Last night was in the low 20’s. That’s winter. Today will be in the low 40’s, sort of spring. In the front garden, the daffodil buds are high. The purple hyacinths are poking above the ground. I can hardly wait for them to bloom. I can hardly wait for color. I’m tired of grays and browns. 

Today is a dark, rainy day, but I have to go out anyway. I have a dentist appointment, just a cleaning, and I need some stamps. 

When I was a kid, I loved my dentist. He always gave me gas so I just slept through it all. My father, though, thought that dentist was too expensive so he decided to take me to East Boston to his childhood dentist. That man could have easily stepped into the role of Orin Scrivello D.D.S. in Little Shop of Horrors. His equipment was old. I think it was the same equipment he used on my father. He didn’t use Novocain. I was in so much pain I held on to the arms of the chair so hard I swear I left finger indentations. Tears would stream down my cheeks. I remember getting home and being in horrific pain. He had left an exposed nerve. My father took me back. I think I would have preferred the exposed nerve. 

My childhood doctor was a big man, a huge man. He wore suspenders. He’d sit behind his desk asking questions. My parents were of the generation that didn’t have check-ups so we didn’t either. I saw the doctor only when I needed to for things like stitches or heavy duty colds. My doctor’s office was on the first floor of his house. The house was old, huge and beautiful. It was right beside the driveway of the school parking lot and playground. I remember all the wood in the waiting area, the beautiful stairs and a wooden newel which was big and shiny. I also remember the skeleton in his office. It was real and hung by the window. That house is still there, still beautiful.

Break time! I’m off to the dentist.

I’m now home with clean, shiny teeth.

I hate crooked pictures. I have even straightened a couple in my doctor’s office. They assault my sensibilities. I hate socks which slide down into my shoes, but I don’t mind holey socks. I am not a fan of refried beans. They look disgusting like something a baby may have left. I love corn but not so much cream corn as it spreads cross the plate. I do have a corn bread recipe which calls for cream corn. The bread is delicious. Having been an English teacher, I hear all the grammatical errors on TV. The most common is the wrong use of a pronoun as the object of the preposition. I always correct it out loud. The dogs think I’m talking to them. 

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.