Today is perfect. The weather is a delight. The morning is cool at 73°. The bright sun is framed by the darkest blue sky, a navy blue sky. The air has an every now and then breeze. It is Sunday quiet.

When I noticed the dogs hadn’t come in for their morning naps, especially Henry, I went and checked. Both dogs were too busy cleaning out and eating the trash which had been in Jack’s room. Cat food cans, left over cat food, cat treat packages and even dog treat packages were in the yard almost hidden by a tree. Both dogs were at the trash. Henry has gone over to the dark side.

When I was a kid, I dutifully went to church every Sunday. Sometimes I wore my bathing suit under my dress as we were leaving for the beach right after church. Other times I sat outside on the steps when the early masses were especially popular, and the pews were filled. I figured I was at church so the steps counted for attendance.

I didn’t want to move to the cape, but my parents sweetened the deal by saying I’d have a room of my own. What they didn’t tell me was it would be the pseudo-guest room, and I’d get the couch. Mostly my aunt and uncle, Aunt Barbara and Uncle Lorrie, with their brat of a child were the guests. They lived in East Boston so she she always brought down Italian cookies and a cream cake. The pastries were most welcome. Their son was not. He was younger than I, but that was no never mind. He would keep at me with his mouth. I’d tell him to stop, and he wouldn’t. I forgot how I got him to stop and why they he didn’t come down again, but my mother reminded me why. She told me I had reached the end of my patience and punched him in the face. My aunt chastised me, but my mother told her I had tried again and again to get him to stop. He deserved the punch. My mother had my back.

Three times in my life I have punched someone. Each time I first tried reasoning and asked several times for the person to stop. When that didn’t work, my fist seemed to take on a life of its own. One punch was all I needed. The first time was when I was in the fifth grade. The second time was at Fenway Park and the third time was my cousin. They all earned my wrath.

Last night we had thunder and lightning but little rain. It fell in giant drops then smaller drops then it disappeared. The morning is dark and dank. We had fog. The temperature is in the mid-70’s and won’t get much higher. Tonight will be in the 60’s. It seems we’re having a cold spell, at least in comparison.

Yesterday I got all my chores done, even the dreaded laundry. I also went down cape to Orleans. The highway traffic was light and quick. After I finished my errand, I took the highway home. I could see the traffic build-up on the down cape side. I had just missed it.

When I was a kid, my mother used to play a game she called Jack and Jill. She’d put a small band of paper on the same finger of each hand then put both fingers on the table. She’d say, Go away, Jack,” then move her hand up over her shoulder. When she brought her hand down, Jack was gone. She did the same with Jill. We were amazed. We looked behind her back and on the floor but couldn’t find Jack or Jill. Next, she’d say, “Come back, Jack,” then put her hand over her shoulder. When she brought her hand to the table, Jack was back. She then brought Jill back. We thought my mother was a magician. How did she do it?

My father used to tell us scary stories. I will never forget the man with the hook who used to scratch screens. That one scared me. My father and mother usually went grocery shopping on Friday evenings. My mother didn’t drive then so my father had to take her. He used to wait in the car. I remember I was watching TV and waiting for them to get home when I heard it, the scratching on the screen. I yelled, “Who is it,” but got no answer, but I knew who it was, the man with the hook. The story my father had told us was real, but it wasn’t. It was my father without a hook.

Despite the man with the hook, I wasn’t afraid of much while growing up, not spiders or ghosts or creatures of the night. I am still not afraid, not even of the man with the hook.

The morning is a delight. I sat outside on the deck to read the paper and drink my coffee. I kept stopping to listen to the birds and the rustling of the leaves on the swaying branches. Today will be hot, in the low 80’s. Tonight will be cooler. I have an errand, the only entry on my dance card.

