The weather is ugly. The wind started last night. I don’t when the rain started, but it is loud and heavy. The dog door was blown open by the wind. The floor is soaked so I had to close the back door, but I don’t think the dogs will mind. They are not rain dogs. It will rain all day. The temperature at 55° is wasted. 

When I was a kid, I went to St. Patrick’s grammar school. I always had today, St. Patrick’s Day, off from school. My parents often hosted a St. Patrick’s Day party on the weekend closest to the big day. My mother decorated, moved the dining room table against the wall and made so much food the table groaned. The house was filled with relatives. I remember the kitchen crammed with people singing Irish songs. The back door was always opened to clear the smoke. The temporary bar was on the counter.  It was always a celebration of food, drink and family. 

My mother always made corned beef and cabbage for dinner on the big day. If it was a weekend, I’d visit. One year I brought my dog Shauna, my first boxer, to visit and meet my parents. My father loved her right away and spoiled her. She loved him right back. While he was filling his plate with corned beef and cabbage, he made Shauna a plate. She had everything, even a slice of buttered Irish bread. She cleared the plate so well it looked clean. My father even gave her ice cream for dessert.

I have a concert this morning. I’ll wear my Irish sweatshirt, my shamrock fascinator and my glittery shamrock earrings. Later, I’ll watch a film befitting the day. I’m thinking The Quiet Man. I haven’t made a big dinner, but I’m thinking a sandwich with all the fixings might be in order. Maybe, in memory of my dad I’ll share it with the dogs.

Today is warmer than yesterday with a high of 57°. Partly cloudy is the forecast. When I woke up, the sky was all clouds, but right now, I can see a glimpse of blue and some light trying to break through the clouds. It might just turn out to be a spring day.

Lately, I have been into jigsaw puzzles. 500 pieces is just a perfect size for my table. A new one came yesterday, an Easter puzzle with eggs, chocolate and peeps. I ended up buying a few peeps after starting this puzzle. They are open and on shelves so they can get hard. 

When I was a kid, I never counted the days until Easter. That was only a Christmas thing. We’d get new clothes and the Easter Bunny would leave a basket, the only festivities to celebrate the day. 

One Christmas, when I was in high school, I got a bulletin board with pink fabric instead of cork. I hung it over my door. On it I put paper memories like tickets, letters, pictures and some invitations. I always kept it current. When I lived in Ghana, my parents moved. They brought along my bulletin board still covered with my memories. When I got home, I took it with me to the cape. Somewhere along the line I had to replace the pink board. Old age had taken its toll.

I still have a bulletin board in my den. The middle is cork. It is really old. It is covered with all different memories. A sloth calendar hangs from the cork. Hanging off the corners are lanyard name tags from different events, a lei, a Mardi Gras mask and some green St. Patrick’s Day necklaces. I hung a few things on it from my time in Ghana. I have an invitation from the governor of the Upper Region where I lived to a cocktail party at his house in 1969. I always got invited. I never understood why. I have a luggage tag for Ghana Airways and the front of a Ghana Tree chocolate bar celebrating the second republic dated 1969. I have some pins, a Peace Corps cloth decoration and an invitation to the 50th anniversary of Peace Corps Ghana in 2011, my first trip back. I don’t keep this bulletin board too current, not from disinterest but more from lack of stuff to hang. I rearrange things which I enjoy doing. I get to remember when I hold each piece. 

Back when I got that first board, I never realized how important a bulletin board could be. Now, I know. Each board is a repository of memories of people and places and most especially of my life across time.