The news about Liz is hopeful. The MRI she had yesterday showed minimal brain damage from her two strokes. The doctors are cautiously optimistic. A second MRI will be given tomorrow to check the first results and look for any changes. If they can, they will start to take her out of the coma. The doctor said it would be a long haul in rehab, but she’ll do it. Liz is tough.

Yesterday was an air-conditioner day. The dogs were panting and I was sweating. Today could be the same with a high of 80˚, the current temperature. There is a thunderstorm warning, but I’m skeptical. It is a pretty day. The trees are dappled by sunlight. The blue sky is clear of clouds. The breeze ruffles the leaves of the oak trees.

My to-do list has familiar tasks. The laundry is in the hall where it has been for at least a week. Trash bags are by the fence waiting for my dump run, probably tomorrow.

Today I have a uke concert at the Harwich farmer’s market. We played there last year. I remember the bread lady. She always had a line waiting. I’ll be standing in that line. I got money yesterday.

My dance card has nothing after today until Monday, except maybe the return of movie night. It’s time to bring the red carpet out of storage. Last year I bought a few really bad B science fiction movies, but I never opened the deck for company. I’m thinking maybe to open with a classic like Gunga Din.

I went on the deck when the dogs were in the yard. I’ve put yard trash clean-up on my list for today. I saw the paper remnants of Nala’s thefts strewn around the yard.

My deck makes me smile. On the rail are the deck boxes filled with herbs. Flowers are in the rest of the pots around the rail. I finished the planting late yesterday when it was a bit cooler. Today I’m going to sand and paint the small red, metal table and the wooden fish table, deck regulars. I’m also going to decorate with candles, hanging decorations and some oddities I love. Already, the wooden shark head is hanging. I keep humming the shark theme from Jaws.

When I was a kid, there was a bread bakery in the square. Some days, the whole square smelled like baking bread, and I couldn’t resist that aroma. I’d buy a loaf with my allowance, tear off pieces and munch all the way home. My mother used to wonder why I wasn’t hungry for supper.

I could eat hot dogs every day. My sisters even joke about it. I butter and brown the rolls, add some cheese then slathered the rolls with spicy mustard and green pepper relish. I yum at every bite. The dogs sit by the table and stare. I always share, no wonder they sit and stare. I would.

Today is not the best of all days. The decision will be made as to the next step for Liz. All the test results will be ready by the afternoon. Yesterday, Ryan told his son Ryder the extend of his mother’s condition. For the first time, he cried. Now Ryan has to figure how to tell Georgie, his daughter. The worst is yet to come.

The morning is already warm with the temperature of 79˚, the high for the day. It’s cloudy right now, but the sun is back and forth from behind the clouds. The breeze is strong. All the leaves are blowing.

Yesterday I decided to finish my deck planting though I’m using finish loosely as most of the plants were still in plastic pots from the garden centers. I was out on the deck four hours. I planted herbs and flowers in 2 deck boxes and 15 pots, two decorative and the rest clay. After the potting, I swept the deck, cleaned the table and trash picked the yard. I was dirty and sweaty but happy. I had finally finished the one chore on my to-do list which had been carried from list to list. Today I still need to hit the garden center as I have one empty deck box and one empty clay pot.

When I was growing up, summer seemed endless. Days were spent on my bike, at the park or the pool. I was never home. I’d make my lunch and bring it with me. It was always a bologna sandwich on soft white bread slathered with mustard (the yellow kind as that was all we had), cheese, also yellow, and hot peppers, sometimes chopped and sometimes whole. I’d also pack some cookies, Oreos if we had any left as they went fast. I was never one for fruit in my lunch. I used to stop to eat under the shade of a huge tree. I’d put the kickstand down and keep my bike in the shade. Those handlebars got hot.

When I was in Ghana, I used to borrow a bike to pedal to town. It was all downhill. I’d park the bike near the market, finish my shopping then pedal home, uphill. That reminded me of when I was kid, and our house was at the top of a hill. I loved the ride down, but I mostly had to walk the bike uphill. It was the same in Ghana, but the more I rode, the easier the hill got. Finally, I was able to pedal all the way to the top of the hill. I stopped and cheered.

Today I’m taking a break. It has been a tough couple of days. I’m sitting by the phone waiting for updates. My niece-in-law, Liz, my nephew Ryan’s wife, is in critical condition with what they haven’t figured out yet. Those who love her, her family and friends, have rallied around her. They stay at the hospital. Liz is never without someone to hold her hand and talk to her. They take turns going in to see her, two or three at a time. Ryan stays by her side.

