It is a beautiful morning. The fog is gone. The sun is brilliant, and the sky is a deep blue with a few white clouds. The morning is already warm at 66˚. The temperature will pass 70˚ today. I have errands, and it is the perfect day to do errands and maybe take a ride along the ocean.

When I was a kid, I had no idea what I wanted to be, but I knew what I wanted to do. I wanted to see the world. I wanted to jump out of my geography book into real places, faraway places. The pictures in my geography book sent my imagination reeling. I could see myself standing on the mountain in Rio below the giant statue of Christ of the Andes. The statue with his arms outspread. Riding a camel in the desert seemed the height of adventure. I wanted to see old England and the castle of the queen. I wanted to eat strange foods. I wanted to wander.

From my grandparents house, we, my brother, my uncle and I, walked a couple of times to Logan Airport, not a short walk. We didn’t tell my parents. They would have said no so we just left. At the airport, I climbed to a roof observation deck where I could watch the planes. Logan back then was a sprawl of wooden buildings, mostly one story. I watched people walk on the tarmac from the planes to the terminals. Men pushed carts to the planes to unload suitcases. Everyone was well-dressed.

On one of my excursions to Logan Airport when I was around ten or eleven, I collect brochures from every stall and counter. When I got home, I spent hours and days cutting and then pasting pictures from the brochures into an album. It was my travel album, the chronicle of my imaginary journey. On every page were pictures of where I’d been, where I stayed and where I ate. I even wrote commentary. The pages were stiff and thick from the glue on the pictures. Sometimes the pages stuck, but it didn’t matter. I pored over those pages and saw myself everywhere.

I don’t know what happened to that album. I figured during a move it was tossed, but that didn’t matter. The album had come alive. Imaginary trips had become real trips. I had jumped from the pages of my geography books into adventures everywhere.

The morning is foggy and damp. A light mist is in the air. The prediction is for a high of 66˚, but right now it is only in the 50’s. Yesterday was a delight with bright sun and a clear blue sky. It was warm. I did deck work, clearing branches, leaves and the ubiquitous pine needles. Nala played keep-away with a toy from the house, a Santa which once was a Christmas ornament. That further cemented my decision not to have a tree last Christmas.

Some of the experiences and the joys in my life are permanently etched in my memory drawers, in one drawer especially, one drawer labeled Amazing.

I remember the field below my house. The grass was tall and turned brown quickly in the summer heat. I’d run through that field and watch the grasshoppers jumping in front of me. They were brown like the grass. I’d catch one in my hands then let it go. The grasshoppers left brown stains on my hands. I always thought it was grasshopper poop.

I remember sleeping outside in the backyard. I’d lie on my back and watch the sky hoping to see a shooting star. I usually did, and an out loud wow always followed. In Ghana, I saw a night sky filled with more stars than I’d ever seen. I saw shooting stars every night. I’d point and yell to my friends who were outside in their yard on the other side of the wall. Those nights sleeping outside were so spectacular I wanted to stay awake to watch the sky. I never did.

I remember standing with one foot in each hemisphere when I was in Ecuador. A small shack was beside the invisible equator. The man inside the shack sold postcards with the cancellation stamp reading equator. I send one to my parents. I sent them a postcard from every country I visited.

When I was a kid, I loved watching snow fall under the street light in front of my house. The flakes gleamed and shined. The light was a circle in the snow. It looked magical, a realm of fairyland.

Sunsets, fireflies, Christmas trees standing tall and bright with lights, the first colors of spring, the first sip of coffee in the morning, sheets smelling of sun and fresh air, dogs happy to see me when I come home, cozy clothes and summer breezes are joys in my life. I keep them safe in my memory drawer, in the one labeled Amazing.

Yesterday it rained. My kitchen floor is filled with paw prints, pieces of dead leaves and a few errant pine cones. Most are compliments of Nala. Today is a cool spring day. The sky is cloudy but not so cloudy as to drown out the light. No rain is predicted. The high will be 60˚. My dance card is empty for the first time this week. I’m going to do around the house stuff, some cleaning and some laundry. Tomorrow I’m busy again. I’m heading to the big city, Hyannis.

