This morning is a delight. The air is still. It is sunny and 60°. Many of the branches on the trees in the backyard are bare. Fallen leaves cover the driveway and the deck. Earlier, the dogs romped a bit in the yard then came in for their morning naps. They are such creatures of habit.

The trash and recyclables are out by the car. It is dump day. I remember my father always went to the dump on Sunday mornings, almost ceremonial trips. He loved the dump. If I had brought home a friend for the weekend, my father always offered them an invitation to go with him to the dump. Formal clothing was optional. Back then the dump was filled with tall piles of trash. Seagulls flew in circles around the piles. They were raucous. They screeched and squawked. They were a highlight.

My breakfast eggs in Ghana were fried in groundnut, peanut oil. They were delicious and had a wonderfully nutty taste which raised the common fried egg to a new level of flavor. When I came home, I found the taste of my eggs to be common, boring, so I went and bought a bottle of peanut oil, Planter’s oil with Mr. Peanut on the front, and I cooked my eggs in it. I was back in egg nirvana.

Before Ghana, I had never tasted plantain, okra, pawpaw aka papaya, mangoes or garden eggs aka baby eggplants. I didn’t even know most of them existed. I did not like mangoes. I found them messy and that giant pit impeded the eating. They, to me, had a weird smell, like furniture polish. I threw away most of my first mango. Later, I gave one another try. I liked it. Either I had changed or the mango had. I’m thinking my palate had expanded while the mango stayed the same. Every day for lunch I had cut up fruit, mango was a star.

Last week I stayed home the whole week. This week I will reenter the world. On my dance card I have my usual uke practice and lesson, and I have two concerts. I get paid this week so I’ll also grocery shop. Henry will go to the vets to have his ears checked. It will be a busy week.

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.