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“I’ve just been bitten on the neck by a vampire… mosquito. Does that mean that when the night comes I will rise and be annoying?”

May 27, 2014

Yesterday was a weird weather day. It was cloudy then sunny then rainy then cloudy and rainy again. We ate outside under the umbrella. I could hear the heavy drops over my head and loved the sound. The rain didn’t last long, but the clouds hung around the rest of the evening. Today is really warm and the sun is playing hide and seek: disappearing and then returning. The prediction is for rain and the cloudy skies make me believe it.

The Cape was filled this weekend and the line of cars waiting to leave over the Sagamore Bridge stretched for miles. The paper today was filled with glowing predictions for the summer based on this weekend. I groaned a little, but that’s the price to pay for living here. I knew it going in so any complaints are just from frustration, useless at best.

My world is turning green from pine pollen. My voice is already raspy and I cough. The windows are closed as I’m trying to keep the pollen at bay, but I am Sisyphus with a dust cloth instead of a rock.

I grew up in summer darkness. My mother kept the shades down all day so the house would stay cooler. We didn’t even have a fan to push the night’s hot air around, but most times we kids were so exhausted from playing all day sleep came easily despite the heat.

I have these wonderfully funny memories of being wakened up at night from the bed rocking and finding my father standing on my bed trying to keep his balance as he chased down mosquitos on the ceiling with a newspaper in his hand. My father was a bit obsessive sometimes and flies and mosquitoes were among his nemeses. He wielded the fly swatter with perfection. The fly would be stationary, and my father with swatter in position would sneak up on it, swat it and then throw away what was left of the fly. Sometimes he’d have to clean the ceiling or the lampshade or worst of all, the kitchen counter. He kept count of his triumphs, “Got it,” was his summer refrain.

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“What is life? It is the flash of a firefly in the night. It is the breath of a buffalo in the wintertime. It is the little shadow which runs across the grass and loses itself in the sunset.”

April 8, 2014

The morning has already been a full one. I think I’m ready to join Gracie in a morning nap. I had my library board meeting, stops at the pharmacy, Stop and Shop and Ring Brothers, my favorite store for almost anything. I’m shortly going to get into my cozies and while away the day. Right now it’s pouring. It rained during the night, stopped so I could do my errands then started again when I got home. I love rainy days like this one. The house is dark except for the light in this room, my comfort, warm and cozy, a refuge from the rain.

My yard is spring ready. My landscaper and two of his workmen raked the lawn, edged and cleaned the flower beds, blew the debris from my deck and cleared the backyard of all its fallen branches. The lawn also got fertilized. Sebastian, my neighbor and landscaper, wanted it done so the rain would soak the fertilizer into the grass. Once the garden is cleared, I get itching to flower shop, but I know it is way too early. I’ll just have to buy a few pansies for pots on the front steps to hold me in the meanwhile.

My flamingo and my Travelocity gnome winter here in the house. All summer they stay on the deck and enjoy the sunshine. The flamingo dresses for every occasion. Right now he is wearing rabbit ears and a jaunty jacket. The gnome has no wardrobe but is content in his blue coat and conical red hat.

I used to think fireflies were fairies, relatives of Tinker Bell. At night there were so many in the field below my house they seemed to lift the darkness. We’d run and catch them in jars but keep them only a while. They were always one of the best parts of a warm summer night.

Spring and summer are wondrous seasons for me. The world is fresh and new in spring and every flower is welcomed after the drabness of winter. Summer is gardens bursting with color and it is late nights on the deck. I sit in the darkness and watch the fireflies flitting in my backyard among the pine trees, and I still point and yell and watch until they disappear into the next yard.

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“He was a bold man that first ate an oyster.”

March 29, 2014

Last night it rained, and it is still damp, but it’s warm. I stood out on the deck for a while after I filled the bird feeders. Gracie wandered the backyard. The snow is pretty much gone. It will be 49˚ today. The rain will be back this afternoon.

I had Chinese food for dinner last night. It got me thinking about food. I was the average kid who didn’t like a whole lot of vegetables, who found the idea of eating vegetables a parental conspiracy. Potatoes, especially mashed, were at the top of my willing and eager to eat list of foods. Canned LeSueur peas were also a favorite. My mother made us eat carrots, and I think that was it for my list of acceptable veggies. We never had salad except in the summer, and it was usually potato salad, not greenery. Italian and Chinese were the only foreign foods we all ate. The Chinese was always take-out.

