Today is a pretty day with sun and a blue sky. It will be around 74° all day, a perfect temperature. I am still housebound. I don’t drive because my leg still hurts, but it is getting better. At least that’s what I tell myself every day.

I remember my first night game at Fenway Park. I was twelve. A friend of mine had a sister who worked at Fenway, and she got tickets. I remember the magical look of the field when I walked out of the concourse behind right field. I swear my jaw dropped. The field was as light as day. The grass was the greenest grass I’d ever seen. The sand was smooth, untouched by cleats. Players came onto the field for batting practice. I watched for a while and tried to identify the players at bat, but I was a long way from home plate. One ball landed by me, and I got it. The ball was scuffed and was a bit dirty, but I didn’t care. It was the best souvenir.

I’ve always loved New England. I remember Sunday family trips to the best places. We went to Boston to ride on the swan boats in summer, and we went to Boston in the winter to see the lights on the common and in the store windows. We saw Santa Claus at Jordan Marsh. My mother said he was always the best looking Santa. We went to museums, and I remember a dairy farm. My father drove us up Mount Washington. He drove ever so slowly. When a car going in the opposite direction passed us on the inside, I looked over as were on the outside. It always looked as if we were right on the edge and only inches from tumbling over the side. I’m sure it wasn’t inches that’s how I remember it. It was scary. I got to see the Old Man of the Mountain. His face was easy to see. The Old Man collapsed in 2003. People laid flowers on the site.

We went to the beach, mostly on Sundays. My mother packed great lunches, with sandwiches, chips and treats. The Tartan cooler held bug juice. At first I could hear the ice cubes clink on the sides of the cooler then as the day got older, it was just a splashing sound. By the end of the day the bug juice was warm, the remaining sandwiches had sand in each bite and the Oreos were only a memory. It was a great beach day.

Yesterday it rained, at times a heavy rain. Accompanying the rain was a cool breeze, a northern breeze. I shut the window behind me and put on a flannel top. The dogs stayed cozy on the couch, one on each side of me. They didn’t go out in the rain.

My coughing is less frequent than it has been but is still fierce at times. It sounds like a car motor which doesn’t turn over but comes close. My morning voice is raspy, a Robert F. Kennedy Jr. voice. It gets better during the day but is raspy again at night. I still limp, but the walker helps get me down the hall. Sitting is the best. I am getting better but slower than I want. I complain to the dogs but they don’t really care.

I seldom was sick enough to stay home from school, but, if I did, I had the luxury of staying in bed and reading. It made being sick worthwhile.

When I was a kid and got sick, my mother had remedies. She made tea and chicken soup. She sometimes gave us flat ginger ale, meant to settle stomachs, and unbuttered toast. I am not a hot tea drinker. I think it is because I associate hot tea with being sick. The flat ginger ale tasted horrible, but I had to drink it to wash down the dry toast.

My father was a Vicks man. It was his panacea. He even had a sweatshirt he wore every time he slathered his chest. I hated the smell. He also loved Bengay. He had a bad back and always asked for help, for someone to put it on his back. I’d do it for him. I actually liked the smell of Bengay.

My friend brought groceries yestetday including a chicken pot pie. She keeps track of me to make sure I’m okay. Another friend picked up my medication and dropped it off with a chocolate bar to brighten my day. My friend Elaine filled my fridge this morning with homemade goodies, stew and pasta. John came and got my trash. Friends write to me on Facebook asking if I need anything. My sisters call. My friend Peg calls. I have a village.