Last night got downright chilly, the low 50’s. I shut a few windows and closed doors. Today is another delightful day. It is 77°, the high for the day. The breeze is strong and northern. The leaves are jumping, twisting and turning. The sun shines framed by a lighter blue sky.

Since I was little, Saturday has been my favorite day. I’d stay in my pajamas, sit on the rug in front of the TV and watch all the Saturday morning programs. I’d eat my Rice Krispies. I always lifted the bowl to my ear to hear Snap, Crackle and Pop. By mid-morning, I was ready to get dressed and roam on my bicycle, my sort of trusty steed. My bike was a three season bike. Only in winter did it often stay in the cellar. In the cold, snowy weather my ice skates and my sled became my substitute trusty steeds though they were not for roaming. I sledded on my hill and skated either at the nearby swamp or at the park a few blocks from my house. I walked there. By late afternoon, I was usually home.

When I was older, I’d sleep in on Saturdays because Friday nights were busy. My friends and I often went out. My school dances were on Fridays. Some Fridays we’d bowl. I was always a bad bowler. Three balls were never enough. Mine tended to the gutters. If I hit even a couple of pins, it was time for celebration. We’d sometimes just get together at one of our houses. We’d play games. We’d eat snacks, usually chips and pizza. Saturday nights were usually unplanned, open for whatever. I remember one Saturday night my friend Jimmy and I went square dancing at Marconi Hall, the town’s social hub for special events, memorable family parties, birthday celebrations and after funeral get togethers. When we got to the door, we were stopped. The square dancing was an adult event, but it was decided we could join. That was one of the best nights. We do-si-doed all night. We were exhausted. I remember a slow walk home.

Saturday in Ghana for me wasn’t special. It was a regular day, just not a teaching day. Sometimes a Saturday was market day. I loved market days and always went to town. I went to my usual tables for eggs, onions and tomatoes then I roamed around looking for surprises. Sometimes I’d buy cloth for a new dress. I’d buy a chicken. The chickens were tied to a rope stretched across the ground. I’d walk around the lines looking for a plump chicken. My choice was handed to me with its feet tied. It would be Saturday’s dinner. I’d fill my shepherd’s bag, put it around the handle on one side of my moto then I’d put the chicken on the other side. On Saturday afternoons, I’d sit around to read and listen to music. Sometimes I’d nap. In the evenings students often came to visit, a Saturday only event.

When I was home and teaching, I never did school work on a Saturday. It was my free day. It was my favorite day. We’d often get together at somebody’s house, have a few drinks, some snacks and some great conversation. Sometimes we’d go out to eat, nowhere fancy.

Since my retirement, I think of every day as a Saturday, open and free for happenstance.

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.