The morning is sunny and the temperature is near perfect at 70˚. A strong, warm breeze blows every now and then. The backyard is so filled with leafy trees I can’t even see the sky through the branches. With the windows opened, I can hear the birds and even some trucks, probably landscapers of which the cape had thousands, maybe even millions.

Yesterday I crossed a couple of things off my to-do list. I watered the plants and put the front door screen in. I left the back door screen for another day because it still gets a little chilly at night, and that door is open all the time for the dogs. The storm door was heavy so I didn’t lift it but moved it corner to corner across the floor and down the steps. We both survived, the door and I.

I have a long to-do list but not energy to finish it. My leg is better and hurts only in the morning for a very short while and at night after a day of using it so it is no longer an excuse. The truth is I also lack the ambition. Like Scarlett, “I’ll think about it tomorrow…After all, tomorrow is another day.”

When I was a kid, school wound down by mid-June. On the last day, we got our report cards. I remember looking around and watching kids’ expressions to see if they were promoted or not. I never saw anyone who was kept back, but maybe they just went to the public school instead. We had so many kids in class mostly nobody would be missed. We had close to fifty per class when I was in the eighth grade. It was surprisingly quiet given we had Sister Hildegarde who noticed very little. I used to leave at lunch and always got back late. She never cared. I was one of her favorites. I would tell her I was leaving usually to the library and she’d say okay so I’d leave early, sometimes by an hour or two. I didn’t go to the library.

I used to fill the metal basket of my bike with things I’d find along the road. Sometimes I found golf balls errantly sent across the street from the course and not retrieved. I found oddly shaped branches. Other times it was pieces of metal, their prior uses unknown. Once in a while I’d find a lone Christmas bulb probably left for dead. Bulbs were favorite finds. I used to keep my treasures in a box except for the bigger finds which were on my bureau. Even now I decorate with dead bulbs. They add a bit of color to the oval trencher in the center of the dining room table.

Yesterday I was sitting on the couch when Nala checked out the recycle bag and right in front of me stole a folded box of Effie’s Cocoa Biscuits. With it in her mouth, she looked fleetingly at me wondering what I’d choose to do then she turned and left, briskly trotting down the hall in case I was chasing. I wasn’t. It was defensive indifference. The box is on the driveway.

This is the sort of morning which holds promise for a beautiful day to come. The early morning air has that coolness which only lasts only a short while and mostly on summer mornings. The breeze can’t make up its mind between strong wind or calm breeze. The sky stays blue.

I will have a deck day. My deck has been transformed. Yesterday it was cleared by two amazingly wonderful people. They had heard my lament about my debris filled deck. One is my friend and neighbor while the other is her friend but who went to the school where I taught at the time and remembered me. I swear my deck is calling my name.

When I was a kid, no yards had decks or even patios. My dad used to bring the barbecue out of the cellar each time he used it. He’d put it on the patch of sparse grass near the clothes lines. No grass ever grew there. It was in the right angle formed by the walkway meeting the paved clothes line square.

Of late, my dance card has had only a few entries. Two were doctors’ appointments, but I don’t count those. I did have a uke lesson, and that made me happy. The rest of the card is blank, but I’m okay with that. It gives my leg and foot more time to rest and heal. I’ll read, the best way to spend time.

When I was a kid, I had a bulletin board in my room. The board was fuzzy pink in a silver frame. It hung near my bedroom door. On it were pins, invitations, pictures and more pieces of my life. When I was in Ghana, my parents moved but dragged along my bulletin board. They gave it back to me when I bought my house. I cleared it and bought a clean, new board for my new house. The board is here in the den. It has my sloth calendar, ID’s on lanyards from a variety of events I attended, a couple of invitations to long ago events, a picture of much of the family in Colorado and other odds and ends. I can trace a part of my life with each of these. Some connect to one another. Others celebrate one time events like graduations. A couple of pins are still on the board, a peace sign pin and a patch from Peace Corps. The board is almost full. I’m thinking it is a metaphor of my life.

I don’t know what time it was, but the three of us, the two dogs and I, were awakened by rolling thunder off in the distance. As the thunder moved closer and closer, it got louder and louder until one clap, the loudest of all, cracked right over the house. Nala raised her head so I talked to her and patted her so she was fine. Henry didn’t seem to mind. The thunder brought the rain, a heavy, pounding rain against the house and windows, and that was the last thing I heard before I fell back to sleep. Today will be hot, 77˚, but it is only 68˚right now and damp and cloudy. The air feels close. Nothing is moving. The clouds will stay around or at least some of them will. The sun won’t make an appearance. She will be missed.

When I was a kid, I loved riding my bike after a rainstorm. I’d ride through the biggest puddles, always the ones closest to the curb, and watch the waves rise on each side of my bike. As I rode through, I’d lift my feet off the pedals and spread wide my legs hoping not to get too wet, but in the scheme of things, I never really minded wet sneakers.

Sometimes, when the rain was especially gentle, I’d stay outside. I always thought the rain was glorious. I’d spread my arms and spin. My clothes would get wet, but wet always dried.

