Today is hot, already 76°, the high for the day. The sun is out though the weather calls for a cloudy day. The breeze is slight, but I’ll take any breeze as the days warm. The birds are serenading us. The windows are open.

When I add a piece or two to my jigsaw puzzle, I cheer. The colors left in the box are all red and green, mostly kiwis and watermelon, so each piece is a triumph. I hold the piece and check the box top hoping to find where it belongs. This morning it was two green and a red.

My mother used to do jigsaw puzzles on her dining room table. She’d spread out all the pieces making it easy to find the right piece. Anyone going to the kitchen had to pass through the dining room. Just about everybody stopped to work on the puzzle. Success was announced out loud, “I got one.”

My favorite Ghanaian dishes are jollof rice and kelewele. Jollof rice has, of course, the rice with tomatoes, onions, tomato paste, peppers and spices. Most times it has chicken. On my last trip to Ghana, I ordered jollof every night with dinner.

I used to buy kelewele from aunties cooking it in large pots over wood fires on the sides of the road. Kelewele’s main ingredient is plantain which I came to love. The plantain is fried and has a crispy outside and a soft inside. Added to that is fresh ginger and grated onions. The Ghanaians grind the ginger and grated onion in a heavy, black clay sort of bowl with sides. They use a wooden piece shaped like an hour glass to do the grinding. I brought the bowl and grinder back on one of my trips. It was so heavy I could barely lift the carry on. Hot pepper is added. I think the Ghanaians add hot pepper to just about every dish. The paste is added to the plantain which is then cooked. Groundnuts, peanuts, are sprinkled on the top of the cooked plantain then served. I would eat this every day if I could find it or had someone cook it for me.

I haven’t a list today. I do need a few groceries, the usual bread and cream, and whatever treat catches my eye, but I’m hoping for a coconut cupcake.

The morning is sunny and bright. It is already 73°, the high for the day. This time of year my backyard is hidden by greenery. I love the full trees with their fluttering deep green leaves and small branches bending in the breeze. Nala has a favorite spot near the back deck steps where she naps in the sun. She lies full flat, showing life only when her ears twitch, probably bothered by a bug. Henry is in and out sort of dog.

My mornings start perfectly. I make my coffee, Costa Rican coffee, this month, let the dogs out then grab my newspaper. I read mostly local news, national news being so depressing, then I do the three puzzles. Some mornings I have toast with my first cup of coffee. This morning it was a bagel smeared with fig jam. I always have two cups of coffee though on cold mornings I might even have three.

This time of year, unless it rained, my bike was always parked in the backyard ready for adventure. Every time I hopped on and rode down the grassy hill in the front yard, I wondered what I’d find as I rode familiar routes. By the golf course, I’d often find a ball across the street in the gutter or on someone’s lawn. Round perfect stones found their way into my pockets. Once in a while I’d find a penny, a worthwhile find back then. I’d stop at fruit trees, usually apple trees, to grab a snack. The apples were small, hard and tart. I’d hope to be on time to watch the train pass through the next town over. I loved when the speed of the train sent a breeze which ruffled my hair, a short breeze but just enough for the sense of it. I’d ride around Spot Pond, the reservoir. I always dreamed of sneaking to the island in the middle and camping for a night. Now you can boat on the pond. I’d ride up town. It was always called up town. In town was Boston. I’d window shop. Hank’s Bakery and the Gloucester Fish Market had the best windows. I loved watching the lobsters swim around in the window tank, and at Hank’s, I wished I could buy a cupcake, always chocolate when I was a kid, though later I preferred coconut. It was late afternoon when I’d finally get home and park my bike in the back.

I make lists every day. Some days I finish one or two chores, but other days nothing gets done. When I was younger, I compulsively finished every chore on my list and took delight in crossing off each finished item. Now my lists are small, maybe a couple of chores. I sometimes finish my list, sometimes not. The compulsion is gone, replaced by a book, a jigsaw puzzle or a few crosswords. Yesterday I cleaned down the stairs and in the downstairs bathroom, neither was on my list. Today I have no list though I do want to wash the kitchen floor, maybe tomorrow.

