Today is sunny and cloudy and sunny again. It is warm at 79°. The air is thick and still. I don’t hear anything, not even a bird. Nala is napping on the couch while Henry is napping on the floor by the back door. My house is dark. I can feel a bit of air coming from the north window. Tonight will again get down to the 50’s.

My life has been interesting. When I was a kid, that is what I hoped my life would be. I wanted to travel, to see the world. It didn’t matter where I traveled, just traveling would be enough. I did figure Europe would be first, probably England and maybe Ireland. That, of course, didn’t happen. Ghana was my first stop.

I remember much of my life in moments. On a Sunday in January 1969, I remember answering the door, getting a special delivery letter and bounding up the stairs to my apartment where I tore it open while I was standing in the living room right in front of the TV. That was the moment I got my Peace Corps letter.

When I was graduating from high school, they gave out scholarships during the ceremony. I was called up twice. I remember my father sort of sitting up off his chair mouthing to me, “How much?” That was one moment. My mother made chicken parmigiana for the party after graduation. That was another.

During baccalaureate, when I was a senior in college, I was part of the communion procession. I don’t remember what I carried, but I do remember hearing my father’s cough. He had a distinctive, smoker’s cough, and I recognized it right away. I was happy to know he was there.

I was confirmed when I was in the sixth grade. I wore a white gown with a red collar and red beanie. We had practiced our roles. I remember one moment of that ceremony. The nun had warned us about the slap. The bishop would lightly slap us to symbolize we were now soldiers of Christ. I knelt on the red kneeler in front of the altar. The bishop went from one to another of us slapping our cheeks and saying, “Peace be with you,” I remember being a little nervous, but the slap barely made an impression. They don’t slap any more.

I remember during my first two weeks of Peace Corps training my language instructor took us to a market. The first table I saw had round, dark balls on it. Lawal, my language instructor, told us the balls were dried goat dung which would be used as fuel. That disgusted me. I ran out of the market and threw up in the sewer. I remember a crowd watching me. A few weeks later, a friend and I were chatting while standing on a board across an open sewer. I didn’t notice. The goat dung fiasco was a moment in what seemed eons ago. Market day in my town was my favorite day, and they sold goat dung balls.

The rain has finally disappeared. Today is as perfect a summer day as anyone can imagine. It is 71°. The high will only be 75°, and tonight will get down to the 50’s. The bright sun is framed by a beautiful blue sky. The breeze is strong. The branches sway. The leaves turn over, left and right. The house is still cool from last night. The dogs are sleeping. All is right with my world.

Henry is skeptical of me. He comes inside reluctantly. He suspects I might spray his yeast infection or rub anti-itch on the outside of his eyes which are red from his allergy. I hide pain pills in his food. He only gets them once a day now, in the late afternoon, when his limp is still a bit pronounced after he sort of runs around all day. Poor Henry!

When I was nearly twelve, my friend invited me to a Red Sox game. Her sister worked for the Sox. It was a night game, a magical game. In my excitement, I tripped on the front steps when I was running to the car, and I sprained my ankle. I didn’t care. I was not going to miss that game. I limped all the rest of the evening. We got to Fenway in time for batting practice. I remember walking out from the concourse to the field. The lights were so bright it was like mid-day, and the grass was as green as any grass I’d ever seen. I caught a ball. My friend’s sister took it to get signed. I had that ball for the longest time. I don’t know what happened to it. We had great seats. I was enthralled. We ate hot dogs and peanuts. The peanut shells surrounded my feet. We sang Take Me Out to the Ballgame. That the Sox lost was, for me, no nevermind.

My memory drawers are filled with images. They are the way I remember best. When I close my eyes, I can see the memories. I remember walking to school across the field thinking it was a shortcut. I can still see the houses on the street. I passed them every school day for eight years. In my mind’s eye, when I drive through the square, I remember all the stores which were once uptown. The corner stores, the red store and the white store, neither of which was really on a corner, are still there in my memories. Walking into the red store, the first thing you saw was a display of Hostess products. In the white store, on the inside right was the penny candy display case. My mind’s eye is weirdly selective.

My dance card is empty until Monday’s concert. I have no lists. I have no must do chores. I have a book to read.