Mother Nature has generously given us another summer’s day. It is already 75° with a bright sun and a few light clouds. We have a breeze. The weatherman says rain tonight.

When I was in the first grade, I had a stern nun, Sister Redempta. She scared all of us not only by her manner but also by her habit, all that black. On the Lone Ranger, bad guys wore black hats. We could see only her face and hands. She wore a rosary around her waist which made noise when she walked. When she spoke, we listened. None of us dared to speak out of turn. She’d have us fold our hands together in the middle of the desk. That was like calling us to attention. We used to have to stand up to talk, to answer questions. It was always, “Yes, sister. No, sister.” I think army basic training must be similar. We even wore uniforms though ours in the first grade were a bit different. Our skirts had over the shoulder straps. I still have my first grade school picture. I’m smiling. What is striking about it are my teeth. The two front teeth go in different directions. I’d get braces in second grade and in that school picture I’m not smiling. I’m hiding my braces. They weren’t so common back then. Luckily, metal mouth hadn’t yet hit playground taunting.

When I was a kid, I never liked tomatoes. I liked tomato soup and spaghetti sauce but not raw tomatoes, especially the hard ones from the grocery store. In Ghana onions and tomatoes were plentiful in the market. I didn’t eat them raw then either. They were sauce, almost a stew, in which the tough beef cooked for a long time to soften. I never ate a tomato in a sandwich. My subs were tomato less, lots of onions and hot peppers, but no tomatoes. I’d take them out of a burger from Carroll’s. I don’t know when my tastes changed. I’d add them to sandwiches and stopped picking them out of salads. Homegrown tomatoes are the stuff of legends. Small tables in front of houses by August are filled with tomatoes for sale. I keep small bills and change in the car so I can stop and buy them. A BLT toasted and slathered with mayo is a taste of heaven.

The morning is fairly quiet. Only Henry is noisy. He’s been barking. I have stopped checking why. Nala is spread out on the couch beside me. I do hear birds and occasionally a car. I have a concert this afternoon. I also need bread and cat food. I’ll join the world for just a little while.

The weather has the feel of fall about it. The morning temperature is a bit chilly, long sleeve chilly. The sunlight is sharp, the sky a clear blue, and the breeze ever so slight. Earlier, I sat on the deck steps to drink my coffee. Nala stayed with me. Henry went into the house. We each greet the mornings in different ways.

My life is pretty quiet. Most of my days are spent at home, just me and the dogs and Jack. I read or watch movies or do spot cleaning, my last resort. Ukulele gets me out of the house. I am still amazed I can actually play a musical instrument. I mostly live in my cozies. I am up until the wee hours. The nights are lovely. By then, my house is the only one with lights. We don’t have any street lights so the darkness is dense. I can hear birds and insects and every now and then Henry barks. When I finally go to bed, I fall asleep quickly.

I have a sort of morning routine. I read the paper, do all the puzzles and have two cups of coffee. Sometimes I have toast. I still slather it with fig jam if I have any. I then start writing Coffee and have YouTube on in the background. Often I watch the walks through Accra, Ghana. I feel as if I am there. I know the sounds and the smells. I recognize the aunties selling their wares along the sidewalks. They haven’t changed in all these years. I see fruits and vegetables and clothes on mannequins with no arms. Pots and pans in different sizes are piled. Tinned goods are stacked. It is all so familiar.

When I was a kid, my grandparents were the oldest people I knew. They were quite different, my mother’s parents and my father’s. We loved to visit my mother’s parents in East Boston. They were warm and loving. They lived in a city we could explore. On weekends, their house was a meeting place for all the siblings. My mother was the third of eight. I had what seemed like hundreds of cousins. I still picture my grandmother. She was short, the whole family was mostly short. She wore a bib apron usually with flowers. She wore slippers with the backs down. Her stockings were rolled down to her ankles. She was not really cheery. She sometimes wore a tired smiled.

My other grandmother was a tall woman, taller than my grandfather. She stooped. She also wore a bib apron with a flowered dress underneath. Her shoes were always black with clunky heels. She had a laugh that was always too loud, strident. My father visited them most Saturdays as they lived in the same town as we did. The rest of us seldom visited. They weren’t very welcoming. Once in a while they did invite us to dinner. I remember one time going on Thanksgiving night for a second turkey dinner. They had a dining room. The furniture was dark. It is funny what you remember.