The weather today is dark and rainy. I have no inclination to leave the house. I am not even getting dressed. Today is a sloth day. I ordered a grocery delivery. The larder is nearly empty. I did break away from my Snickers. Today I eat Butterfingers. 

My street has no lights. Some of the houses are seasonal so they stay dark. When I was in high school, I sometimes walked home at night. I was never afraid. I didn’t think there was anything to fear. I remember the street lights left a round circle of light on the road. I remember how quiet it was. I could see TV’s in peoples’ living rooms. I seldom saw other people. Only an occasional car broke the silence. I loved those walks. I loved the quiet. 

My street is short. My street is quiet. There are eight houses. The ones on either side of me are empty. One is a rental, the other a seasonal rental. Henry keeps an eye on those and on any traffic. He alerts me. Sometimes I’m thankful for that loud, constant barking while other times I wish I could mute him. I almost bought a mute the barking dog collar, but Henry, with his phobias, would be afraid and would avoid me. He holds grudges.

In Ghana, in my day, the nights were quiet. I remember walking back to the hostel in Accra after dinner. I remember passing small groups of men sitting on the sidewalks in the slanted wooden chairs I hated. You had to lean back to sit on them. The men always wished me a good evening when I passed by them. I returned the greeting. I was never afraid then either. 

I think my house is quiet then I listen. I can hear blasts of hot air from the furnace. When the dogs walk in the hall, their nails tap the floor. Jack, not a small boy, thuds when he jumps down from the bed in his room upstairs. I can hear it down here. Jack is a meower, a loud meower. He never meows only once. He carries on a whole conversation. 

During the late night, I am usually the only one awake in my neighborhood. All the other houses are dark. During the summer I sit outside on my deck in the quiet. Lately I have been awake until the wee hours. I love that time. It always feels like I own the world. I could be the star of a science fiction movie, minus the usual zombies, walking dead and veracious animals hunting prey. 

In Ghana, I had my own chickens, hens mostly. I’m thinking it may be time for them again, a few chickens, a few eggs every morning. 

My dance card is yellowed. It is like one of those pieces of ephemerae. Okay, I am probably showing off here by writing the Latin first declension plural of ephemera, but I had four years of high school Latin and seldom get a chance to show off. Anyway, I have no reason to leave the house until Tuesday, no reason to get dressed until then. Mind you, I am not complaining. I am merely living the sloth life.

The weather is absurd. Yesterday on the way home from my concert, it started to rain, windshield wiper rain. A bit further up, no rain, then further up, rain. At two this morning, I let the dogs out. It had started snowing tiny flakes. The dogs were quick. Nala came back inside. When I saw Henry at the door, I let him in then I sat down, watched TV and did my jigsaw puzzle for another hour or so. Just before bed, I let the dogs out for the last time of the night. It wasn’t snowing. The weather is gaslighting us.

Today is a pretty day with a bright sun and a blue sky, but it is a cold day. We’re in the mid 20’s now, the high for the day.

When I was a kid, I knew certain things. I knew if you made Jiffy Pop you had to be careful. The popcorn came in its own pan, an aluminum pan with a handle. It looked like a pie pan or a frying pan. You had to shake the pan on the stove all the time or the popcorn would burn. We used to take turns shaking the pan. I loved watching as the popcorn popped. The sounds of the popping started out slowly then got louder and louder. The aluminum tent holding the kernels got higher and higher as the corn popped. It was fun to watch. The only way you knew the popcorn was all popped was when you couldn’t hear kernels anymore.

I knew that ketchup never went on a hot dog. Add mustard, relish or piccalilli but never ketchup. I won’t even discuss ketchup on scrambled eggs.

My father taught me that the laziest person in the world left a dirty glass on the counter. He raised his voice to tell us that. He taught us that several times.

I learned how to bob and weave to avoid my mother’s thrown slipper and, much later, her thrown dictionary, the big red one. Luckily that one never went far.

Mashed potatoes were sometimes white and orange, the orange coming from sneaked carrots. My mother explained it away. I believed her. I learned mothers sometimes lied.

According to my mother, if I didn’t wear a hat in the winter, I’d freeze. All body heat escapes through the top of your head.

My mother predicted the winter weather. She taught us it was, at times, too cold to snow. I know she believed it. We did too for a while.