It wasn’t until I went to Ghana that my palate expanded. Those two years were filled with new experiences and eating strange foods was one of them. It was there I first tasted Indian food. The restaurant, The Maharaja, looked liked what I always imagined an Indian restaurant to be. It had colorful fabrics on the walls, cushions on the floor for seating and a menu of foods totally unfamiliar to me. I read the descriptions and ordered. The food was delicious. I add Indian food to my list. Talal’s was a small Lebanese restaurant near the Peace Corps office. Volunteers ate there so often the owner made what he called a Peace Corps pizza. It was pita bread with tomatoes and melted cheese. Talal’s was where I first ate hummus and tabouli and falafel. The hummus was served on a flat plate. In the middle was sesame oil and around the top of the hummus was a ring of red cayenne pepper. I used to dip my bread in the oil and scoop up the peppered hummus. I still eat my hummus that way, with the red pepper. There was one Chinese restaurant way out of Accra, a one cedi ride which was about the highest cab fare we’d ever pay. It had an outside eating area. Going there was a treat because of the cost and we weren’t often in Accra. The restaurant was across the street from the Russian Embassy. The food was different from the Chinese food I ate at home. On later trips, I’d eat Chinese food in other countries and find the food was different everywhere from country to country. I ate Ghanaian foods all the time: t-zed, fufu, kenkey, which I never liked, kelewele, which I loved, yam, grasscutter and other foods I didn’t want identified. I ate chickens I bought live and beef of dubious age and condition: unsanitary was a given. I bought food along the road and never gave thought as to its origin. I drank water with floaties, the name we gave to bits of stuff floating in the bottles which once held beer.

After Ghana, I always tried local foods on any trip. I ate all sorts of vegetables and meats. In some countries, the less I knew the better the food tasted. I’ll try almost anything now. Innards, however, are not among them. I tried tongue once and once was enough. It was creepy looking served on a bed of lettuce as if somebody was under the table sticking his tongue out at me. I ate Rocky Mountains oysters and once was enough.

I scoff sometimes at people who won’t try new foods or old foods they didn’t like as kids, who look and never taste. They are missing the most amazing experiences: different spices and herbs, strange ingredients and foods with unknown origins. I’m glad to be a food junkie.

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“Springtime is the land awakening. The March winds are the morning yawn.”

March 20, 2014

Last night it rained. This morning was cloudy and a bit damp, but we went to the beach anyway. Our festivities took place in the car. We sang our traditional songs, quoted authors on spring, and then when it was sunrise by our watches, we went outside the car and took pictures. The sun wasn’t visible behind the clouds, and the wind was cold, but we didn’t care. After the pictures, we went out to breakfast, our final tradition for the welcoming ceremony. Happy first day of spring!

Today will be warm, or at least warmer than it has been. It is a gift from mercurial Mother Nature because next week winter will back with weather in the 30’s.

An article on the sports pages this morning mentioned the permafrost on some baseball fields and the difficulty of getting them ready for their opening days. In Chicago, a sort of giant hair dryer is being used under a tarp to thaw the ground while crews chip away at the ice in right field. Baseball should be played on a warm sunny day with soft grass underfoot, not thermafrost.

I wish there was a way to make sarcasm ooze from the written word. Yesterday I had quite the chat with a Comcast representative about a problem with my cable TV. I had also had the same chat the day before, but that first problem seemed to solve itself, but when it reappeared yesterday, I foolishly called the chat line again. Both Comcast chatters were condescending and their platitudes  nauseating. I felt like a puppy or a little kid being potty trained with their good job, well done comments. I even told the second guy to stop the platitudes now. He also said a couple of times he could feel my frustration. I would rather he had felt my fist. He gave me an appointment between 8 and 9 am for yesterday. The only problem was it was already noontime. I asked him if he was going to charge me for missing that appointment. He didn’t get it so I explained we were long passed that time then I told him I understood his frustration. He didn’t get that either. The Comcast guy is here right now trying to fix the signal. I have hopes. He seems capable.

Yesterday I saw a male goldfinch with bright yellow feathers. His dull winter look has disappeared. Spring is arriving in dribs and drabs, and I couldn’t be happier.

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“I hate people who are not serious about meals. It is so shallow of them.”

January 18, 2014

Raw is the best description for the morning. It is cold, rainy and dark, a stay close to home and keep warm sort of day. If I had the fixings, I’d make stew with dumplings.

My memory banks seem to be closed today. In between typing sentences I get up and walk around to find something to do. On my last wandering I stopped and oiled the old child’s desk in the bathroom. It looks great. I’d wash my kitchen floor next, covered as it is in paw prints, but it is still raining.

I have two hot dogs left. All I’d need to add would be brown bread and baked beans to make our family’s usual Saturday night dinner. I never ate the beans, but I liked the brown bread. I even like brown bread now but toasted. I still don’t like beans.

I ate sardines when I was young. My dad would open the can using the key attached to the bottom and roll the top. He’d bring out the Saltines, and we’d finish off the can. That grosses me out now. My dad also loved Spam, straight from the can in a sandwich with mustard, the yellow kind. My sister still likes Spam. I never did. I used to hate vegetables, and there are still a few I won’t eat, but for the most part, I love vegetables. It’s interesting how tastes change.

