Keep the Coffee Comimg

The morning is a bit dreary, damp. We still have clouds but no rain is predicted. The wind is small, periodic. Only the smallest branches are blown. The dogs are my barometers. The longer they are outside, the nicer the day. They were quick to come back inside today. They then decided to nap. I find that inspirational.

My once filled dance card is now empty. Our mighty uke leader has Covid. That means I miss practice, a lesson and three concerts. I’m thinking of finishing projects like a full scale cleaning.

For the lesser holidays, I generally copy my past musings as they are remembrances of those singular days. This musing is from a few years past. I doubt I could do better.

When I was a kid, we always had St. Patrick’s Day off from school because that was the name of my parish, my church and school. Mostly I did Saturday sorts of thing like riding my bike or walking uptown to the library. I wore green in honor of the day. My mother didn’t make corned beef and cabbage as she knew we’d grimace and groan about all the vegetables. Cabbage smelled bad. The only parts of the meal we would have eaten were the meat and potatoes. That all changed when we were older.

My father loved a boiled dinner, a traditional New England name for corned beef and cabbage, any time of year. I remember the giant pot on the stove, and my father filling his dish more than once from the pot. When I was there one St. Patrick’s Day with my dog Shauna, my first boxer, my father gave her a plate filled with everything but the cabbage and onions. She ate from her dish on the rug while my father sat in his usual spot on the couch. They both had ice cream for dessert. One St. Patrick’s Day, my father hunted in the pot for the potatoes. He found none, at least none left. They had disintegrated. My father’s disappointment was so keen I could see it in face and in the way he walked back to the living room. My mother didn’t know what to say. Comfort would only have come from the potatoes.

When I marched with St. Patrick’s Shamrocks, a drill team or rather the drill team, we marched in the St. Patrick’s Day parade in South Boston a few times. I remember one really cold day. I also remember some spectators trying to join us in the march. They had been imbibing in some local establishments. They kindly offered us a wee taste before they were shooed away. 

Today I will celebrate St. Patrick’s Day by wearing green and dining on corned beef and cabbage. It will have potatoes, and I will not share with the dogs, well maybe not!.

We have clouds, and we have sun. It will be in the low 40’s. Rain is predicted for tomorrow. Surprise! Surprise! This is the spring of rain.

Today is another day for a bit of cleaning. A little cleaning is about as much as I can stand. I’m going to tackle table tops, the dusty tabletops. White hair is everywhere. I’m surprised Henry isn’t bald in spots.

Last night Nala gave me a fright. I was calling for her out the back door at bedtime, no Nala. Henry stood with me looking out the door, no Nala. I then tried the magic words, “Treat time!” She came running down the stairs. Nala had been sleeping on my bed and chose to ignore me.

Our dog, Duke, the boxer of my youth, was stubborn. That used to drive my father crazy. Duke would start to follow the kids to school, to the East School. My father would call him. Duke would turn around and look at my father then turn around and keep going. My father would be infuriated. He’d get into his car and chase Duke. Poor Duke always got caught. My mother tried the treat route to get him into the house. She’d hold out a piece of bologna and call him. Duke would go up to her, snatch the bologna and run. My mother would be left with only a corner of the bologna slice. He wasn’t allowed on the couch, but he always slept on the couch. We could hear him getting off the couch in the morning.

My favorite Duke story I’ve told before, but it is worth retelling. Duke was a wanderer. He lived in the days before leash laws. He’d follow his people. One day he happened to find my grandmother. He had stayed at my grandparents’ house while we were on vacation one year. They were not pet people. Duke used to take off and go home to an empty house. My grandfather would have to retrieve him. One day Duke ran into my grandmother uptown in the square. She went into Woolworth’s. He followed. He stayed with her while she browsed the aisles. As she was checking out, Duke lifted his leg on the comic book revolving stand. The manager yelled. he wanted to know if Duke was my grandmother’s dog. She said no which was the truth. He told her he saw the dog following her. My grandmother claimed innocence, shrugged a bit, paid for her goods, took her bag and left. Duke followed her out the door.