Last night was cold, down to 40°. This morning the house was really cold, 62°. I figured I had somehow gone back in time to early spring so I checked the calendar. It said June 2nd but sitting here in my sweatshirt with socks on my feet has made me skeptical.

My dance card has only two entries, my uke practice and lesson, no concerts. It will be a week of doing a few chores, really only a few, reading and finishing my jigsaw puzzle. I like lazy weeks.

My neighborhood is quiet. The kids are older now. The only sound I usually hear is the kid down the street shooting hoops and the sound of his basketball bouncing on the street and then hitting the rim. Henry is the loudest dog. He barks at every person who dares walk on his street or every truck which stops. Amazon, UPS and the mailman’s truck are, to Henry, the worst offenders. He barks constantly at them and scares most delivery persons trying to drop off a package at my house. The mornings are delightfully noisy with the songs of birds while, at night, insects rule the air. They are a welcome break to the silence.

When I was growing up, I lived in a noisy neighborhood. It was filled with kids. Most families had multiple kids. Summer was the loudest season. Doors slammed, kids played outside all day, dogs barked and mothers yelled out back doors. I was five when we moved to that neighborhood. Back then, our playgrounds were the field, the swamp and the woods on two sides of the field. The grass in the field was high, green in the spring, but it turned brown quickly under the summer sun. We hunted grasshoppers. We played tag and ran through the field chasing each other. We walked to the swamp. In the spring there were water lilies and tadpoles. In the summer dragon flies skimmed the top of the green water. Frogs jumped from half submerged tree branches into the water. We tried to catch the ones closest to the edge of the water, but they were too quick. We just got wet. A water tower was up a small hill close to the swamp. We always wished we could climb it so we could see the world from the top. It was probably a good thing we couldn’t. On the street behind the water tower was a field with a red barn and two grazing horses. We tried to catch them so we could ride. It was probably a good thing we couldn’t. Growing up, I never realized I lived in paradise.

After the last couple of days of rain, today is a welcomed change. The sun has decided to reappear and brought with it a blue sky, but it is only 55°. I’m wearing my hoodie.

This is not one of my better days. I feel logy despite my sloth days. I envision another day of reading, doing my puzzle and filling in my crossword book except I really need to water plants and vacuum the hall. This morning I bent over to pick up a dust ball with my coffee cup in hand. When I bent over, I tipped the cup and spilled the little coffee which was left. That is how the morning started.

My dance card is empty except for uke practice and my lesson. We are starting a new book, Across America, for the first two weeks of the month then we move on to John Denver. We are getting ready for our weekly concerts on the green starting the end of the month when we do a new book every week.

There is a picture of me from when I was about three years old. It was taken in my grandparents’ back yard. I am sitting in a fire engine which belonged to my brother. It seems to be still but my hands are on the steering wheel. What I like best about this picture is I am wearing a frilly dress, The frilliest parts are hanging outside the wagon. Those were my girly days.

When I was in college, my friends and I met every morning at the same table in the canteen. We had coffee together. We also did the crossword puzzle in the newspapers we had bought from the kiosk. It was a race. We’d go to classes but return to that table all day. We were merciless to each other in a fun way. If somebody talked on, we’d turn our backs or we’d pretend to fall asleep. We were close. When I was in Ghana, we wrote at first, but the letters got fewer and fewer. They were moving on while I was living a different life. We lost track of each other. I saw them only a couple of times after I got home and not again. It has been over 50 years since those canteen days. I wonder about them now. Where are they? How were their lives? Are they happy? I still drink my coffee and do the crossword puzzle every day. I have found that pieces of my life through time stay with me. They are a part of who I have become.

