We have another lovely day. It is sunny and 63°. The air is quite still. Nothing disturbs the quiet. Many of the oak leaves have died on the branches. The yard has a layer of fallen leaves, most of them red-yellow. I can hear the crunch from those dead leaves when the dogs run the yard.

Henry continues to drive me crazy about the dog door. Yesterday he came in the door twice so he could bark from the front door at some hapless people walking their dog on the street. Later, though, he refused to come in and stood outside banging the door and crying. I can take it only so long, but there is more. His head and one front paw were inside the kitchen through the door. He was looking for me, and, as soon as he saw me, he pulled his head and paw outside so I could open the door for him. Expletives deleted.

I go to bed in the wee hours. At that time, the only light shining other than mine is my neighbor’s outside door light. It is always lit, even in the daytime. Last night, at close to nine, I stood at the back door waiting for the dogs. All of the houses were dark except my neighbors’ outside light was lit, but their house had no other lights. Are all my neighbors in bed that early? Are they all out somewhere? Is this a re-creation of the Twilight Zone episode The Monsters Are Due on Maple Street? I was flummoxed.

When I was a kid, I was seldom scared. I remember I was at my friend’s house one night when we heard noises in the bushes. I gave a quick thought to the man with the hook, which caused a little unease, but I decided to be brazen. I yelled and demanded the intruder come out or I would call the police. The intruder did. It was another friend trying to scare us. Another time my parents had gone grocery shopping leaving my brother and me home. I heard rustling in the bushes and ran under the bed. The door knob rattled. I pretended bravery and yelled from under the bed, about the worst hiding place. It was my father who answered my yelling. He was just scaring me, not funny I told him, still feigning bravery.

I did get to the dump yesterday which gave me a sense of accomplishment. I also stopped to buy bread and cat food. That was the most outside I’d had in close to a week.

My dance card has nothing today, but I do have my usual uke events starting tomorrow so I am back in the swing. My sloth is muttering.

This morning is a delight. The air is still. It is sunny and 60°. Many of the branches on the trees in the backyard are bare. Fallen leaves cover the driveway and the deck. Earlier, the dogs romped a bit in the yard then came in for their morning naps. They are such creatures of habit.

The trash and recyclables are out by the car. It is dump day. I remember my father always went to the dump on Sunday mornings, almost ceremonial trips. He loved the dump. If I had brought home a friend for the weekend, my father always offered them an invitation to go with him to the dump. Formal clothing was optional. Back then the dump was filled with tall piles of trash. Seagulls flew in circles around the piles. They were raucous. They screeched and squawked. They were a highlight.

My breakfast eggs in Ghana were fried in groundnut, peanut oil. They were delicious and had a wonderfully nutty taste which raised the common fried egg to a new level of flavor. When I came home, I found the taste of my eggs to be common, boring, so I went and bought a bottle of peanut oil, Planter’s oil with Mr. Peanut on the front, and I cooked my eggs in it. I was back in egg nirvana.

Before Ghana, I had never tasted plantain, okra, pawpaw aka papaya, mangoes or garden eggs aka baby eggplants. I didn’t even know most of them existed. I did not like mangoes. I found them messy and that giant pit impeded the eating. They, to me, had a weird smell, like furniture polish. I threw away most of my first mango. Later, I gave one another try. I liked it. Either I had changed or the mango had. I’m thinking my palate had expanded while the mango stayed the same. Every day for lunch I had cut up fruit, mango was a star.

Last week I stayed home the whole week. This week I will reenter the world. On my dance card I have my usual uke practice and lesson, and I have two concerts. I get paid this week so I’ll also grocery shop. Henry will go to the vets to have his ears checked. It will be a busy week.

Today is a lovely fall day. The sun is shining. Every leaf and branch on the trees in the backyard are highlighted against the blue sky. They seem to pop in the light, in a different way than in summer. It is 54°, the high for the day. Tonight will get down to the 30’s. That is winter weather, that is the heat blasting to warm the house. I’m wearing my insulated cozies and my hoodie, my winter uniform.

