My daffodil shoots are getting taller with the unexpected winter warmth. The temperature is already 62°, plant boosting weather. I just wish it was sunny.

Yard clean-up tops the chore list today. I’ll grab my prisoner stick and clear the yard of Nala’s trash, mostly paper, empty water bottles and cat food cans. Thieving Nala has a tell. She doesn’t walk down the hall. She struts with her pilfered goods in her mouth. That’s when I usually see her, too late to catch her. I followed her to the yard this morning. She went out the dog door with the whole Cape Times in her mouth, my fault. I left the paper on the floor. She did drop it when I asked and came running, but I think it was merely whim and the thought of a bit of coffee that had her dropping the paper. I collected it from the yard.

When I was a kid, we never did anything special during February or April vacations. My father worked. His vacation time was always in the summer. If it was warm enough and we had no snow, I’d ride my bike. I always rode alone. My neighborhood friends didn’t ride. I never understood that. They missed the joy of speeding down the hill. They didn’t get to ride proudly with no hands, a great feat. They were stuck while I roamed all over town.

I don’t go to my old town often, but when I do, I take a nostalgia tour. I ride on Main Street from the highway exit all the way through up-town pass the fire station, the town hall, the four churches on the corners and my grammar school and parish church. From there I do the route I walked every school day for eight years. The best houses are gone. The railroad tracks are also gone. The hill on which our house sits still looks a bit daunting, but I remember when I finally rode my bike all the way up that hill. I was triumphant.

My mother didn’t learn to drive until her thirties. If we, she and all of us kids, went anywhere on a weekday we either walked or took a bus. We used to go to East Boston to visit my grandparents and my aunt. We’d walk up town, take the bus to Sullivan Square and from there we’d take the subway. We had to change train lines. My mother was always worried she’d lose one of us. The rule was if we got separated we were to go one more station, get off and wait. That never happened. When I used to take the train in high school, I’d tell my traveling buddies, my friends, the same thing. That never happened then either.