Her older child, Ryder, knows what is happening and has been with her, but her daughter, 8, only knows her mother is in the hospital but not the particulars. She is staying with her aunt, my niece, and her cousins.

Liz is in an induced coma and intubated. That’s all my head can handle.

Today is a delight, a lovely day with bright sun, blue skies and a slight breeze. The high will be only 74˚, but by mid-week it will get hotter, even into the 80’s. The nights, though, will stay cool, wonderful for sleeping. I’m planning to be on the deck to finish planting the flowers. It’s another day of dirt.

The world seems to slow down on Sundays. I don’t hear any noise or even any cars. I think I heard a dog barking earlier but from faraway. Even the birds are quiet.

When I was a kid, I was never fond of Sundays. No day which started with a forced walk to church for mass would ever be among my favorites, but, despite that, I never skipped mass. That was mortal sin behavior. I didn’t want to resemble the blackened milk bottle in my Baltimore Catechism in the sin section. I preferred to be the other milk bottle, white with some black splotches. Those splotches were sins as well, but venial sins, not so bad. I was safe from hellfire.

My wall calendar still says June. I just haven’t flipped the page. My table calendar is day by day. I am usually a day or two behind. When I wake up in the morning, I take a few seconds to remember what day it is. Sometimes I ask for Alexa’s help.

Nala doesn’t just steal things. She also brings the outside inside. This morning it was a branch which soon became splintered wood pieces with teeth marks. She also likes to bring in pine cones. I find the chewed middles all over the house.

I grew up with television. I remember watching the tiny screen. I found it amazing and watched so closely I toyed with blindness. I watched shows like Superman and the Mickey Mouse Club and all those Saturday westerns. Our TV got bigger and was in a giant cabinet with doors which closed and hid the screen which was still not all the wide. I remember when we got the color TV. I loved Star Trek in color. Finally, I saw the redshirt crewman who was destined to die shortly after beaming down to any alien planet.

I am greeted every morning by both dogs as if I’ve been away for the longest time. They go out, come in for their morning treats then they’re back out again. This morning I went out on the deck with them and was thrilled by the weather. It is another lovely day. The breeze is cooling. It is 73˚, and the day won’t get much warmer than 75˚.

I’m planting today. I bought the rest of my flowers, some herbs and some soil yesterday. They are all deck bound. I am determined to finish today. I’ve been moving the plants a few at a time to the deck from the front yard where I carried them from the car. Nala follows me. I’m wary. She is a known plant thief.

When I think about flowers, I think about my mother’s little garden. It was in a small fenced off plot in the yard below the kitchen windows. A statue of St. Francis with his hands out was a bird feeder. The garden was filled with flowers. I used to like to watch the birds from the kitchen window. My mother loved feeding the birds, but the only birds she attracted were giant crows and pigeons, country pigeons she called them. She used to put the feeders in the middle of the clothes line to keep the spawns of Satan away. That didn’t work. The spawns did a high wire act across the line and dined al fresco.

When I was a kid, I never noticed flowers, but I noticed everything else which grew. I ate grapes from the arbor across the street, pears from the house beyond the fence and small green apples which were sour and hard to bite into, but they made great ammunition in an apple fight. That’s when I learned to duck quickly as those little apples hurt when they pelted their target, me.

I know things. I know that bad eggs float. Good eggs drop to the bottom. I can pluck a chicken or a turkey or anything else with feathers. I can pee in a hole with amazing accuracy. I can bargain for as long as it takes, and I can eat unfamiliar dishes without asking what they are or gagging once I find out. I consider myself multi-talented.

Today is a delight. The sun is bright and warm, but the strong breeze keeps the air cool. I’m glad for the plants I bought as I’ll be on the deck putting them in pots. It’s a great day to get dirty with potting soil. Yesterday, Nala stole one of my herbs just before I potted it, the oregano. She ran around the yard with the pot in her mouth. It was Nala’s game. When I’d get close, she’d run. Meanwhile, I found my other slipper. It is a bit sandy on the outside but none the worse for wear. As for the herb race, the oregano fell out of the pot. Nala picked that up and ran and ran. I gave up and sat on the stairs. Maybe next year the backyard will be covered in oregano.

Everything is quiet. I don’t hear a sound from the street. The house next door is rented, but I haven’t heard them either. The cape is filled with cars. Going anywhere is a test of patience. I usually fail. The air in my car turns blue.

