Today is cloudy and windy. The sky keeps getting darker, and the air feels damp and sticky so maybe we will get that rain though past predictions of rain have proved otherwise. Rain seems to bypass the cape in a wide swath of dry weather. We need the rain.

I have every intention of staying home today. I could do a few chores, but the top chores are the ones I put off the longest: the laundry and the dump. I’ll vacuum and maybe dust a bit just to stave off my conscience, this being day three of sloth-dom though I’m counting brushing my teeth as a task accomplished.

When I was a kid, I brushed my teeth at night, but I never did very well. The dentist always gave me a red liquid to swish in my mouth. After I split it out, the red color stayed on teeth poorly brushed. The brighter the color, the worse the tooth. I had a very bright mouth.

The renters next door sit on the deck at night. I can hear their chatter through my opened window. They are not very loud, but sounds at night other than critters is unusual after such a long time of no renters. Henry doesn’t mind them. He only barks at doors.

Nala is quite proficient at stealing food off the counter even when I hide the food, though obviously it seems not so very well hidden or she is quite good at finding the hidden despite her snub nose. Yesterday she stole a bag of dog treats destined for upstairs. When I feed and care for the cats, I give the dogs small treats. Now I have to figure out what to give them. I am leaning toward a few pieces of cheese. I hope they like provolone.

Only a block away from my elementary school, from St. Pat’s, was Santoro’s Sub Shop. It was small. Half of one side, in the refrigerated display case, was the meat and cheese. The giant menu hung on the wall. There were counters. On one counter they took your order and then wrapped the sub in white paper on a small counter. Another counter took up the whole other other long wall. There were stools there. We didn’t often stay. Getting a sub was a treat usually reserved for Friday’s after payday. Because it was a Friday, my choices were limited. I usually went with the small tuna adding only pickles and hot peppers. On a warmish day, we’d eat outside loving being away from school for only a little while.

Santoro’s is gone now. I loved the way it smelled of onions, tomato sauce and oregano. The front window was frosted in the winter. A lot of us skipped out of school for lunch. It was just about the only rebellion we dared, but it was a start. We were still young.

My view of life has changed a bit in the last year. The immediacy is gone. My life mostly meanders. I do have appointments and some events, but they are either short or far apart in time, on purpose, but this past week has been an anomaly. I was out Tuesday early evening, Wednesday morning and Thursday afternoon. It was (I know this is bad grammar, but I like it) me and my uke. I’m really not very good, but I can play all the songs. I do not play a few chords, ones which use all four fingers, but I know most chords. Playing with the group in public is making me a better player. As for now: I am idle today. I was idle yesterday, and I will be idle tomorrow. I do have one errand today: the dogs need treats. That’s it. I might buy myself some ice cream. I haven’t had any in a long while.

Ice cream and summer naturally occur together. Ice cream and its offshoots, especially popsicles, are cooling to eat or lick under the hot sun. My favorite popsicle has always been root beer. If no root beer, I’ll languish a minute or two and then get wild cherry. I have too many favorite ice creams to list. I go on a kick where for the longest time I get the same flavor. Once it was mint chocolate chip. I also like coffee chip, my recent favorite. It seems all of my favorites have chips. Anyway, I want ice cream.

I have noticed when my frustration at summer traffic changes. When I am in a line of traffic, I wish I weren’t, but I know I’m stuck at the light or construction or whatever, but I am only impatient. When I am behind a car slowly driving and sightseeing, I go crazy. My language changes. Much of it would be bleeped. I go way passed impatient. The only solution is often to change my route. I know my way around the side roads. The tourist car seemingly does not. I feel a sense of triumph when I leave the tourist behind.

The lights in my house sometimes trigger memories for me. That probably sounds a bit odd, but I notice it in summer. The lights in the den, on the table in the living room and over the kitchen sink are lit. There are shadows. Both doors are open. Outside, beyond my front door, everything is dark. Once in a while a car goes by on the street next to mine. I always can hear it at night.

You know my most vivid memories of another home, another place where I lived, are of Ghana. Most of my nights during those two years were spent in my house on the school grounds. It was the last house next to the back gate, a new house. It had four inside rooms. Most nights I stayed in my living room reading, listening to music, maybe writing letters or preparing lessons until bedtime always an early bedtime. I remember the light in my living room. The naked light bulb hung from the center of the ceiling. I made a lamp shade out of a Bolga basket by cutting out the bottom of it and adding pieces of metal hangers to go around the bulb. That worked. The harsh light was diffused. There were shadows.