Today is a scorcher. Already it is 85°. The air is thick, humid. A thunder storm is predicted for this afternoon, but the sun and blue sky seem to belie the prediction. Every now and then a breeze strong enough to flutter the leaves and sway small branches gives a bit of relief. The dogs are stretched out, sleeping on the kitchen floor, the coolest spot in the house. I am in the den, the coolest spot not on the floor.

I will do my dump run this afternoon. The trash bags are in front waiting to be loaded into the trunk. I also need to water my house plants. I figure those chores are enough for today.

I have strange pictures in my memory drawers. They are single moments which have stayed with me. I don’t know why those specific memories are still fresh, recallable, but there they are. I remember riding a bus into Boston. In the front seats facing each other were two old ladies. They were dressed like my grandmother. They chatted with each other from the moment they sat down. I watched one woman take out a cigarette, light it and hold it between her fingers. She wasn’t paying attention. She put the lit end into her mouth. She sputtered and spit. I remember watching a woman who worked at Hank’s Bakery putting a pastry box together, filling it with cupcakes and then tying it closed almost in one motion. The string was red and white. I remember walking home through the square by the fire station. The firemen, not fire fighters back then, sat in wooden chairs outside the bays in front of the trucks. They wore blue.

Some of my travel moments are etched into my memories. I remember standing on the equator straddling the line between the hemispheres. I remember in Caracas going to buy a ticket to Merida. The building was huge with kiosks lined up on the sides and in the middle. I can still see the sea of booths. I was amazed I found the right ticket booth and later the right bus. In Columbia I toured the factory where salt was extracted from salt stones. I was chewing gum which disintegrated in my mouth and tasted awful from the salt permeating the air. I spit the remnants into my hand. On my first visit to a market in Ghana, I remember the table right beside the entrance. Round black balls were in piles on that table. I asked, goat dung was the answer. I threw up.

When I was young, probably 8 or 9, we went to Vermont for vacation. The house was huge, painted white and had a wrap around porch. A lake was across the street from the house. It was shallow for a bit then there was huge drop and the water was deep. My father would have me hold on to his shoulders, and he’d dive. I remember seeing fish.

I have flown. I was on my bike on the hill by my house. I swear my bike tires left the ground, and I was airborne.

This entry was posted on August 8, 2026 at 1:36 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.