When I was in Ghana, I learned groundnuts (peanuts) grow under ground which makes the British/Ghanaian name perfectly descriptive. Its flowers grow above the ground while the fruit, the nuts, grow underground. In the afternoons, when the school year was just beginning, my students harvested the nuts. I went and watched and took pictures. Groundnut stew is a common Ghanaian dish. I was skeptical that groundnut paste (peanut butter) as a base made for a tasty stew, but it did. It had tomatoes and onions and chicken. The stew was the color of the groundnut paste.

In Bolgatanga where I lived, I was the only white woman my first year there. Everyone in town knew who I was. When I was learning Hausa, the language taught to me during training, I learned the greetings first. I used them all the time as I was greeted everywhere I went, and I loved being able to return the greetings. That always delighted the Ghanaians. I could use the specific greetings like I greet you in the market or I greet you at work. I could also say good morning, good afternoon or good evening. I could ask how you are feeling. The answer was always lafiya lau. I’m fine, no matter how you felt. When I went back to Ghana the first time, I greeted people at dinner in the hotel restaurant, ina wuni, good evening. Later I found out there was discussion at their table about the white lady who knew Hausa. That was when they figured out who I was.

I love mangos and papaya. I eat hummus, falafel and tabbouleh, the foods I ate in the Lebanese restaurants in Accra. They were inexpensive foods, perfect for Peace Corps volunteers. I like fufu with stew, a Southern dish, and also t-zed with stew, a Northern dish. I could eat plantain, my favorite Ghanaian food, at every meal and also jollof rice, my favorite Ghanaian dish, at every meal, and we’re talking breakfast too.

I brought so much of Ghana home with me, not just things, but memories. When I watch YouTube videos of Bolga, I feel joy and happiness but also sadness that I am not there.

When I first woke up, it was 5:30. I let the dogs out and went on the deck. It was still damp from last night. The morning sky was beginning to lighten. I stayed on the deck until the dogs finished their business then the three of us went back inside and back to bed. I woke up at 8:30.

Today will be hot again, 88°, but it is a pretty day with a breeze from the south, a blue sky with a few clouds and lots of sun. I have nothing on my dance card today, but I figure to honor the third law of nature, the law of action, and do a wash even though the laundry basket is not even full. This is a big step for me. I have little laundry and no trash. It is like a miracle.

When I was a kid, we didn’t take too many vacations away from home. I do remember when my sister Moe, the youngest, was still a toddler and we went to Vermont, way into northern Vermont. We went with another family. The house was huge and was on a small country sort of a highway with two lanes and few cars. Across the street was a lake. It was shallow for a bit then there was a huge drop-off. My father used to take me on his back underwater. I remember there were fish in the deep part. I’d stay underwater until I tapped my father’s shoulder, our agreed upon signal, to let him know I needed air. Behind the house was a huge hill and beyond that were pine trees, a copse of trees. A rivulet flowed beside the house. It had the biggest frogs I’d ever seen. We’d spent hours catching the frogs, but we always let them go. It was the fun of the hunt we enjoyed. My father built a lean-to at the top of the hill. He cut limbs and tied then together to form the lean-to which had sides and a roof. He covered the roof with pine branches. I thought my father was amazing. I never knew he could build a lean-to.

The house had an enormous porch, a wrap-around porch. I remember the kitchen had a phone on the wall, the sort with a crank. If you cranked it, you got a small electrical jolt. We cranked it anyway.

My parents crossed the border into Canada for dinner one night. I was totally jealous, not of dinner but of dinner in another country. I begged them to take us on a ride into Canada, but they didn’t. I was really disappointed. Years later, we did go to Canada and see the falls. It was finally my first other country.

Yesterday it rained on and off but not heavily. This morning I woke up to the rain hitting the windows, but it is an unsettled rain, heavy at times, other times misty. I went to the dentist. It wasn’t raining there, a couple of towns away. The latest weather report calls for isolated thunderstorms. It will be hot at 78° with all the dreaded humidity the rain brings.