When I was a kid, I was pretty fearless. Spiders never scared me. I watched snakes. I liked the way they slithered. The night was wondrous. I’d sit on the back steps in the dark and listen. I always thought I was hearing owls, but it was the cooing of mourning doves. Dogs barked. I could hear people talking and TV’s blaring through open windows and screen doors. I was always alone sitting in the dark with the night.

When I was in high school, I walked all over. I walked home at night. I loved those night walks home. It never occurred to me to be afraid. I always felt safe in my town. I could hear my footsteps echoing. The sidewalks were lit here and there from the lights coming from windows. Streetlights hanging over the road were bright circles on the asphalt. I never saw many cars. I remember the lit picture window in the front of my house. It invited me home.

The only places I have traveled alone are Morocco and Ghana. My family was a bit nervous about my going to Morocco. I laughed afterwards when they told me my brother-in-law, Rod, was the designated family member to go to Morocco to get me in case I ran into trouble. Every night in Marrakech I went to the Jemaa el-Fnaa, the huge square, for dinner. It was set up with tables and wagons. Colored light strands decorated the tops of the food stands. To me, all the food offerings looked the same from place to place so I’d find one which looked comfortable then I’d sit down, peruse the menu and order. I’d watch the meat cooking on grills and the vegetables being chopped. There was always a saucer with fresh crushed tomatoes and spices. I ate something different every night. As I was leaving, I’d stop at one of the wagons and buy some pastry for dessert. My final stop was an outdoor cafe for coffee. The walk home to my riad was through the narrow streets and alleyways of the old city. I loved those nights.

I swear I saw the sun when I woke up. Now it’s gone, replaced by clouds holding rain. The temperature is the usual for a raw spring day, 52˚. The wind has just started blowing. I need a better day, a prettier day, a day with sun. That won’t be tomorrow either so I’ll have to be patient until Thursday.

When I was a kid, everything was simple. Every weekday was the same: get up, get dressed in my school uniform, a blue skirt, white blouse and blue clip on western tie, eat breakfast, walk to school and then spend most of the day in class doing lessons except for lunch and recess. When I’d get home, the first thing I had to do was change into my play clothes. If the weather was good, I went out on my bike while other times I played with friends. I remember roller skating on the sidewalk with the old key skates. Sometimes we explored the woods and the swamp beyond the field below our houses. I never felt bored.

When I got older, boredom struck. In hindsight I think it and adolescence struck at the same time. Every weekday resembled every weekday when I was a kid. I got up, put on my school uniform, a pleated plaid skirt, a white blouse, a grey vest, nylons and black loafers, ate breakfast then walked to the bus stop. The bus went through two towns. I used the time to study. Most of the day was spent in class learning. The exception was lunch and standing outside for a little while in a paved area surrounded by a metal fence. When I got home, I changed into play clothes then sat at the kitchen table and did my homework. I was bored.

When I was in Ghana, most weekdays were the same. I got up, got dressed in a dress made with Ghanaian cloth, ate breakfast, the same breakfast every day, taught classes, ate lunch, the same lunch every day and then I’d spend the afternoon correcting papers or preparing lessons for the next day. I’d eat dinner, pretty much the same dinner every day, take my shower then read before bed. I always went to bed early. I never felt bored.

Today is an ugly, chilly day. The sky is cloudy, nothing new there, and it rained for about two minutes while I was on my way home. I was cold when I went out to my appointments. I have winter coats, fleece jackets and summer shirts, but I have nothing for this mid season, for this not yet springtime on Cape Cod weather, but I’m home now and am cozy and warm.

When I was a kid, I moved into spring by putting my outside winter clothes away. I was happy to wear a light jacket with a sweater underneath it, always a cardigan. I ditched the knee socks for ankle socks. I didn’t even pretend to wear a hat.

