The morning is hot at 79°, but the temperature won’t get much higher. It will be a sunny day. Right now we have a lovely breeze. Rain is predicted for tonight but in the wee hours. I knew it would rain. I washed my kitchen floor yesterday, a task which took a few hours given how much it needed to be cleaned and how often I took cold drink breaks. When I was finished, harkening back to Ghana, I took a cold shower to wash away the heat and the grime. It was quick.

The trees in my backyard are so full just the sunlight shines through the leaves. I only see glimpses of the sun and the blue sky through the scanty branches at the tops of the highest trees. My den is cool and shaded this time of day so the dogs nap on the couch. They take up two cushions.

When I was a kid, Sunday was my least favorite day. I had to go to mass, not out of any religious conviction, but rather because original sin and the black milk bottle in the Baltimore Catechism had me running scared of eternal damnation. I did try to make the services as painless as possible. I brought a book and read it. With my head down, I gave the appearance of fervently reading my missal. Back then, this time of year, the church was always filled especially during the early masses so worshipers could get on with their summer fun. If I was in the upstairs church, I often stood in the back with the overflow of church goers or sat outside on the steps. Downstairs, I also stood in the back, but I got to read all the pamphlets on the rack against the back wall. I used to vault up the stairs to the door when mass was over and my obligation was complete.

Sunday dinner was casual all summer. The oven kept the kitchen too hot. Even fans barely moved the air. I loved my mother’s peppers and eggs. She made great potato salad. In August we ate sugar corn. I can remember watching my father shuck the ears. We ate hot dogs and cheeseburgers. The cheese was always yellow American cheese. Back then I put ketchup on my burgers.

Today I have a few more chores, upstairs, and I need some groceries. My week has the usual uke events.

Yesterday was miserable. It was hot and humid, an August day, not a June day. I didn’t post as I had a concert smack dab during my usual posting time. Thankfully, today’s weather is better. A slight breeze is coming through the window behind me, a north facing window. The high today will only be 81° while the low will be in the high 60’s tonight, perfect for sleeping.

As I age, I have had to accept so many changes. Getting down is easy but getting up requires a boost from burly men or grabbing something so I can hoist my body upward. I can’t carry anything beyond 10 pounds in weight. I used to carry in 50 pounds of cat litter. Now I drag dog food bags and use my feet to push boxes cross the floor. I no longer carry my uke stuff. I use a basket I can push. My storm door windows will sit against the cellar door a while. I need to brave myself to take them down to the cellar one at a time, one step at a time. I used to be steady on my feet. I could walk on rail tracks (okay I was really young then), go upstairs without tripping and could go downstairs using both feet. Now I have to plan my route so there is something to grab onto in case I need it. If I ever get stopped on suspicion of drunk driving (not a possibility), I’d get arrested because I can’t stand on one leg. I had no wounds. Now I have cuts and bruises from hitting something. I even hit my head on the freezer door because I bent over and forgot it was open. I never walk fast. It takes too much energy, besides I might trip. I wonder how I have lived this long.

When I was in Ghana, I read all the time. One of my Peace Corps friends said one of the things she loved the most about being in Ghana was the unfettered time for reading. My town even had a library, the Bolgatanga Library built by American architect J Max Bond Jr. I had a book locker made of cardboard and once given out by Peace Corps. A volunteer who was leaving gifted it to me. It was a treasure. In it was The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings trilogy. I devoured those books. I even read the trilogy twice, once each year. I read every night. It was always quiet. I found Ngaio Marsh in the library. I read every mystery they had and any books by African writers. I remember the library wasn’t loud but there was a murmur of voices. It was a warming sound. I visited that library often. I felt blessed to have it.

I’m thinking I want to sit and read the day away except I still need to wash that pesky kitchen floor.