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.

This entry was posted on July 27, 2026 at 12:48 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.