Spring smells the best of all the seasons. After drab winter, spring is a miracle of sorts. The flowers are growing, the lilac trees are in bloom, and the sweet smell of mown grass is in the air. Some mornings I can even smell the ocean when I’m on the deck.

My mother never learned to swim. She took lessons once at the Y but quit before she had learned. I never asked my mother why she couldn’t swim and now I’m curious. My father was a great swimmer. He loved to body surf. He learned to swim at summer camp. I saw a picture of him from one summer camp. He is holding the bit of a horse and is wearing a bandana around his neck which looked like part of the camp uniform. He looked young, no older than 12 or 13. My father taught me to swim. He threw me off a wharf and hoped for the best, but he watched just to make sure I didn’t drown.

I am almost finished my book. It is called The Missing American by Kwei Quartey and takes place in Ghana. The author was born in Ghana to an American mother and a Ghanaian father. This is the third of his books I have read and is, by far, the best. Most of it happens in Accra, and he portrays the city perfectly as it now with all its blemishes. I’ll be lolling with my book the rest of the afternoon. I didn’t buy bonbons, but I did buy some pico, guac and tortilla chips, perfect snacks. I just wish I had a margarita.

The sun is hidden. The air is chilly. It will stay cloudy all day and won’t get beyond the 50’s. A wind moves even the tallest branches. I have no plans for today. The rest of my week is going to be busy so I’m designating today a sloth day.

Last night I watched B science fiction movies. One was Reptilicus. Most of it was shot in Copenhagen. Two men accompanied a woman to dinner In Tivoli Garden. In the restaurant, the entertainer sang Tivoli Night. I looked up the song on YouTube. It was a clip from the movie but it wasn’t a clip from the movie. The scene was the same, the singer was the same as were the diners in back including one smoking a cigarette. The only change was the woman with the two men. She was dark haired instead of the blond in the movie. I found that confusing. Why go through all that trouble?

I found pine needles all down the hall then I found the branch, chewed into small pieces. Nala had again brought the outside inside. Later I was with the dogs on the deck and caught Nala with another branch she was trying to get through the dog door. I threw it into the yard. She went after it so I threw it out of the yard over the fence. She gave up and went inside.

When we moved to the cape, my father bought a color TV set. I remember watching Star Trek in color for the first time. I got to see the doomed red shirted crewman before his demise. After a while, the colors of the TV began to fade. My father blamed the cable. All the colors were washed out. The doomed red shirted crewman disappeared. My father kept blaming the cable, but they came out and found nothing wrong. Finally, my father gave in and bought a new TV. The colors were brilliant. The doomed red shirted crewman was back but only until the away mission.

I miss my mother more than I can say. I wished her a happy Mother’s Day this morning. I believe she heard me.

Today is supposed to be really warm, in the 60’s. Today it is also supposed to rain. The sky is filed with light clouds, not yet ominous. The air is still. The dogs are in and out, and in between they eat each other’s faces while playing in the hall. I’m hoping their morning naps are close at hand.

My father bought a CB radio when CB radios were the rage. He kept it on the whole time we were traveling usually back and forth to Boston. He picked up all the slang. It used to make me laugh. He loved to chat. My father had good buddies and wanted to know if there were smokies. 10-4 acknowledged the information he received. We were extras in a Smokey the Bandit movie. My father was the star.

I have some really old black and white photos from a New Hampshire vacation when I was around four. One photo is of my brother and me sitting on top of a tiny waterfall. I remember doing that. I remember the water felt tingly on my legs, and I have a huge grin on my face from the tingles.

I remember another trip to visit some of my father’s relatives also in New Hampshire. The house was by a small pond. A row boat sat on the ground between the pond and the house. Its life on the water had ended. The row boat was now a planter with red flowers. My brother and I went swimming in our underwear as we hadn’t expected to swim so no bathing suits. We didn’t swim long. My mother screamed when we got out of the water. Leeches were on our backs. My father pulled them off.

