in my belly for years. Drinking coffee would stunt my growth. If I shaved my legs, the hair would grow back thick and black. If I cracked my knuckles, they’d get huge. If I didn’t dress warmly, I’d catch a cold as if one flew in the air waiting for a coatless, hatless kid. My sisters and I still quote her, “It is too cold to snow.”