My memory drawers are filled with pictures of people and events which have shaped my life. Some are monumental, others are small moments, unexpectedly saved. One is of me in North Andover a few streets from my senior year apartment. I’m in a phone booth. I had called home collect. I always did. I was calling to tell my parents I was going into the Peace Corps and going to Africa. I knew my parents would be taken aback. They didn’t even know I had applied. My father was angry which I had expected. My mother said nothing, which I had also expected. My father said I couldn’t go. I said I had already accepted. He swore. That was the end of our conversation.

I took a couple of pictures from the bus window just after we had arrived in Ghana for Peace Corps PST, pre-service training. We were on our way to Winneba, our first training site. The picture is of kiosks along the side of the road. A woman in a long dress is on the sidewalk. The scene was unique at the time, a sort of wonder. Later I realized how common a sight it was, but my memory drawer had saved it, this first view, this beginning of a unique experience.

I remember starting out as a substitute teacher after I was home. I have a snapshot of day one, of one class of freshmen. Their teacher had quit after two weeks. I immediately knew why. One student, a girl, wore torn jeans, before they were fashionable. On the legs of her pants in ink were foul words, and she was adding to her artistry and paying me no attention. Another student, a male, looked older than his classmates. In the middle of the year he quit and joined the army. Another student was leaning out the window. I found out later he was hunting bugs which he ate. That whole scene is burned into my memory drawer. I think it has its own drawer. I lasted the whole year.

I remember walking through my house just after I had passed papers. My memory drawer took all of it in and saved those pictures to a drawer marked House. I can close my eyes and still see the newness of it all, the emptiness of every room, and I can hear the way my footsteps echoed.

You can probably imagine how many drawers sit in my memories. They are piled high, a bit haphazardly in no particular order. Sometimes I pore through the memories and the pictures. I am often wonderfully surprised.

I am going to take it easy though I do have to go to the dump but I’ll probably save that until tomorrow. It will give me something to look forward to say I with tongue in cheek.

Last night was chilly, down to 49°. Today is sunny but not much warmer, only 50°. It is most decidedly sweatshirt weather in the house. The dogs are snuggled beside me on the couch. They know comfort.

I didn’t publish yesterday. I have been under the weather most of the week so I took it easy to give myself time to moan and groan, the purview of the unwell. Yesterday was a better day so I hope the same for today.

When I was young, I wasn’t sick often, but if I was, my mother had a sick day regimen. She’d give us tea and dry toast or flat Coke for stomach upsets. Even now, I still associate tea with being sick. I’d spent the day in bed reading and napping. My mother would bring up a tray. I remember tomato soup for lunch. She made being sick sort of special.

My grammar school always had huge classes. The smallest was usually in the mid-40’s. The desks were crammed together so the aisles were narrow, and you had to walk sideways to move up and down the classroom. When you asked or answered a question, you had to stand up, and your hands could touch desks on each side. My desk was flush against the nun’s desk up front. I remember despite everything the rooms were well-ordered. Most of my classmates were quiet and paid attention. I have a copy of my eighth grade graduation picture. It was taken in front of the convent, now gone. Father Sexton, the pastor, was in the middle of us. We are over a hundred graduates. I am easy to find in the front row. I am wearing a fluffy dress.

We had to cover our text books. Rather than buy book covers, we made ours out of grocery bags. I still remember. I’d cut the bag open, put the opened book in the middle of the bag, trace around the book then cut out the cover. I’d fold each end then slide the book ends into the folds. Sometimes I had to tape the folds but mostly they held. The front of the books always had fold marks from the bag. Sometimes I’d use crayons and decorate the front covers. I was big into sun, grass and trees. I remember my sun always had rays.

I have a totally empty dance card until Tuesday. I do have trash in the trunk, but that can wait. My house is dog hair dusty, but I have become inured. I don’t see anything needing immediate attention. I do see a nap in my future. I am not psychic, just tired.

