The morning is lovely but cold, 34°. The high today will be 42°, but we have a strong wind. The pines are swaying, even the tall thick one in the back of the yard. That one scares me a little. The chimes, hanging from a branch near the house, are constantly blowing and sending sweet sounds into the air. The sky is clear, but clouds are predicted. Yesterday it rained on and off all day. In the late afternoon, the fog arrived, a thick fog. I could barely see the house facing my street. I do love fog.

I am not a fan of ketchup on eggs or on hot dogs. That last one is just wrong. I use mustard and relish or piccalilli, the more universal toppings. I do sometimes add chopped onion and cheese. I never top my dog with chilli. 

When I’d visit my parents for the weekend, Saturday was often barbecue night. The evening’s dishes included my mother’s delicious potato salad, but my favorite, though, was her peppers and eggs. They were sublime. She had gotten the recipe from my aunt. The secret was a bit of tomato sauce. My father cooked a great barbecue on his hibachi. I remember he used to sit outside to watch the meat. He’d have a drink and his cigarettes. “Pop me,” he’d say when he wanted another drink. We’d sit around the kitchen table together and eat. It was always fun.

I knew I would never use algebra in my lifetime. I thought maybe I’d use geometry, but I never did. I took four years of Latin in high school. Prefixes and suffixes helped me figure out the meanings of words. I still know the endings of all the declensions. My mind, my memory banks, holds on to weird things. 

I keep count of all the different airplanes and such I have taken. The best one is the balloon. We arrived at the airport just after dawn. We watched as the balloon was inflated. The balloonist gave us instructions especially about landing. When all was ready, we got into the basket and slowly rose into the air. The only sound was the hissing of the gas flame. The weather was so perfect for flying there other balloons aloft. We sailed. We flew over a pig farm. They scattered. I saw people run out of their houses to watch the balloons. A few were in pajamas. I could see the chase car. We braced for the landing, but it was wonderful. The basket landed upright. We climbed out of the basket. The balloonist gave us a glass of champagne to celebrate. At the bottom of the glass was a pin of our balloon. I still have it.

Last night I could hear the rain on the roof. It was such a heavy rain the dogs chose not to go outside before bed. The morning is gray and damp. Scattered rain is predicted. It will be warm if the wind stays away.

I have a to-do list. The paper has yellowed. The list never gets shorter. I sigh and swear I’ll get busy. I do that every day.

I grew up playing board and card games. We’d sit at the kitchen table to play. Every Christmas we’d get a new game. We started with Candy Land, Shutes and Ladders and Go to the Head of the Class. We worked up to Sorry and Monopoly. I loved Sorry but not Monopoly. It was too long and boring. 

My parents taught me to play dominoes. I didn’t even know it was a game. I just thought you built with the tiles. I didn’t question the pips. We always played double sixes. Much later I bought double nines to try, but I didn’t like it, too many pips to plan ahead. I taught some friends to play dominos. They thought you just built with them.

We learned card games and played Go Fish and Steal the Old Man’s Pack. Go Fish demanded trust, but sometimes I doubted the go fish from my opponent thinking he had my card in his hand. I wasn’t always wrong. We used to play Pokeno on Friday nights. It is sort of a bingo game but, instead of the letters, the boards have cards you cover. My mother kept a huge jar of pennies. We had to buy the pennies. I hated to lose.

One of our adult card games was Hi-Low Jack aka Pitch. You bid for the hand, how many points, tricks, you’ll take. If you win the hand, you call trump, no not that one!!! You get all sorts of points for all sort of cards. My father was a rabid Hi-Low Jack fan. One of the joys of playing the game was beating him. If we did, we na na’ed to make it worse. One time my father’s card, his ace, got trumped, no not that one. He screamed. He fell off the bench in the kitchen, but even lying on the floor didn’t stop him. He kept playing. We couldn’t stop laughing. Life with my father was never dull.