Spring has sprung. Every day this week will be in the 40’s. Today is perfect. Everything is aligned. The blue sky is cloudless. The sun is brilliant. The wind is gone, replaced by a tiny breeze which ruffles the brown leaves still holding on, still hanging off the branches of an oak tree. 

Today is not a sloth day. I have a list, an inside, outside list. The bird feeders need to be filled. I’ll be out and about doing a few errands. The dining room is the room of the day to be cleaned. I’ll need a nap.

If I could go back in time, I don’t know when to choose, whether just an ordinary day or a special day, a one time only memorable day. The ordinary day would in summer when I was a kid, when every day was fun. I’d ride my bike. I remember when I learned to ride no-handed. I raised my arms to the sky in triumph and the bike almost fell over. Maybe I’d pick the day I rode my bike to East Boston to see my grandparents and nearly gave my mother a heart attack. I might choose a library day. I remember it was cool even on hot days. I’d walk up and down the stacks trying to find a book. The library, upstairs where the old books were, had a smell, a good smell. Sometimes I’d sit on the floor there and read. Nobody ever bothered me.

The memory of the walk to school on a warm spring day still gives me joy. I can see the sun shining through the leaves on to the sidewalk. The air was sweet with the aromas of new flowers and green grass. It was just the start of an ordinary day.

Special days are easier to remember. When I learned I had been accepted into the Peace Corps still sits prominently in my memory drawer. It was a Sunday when there was a knock on the door. A postman stood there with a special delivery letter for me, my acceptance letter. On another Sunday my parents and I drove to Logan for my flight to Philadelphia to start my Peace Corps journey. In my mind’s eye I can see my parents standing together at the gate waving goodbye. All of my time in Ghana is special, no day was ordinary. I was living in Africa.

I have far more both ordinary and special days, but this musing could get so very long I’d have to roll it into a scroll so I’ll stop here. I’ll save the rest for another day. 

Don’t let her sweet nature and all those pretty flowers deceive you. Mother Nature is laughing at us, spoofing us. When you look out my window, you see the prettiest day. The the sky is so blue it doesn’t look real. The sun is morning bright. Everything is shining in the light. The air is clear. After the dogs went out, I stepped on the deck. I was shocked. Right now it is 36°. In whose world is that spring? That is a winter temperature. Bundle up!

The dogs and I have a morning routine. After I wake up, they stand on the stairs waiting for me. When they see me, they run to the back door and get in line, a line of two. I let them out and watch. They run to the back of the yard. I get my coffee. Nala comes in, but I still have to open the door for Henry. I wish I knew what spooked him about the door, but it is a Henry thing. They get their biscuits. I wait. Like Hobbits, they have a second breakfast right but after the first, a treat. Finally, they are ready for their morning naps. Henry goes upstairs to nap on my bed. Nala naps right here beside me on the couch. They are exhausted.

Duke was our dog. We were given him as a gift from my aunt when I was six, the best gift I’ve ever had. He was a boxer, a clever, loving boxer. He came from a boxer breeder right in my town. He had been bought then returned. I don’t know why, but I’m thinking that first buyer had no idea the nature of boxers. Duke was six months. He started my love affair with boxers. He wasn’t a big dog, but he was fierce, protective. He pretty much did what he wanted. I remember when he got out of the house to follow kids to school. My father yelled for him to come. He stopped, turned to look at my father then took off. Boxers are stubborn. My father was so angry he got in the car to chase him. We just laughed.

I still think of Sunday as the quiet day. When I was a kid, it was a family day when we all sat down to dinner together. During the week, my father came home late from work, after we had already eaten. The Sunday dinner was always the best meal of the week with some sort of a roast, mashed potatoes and a couple of veggies. We stayed around the house unless we went visiting my grandparents. When I think back on those visits, I remember a houseful of people, my grandmother and my mother’s sisters sitting in the kitchen, lots of cousins and a few uncles who would watch football with my father. It was just an ordinary family day.

The day is a gray one. It seems like color has disappeared. Only the green shoots in the front garden give promise of spring and flowers. In the kitchen, my cactus has a pink flower and some buds. I was disappointed when it didn’t blossom at Christmas, but I guess it was waiting until I needed a bit of hope, a bit of color. Winter is taking its final bow.

When I was in the eighth grade, the nun I had was ancient. She was too old for the oldest class in the building, and we took advantage. She liked me so I got away with a lot. On really nice days, I’d hide my lunch in my jacket and leave with the going home for lunch crowd. I’d sit on a bench at the town hall and enjoy my meal. Sometimes I’d be late getting back, but I’d tell her I was at the church, and she was fine with that. I’d leave early telling her I needed to go to the library. She never stopped me. I wasn’t the only one. Every day one of my classmates purposely spilled milk in the basket and showed it to her. He left to clean it and was gone at least an hour. She barely taught. She made us memorize the Declaration of Independence. She used to sit at her desk and eat candy and even sometimes fall asleep. She told us she would thank God when we left. We felt the same way.

 As a kid, I always thought of spring as sort of a goddess dressed in a white, flowing gown and wearing flowers in her hair. I must have seen a picture somewhere. On the first warm day, I’d shed my winter layers, as many as my mother would allow. The winter coat was the first to go. I loved the walk to school. The early mornings were still a bit chilly, but not cold. When the shoots and flowers appeared in the gardens of the houses along my walk, the crocus were always first. I think they were all purple with a bit of yellow. The dafs came next. They were always yellow. The grass took a bit longer. Spring was official when my mother opened a window to let in the fresh , sweet air.

Spring comes late here. The first signs are always the tops of the green shoots in my front garden. When I am going to the car, I always check their progress, how tall they are. When the temperature is in the 40’s, I start wearing just my flannel shirt when I go out. I admit I am chilly sometimes, but I won’t give in to the last throes of winter.