We have clouds. It is in the mid-50’s. The air has a chill about it, the way fall mornings do. We have a wind from the north, 20 to 35 mph. Everything is blowing, even the tallest branches on the backyard oak trees. So many trees are bare now and more will drop their leaves in today’s wind. Winter is on the doorstep.

When I travel, I try not to have too many expectations. I have learned that serendipity is around the next corner. When I was in Marrakesh, I walked through the souks, some days taking lefts and other days rights. One day a small boy asked me if I wanted to eat. I said yes. He led me through a furniture and rug store to the back where there was a restaurant. It was open to a garden filled with flowers. The floor and building around the garden were white. It was a lovely stop. I had Moroccan food which always included a dish of chopped tomatoes to scoop with bread. I had an amazing meal. It was so unexpected behind a furniture store. Also in Marrakesh, I was wandering through the Mellah, the Jewish quarter, when a man stopped and asked if I wanted to see the synagogue, the Lazama Synagogue. When I got there, a caretaker unlocked the door so I could walk inside. I was so thankful I had said yes to the man who found me wandering.

I have eaten food which had no pedigree, meaning I didn’t know what I was eating. Sometimes I had to point at pictures that looked good. Potatoes were easy to recognize, not so much the meat. I just took a chance. I did eat reindeer in Finland and Guinea pig in Ecuador. In Iceland I ate Icelandic game. I did recognize some sort of fowl but the rest was unknown. I just ate. It was delicious. In Ghana, during my live-in with a Ghanaian family, I was served meat in a sort of stew into which I dipped a gelatinous mixture using my hands, no utensils provided. The meat was fatty and bony. It tasted fine, but I was curious as to the sort of meat. Come to find out, it was goat. T-zed, tuo zaffi, the most commonly eaten food in the far north where I was staying, was the gelatinous mixture. I was not a big fan though I did eat it often. It was because I loved all the stews served with it.

I plan a broad outline before I travel to places I have never been before, but those plans tend to be fluid. I leave plenty of room for the unexpected, for serendipity. That adds richness to my travels. It expands my palate. It fills my memory drawers. It is the best part of traveling.

Yesterday I had a concert at noon, but I had to leave early so I didn’t get time to write. We played at Hyannis Open Street outside in front of the Kennedy Museum. It was cold, especially when the wind blew. I had thought about staying home, cozy and warm, but I decided to go anyway. I dressed warmly, but my hands got cold. The crowd was a good one. They clapped and sang along at times. That made it all worth while.

Today is quite sunny but only 57°, the high for the day. My recognition of high has changed as the seasons have changed. This time of year I’ll take anything 55° and higher so today is a lovely day. Nala finds the sun. She has a sunny spot in the yard and lies stretched on grass where she naps. Dogs know how to be cozy and comfortable.

When I was a kid, the weather didn’t matter. I had to walk to school regardless. Part of my walk was by a field where the wind blasted across. Sometimes we walked backwards on the sidewalk by the field because the wind was so strong our eyes would water and our coats would flap. I could feel the chill. I could even feel the wind blowing up the arms of my coat. In the heaviest wind I thought I would fly.

The wind in Ghana came during the harmattan. It started in November or December when dusty, dry winds came down from the Sahara. The sun was vague, obscured by the dust. The air looked foggy. The days were hot while the nights were cold. The temperature could be 90’s or higher during the day and 50’s at night. I loved those nights. I’d lie snuggled under a scratchy wool blanket I had bought in the market. I still have it. The blanket is draped over a chair in my living room. The dryness wreaked havoc on my body. The heels of my feet dried and cracked so I had to walk on my tiptoes until my heels got hard. My lips too cracked. I remember my students in the mornings wore layers against the cold. I was just fine. I relished the chill.

The older I get the less I tolerate the cold, but I haven’t yet had to drag out my winter coat. It sits in the closet looking almost brand new. I have a wonderfully warm, thick sweater which is enough. I keep a blanket on my bed and am warmed by the heat of two dogs sleeping next to me or at my feet. During the day I wear my flannel pants, a t-shirt and a sweatshirt and either slipper or heavy socks on my feet. I stay wonderfully warm.

