The morning is a bit chilly, but the day will warm up to 70˚. Everything is bright with sun. The sky is a deep blue and stretches to the horizon without a cloud, but clouds are predicted for later. Outside is noisy. I can hear lawn mowers and edgers and the loudest of all, the blowers. My lawn was cut yesterday. It is still spring green. The flowers in the front garden are beginning to bloom. The newest to bloom are the purple flowers on tall stalks. The wild roses have small white flowers. This is their only hurrah. I can see the buds on the day lilies bordering the trees. They will be orange. Each year there are more of them. Three quarters of the fence is covered with white clematis, but, for some reason, it has never spread to the 4th section of fence so I’m going to help it along this year by moving it myself. Plenty of shoots are already growing as are buds on the tops of the vine-like greenery. When the clematis bloom, my yard is glorious.

When I was a kid, my father always planted pansies and geraniums. When I think about them now, they seem an unlikely combination. The pansies are delicate, fairy like with their colorful faces. Geraniums are blunt. They all look the same. The ones my father planted were always red. He’d put the geraniums in the back and the pansies in front. In memory of my father, I always try to have a planter with pansies, especially in fall when all the other flowers are fading.

I never really noticed all the flowers beyond my yard when I was a kid. I noticed the grass. I used to ride my bike down the grassy hill on our side yard. My father always yelled. He’d catch us because we’d sometimes leave tire marks on the grass. It was a neat little hill, the end of which was a bit of sidewalk then the hilly side gutter leading to the street and the big hill. I loved that ride in the spring. The grass was tall and spongy. My bike tires were wide. They always left a distinctive mark down the hill, the best little hill leading to all the other hills. We had to be careful at the end of the big hill as the cross street was a busy one. I don’t remember anyone ever getting hit. I just remember speeding across that street into the field. It was an amazing ride from the grassy hill to the field almost without pedaling.

When I was living that hill, I never realized the memory I was making. I just loved every bit of the ride down. Up was much more strenuous. My goal was always to make it up all the hills without walking the bike. It took a while before I could get up the big hill. I seemed to make it only only to the middle time and time again then finally it happened. I pedaled all the way up the big hill to the sidewalk and to the grassy hill. I was thrilled. I always pedaled from then on, but I didn’t pedal up the lawn, and I didn’t push my bike up the lawn. I went around.

Thunderstorms are predicted for the afternoon. Right now the morning is damp and cool and the constant breeze is strong enough to move even the biggest branches of the tallest trees. The sky is covered in clouds. I can hear the birds. They are especially busy this morning.

One of my slippers has gone missing. I took a nap yesterday, and when I woke up, the slipper was gone. I check in all the right places, Nala’s hiding places, but did not find it. The yard is overgrown in spots so it may well be hidden by greenery. I’ll check again before the rain.

My dog Duke, the boxer I grew up with, did not steal except for the time he took the roast beef defrosting on the counter for Sunday dinner. My brother and I saw him and wrestled the roast beef out of his mouth. Other than a few tooth marks, it was none the worse for wear. We hid the marks, and my mother never noticed. The beef was good.

When I was a kid, when I left the house on my bike, my mother always wanted to know where I was going. I would say around town or up town or to the zoo. I never had a set destination. I’d just ride. Sometimes I’d ride to the next town over and sit at the train station. Other times I’d do a giant loop through two towns then back to my own. Lake Quannapowitt in another town over was one of my favorite destinations. I’d circle the whole lake. The houses facing the lake were old, large and beautiful. I used to imagine living in one. At the head of the lake was Bayrd’s Indian Trading Post with two teepees in front. I used to wander the store and was amazed at the exhibit of the Native American artifacts which had been found in the lake. There were beaded Indian costumes and colorful, feather headdresses. Mr. Bayrd constructed those feathered headdresses and the beaded outfits he sold at his store. They were authentic as Mr. Bayrd was a half Narragansett Native American. I didn’t know that at the time. I just loved everything he sold especially the beaded pieces. Once I bought a small beaded change purse. I’d saved a long time. After the shop, I’d usually head home. I’d go the long way through the next town then back to my town. Usually I’d have been gone all day. It was late afternoon when I’d finally get home. I was always tired, but it was a good tired, a fun day tired.