When I was a senior in high school, my English teacher was Mrs. Baker, Ma Baker as we called her. I remember she wore suits with a jacket and skirt. We used to joke she had her fall- spring suit and her winter suit. She told us many times of her trips to England and Avon. My classroom had two doors, one in the front and one in the back. My seat was beside the back door. I got brave and sneaked out of class a couple of times. Once I convinced my friend Diane of the second row to escape with me. She did. The nuns would have called me an occasion of sin!!

Mrs. Baker was also my teacher for Speech and Debate class. Her room, the one with the two doors, had an elevated spot sort of like a stage in the front. She had us reading The Mikado in parts on that stage. We all felt a bit silly. That class was much smaller than my English class so I had to stay inside the room, no sneaking out.

My dance card is empty until Monday.

If I were given the chance to choose my weather, I’d chose a day like today. The sun is so bright I could barely see when I went to get the paper. A few leaves flutter at the ends of branches until a stronger every now and then breeze blows even the topmost leaves of the oak trees. It is a warm day. The high will be 77˚, but the humidity is gone, at least for today, so the day is lovely. I’m glad for my errands

Jack, my cat, has a gate across the door of his room so he can come and go, and it keeps the dogs out or it did until this morning. Miss Nala, the consummate thief, broke into the room three times. I adjusted the gate the first two times, but she found a way in around the side of the gate. On her third foray, I heard the rustling of paper and ran upstairs. She was caught. She couldn’t get out the way she had gotten in through the gate because it held. Miss Nala was standing inside by the gate looking guilty and for good reason. I could see paper and empty cat food cans on the floor. When I got inside the room, I saw the dry food dish was empty, but I stopped Nala from eating all the canned food. I let her out at the gate, went inside and cleaned up the trash, one of my favorite things to do before my second cup of coffee.

I know Ghana is often the subject of my musings. Some days it feels closer than other days, but it is always with me. Most returned Peace Corps volunteers will tell you that their two years were life affirming.

I was twenty-one when I arrived in Ghana. I remember my first ride through Accra from the airport. It was jaw-dropping. I could see kiosks along the sides of the roads and women selling just about everything. They were dressed in beautiful cloths. People selling foodstuffs wove in and out of traffic trying to sell their goods to cars before the light changed. I don’t remember the rest of the ride. I fell asleep.

Our first stop for a couple of weeks was Winneba. My room was on the second floor of one of the dorms. I remember standing outside my room on the balcony and seeing Winneba from up high. I could see greenery, it being the rainy season, and the rusted roofs of houses. During these two weeks we had language every day, intense lessons, shots and lectures about Ghana. I was learning Hausa. One day we all walked through town to go greet the chief. It is customary. At night, we’d go to the spot, the bar, across the street from the school. We’d play cards and drink warm Coke. I remember playing hearts. I also remember being really nervous for the next phase of training. We would live for three weeks with Ghanaian families in an area where they spoke the languages we were learning. I went to Bawku. During those three weeks, we taught in middle schools, met for lunch every day and had language lessons. I wandered Bawku. I felt comfortable, safe. On the fourth week, we made our ways to our schools. It was the first time I traveled without a guide. I had been in Ghana five weeks.

The early morning was foggy. We are socked in by clouds. The breeze is close to being a wind. The air is muggy. It is 74˚and will get a bit warmer. I have to do a couple of errands, and tonight I have uke practice. The beginning of my week is loaded with uke. We have the Monday concert, Tuesday practice and Wednesday lesson.

Last night’s concert went well. A breeze kept us comfortable. We played bluegrass and some patriotic music for a sort of crowd sing-a-long. I gave myself extra time to get to Hyannis. It was, after all, 4th of July weekend, but I was gobsmacked. The traffic seemed to have disappeared. I had to wait for only a single light cycle at the busiest road. I was early for the concert and hung around chatting with my fellow uke players who also gave themselves extra time, and who were also gobsmacked by the missing traffic.

Around 2 or 2:30 this morning giant bangs woke me up. The sound was so close I could even hear the sizzle from the lit firecrackers before they went off. The closest bang scared the heck out of Nala. She leapt from the floor to me on the bed and stayed close, ever alert. I swear the firecrackers were being throw into my yard. The bangs were that close. I think it had to be the neighbor behind me. I could hear some people laughing. Finally, after the loudest and closest bang, they stopped. Nala was still with me. Once the quiet started, she decided to lie down beside me, touching me, her security. That is the last thing I remember.

