Close to two this morning, the thunder started. It began as a rumble then heightened into cracks, some overhead. I saw the lightening out my west facing den window. It wasn’t spectacular, but lightening doesn’t have to be, small is impressive enough. The rain was heavy for a while then softened. Outside is mostly dry, but under the dense trees I can see the still wet leaves and moss and smell the damp. It is 73°. We have sun and blue sky, but rain is predicted for later.

Yesterday my sloth went into hiding because I got a burst of energy around 11. I ended up cleaning the kitchen, except for the floor. I washed the counter and everything on it. I cleaned behind the small appliances, the wooden drawers and the jars, dusted the picture tops and the shelf and scrubbed the stove top. I took out the utensil holder from the drawer, emptied it, washed it and cleaned the flowered oil cloth underneath it. But wait, I wasn’t done. I vacuumed all of downstairs and cleaned the bathroom. That was when I realized I had lost my mind. I staggered to the den to sit down until this dreaded cleaning frenzy passed. My breathing finally slowed. My sloth reappeared.

Summer was the noisiest time of the year. When I was a kid, my house was a duplex in a row of duplexes which went up and down the street. My house was at the bottom of a grassy hill, and more duplexes were spread across the top. The back side of all the houses, the kitchens, faced the hill. In the summers, all the screens were in the windows, and all the storm doors were replaced by screen doors. They were wooden doors which slammed when kids ran outside. All summer kids played in the yards. They ran through cold sprinklers and screamed. Mothers communicated by yelling out back doors. Everybody knew when dinner was ready. The murmurs of night conversations could be heard. TV’s blared. Even an argument could be heard by the whole neighborhood, and everyone listened.

Ghana was always noisy. On school grounds I could hear my students’ conversations in a variety of tribal languages. The morning chore for students was sweeping the yard, and the swish of the grass brooms outside my windows sometimes woke me up. I could also water hitting buckets so students could take bucket baths before class. Mostly women passed by the back of my house on the way to market. They chatted. Sheep baaed and goats bleated. Roosters greeted the morning.

I live in a quiet place now. Once in a while I hear my neighbors talking on their deck and the basketball hitting the road when the kid does the street shoots baskets. A car goes by every now and then. At night the sound of people disappears. The birds and the insects take center stage. Henry is often the noisiest.

The morning is cloudy, and it is 74°. Rain is a possibility. I like dark summer mornings. They keep the sun at bay. It is quiet in my neighborhood. Saturdays when I was growing up were always bustling.

Back when I was a kid, there were no school busses. Most everybody walked. The nearest school to my neighborhood was the East School, but it was far away. My school, St. Patrick’s, was far closer. The public schools had only six grades. St. Pat’s had eight. I remember three of the public schools were named after directions, unimaginative choices, but, whatever the reason, there was no west school.

My favorite ice cream changes. Vanilla is never on the list. My father loved vanilla ice cream drowning in Hershey’s syrup. He’d bring the filled bowl into the living room, sit on the couch, watch TV and eat. He used to give my dog Shauna her own bowl of ice cream without the syrup. He always shared his food with her. My favorite ice cream right now is coconut.

Santoro’s Sub Shop was just down the street from my school. On the Friday of pay week, my mother would often give us enough money to buy a small sub and chips for lunch. We’d walk down the street and usually have to wait in line. I loved the smell of Santoro’s. I always ordered a tuna sub, no meat on Friday’s back then, with pickles and hot peppers. When I was older, I added onions. I never eat tuna anymore. I had more than enough growing up.

My mother used to make English muffin pizza for Friday dinners, a break from fish sticks and French fries. She also made fried dough. We’d slather it with butter and add salt. She could never fry the pieces fast enough. I remember watching the dough fry in the electric skillet on the counter top. My father used to smelt fish. We’d sometimes have his catch for dinner.

I don’t get why people drink from cups or bottles holding their little fingers in the air. It always seems a bit pretentious to me. Other weird things bother me. Why, when older couples travel together, do the men have to sit together in the front, women together in the back? For many people, old ladies are the girls. I have mentioned it before, but I still keep seeing women hiding their mouths when they chew. Do they not chew with closed mouths or is chewing not ladylike? Why do many people use their blinkers only when they are stopped ready to turn? I really hate gawkers on the roads. They slow down to look. I want a cow catcher on my car.