I have a filled dance card this week, all uke as usual. I have three concerts, my practice and my lesson. Today is a free day, but I have a few chores, and I want to try to bake some bread. I’m out of it, and I don’t want to get dressed and go out just for bread. I’m hoping for the best.

The morning is ugly, pretty much the same as yesterday’s morning, dark and uninviting. It is raining and only 47°. The tree outside my den window has more colored leaves and more bare branches. The wind is pretty strong. Old Man Winter is knocking at the door. He is getting more insistent.

When I was a kid, I dreaded the change from fall to winter. Out came the heavy coat, the knee socks, my mittens and the hat my mother demanded I wear. She always said we lost most of our body heat through our heads. I hated wearing a hat, but I believed my mother. Much later, I found out it is a myth, an old wives’ tale, one I’m sure my mother believed. It probably came from her mother and her mother’s mother and all the way back from there. I have hats stored in a basket underneath my coat rack, but I seldom wear them. One of them, a knitted hat with a pompom, I have had since high school.

I love mittens. I have several pairs. They keep my hands warmer than gloves do, but I do keep some gloves in the car, sort of as an emergency supply. I have two pairs of favorite mittens, both were knitted by a friend many years ago. I remember when I was a kid, my mittens would get heavy with frozen snow. The bottoms sort of hung. I’d shake the mittens and ice would fly. Once I was inside the house for good, my mittens went on the top of the radiator to dry. You could sometimes see a bit of smoke from the radiator heat melting the snow. I loved those radiators. They made the best sounds, gurgling and hissing. I’d sit in front of one and put my feet under it to get warm.

At school, I’d put my mittens up my sleeves so I wouldn’t lose them, but I remember sometimes I’d have an odd pair of two different mittens because one of each pair had gone astray.

Today is a nothing day. I have no lists and an empty dance card. I vacuumed yesterday. I will probably water my plants today. That is all the energy I intend to expend.

Today is a truly ugly day. It is a rainy, dark day. I can hear drops hitting the barbecue. A wind blows the leaves. From my window, I can see the yellow, orange leaves turning and spinning. There will be fewer still hanging after the storm. My house was cold when I woke up, down to 63°. I turned on the heat. Now my house is comfy. The dogs are sleeping, Nala beside me and Henry on my bed. They live the good life.

When I was a kid, I liked a rainy afternoon. I’d snuggle in bed, the light over my headboard lit, and I’d read. I always had a book. After I’d get my allowance on Friday, I’d walk uptown to the Children’s Corner, a clothing store which had a bookcase in the back where they sold Whitman Publishing Company books. The books were only 49 cents which worked out perfectly as my allowance was 50 cents. The change was worth one penny candy. Whitman published Tricia Belden, a girl detective. I liked her more than I liked Nancy Drew as Trixie was a regular kid. During the week, I’d often walk to the library after school and take home as many books as I was allowed.

When I was in high school, we’d sometimes go to Revere Beach. It had rides, games, bars and restaurants. We’d ride the roller coaster and the round ride that went fast in circles and sort of plastered you against the wall. We’d eat a hot dog or a slice of pizza. We never played any of the games. What I liked the most were the lights. All the outside railings of the roller coaster were lit with white lights and the cars too were lit with lights. I also remember how loud the cars were clicking and clicking on the track. Corners were brutal. There were no seat belts, just a rail in front of the passengers to hold them inside the cars. I remember the anticipation as the coaster chugged up the first high hill. We knew what was coming. The downhill was really fast especially around corners. We all yelled. A few of the intrepids held their hands above their heads. I didn’t.

Sunday we have a uke concert. We also have one on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. Add practice and my lesson. That doesn’t leave much time. When will I nap?

