Last night the rain was, at times, torrential. It drummed the metal top of the barbecue. The back door was open so the kitchen floor below it got soaked. The dogs looked out the door and back pedaled away from the rain. A lovely morning has followed the storm. It is sunny, and the sky is an amazing Crayola cerulean blue without a single cloud. It is 72°’, but a strong, intermittent breeze makes it feel cooler. Tonight will go down to the 50’s. Today is the best sort of a Cape Cod summer day.

Ukulele gets me out of the house. Without it I would be the consummate sloth. I have outside and inside clothes. Outside clothes are presentable. Inside clothes are comfortable and sometimes don’t match. I just grab whatever clothes are handy. That they often clash is no never mind. The dogs don’t care if they do. They are my only audience.

When I was a kid, I had to wear dresses or skirts to Sunday mass. I wore a uniform to school, a skirt and a blouse and regular shoes, not sneakers. The first thing I always did when I got home was put my school clothes away and put on my comfy clothes. In winter I wore girly jeans, ones where the zipper was in the front pocket, and a long sleeve jersey. I wore what once were white sneakers. They had pointed toes, the style back then. I was never a fan of going to mass and having to sort of dress up made it even a bit more miserable. In Ghana, I had to wear a dress every day. I had no really comfy clothes, but I didn’t mind. That was the custom, and my dresses were beautiful, made from native cloth, and dresses were cooler than pants.

I can’t even remember the last time I wore a dress. I used to wear one out to dinner every Easter. I have two spring like dresses, both with tiny flowers. They are in the back of my closet. I suspect they are quite wrinkled. I can’t think of a time when I’ll have to wear them again.

Sunday dinners were always my favorite meals of the week. They were special even on an ordinary Sunday. My mother always served a roast. She’d stuff the chicken. She’d place pieces of onion on the top of the roast beef. I usually tried to steal a piece of that onion. Her mashed potatoes seldom had any lumps. She’d serve them with a big melting piece of butter in the middle. When I’d get my potatoes, the melted butter would ooze down the side, and I’d fill the serving spoon with those butter covered potatoes. A pile of peas finished out my plate.

On my dance card is a uke concert tomorrow, Tuesday and Wednesday and my usual practice and lesson. It is a big outside clothes week.

This entry was posted on July 19, 2026 at 2:01 pm and is filed under Musings. You can subscribe via RSS 2.0 feed to this post's comments. You can comment below, or link to this permanent URL from your own site.