When I was a little kid, my mother didn’t drive. If we wanted to go to Boston, it meant walking up town and picking up the bus to Sullivan Square. Once there, we’d walk upstairs from the bus to the subway station. My mother would warn us away from the edge of the platform so we’d stand back and lean over to look down the tracks for the coming train. When it arrived, the doors always slid open with a whooshing sound, and we’d hurry inside to our seats. We always knelt on the bench like seats with our backs to the cars and our faces to the window. The city enthralled us as huge buildings, lots of cars and houses close together were unusual sights for us. The rule always was if we got separated, we were to get off at the next station and wait. We never did need to do that.

Mostly I remember going to Boston with my mother to see Santa Claus at Jordan Marsh. We were dressed in our good clothes and would wend our way to Santa through the Enchanted Village. It always held our attention, and we never once asked how much more we had to wait. Compared to today, the exhibit was primitive but for us it was almost magical. The people and the animals moved. Mostly they moved back and forth in one spot or their heads went up and down, and we thought it amazing.

That trip was always the best from start to finish. We got to ride a bus and a subway both ways. We saw Santa and the village, and my mother usually bought us a treat like a cone or a soft pretzel.

It was those trips which helped make Boston my all time favorite city. When I got older, high school age, I’d make the trip with my friends. Little had changed. We all still looked out the window and we warned each other to meet at the next stop if we got separated.

Looks like this was longer than I expected!

Winter is the easiest season to see because the sun and sky have hues different from any other season. The blue is sharper and the sun looks far more muted. When I look out the window, I can see that cold and feel it in my bones.

In winter, my house is never quiet. Hot air periodically roars through the vents from the furnace. Throughout most of the house I only hear it, but in the living room I see it when the curtain flies in the air, and in the kitchen I feel it at my feet while I do dishes.

On my way to breakfast every Sunday I listen to NPR and do Will Short’s puzzles. The rest of the week NPR is also my radio station of choice, but lately I’ve also been listening to WEEI sports to keep up with the Pats in preparation for the Super Bowl. The only music stations programmed on my radio are oldies. My friends and I play trivia every Thursday night. We groan when the question is about music as none of us know the music of today. I was lucky a few weeks ago when the question asked about Dick Dale and The Ventures and their genre of music. I knew right away it was surf. We got it right. That’s a rarity. Most times we haven’t ever heard of the singer whose name answers the question. If my nephew Mike is there, he is our only hope at knowing any music beyond the 70′s.

I sing along with the songs on my radio stations. They are the songs of my high school and college years. My head bops and one foot beats along with the familiar sounds. I take comfort in knowing the words and sing loudly and strongly. Today is the last of the birthyear songs. It has been great fun for me. I got to sing along.