Mother Nature gifted us with a taste of summer, maybe the last taste. Yesterday was t-shirt weather, in the mid 70’s. I opened some windows. Today is hoodie weather. It is only 57° which will be the high for the day.

We are in the middle of our usual morning routine. I’m on my second cup of coffee. I read the paper and finished all three puzzles. The dogs have been in and out twice, had their morning biscuits and are now napping on the couch.

I wonder sometimes about the oddest things. I know there is an ongoing controversy between two camps about toilet paper rolls, the end over or under camps. I am in the over camp. Now, here is my question: why are paper towel rolls always hung over? I also wonder why people put ketchup on scrambled eggs and not on fried or hard-boiled eggs? What is it with scrambled eggs? Hot dog rolls in New England come slit at the top. I’m thinking that keeps the lobster salad from falling out of the roll. Speaking of hot dogs, I am not a fan of ketchup on hot dogs. It seems almost sacrilegious. Slather on the mustard and relish or piccalilli, maybe add some onions. That is my hot dog. I used to ponder why dropped toast always lands butter side down. This pondering even has a name, the buttered toast phenomenon. Is it bad luck as some claim or is it physics? Experiments were done. It is because the bread makes a half turn in the air. It has nothing to do with bad luck. I found a poem from 1884 by James Payn which stirred the debate.

I never had a slice of bread,
Particularly large and wide,
That did not fall upon the floor,
And always on the buttered side!

The next question I asked myself was why has so much time been spent on buttered toast and toilet paper, including mine? My answer is simple. I started Coffee in 2004. After all this time my muse is old and exhausted. Her hair is white. She tends to nap a lot. Inspiration is slow.

On my dance card is a uke concert today in Barnstable. Tomorrow is a 90 minute tour of the Kennedy Museum in Hyannis. I have been through the museum a couple of times but never taken a tour. I’m looking forward to it.

The morning is dismal. It is cloudy and dark. I turned on the heat so the house can get a bit warmer before I take my shower. Speaking of showers, one is expected tonight. Right now it is in the high 50’s, but the dampness and the clouds make it feel colder, a bit closer to the bone. I do need a few groceries, and I have my uke practice tonight so I will be forced to wear outside clothes and leave the comfort of my house. Such is my lot in life.

When I was a kid, I walked to school. The weather didn’t matter. My father took the car to work and left early in the morning so he couldn’t drive us. When it rained was the worst. I’d get to school with wet shoes, wet clothes and even wet hair. I remember my shoes sometimes got so wet water bubbled from the toes. My socks were wet. It took all morning for me to dry. I think I left puddles. We never went out for recess in the rain. After lunch we’d walk around the classroom and chat until the nun silenced us and had us take our seats. I remember when I’d get home, I’d put my soaked shoes under the radiator to dry. Sometimes they dried with the tips of the shoes sort of bent in the air like a genie’s shoes. They felt weird to wear.

Halloween decorations went up around now. I remember a cardboard hang up on the wall with Happy Halloween in letters spread across it and cardboard ghosts in the windows. They looked friendly, like Casper. Witches always rode brooms. Scary Halloween came later, when we were older. The boogeyman was a threat to scare us. He always wore black and had no face you could see. He sort of flew close to the ground rather than walked. When I read Harry Potter, I recognize Voldemort, the Bogeyman of my childhood. We all know about the hook left buried in the car door. The closet and under the bed were well known hiding places for monsters.

I love all the old black and white horror movies. I watch a few every year. The Mummy is my favorite followed by The Invisible Man. Bella Lugosi is the scariest character. Those eyes of his bore into your soul.

It is time for me to pull out my decorations. I have giant spiders and rats. I have one which is just the head, shoulders and hands of a man. It looks as if he has dug himself out of the ground. I have cute stuffed monsters I got a long time ago from CVS. They issued one a week. I have strands of orange and purple lights. I go all in for Halloween.

Today I’ll bake my pumpkin bread and sweep downstairs. The dog hairs have taken over again. The piles look like tumbleweeds. In a science fiction horror movie they’d have teeth.