Well, the weatherman was right. It did rain yesterday, and the rain continues today, but I have no complaints. All rain is welcome.

Today is busy. My inner sloth is screaming in protest. I have to leave shortly to take Nala to see Santa. She is my only dog without a Santa picture so I’ll remedy that today. She has a list of what she wants, but if I were Nala, I’d be a bit worried about possibly being on the naughty list. The other day I had to do another trash pick-up in the yard. She was so brazen she picked up some trash from my pile and ran with it. I had to trek to the way back of the yard where she had left it. That sounds like the naughty list to me.

When I get back from Santa, I have only a short while before I have to leave for a uke concert in Eastham for the turnip festival. We are playing bluegrass.

On the days before Thanksgiving, my mother was busy getting ready for the big day. Because she didn’t learn to drive until she was in her 30’s, my mother had to wait for my father to take her grocery shopping. Friday was her usual shopping day. I remember my father lugging in all those bags filled with the usual groceries and also the fixings for Thanksgiving dinner. The turkey was so large it took up the whole bottom shelf of the fridge where it defrosted. That took days. My mother would put a few groceries on the counter and on the floor because there was no room anywhere else.

The baking started a few days before Thanksgiving. My mother always made a few pies. For my father, she always made apple. He loved it with a slice of cheddar cheese. Lemon meringue was my favorite. I know it isn’t a traditional Thanksgiving dessert, but my mother baked it for us. Sometimes she made pumpkin, blueberry or custard.

Part of the preparation was my mother would hunt down and wash the serving dishes she only used on holidays. I remember the glass pickle dish and the dish she used for celery. A wooden bowl with crackers and picks was for the assorted nuts. I found the same type bowl years ago at an antique store and bought it. I always put it on my table right near the pickle dish I bought.

It is always before Thanksgiving and Christmas when I most think of my mother who made each of those holidays so special. She was in the kitchen for days. I used to be her sous chef. We’d chat the whole time and listen to music. Those were the best times.

The morning is clear and bright but best seen from inside the house. The wind is cold. I filled the bird feeders earlier, all 5 of them, and couldn’t wait to get back inside for a cup of hot coffee.

Despite the sun and blue sky, showers are predicted. I am a bit skeptical. It rained all day yesterday and last night. The rain was heaviest at night.

When I was a kid, our neighborhood was filled with kids. We lived in the project, not a brick city project but a project of duplexes with front yards and flower beds. We moved from South Boston to the project when I was almost five. We lived at the top of the hill. After my sister was born, we moved to a larger duplex. All my growing up was in that house. It was on the corner close to the top of the hill. We had a bigger front yard than the other houses. It was a grassy, little hill. Most fathers were World War II vets, my own included. Most kids were younger than I, only a couple were older. My best friend lived at the of the top of the hill in our first duplex.

I have so many memories of living in that house. Every Christmas the tree was in the same corner. We had to move the TV. My father’s favorite chair was by the picture window. There were two closets almost right beside each other. One held coats while the other was a sort of junk closet. The furniture was always in the same spot. It was never rearranged. The upstairs hall was small. My bedroom faced the backyard. It was right beside the bathroom.

My memory drawers hold all of my life in no certain order. The earliest days are now a single picture or a simple memory. The longer stories have faded. I am always surprised when a memory jumps, triggered by a smell or a picture or even a taste, from one of those drawers. Mostly they are small memories, not spectacular events. I think those are the most treasured.