When I was a kid, I hated going to the dentist. Usually it was because I had a toothache, and everything hurt. We never had regular check-ups at either the dentist or the doctor. That was the way it was when both my parents were growing up so that was what they knew. Now, other than my brother, we all have regular appointments. Today was a teeth cleaning.

In the summer, when I was a kid, my mother seldom knew where I was even though I was gone most of the day. If I was walking, I was probably at the park. If I was on my bike, I could be anywhere. She was never afraid for us. We had gotten the don’t talk to strangers conversation, and she figured we had listened. We had. I felt safe. I figured I could go anywhere so I did.

When I was in high school, my friends and I went to Boston to see Cleopatra at the Metropolitan Theater. It was the grandest theater I have ever been in. I remember the high ceiling, the lights, the boxes on the sides of the theater, the wall paper and the red curtain. The ladies’ room even had a plush lounge chair. I sat on it to take in all the beauty of the room, a bathroom.

My town’s movie theater was originally built in 1917. It had a stage at the front where there used to be vaudeville acts and giveaways of glassware. There was a small balcony in front of the projector room. I went to the theater often to see matinees on Saturdays. I didn’t know the theater’s history when I was young. I suspect even if I knew I wouldn’t have been impressed. I would have thought it was just old. The theater closed for almost thirty years before it was sold and restored. It became a live performance theater. I have seen several plays there. Every time I go to a play I look around and remember being a kid and sitting and watching cartoons before the big movie. My theater has changed but it is also still the same.

Earlier this morning I heard drops hitting the deck. Being naturally skeptical, I went outside to see if I’d get wet. I didn’t. The drops I’d heard were from an earlier bout of a little bit of rain. Later, I went outside to take a couple of pictures of the front garden. The weather report popped up on my phone. I chuckled when I read rain will start in 21 minutes. I’ve started counting.

Outside is quite dark and still. The clouds are gray and the sun is elsewhere. I do believe it will rain. According to Google, it will rain 0.24 inches in Dennis.

This morning I got a wonderful surprise. Another hibiscus has bloomed, a light red hibiscus. I ran and got my phone and took a picture. What a wonderful way to start the day.

My dance card has a few events. The last summer concert is tonight, Irish music. I have a dentist appointment tomorrow,, just a regular cleaning, uke practice tomorrow night, a uke lesson on Wednesday and a concert in the afternoon. That’s it, but that’s enough.

Lately, I have had a dual personality. Some days I am lethargic at best, a prize winning sloth. Other days, I am a burst of energy cleaning and sorting, washing and drying and sweeping and mopping.

I have amassed the trash bags by the car for loading into the trunk. It is dump day!! It is the last dump day until Thursday. One of the bags was on the deck box. I found a hole in it. I also saw dog food cans in the backyard. Hmmm, I wonder how that happened.

The other day I bought a couple of hooks so I could hang lanterns on the deck. The lights in the two lanterns flicker like real flame. I grabbed the screwdriver from my tool drawer, picked out the two spots for my hooks and began screwing one into the deck rail. It wasn’t easy. I had to use a great deal of strength and a lot huffing and puffing until I got the screw almost totally in the wood. That’s when I noticed I had forgotten to attach the hook to the screw. I unscrewed, added the hook and re-screwed. It was easier the second time.

The days seem to follow the same pattern. The mornings and afternoons are hot but not so hot as to be unbearable, high 70’s or low 80’s. The nights are cool for sleeping, down to the mid 60’s. The only thing missing is the rain. It hasn’t really rained in weeks. We did have some spitting rain for about ten minutes last week, and on a couple of days the sky was filled with dark clouds, dark rainless clouds. The forecast calls for rain Tuesday, maybe.

Some days I just want to sit and do nothing but be a sloth, the best sloth I can be. I don’t want a list of chores or errands. I want to wear my cozies all day. I want to eat food either easy to make or delivered. Some days I have a hankering for Chinese then I have my burger days, always with fries and onion rings. Every once in a while I need some chocolate, either candy bar or ice cream. I have also ordered cupcakes delivered. They’re a favorite.