My mother never made us eat what we didn’t like. She disguised carrots by mashing them with potatoes, and we ate them not knowing we had been duped. We liked peas, except for my brother, so she served those often. We all ate corn, especially fresh ears of summer corn. I tolerated green beans but now eat them only at Thanksgiving dinner which isn’t complete without green bean casserole. My mother made favorite dinners like American Chop Suey, fried dough and a hamburger dish we thought exotic because it had bean sprouts and water chestnuts. I could have eaten her meatloaf every night, especially the one she frosted with mashed potatoes. For the most part, though, we were average kids, not adventurous eaters. I, however, have become an adventurous eater mostly through circumstances and ignorance.

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“For centuries men have kept an appointment with Christmas. Christmas means fellowship, feasting, giving and receiving, a time of good cheer, home.”

December 23, 2013

The day is warm but rainy and dreary. The temperature, though, is due for a radical change: from the 50’s of this morning to the 30’s tonight. I just hope the roads don’t freeze. The paper even mentioned the possibility of snow. If I were a little kid, I’ll keep checking out the window hoping to see flakes falling. It was always fun to be the first to yell. “It’s snowing!”

Last night Gracie was barking her intruder bark, and I could hear frantic knocking on my front door. I jumped out of bed and stood in the hall but heard nothing. I turned and saw Gracie asleep on the bed. I realized I had been dreaming so I rejoined Gracie and went back to sleep.

Yesterday I wrapped again and am down to two unwrapped presents. I like this leisurely approach. Tonight I’ll finish up and put away all the paper and tags until next year. My presents, from my two sisters, are in the living room. Some are under the trees and others are arranged in front of the table, an arrangement being a genetic trait. I remember Christmas mornings and coming downstairs and my first look through the bannister. The tree was always lit, and the presents were arranged in front of it. My brother’s gifts were to the left then came mine then each of my two sisters’ gifts. Santa never wrapped our gifts. That made sense to me as I doubted he and the elves had time. They were too busy making the gifts. Games were upright in front. One year my brother’s new bike was in the kitchen, a surprise. He was sent to get matches and did so in the dark and didn’t even see his bike. My parents sent him back and told him to turn on the light. I remember his yelp at seeing his bike. We’d each sit in front of our spots and check out our gifts one by one. We’d show my parents who would act surprised. I don’t remember ever being disappointed.

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“All new news is old news happening to new people”

December 14, 2013

Cold, of course it is. This is winter. This is New England. It should be cold. Snow is predicted starting tonight into tomorrow but, alas, it will turn to rain here on the coast.

When I went to the driveway for my papers this morning, I noticed the tiniest of flakes starting to fall but they disappeared in a heart beat. I think it was a dress rehearsal. My to-do list is getting smaller, but I’m in trouble. I can’t find my date-nut bread pan, a special pan  handed down from the 1940’s. I went through the cabinet, and the pan just wasn’t there. I can think of no other places I would have put it. Later I’ll go through that cabinet one more time. There was, however, a bright spot. In the looking, I did find the new Christmas dishes I bought on sale last year. I had no idea where they were.

The Cape Cod Times was filled with strange tidbits of information this morning. On the page called The Log there was the story of an attempted robbery. The man demanded the ATM money the woman had just gotten. She told him no, and he took off, fled the scene. Here is his description: mid to late 30’s, average height and slim build, a description which narrows the search considerably. I’m thinking it might be my neighbor. The security footage shows him with tape on his mouth. What the heck is that? The last paragraph said compensation will be provided for information leading to an arrest. Compensation? Someone got a new thesaurus.

We had a pick-up truck end up inside an unoccupied house, the whole pick-up truck, a 2007 Toyota Tundra. The house was badly damaged, but the driver was just fine. He declined to be taken to the hospital. The incident remains under investigation. I figure that’s a good thing.

Do not carry armed sock monkeys dressed as cowboys onto a plane. TSA remarked that realistic replicas of firearms are prohibited. Come to find out there is a weapon as small as the sock monkey’s. It is 2.2 inches long, 1 centimeter wide, weighs less than an ounce and can hit a target roughly 525 feet away. Who knows what damage that may have done in the hands of a crazed sock monkey?

I have two errands today, including buying my Christmas tree. I’m pretty excited. My house will soon be filled with the smell of fresh pine. I’ll sit in the living room and just look at the tree. I can never get enough. Is there anything more beautiful at Christmas?

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“Man’s goodness is a flame that can be hidden but never extinguished.”

