It is 79° and sunny though the clouds come and go. Rain is predicted for later. A strong breeze comes every now and then but does little to cool the air. I’ve turned on my fan. Nala has stopped panting and has fallen asleep with the breeze cooling her.

I have perfected being a sloth though yesterday I did sweep the floor as the dog hair had formed balls mostly in the hall, and I couldn’t take them anymore. I also had a concert, the usual Monday concert in Hyannis. That was the reason I got dressed. Most days I prefer to sit around in my comfies. My dogs reflect my lifestyle. They are both napping, the first of many naps. They sprawl. They don’t even move when I walk over them into the kitchen. I admire that.

When I was a kid, I never had quiet days, even in the rain. I had the playground with all of its activities, and I had my bike to fill in for any slow spots. I knew the best places in my town. A horse barn was behind the town hall. I used to look in from the open door at the stalls and the horses. The building is still there, but the horses are long gone. I’d walk the tracks. I always jumped over the double O railroad ties so my mother’s back wouldn’t break. That seemed perfectly reasonable to me. My mother never did break her back thanks to my jumping. I kept my heroics secret.

The junkman’s house was near the horse barn. The porch leaned. It had high piles of newspapers. A barn was beside the house. It is where he kept his horses. The clop of the horses on the street and the voice of the junkman calling for newspaper and rags always had me running to watch him go by the house. I didn’t realize back then that the days of the junkman and his wagon were numbered. They would be replaced by trash trucks.

My childhood was on the cusp of the old and the new. We still had that junkman, a knife sharpener on his bicycle with his grinding wheel propelled by the pedals, a milkman with clinking bottles against the metal bottle holder who delivered milk and left it in a case on the back steps and hand propelled lawn mowers which clicked and clicked as they cut the grass. I never thought about them disappearing, and they did disappear, replaced by trucks and machines which had no amazing sounds and no personalities.

The older I get the more nostalgic I am. Mind you, I don’t advocate going back to the old days. I do enjoy modern creature comforts, but I miss the fun of those days, of watching the sparks fly off the grinding wheel, of running to Johnny’s ice cream truck with a nickel for a popsicle, root beer if has one, and watching the horses drop poop on the road. We waited for and laughed at that last one. Every kid loves poop stories.

This morning is lovely. The house holds the coolness of last night. A bright sun is shining, and the blue sky is cloudless. The breeze is so slight the leaves barely move. Only the songs of some birds disturb the silence. It is only 71°, but the day will get warmer, as high as 78°. Henry is beside me sleeping on the couch. Nala is outside lying in the sun on her favorite spot. If I were to design the perfect summer’s day, it would be today.

I did get to the dump yesterday. It was crowded. Cars waited in line to get into the dump, to drop off recyclables and to dump their trash. My Sunday trash run has been a habit dating back to when I worked. It is time to pick a different day. I’m thinking Thursdays.

When I was a kid, my father always dragged out the barrels on trash day before he went to work. He’d line them up on the curb. When he got home, he’d drag them back to the yard. I remember the trash truck. It was a town truck. A couple of guys who held on to the back jumped off when the truck stopped at barrels. Their clothes were always filthy. I figured they were trash day clothes. The truck was noisy. The back presser would make the loudest noise when it compacted the trash. The trucks went to the town dump to drop off their trash. I didn’t know there was a town dump for the longest time. Here on the cape, you can pay private companies for trash pick-up or you can pay for a town dump sticker, an expensive dump sticker, but people prefer to pay for the sticker, a cheaper option in the long run, and go to the dump themselves. I always meet people I know at the dump. It is also the spot for candidates in local elections to say hello, shake hands and ask for votes.

When I was in Ghana, during my first year, we were forbidden to drive a car or own a motorcycle. The exceptions to the motorcycle rule were guys who were track coaches and had to travel from school to school. The Peace Corps gave them motos as the Ghanaians called them. The rule was changed for all of us my second year so I bought a Honda 90. I bought that size because I always wore a dress, and the 90 kept me modest, not straddled over the middle of a larger bike. I remember my first ride. It was when I bought the bike and rode from Tamale to Bolga, a trip of 162 kilometers or 101 miles. I loved every mile except for the bugs I swallowed. I stopped a couple of times just to stretch my legs. Lorries and cars honked as they passed by me. People waved from them and from villages I passed on the way. It felt as if I was flying. It was remarkable.