Today is a lovely fall day. The sun is shining. Every leaf and branch on the trees in the backyard are highlighted against the blue sky. They seem to pop in the light, in a different way than in summer. It is 54°, the high for the day. Tonight will get down to the 30’s. That is winter weather, that is the heat blasting to warm the house. I’m wearing my insulated cozies and my hoodie, my winter uniform.

My memory drawers are filled with pictures of people and events which have shaped my life. Some are monumental, others are small moments, unexpectedly saved. One is of me in North Andover a few streets from my senior year apartment. I’m in a phone booth. I had called home collect. I always did. I was calling to tell my parents I was going into the Peace Corps and going to Africa. I knew my parents would be taken aback. They didn’t even know I had applied. My father was angry which I had expected. My mother said nothing, which I had also expected. My father said I couldn’t go. I said I had already accepted. He swore. That was the end of our conversation.

I took a couple of pictures from the bus window just after we had arrived in Ghana for Peace Corps PST, pre-service training. We were on our way to Winneba, our first training site. The picture is of kiosks along the side of the road. A woman in a long dress is on the sidewalk. The scene was unique at the time, a sort of wonder. Later I realized how common a sight it was, but my memory drawer had saved it, this first view, this beginning of a unique experience.

I remember starting out as a substitute teacher after I was home. I have a snapshot of day one, of one class of freshmen. Their teacher had quit after two weeks. I immediately knew why. One student, a girl, wore torn jeans, before they were fashionable. On the legs of her pants in ink were foul words, and she was adding to her artistry and paying me no attention. Another student, a male, looked older than his classmates. In the middle of the year he quit and joined the army. Another student was leaning out the window. I found out later he was hunting bugs which he ate. That whole scene is burned into my memory drawer. I think it has its own drawer. I lasted the whole year.

I remember walking through my house just after I had passed papers. My memory drawer took all of it in and saved those pictures to a drawer marked House. I can close my eyes and still see the newness of it all, the emptiness of every room, and I can hear the way my footsteps echoed.

You can probably imagine how many drawers sit in my memories. They are piled high, a bit haphazardly in no particular order. Sometimes I pore through the memories and the pictures. I am often wonderfully surprised.

I am going to take it easy though I do have to go to the dump but I’ll probably save that until tomorrow. It will give me something to look forward to say I with tongue in cheek.

Last night was chilly, down to 49°. Today is sunny but not much warmer, only 50°. It is most decidedly sweatshirt weather in the house. The dogs are snuggled beside me on the couch. They know comfort.

I didn’t publish yesterday. I have been under the weather most of the week so I took it easy to give myself time to moan and groan, the purview of the unwell. Yesterday was a better day so I hope the same for today.

When I was young, I wasn’t sick often, but if I was, my mother had a sick day regimen. She’d give us tea and dry toast or flat Coke for stomach upsets. Even now, I still associate tea with being sick. I’d spent the day in bed reading and napping. My mother would bring up a tray. I remember tomato soup for lunch. She made being sick sort of special.

My grammar school always had huge classes. The smallest was usually in the mid-40’s. The desks were crammed together so the aisles were narrow, and you had to walk sideways to move up and down the classroom. When you asked or answered a question, you had to stand up, and your hands could touch desks on each side. My desk was flush against the nun’s desk up front. I remember despite everything the rooms were well-ordered. Most of my classmates were quiet and paid attention. I have a copy of my eighth grade graduation picture. It was taken in front of the convent, now gone. Father Sexton, the pastor, was in the middle of us. We are over a hundred graduates. I am easy to find in the front row. I am wearing a fluffy dress.

We had to cover our text books. Rather than buy book covers, we made ours out of grocery bags. I still remember. I’d cut the bag open, put the opened book in the middle of the bag, trace around the book then cut out the cover. I’d fold each end then slide the book ends into the folds. Sometimes I had to tape the folds but mostly they held. The front of the books always had fold marks from the bag. Sometimes I’d use crayons and decorate the front covers. I was big into sun, grass and trees. I remember my sun always had rays.

I have a totally empty dance card until Tuesday. I do have trash in the trunk, but that can wait. My house is dog hair dusty, but I have become inured. I don’t see anything needing immediate attention. I do see a nap in my future. I am not psychic, just tired.