Mother Nature has done a 180° from the weather which had started Friday night and lasted all day yesterday. The rain is gone. The clouds have disappeared. The sun is bright, but it is still a bit chilly at 61°. According to the weather report, light rain is predicted for later with a low of 49° tonight.

I was going to the dump today, but I decided I don’t want to haul trash bags from the deck to the car. I did enough hauling the other day. Today might just be a repeat of yesterday’s sloth day when I read and worked on my puzzle, a fruit platter. I got some of the middle done. Once I start a jigsaw puzzle I get obsessed.

In Bolgatanga, my Ghanaian home, the rainy season has started. The millet is already planted. Maize, groundnuts and yams are probably already planted as well. During the dry season, the fields are empty, and it seems as if you can see for miles. During the rainy season everything is hidden behind the tall millet. Only the dirt road between the fields is visible ahead and behind. It rains pretty much every day once the season is in full swing, usually by July. I learned to appreciate rain.

Peace Corps gave us a monthly living allowance to cover all our needs. We got American dollars for traveling. When I went to Accra, the capital, I stayed at the Peace Corps hostel for 50 pesewas a night, about 50 cents, including breakfast. I usually saw a movie or two. I ate cheaply at mostly Lebanese restaurants, but on every trip, I ate at the only Chinese restaurant in the city. It was a treat. We always ate outside.

I had one experience still bright in my memory drawers. I have mentioned this before, but today it is close again. In my Ghanaian days, old hotels still existed, the sort of places where rich expats stayed. A few friends and I decided to say goodbye to a friend leaving early. We went to one of those hotels, to the bar. I remember the room where we sat and drank, real drinks, not hot Coke. Fans turned overhead. The room was filled with tall windows. The chairs and couch cushions were soft and covered with cloth of bright flowered patterns. Palm plants were strewn about the room, mostly in corners. I had the oddest sense as if I had gone back in time to the 50’s or even the 40’s. I could see white couples sitting and drinking, the women wearing light, short sleeve dresses and wide brim hats, the men in white suits. It was easy to imagine.

Around 2:30 this morning the thunder started. It surprised all of us. Nala looked up at the ceiling and Henry just looked around. The rumbles lasted on and off for a while. The dogs lost interest and fell back to sleep. Next, the rain started, heavy drops. It was loud. In a bit, the rain softened but lasted for quite a time. It was still raining when I finally went to bed.

We are back to sweatshirt weather. The house is chilly. Earlier, the air was still, but the wind has since started. It will rain all day, a perfect stay at home day. Yesterday I cleaned. Today my sloth reigns supreme. I have a book and a new jigsaw puzzle.

Each day, the traffic on Coffee is analyzed on the home page by number and location. As you would expect, the highest traffic comes from the United States. What I find unexpected is that the next highest number is from Hong Kong then in order Singapore and Belgium.

When I was a kid, a rainy Saturday meant hanging around the house. I’d sometimes stay in my room, my quiet place, and read. Other times, I’d sit in front of the TV and watch all the Saturday morning programs. I always watched Creature Double Feature in the afternoon. I got to see all the classics, both American and Japanese. That’s where my love for those movies began. Last night I watched Atomic Age Vampire and The Day Mars Invaded Earth. I even ate some popcorn generously buttered.

We had an operator who connected phone calls. The upgrade was a dial phone. Our TV was black and white, but everyones’ were black and white. Most of the movies I watched on Saturdays were made in black and white anyway. The milk man delivered each week. I remember the rattle of the bottles in his wire container as he walked to the back steps. The trash track had men who rode on the back. They jumped off to empty the barrels lined up on the street and the garbage in the below ground container with a pedal on the top to open it. Clothes dried on the backyard lines. My sheets always had the best smell. The ice cream man, Johnny, came most late afternoons. The truck bell announced his arrival. His truck was white with a small door halfway up the back of the truck. The ragman came on his horse and wagon. The knife sharpener man rode his bike with the grinding tool attached.