Cereal is one of my easy meals. The time of day doesn’t matter. My cereal now is Frosted Flakes. It was a buy one, get one free deal. The boxes are huge. I’ll be eating Frosted Flakes for months.

I keep odd hours. I’m still awake at least until one or two in the morning, sometimes even later. I have often seen the first morning light. I seldom sleep late, nine is about the latest, but I enjoy an afternoon nap.

When I worked, I wore skirts and blouses or dresses every day. It just seemed appropriate. Now, I can’t remember the last time I wore a dress. I have a few. I have a fall dress and a summer dress, a dressy dress for more formal occasions and some from Ghana made from beautiful Ghanaian cloth. Now, I usually wear pants and shirts. They’re neat but not dressy. They are comfortable which is the prime reason for wearing them.

I wear sandals or even high tops. I have a couple of pairs of Chuck Taylors, and I am shopping for more, one of my pairs has seen far better days. I’m thinking pink or red.

I have been retired 18 years. Sometimes I am bored but those times are far between. The other day I spent hours sitting on the deck reading. It was a lovely day. The book was excellent as were the crackers and cheese I had for snacks.

All in all I am contended with my life. I consider myself lucky!

We, the three of us, are back on the deck. The air is warmer than yesterday, and the breeze is slighter. The sky is partly cloudy. In the background, Alexa is playing folk music from the 60’s. I’m quite content.

Last night I went to the Playhouse for the second to last play, Murder on the Orient Express. It was excellent. When I got home and opened the door, I saw paper all over the floor then I saw the batteries, the AAA batteries I had bought last week. Nala had found the package in a basket I thought was out of her reach, but I am finding nowhere is out of her reach. She chewed open the package and the batteries scattered, rolled all around. I found them under furniture, down the hall and in the kitchen. I was on my hands and knees and collected what I hope is all of them. What Nala finds continue to amaze me.

Yesterday I watched a video of Bolga, my Ghanaian home. It made me sad that I wasn’t there and haven’t been in a long while. I miss it and my students.

In Bolga every third day was market day. From the back of my house, I could see women from nearby compounds carrying filled baskets on their heads as they walked to market. I loved to roam on market day. I’d carry my shepherd’s bag, a woven bag which stretched, on my shoulder and head to my favorite aunties. Most of the sellers were women. My first stop was the tomato lady. She stood behind her table on which were several bunches of tomatoes. I’d buy one bunch, and she often dashed me a second bunch. The onion lady was the same. Men sold eggs. I had my favorite as he never sold me a bad egg. What’s funny is my father used to describe people as good eggs. I understood the metaphor completely when I cracked a bad egg. Anyway, I’d get meat at the butcher shop where I ignored the flies and the dried blood and such. I always bought what we call a beef tenderloin. The butcher wrapped it in leaves. Into the bag it went. Sometimes I’d buy plantain, garden eggs, which are really small eggplants, and fruit. I ate a fruit salad every day for lunch. My bag would fill and stretch so far I could barely carry it. I’d head up the hill to my school, but I always got a ride. Most of the people in town knew me. I was the white lady who taught at the school. After I got my motorcycle, I always rode to town and to the market.

Today is a quiet day. Xfinity is coming to fix my phone line. My phone has no dial tone. I could do wash, but I won’t. I could go to the dump, but I’m saving that for tomorrow, something to look forward to.

This morning is one of those perfect moments when the heavens align. I am sitting on the deck being cooled by a breeze which ruffles all the oak leaves. I can hear them as they spin. The crows are raucous. Alexa is playing classic folk. My coffee is delicious, Honduran coffee. I just shared my cranberry-orange scone with the dogs. I bought some yesterday at the farmer’s market in Harwich where we gave a uke concert. The dogs have settled down for their morning naps. I’m wonderfully comfortable under the umbrella, the red umbrella, keeping the sun at bay. Times like this remind how wonderful it is to be alive and to live on Cape Cod.