Yesterday I was watching the news. The police were asking for films and stills of yesterday’s shooting. The main speaker urged listeners to drop a dime and call. I have only heard that idiom used to mean snitching to the police. This speaker meant it literally. I wondered how many listeners understood what the speaker meant. I don’t even think there are pay phones still around.

Language has to change to remain relevant. Some changes are only for the minute (slight exaggeration here) while other changes make themselves at home and stay around. I grew up in the 50’s and 60’s. My parents grew up mostly in the 30’s. My every day language is a mishmash.

I learned copacetic because my mother used it. I have never cooked with gas but only literally. A dreamboat for me would be a yacht with staff. A guy who’s fast isn’t a runner. My father used to announce he was going to the can. The squares and party poopers have disappeared. I don’t get why made in the shade means what it does. Take a picture. Are you writing a book?

I could keep going but my heels are on fire.

Happy July 4th!!

I do have an annual musing for today, but I thought I’d just give you my usual paragraph one information first. The weather: today is perfect. The sky is a deep blue unmarred by any clouds. It is 78˚ but doesn’t feel hot. The back of the house, here in the den, is still cool from last night. Speaking of last night, the firecrackers were loud and went on for a while. The dogs slept through it.

My plans for today are simple. I’ll finish here and hit the deck, maybe read a little or even nap a bit. The big excitement is I have a uke concert tonight on the Hyannis Green. We’re playing from the bluegrass book then will end with a few patriotic tunes in honor of the day. I’m going to wear my glitzy red shirt and my Lady Liberty fascinator. Now back to our regularly scheduled program.

I just love birthdays and today is the grandest of them all. 

On July 3rd 1776, John Adams wrote a letter to his wife Abigail. In it, he predicted the celebrations for American Independence Day, including the parties:

“It ought to be solemnized with Pomp and Parade, with Shews, Games, Sports, Guns, Bells, Bonfires and Illuminations from one End of this Continent to the other.”

John Adams expected July 2nd to be Independence Day as that was the day the Second Continental Congress voted for independence, but the signing ceremony for the Declaration of Independence didn’t happen until two days later so because July 4th appears on the Declaration, it became the date we celebrate Independence.

I know some people complain that the meaning of the day is lost in the barbecues and the fireworks, but they have forgotten John Adams’ hope. We are honoring the day exactly as he wished. Flags are waving everywhere. Families get together to celebrate and to break bread, albeit hot dog rolls. Fireworks illuminate the sky. Baseball is played on small town fields and in huge stadiums. Drums beat the cadence in parades. We sing rousing songs celebrating America and our freedom. We also sing heartfelt songs about what America means to us. We are many sorts of people, we Americans. We don’t all look the same, practice the same religion, eat the same foods or dress in the same way, but we all celebrate today.

“You have to love a nation that celebrates its independence every July 4th, not with a parade of guns, tanks, and soldiers who file by the White House in a show of strength and muscle, but with family picnics where kids throw Frisbees, the potato salad gets iffy, and the flies die from happiness. You may think you have overeaten, but it is patriotism.” Happy Birthday, America, from all of us Americans.

The sky is cloudy so the morning is dark. Already it is 81˚, the high for the day, but, without the sun, it feels cooler. My neighborhood is quiet. It is as if the low clouds have dampened sound and closed in the world.

My little library has patrons. I organize, add or remove books, and I am always pleased to find books added by my readers. A couple of days ago a small bag was hanging from the library door. In it were books so I added them but took one with me to read. I too am a patron.

I never saw flowers growing in Ghana. I never saw them for sale in the market either. I figure they just weren’t a profitable crop. What is grown is sold and eaten.

My language instructor, Lawal, brought us to a market during training. It was under a roof of sorts, and all the tables were manned by women, the entrepreneurs of Ghana. I gawked as I walked in then I stopped. The smell from the tables by me was gross. I ran outside and tossed breakfast. Lawal explained that the small piles on each table where I had been were goat poop, dried and used as fuel. He didn’t understand why dried poop affected me. Poop?

I stopped noticing the gross smells; instead, I could smell the sweetness. In the morning the air was filled with the scent of wood burning. It was breakfast time in the compounds behind my house. The air was redolent. I could smell the dirt when the rain hit it. I could smell the sweetness of the ripe fruits.

I seldom missed market day, poop notwithstanding. It was every third day. I always thought it was like a fair or a carnival. I’d wander. The sounds and sights and smells were amazing and differed from aisle to aisle depending upon what was being sold. The goat poop was there, but I just walked by it. I never even noticed.