Nala is much better. She is still taking pills and getting drops in her ear. She found one pill not so well hidden in her first morning piece of banana and spit it out. I tried again and duped her. She ate both pieces with better hidden pills.

On my dance card today is a uke concert at an assisted living facility. We were there a month ago and we were their first entertainment since the start of Covid. We’re singing bluegrass today.

Today is a delight. Today is a spring day. It is already 57˚ and will get to the low 60’s, long sleeve shirt weather for sure. I have no errands or chores so I’m thinking today is a perfect sloth day. I’ll sit outside for a bit, take in the sun and watch the dogs chase each other in the yard.

Nala’s ear is just about healed. The red too is almost gone from inside the ear. I’ve found that hiding her pills in a bit of banana works best.

When I was a kid, two of my favorite places up town were the library and the post office. Inside the post office it was always a bit dark and cooler than outside no matter how hot the day was. The clerks stood behind small windows with metal grates over the top. There was granite, at least I think it was granite, on the walls. The post office was built in 1940, and the only changes since then were new windows and a new double door, all meant to keep out the cold. Parking even back then was difficult to find on the street, but there is now a parking lot across from the post office where buildings used to be.

The library was build in 1903 with money donated by Andrew Carnegie. I didn’t know that until I was waiting for my father to pick me up one rainy day. There was a plaque inside where I was standing and waiting. The building is brick with a neat sloping roof and a cupola on top. It was one story with two rooms, one for kids and the other for adults. I used to go the library so often I ran out of books I liked to read so I didn’t have to wait until high school to go into the adult section. The librarian let me in early. I was in book heaven. There have been changes over the years but the library pretty much looks the same as when I was a kid.

My world now is expansive, but when I was young, my town was my world. The up town stores were all unique. I loved window shopping. The aroma of fresh bread wafted through the square from Hank’s Bakery. I could smell popcorn. I watched lobsters swimming in the tank at the Gloucester Fish Market. The stores on one side were long and narrow where there was a lunch counter and a men’s store.

All those stores now exist only in memories, old memories.

The rain started last night, but it was a light rain I barely heard. Before bed, the dogs went out anyway. They don’t mind getting wet. My kitchen floor, washed yesterday, has a trail of dog paw prints from the door down the hall. I’ll wash it later as the prediction is for clouds, not rain. It will be in the high 50’s today. Even the ugliest days are getting warmer.

Nala’s ear looks so much better. The lump is gone, and most of the redness inside her ear is also gone, but she is still not 100%. She didn’t eat her biscuit this morning. Henry ate both of them. I gave her some cheese hoping to hide her morning pills in it, but she didn’t eat the cheese so I had to put the pills down her throat. A bit later, she did manage to eat some of my English muffin on which I had slathered extra butter to entice her. She always expects the best.

When I cook eggs, usually for supper instead of breakfast, I mostly fry them sunny side though I do scramble them every now and then for a change. I always have two pieces of toast, one piece per egg for sopping purposes.

When I was in Ghana, I used to buy my eggs in the market. The man from whom I bought them always made sure I got good eggs so I would be back. My mornings eggs were fried in groundnut oil. They were the tastiest eggs. The rest of my meal was two pieces of toast with margarine on top and coffee. Later in the morning, after teaching my first class, I’d have another cup of coffee.

When I visit Ghana, breakfast is usually included wherever I stay. At one hotel in Tamale, they served porridge and fruit then two eggs and toast. At every place, the eggs have cooked yolks. The bread is often sugar bread. For the coffee, they bring hot water in a cup, small packages of ground instant coffee, one per cup, sugar cubes and canned milk.

When I visited my parents, my father sometimes cooked me Sunday breakfast. It was my universal breakfast of fried eggs, toast and coffee.

Every morning now I have two cups of coffee. Sometimes I have toast or a bagel or biscotti, all of which I share with the dogs. I dunk the last of the biscotti for them. They both like a bit of coffee.