Life when I was a kid was more colorful, filled with characters. It was simple. It was a great life.

I slept late and had a leisurely morning so I’m behind my time. I even stood on the deck for a bit to watch the dogs and take in the beauty of the day. It is sunny but light rain is predicted for later. It is in the low 60’s but feels warmer.

Pine pollen is covering every bit of my little corner of the world. My blue car is now a yellow green. The deck and even the flowers are covered in pollen. My allergy is making a mess of me. I cough whenever I do anything requiring breathing. My nose needs constant blowing. This is my least favorite time of year.

The town where I grew up had every sort of tree. I remember up the hill from where I lived was a chestnut tree. Sometimes we pelted the chestnuts at each other. They really hurt. An old elm tree with a giant trunk was across the street from my house. It came down in a hurricane, split at the trunk. My father took us outside during the eye of the storm to check out the tree. The rest of the trunk and all the branches were across the road. I climbed through the smaller branches. The other trees I remember were the red maples and the amazing color of their leaves. Those were the leaves we ironed in wax paper to save them at their brightest. We did have a few pine. The white pines were tall and had fluffy needles. I don’t remember their pollen covering surfaces. Maybe, unlike here on the cape, they were few. The oak trees were many, maybe the most of all. The lilac is a bush but grows so tall and full it might just qualify as a baby tree. The houses around my street had tall lilac bushes. The purple flowers smiled divine. My house had a few trees in the side yard, some sort of a fir tree. They were young trees, not every tall. When I drove pass my old house many years later, I was amazed. The trees are now taller than the house.

I have an empty dance card until Tuesday, unless you count a dump run on Sunday. To keep busy, I may have to do a few chores. I swept the downstairs a couple of days ago and ended up with a dust ball bigger than a soccer ball. Today I noticed the dust clumps are back. I feel a bit like Sisyphus but with a broom instead of a rock.

The morning is perfect. The sky is that deep blue which almost defies description, the sun is bright, and there is a slight breeze. When I asked Alexa the weather for today, she said light showers. I didn’t believe her given the beauty of the morning so I asked Google the same question. Google said cloudy with light rain. He got the cloudy part wrong, but he did agree with Miss Alexa about the showers. It is 63°.

I took Henry to the vet’s on Tuesday to have his leg checked. He has been limping on his right front leg. The vet checked his paw and felt all round his leg then she took him out back so she would watch him walk. When she came back, she did he did not limp at all. I was a bit flabbergasted. She gave him pain pills and told me to use them at my discretion. When we got home, Henry limped to the house. He is still limping.

When I was a kid, every day was just about the same. I had breakfast, hot cereal or eggs in winter and cold cereal in the warmer months. Breakfast was always ready on school days when I got down stairs to the kitchen. I didn’t have to choose school clothes. I wore the same uniform, a blue skirt, white blouse and a blue cowboy tie, for eight years. My only fashion flairs were shoes and socks. Mostly my shoes were sturdy and meant to last all year unless I grew out of them or something catastrophic happened. It never did. On cold days I wore knee socks, on warm days, ankle socks. I never complained about having to wear a uniform. That was just the way it was, the norm when I was a kid, just because.

My plate was expanded when I went to Ghana. It wasn’t just Ghanaian food. It was also Lebanese food and Indian food. I remember thinking how exotic the Maharaja restaurant was to me, whose only foray into exotic food was spaghetti and meatballs and fried rice, Chinese spare ribs and pork strips. The restaurant was on the second floor of a building near the post office. It was decorated exactly how I had imagined an Indian restaurant should look like. We sat on floor pillows. I don’t even remember what I ate. I do know I developed a taste for Indian food. Small corner Lebanese restaurants were common in Ghana. I used to eat at a place called Talahl’s, right near the Peace Corps office. That was the first time I ever had hummus. I never asked what was in it. I just tried it. The hummus was served in a circle on a flat plate. It had a small amount of sesame oil in the middle and was ringed with red pepper. The pita bread was large and freshly made. I remember being told to take a piece of bread and scoop it through the hummus after running it through the oil and making sure it got some pepper. I still love hummus. I’m not so sure if I would have eaten it if I knew about the chickpeas and tahini.

