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.

The wind came first then the rain started around 1:30 this morning. I heard it starting, but I was sleeping when it stopped. The morning is dark. The air is thick and humid. The birds are loud. The neighborhood is quiet.

I love mornings like this. The house surrounds me and protects me from the darkness and the rain. Henry feels safe and sleeps soundly. Nala sleeps in a ball on the couch. I have to step over Henry on the hall floor. He doesn’t even notice me.

Nala is studying the local flora. I’m finding thin branches on the floor and on the rugs surrounded by chewed, small pieces of the branch, formerly parts of the whole. Oak leaves were in the hall and the living room. Some were still on small branches. Nala pulls them through the dog door. I don’t notice her because I don’t monitor the comings and goings of the dogs except at night if they are out a long time. That is never a good sign.

Today is not a day to be out and about. This is July 4th weekend, the unofficial start of summer. The cape is filled with cars. Today, on a rainy day, all those people in all those cars will be looking for something to do. To many, a ride sounds appealing. I can see myself hitting the steering wheel with my fists because the car in front of me is going all of 15 or 20 in a 40 zone. I can see the passenger in the front seat pointing out stuff for the driver to see. The driver slows to gawk then moves a bit before he slows again and gawks again. Meanwhile, the kids are fighting in the back seat. I will stay home today. Let the gawking begin!

I have always written lists of sorts even when I was a kid. When I was working and had little time, I usually wrote to-do lists and completed every item on those lists every week. Now, with all the time in the world, I never finish all the items on any of my lists. I do get close, and I tell myself close counts. I wish I believed it. I thought about leaving lists in the past, but I can’t. They are part of my psyche.

The morning is already warm, but an every now and then wind is helping cool the air. From out my den window, I can watch the tallest branches on the tallest oak trees in the backyard swinging back and forth in the wind, but then the wind dies and everything is still, and the air feels hot in the sun. But the wind, above all else, is persistent. When it reappears, everything moves, everything sways and everything swings.

Of late, I have been tired. First was the leg and foot, 5 weeks ago, and even now the top of my foot still hurts at night but only in the smallest spot. The cold popped in next. I had sloth days of napping and resting on the couch. That worked. The only remaining cold symptom is the cough which periodically rears its ugly head. I want a sign I can carry which says I have tested three times-no Covid. It is only a cough. That almost sounds like the title for a country song.

One of Egypt’s plagues has been visited upon me, the fourth plague. When I opened the car door on Wednesday morning, flies flew out the door. More flies were in the backseat and in the trunk when I opened it to check. This morning I opened the car door again and a swarm flew out, still part of that fourth plague. I left all the windows open hoping the flies will leave for sunnier climes, but I’m not that optimistic. I watched a fly this morning walk under one window then another without finding the route to freedom. Maybe I’ll make signs.

Today is a delight. It is a wonderful 75˚ with a cooling breeze which, at times, fancies itself a wind. I’m going out. I have a few errands today. I’m glad for that.

My coffee this morning is delicious. It is my first taste of Nicaraguan coffee. The bag came in the mail yesterday. I remember when coffee used to come in one pound bags. Even now I say I have to pick up a pound of coffee. It sounds better than I have to pick up 12 ounces of coffee.

I don’t remember when I started drinking coffee. I know I drank it every morning in college. I used to meet my friends in the canteen every day. We’d read the paper then do the crossword puzzle in a highly competitive competition. Usually there were three or four of us with our papers spread out on the table in front of us. I think we usually finished the puzzle. There were enough of us working on it.

In Ghana, I drank NESCAFÉ Classic instant coffee. It came in a tin with a brown label. I used evaporated milk in my coffee. It also came in a tin. That one had a red and white label. Ghana had no fresh milk back then. At first, I wasn’t a fan of morning coffee in Ghana. I drank a cup or two out of habit or maybe need, and during training I ate or drank whatever they served. When I got to my own house, I still drank the instant coffee because that’s all they had, but by then, after three months in Ghana, I had stopped noticing the taste. It was just coffee to me, morning coffee, my usual two cups, with a bit of milk from a can.

My father was the coffee drinker. My mother didn’t usually have a hot beverage in the morning unless she had biscotti and needed coffee for dunking. When she visited, I always had biscotti for her. One of my sisters drinks tea, the other coffee. We are an eclectic bunch.