December 6, 2013

The phone woke me up close to eleven. I just let it ring. It was a telemarketer who left no message, an assumption on my part but I think I’m right. I heard it all, including the click of the receiver, as I didn’t even bother to move to answer the phone. (I’m going to complain a bit here so skip down to line 9 if you want to miss the groaning.) My back is horrific every morning. I wake up, crawl my way to the edge of the bed and wait until the stiffness goes away. Mornings bring the worst of the pain. I wait, patient and still, until I can move without the neighbors hearing me scream. Gracie looks up, sees me sitting, decides all is well and lies right back down on the bed. Fern meows, turns on her back and expects scratches and pats: so much for their sympathy. Meanwhile, I am Igor working my way to the bathroom. As I move around, my back starts to feel better but the pain stays all day, just a bit abated. Monday I’ll give the doctor a call though I’m not sure which one-I guess the surgeon. I call them my stable of doctors.

(Line 9 for those skippers among you) Today is another rainy, dreary day, but I don’t mind a day like today in winter. Summer, though, is far different. I always think I’ve been cheated if a summer day isn’t perfect, but my standards are much lower for winter when a day can be anything. If I assumed for a moment the guise of Pollyanna and played her Glad Game, I’d say, “I’m glad it’s raining. At least it’s not snowing.” That almost makes me gag. I think I’m long past my Pollyanna days.

When I was sixteen, my family dragged me to Maine for a few days. We were at a friend’s cottage. One of the neighbors came in to say hello. She was from South Africa. I was intrigued and a bit jealous and told her Africa was one of the places I’d most like to visit. She asked if I was talking about colored Africa. Seriously, I missed entirely what she meant. It wasn’t naivety. It was just I hadn’t ever heard that term before. Into my head popped green tropical forests, cloths of patterns and colors and fruit: yellow, red, green fruit. I told her yes. She explained that my life would be in danger, and I would be a target, a white target. I started to argue because I then understood what she meant by colored Africa. My mother put a stop to my rantings and shooed me outside.

When I was in Ghana, we were told we could anywhere except South Africa. No one needed to explain why. South Africa was apartheid, and Peace Corps espouses the opposite. In all its literature, Peace Corps calls the commitment a cross-cultural experience, but it is so much more. For most of us, Ghana became home. We absorbed all we could and became part of the whole landscape of Ghana: its customs and its people, the wonderful colored people of Ghana.

Nelson Mandela guided South Africa from apartheid to multi-racial democracy. He served 27 years in prison and turned this imprisonment into a tool to create political change and national liberty. In 1993, Mandela and President de Klerk were jointly awarded the Nobel Peace Prize for their work toward dismantling apartheid.

Nelson Mandela was inaugurated as the country’s first black president on May 10, 1994, at the age of 77, with de Klerk as his first deputy.

On December 5, 2013, at the age of 95, Nelson Mandela died at his home in Johannesburg, South Africa. President Zuma released a statement later that day, in which he spoke to Mandela’s legacy: “Wherever we are in the country, wherever we are in the world, let us reaffirm his vision of a society … in which none is exploited, oppressed or dispossessed by another.”

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“‘Hearing nuns’ confessions is like being stoned to death with popcorn.”

August 27, 2013

Gloomy is the best I can say for today. It was late last night when I heard the rain start. It wasn’t a dramatic storm with thunder or lightning was rather quiet and gentle. I could almost hear each drop as it fell on a leaf or the deck. When I woke up, it was still raining, still a quiet and gentle rain. Since then, the rain has stopped. Everything is still except for one raucous crow.

I didn’t go to the dump yesterday. I didn’t feel like it, but today we’re going. I have collected all the recyclables from the cellar and put the trash bags by the car. The rest of yesterday’s to-do list got finished. I felt quite accomplished. I even filled some bird feeders which were not on the list. I’m thinking some sort of a trophy would be nice. It should be engraved.

My first grade teacher was a menace. She scared the heck out of me. Her name was Sister Redempta. She was really old, at least to my six-year-old eyes. Her habit was black and white. She wore blinders on each side of her white coif (I looked up what that was called. I always just said headpiece). It wasn’t until I was a little older that I realized that coif gave us an advantage. The nuns had to swivel their heads back and forth to catch us so we had a bit of time to do whatever. Every nun I had in elementary school kept a handkerchief up at the end of her sleeve. A bit of white always showed. That’s sort of gross when you think about it. We could always hear the nuns coming because the giant rosary beads they wore around their waists made a lot of noise. It was like an early warning system. I had more good nuns than bad throughout my elementary school years. Considering it was baby boomer time and some classes were huge, with 30 kids, you’d think discipline problems, but there were none. Our parents would have killed us.

When I was in the seventh grade, the habits were changed, and the blinders were replaced by what looked like small visors. Now the nuns could see everything. They had the advantage. That was a sad day for us.

My aunt is a nun. That’s all I’ve known her as. She used to wear habit. Now she wears regular clothes. We all call her my aunt the nun as if she has no other name.

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