After all the rain, this beautiful morning is welcome. The bright green leaves are brilliant in the brightness of the sun. The flowers in the front yard, the blues and the whites, are striking. It is already 71°. I can taste summer.

When I was a kid, a day like today was my favorite sort of day. Walking to school in the warmth of the sun gave me the energy to face the grueling day ahead. I remember the trees with their overhanging branches filled with leaves. The houses along the sidewalk were old. Some had porches. Ivy climbed the walls. Along the way there were still railroad tracks crossing the road and continuing out of sight on both sides of the road. We used to jump over them. I remember the station master’s house. I always thought it would have been a great place to live. I’d get to hear the trains pass and watch the bar come down to stop the cars. On one side of the street was a long grass hill, part of the landscaping of the old brick high school. Before we got to our school, we could see part of the convent, the little building with the stone front. The convent was huge with so many windows in the front. We knew those windows were in the nuns’ rooms. I always imagined those rooms were stark with a bed, a bureau and a cross on the wall. Across the street from the convent was my school.

When I graduated from the eighth grade, we had a class picture taken. We sat in front of the convent. Many years later I found that picture. It was rolled, and the picture cracked when I unrolled it. I decided I wanted to save it so I took it to a photography shop where a copy was made and mounted for hanging. I see it every day. It is over the sink in my downstairs bathroom. That probably sounds like an odd spot for a school picture, but my bathroom has sorts of school stuff including a small rolled desk where I keep soap and hand towels. The room even has a blackboard. Ding Dong school artifacts are on the side of the sink and under the blackboard. On the walls are old class pictures and diplomas I bought. I don’t know anyone in the pictures or any of the names on the diplomas. I chose the school theme as something unexpected for the bathroom.

I have to miss my concert today to take Henry to the vet’s to check his leg, but not to worry, I have two more concerts this week and the usual practice and lesson. Uke events again are the only entries on my dance card.

For special days, I have traditional postings. This is one of them. 

Memorial Day is a day for reflection and a day to give thanks. It is a day for honoring the men and women who died while serving in the U.S. military, those who gave, as President Lincoln once said, their “…last full measure of devotion.” This is my annual tribute. 

Memorial Day, originally called Decoration Day, is a day of remembrance for those who have died in our nation’s service. It originated during the American Civi War when citizens placed flowers on the graves of those who had been killed in battle. There are many stories as to its actual beginnings, with over two dozen cities and towns laying claim to being the birthplace of Memorial Day. There is also evidence that organized women’s groups in the South were decorating graves before the end of the Civil War: a hymn published in 1867, “Kneel Where Our Loves are Sleeping” by Nella L. Sweet carried the dedication “To The Ladies of the South who are Decorating the Graves of the Confederate Dead.” 

While Waterloo N.Y. was officially declared the birthplace of Memorial Day by President Lyndon Johnson in May 1966, it’s difficult to prove conclusively the origins of the day. It is more likely that it had many separate beginnings; each of those towns and every planned or spontaneous gathering of people to honor the war dead in the 1860′s tapped into the general human need to honor our dead, each contributed honorably to the growing movement that culminated in General Logan, Commander in Chief of the Grand Army of the Republic, giving his official proclamation in 1868 designating May 30 as a memorial day “.. for the purpose of strewing with flowers or otherwise decorating the graves of comrades who died in defense of their country during the late rebellion, and whose bodies now lie in almost every city, village, and hamlet churchyard in the land.” It is not important who was the very first, what is important is that Memorial Day was established. Memorial Day is not about division. It is about reconciliation; it is about coming together to honor those who gave their all.