I have little to do today, mostly deck stuff. I have to fill feeders and change the water in the hanging bird bath. The deck herbs and plants need watering. Two lanterns have to be hung, but I’m not sure where.

Today will be hot, in the low 80’s. Tonight will cool a bit and be in the high 60’s. Summer is getting its last licks.

When I was a kid, I never really worried about anything. I lived life day to day. During the school year, every day was the same. I wore a uniform so no hunting an outfit for the day. I walked to and from school. I sat through the same subjects every day. I had a sandwich for lunch and something for dessert. I ran around at recess releasing the demons, the restlessness from sitting at my desk most of the day. When I got home, I had to change from my school clothes to my play clothes. I was outside until the street lights went on. I always said we were cheated in the winter when darkness came so early. My mother didn’t buy it.

I never noticed those days were routine. I thought they were filled with surprises like the beautiful red leaves in the fall, the brown leaves in the gutters waiting to be kicked, the snow piled high on the sidewalks, the buds and then the tiny leaves still furled on the branches, spring rain, puddles for splashing, the days of finally shedding winter for spring, and, best of all, the warmer days heralding the coming of summer.

I have time again to notice my small part of the world, to see the every day changes and the miracles in the flower garden, to hear the insects and the birds, to watch the dogs chase each other in the yard and to sit quietly to take in the smells and sounds all around me. Life can’t get more interesting than this.

The sky hasn’t a cloud. The sun is bright and warm, but a breeze is helping to keep the air cool. The high will be 79° and the low will be 64° tonight. I am listening to the best of Gordon Lightfoot. The dogs are sleeping, each at one end of the couch. I am still lazing in my cozies. This morning is just about perfect.

When I was a kid during the summer, my days were mostly spent outside. I remember picking blueberries but eating more than I saved. My fingers and my tongue got blue. I loved to explore, sometimes walking, sometimes riding. My bike took me far and wide. I pedaled to the towns around my own. One of them had a train station so I used to sit on a bench and wait to see the train. I rode by the golf course and usually found golf balls, errant flyers on the opposite side of the street. I put them in my pockets to take home. In another town, I rode around the lake and wished I lived in one of the beautiful houses across the street from the lake. I’d sometimes stop and sit a while taking in everything around me. I’d watch the birds. Back then I didn’t know the names of the birds. I loved the smallest birds. They were the swiftest flyers. I’d ride from near the zoo around Spot Pond to where the pool was then I’d head up the big hill, usually walking my bike, but at the top I’d ride downhill with my feet off the pedals. I remember the feelings of speed and freedom as I rode down that hill. At the bottom, I’d pedal toward the square then head home.

If I were walking, I’d explore my town. I remember checking out the train cars on the track in front of the old town station. Across the street from the station was the end of the tracks where trains were once turned around to head back from where they came. If I were rich, with a nickel or a dime, I’d stop at the red store and sometimes buy candy. Other times I’d buy Hostess cupcakes, the one with three cupcakes, a deal I thought. I’d take my favorite route by the horse barn. I’d go by the rag and paper man’s house. I was always amazed at the towering stacks of paper and magazines everywhere. His porch was so full it sagged under the weight. I’d head home, tired from my travels.

Even now, if I go to my town, I take familiar routes. I go pass the train station no longer fronted by tracks and no longer a train station. The red store is long gone. The horse barn holds tractors and such owned by the town. The rag man’s house is gone. I always wonder if it collapsed. Probably not. As I drive, I remember what used to be where. I drive by the duplex, my home for over ten years. It looks the same except for the bushes. They are tall into the sky. I slow down as I pass the house. I give my memories time to jump out of the drawers. They always make me smile.