My first rainy season in Ghana was amazing. No rain had fallen in months. Nothing had grown. The fields were empty. All the stalks of millet and corn had been burned away at the end of the rainy season. Everything was dry. The roads were dusty, and lorries were surrounded by trails of dust as they moved along the back roads. The market had only tomatoes and onions, but the market always had tomatoes and onions despite the season. I can still see in my mind’s eye the first rains, tremendous rains which flooded the hard, unpaved roads and made travel difficult, but the rain fell day after day, sometimes twice a day. The roads softened, and the fields were fit for planting. I could look beyond the wall of my house and see the farmers in the compounds behind me bending over, planting their seeds in rows. Outside the front gate of the school was another compound. That was where I saw the miracle, a bonafide miracle. Small, bright green shoots began to appear. Where there had been nothing was now filled with new growth. It was as if a wand had been passed over the fields and the crops had magically appeared.

The sun was here earlier but has since disappeared. We have that partially clouded forecast which I always contend should be partially sunny, just for the sake of optimism. It will be in the 70’s.

My leg still hurts to the touch but is getting better. Yesterday I bemoaned my fate. The deck is still in its winter mode. My lawn needs to be cut. Nala’s holes in the yard need filling before I fall to China. My deck is still covered with debris from the pine trees. I have yet to buy my flowers and herbs for the deck pots. I am very far behind my usual springtime. I guess I need to bite the bullet and start getting ready for summer.

My father was a lawn man. He did plant a few flowers in the small front garden, mostly pansies and marigolds, but his efforts were on the lawn. He used a hand mower, always. I can still close my eyes and hear the click click of the mower as my father moved up and down the lawn in a pattern, the same pattern every time. Saturday was yard day. I think it was the universal yard day in my neighborhood. All the fathers were out with mowers and rakes. I remember the scratching sound of the rakes as the cut grass was cleared. My father clipped around the perimeters of the garden, the grass and the fir trees on the side lawn. I remember him on his knees using the metal clipper which looked like scissors, big scissors. My father had a round sprinkler which made a squishing sound as it turned. He moved it all over the yard so everything was watered. My father was proud of his lawn.

The dogs love being in the yard. They are out so long I go and check on them. I remember when Gracie jumped the fence so I get a bit nervous. Henry can’t jump that high, but I’m not sure about Nala. She is small and athletic and feisty enough to jump to spite me.

Sunday is the quiet day. I can only hear birds sounds and the rustling of the leaves on the trees in the backyard when the wind blows. Henry does his barking inside the house. Nala seldom barks. I guess she figures Henry is loud enough for both of them. She’s right.

Today is another delightful day with lots of sun and a bit of warmth, 77˚ of warmth. My deck needs to be opened, but I’m stuck with this injury and knowing me, I’d do something to cause more injury. I also still need to shop for my flowers and herbs. The only flowers on the deck were brought by my friends Bill and Peg when they visited. Those flowers are a profusion of colors on the drab deck and are in the most delightful planter shaped like a bear. Bill made the bear. Bill is talented.

Nala stole two books. I saw them in the yard when I was standing on the deck yesterday. They had been in the living room waiting to be put into my little library. I watched that canine felon pick up one of the books and run the yard. The other book she tore apart just for the sheer joy of it. That dog makes me laugh, but she is a pip.

When I was a kid, Saturday was always the best day of the week. In the winter, I went to the matinee at the theater uptown. It never really mattered what the movie was. I loved them all. We got to see not only the movie but also some cartoons. The Road Runner was and still is one of my favorites. I love his beep beep and the cloud of dust around his feet. The Road Runner is the nemesis of Wile E. Coyote. He and his Acme dynamite never catch the Road Runner but not from lack of trying. When I was older, I got the play on words of Wile E. Coyote’s name. I love that he has a middle initial.

Spring and summer Saturdays were the crown glories of the week. I never stayed home. Either I rode my bike or walked all over town. My favorite walk was on the railroad tracks, now gone from my little town. I used to jump the double OO tracks so I wouldn’t break my mother’s back. I was skeptical about the power of those tracks, but I didn’t want to risk my mother’s back. I remember stopping for a drink at a pipe with flowing, clear water. It came out of a small hillside. The train station was at the end of the tracks. It still stands and has been used in a variety of ways over the years. I wish I had been around when it was an actual station. I did see trains run on those tracks from my grandparents’ house. The trains stopped at E.L.Patch Company beside the tracks. The name, the lettering, was on a long black sign toward the top of the building. I remember it from when I was a kid. I had no idea what the E.L.Patch Company sold but later found out it was pharmaceuticals. I used to dream about jumping on that train and leaving for parts unknown. I was never scared for the ride. I knew I’d bring a lunch, probably a PB & J sandwich, some cookies, Oreos if there were any left, and Zarex, orange Zarex, in my thermos. My love of adventure always came along for the ride, whether it was real or imagined.

Yesterday’s rain storm was tremendous but by early afternoon the sun had returned as if it hadn’t rained at all. This morning is beautiful with a bright sun. Everything seems to shine. The air is filled with the melodies of birds. Today will be in the 70’s.

Sometimes I remember singular moments. My mother had a picture of me from when I was around four or five. I am wearing my Easter coat, hat and gloves. The picture is in black and white. We were living in an apartment building in South Boston. I am standing in front of the steps. The brick can be seen in the background. I look a bit shy in the picture. I remember our neighbor asked to take a picture of me in all my finery. It embarrassed me a bit.

One summer I was sitting on the back steps. It was early evening. All the screen doors of the houses facing the hill were open. I could hear muted voices and a few TV’s. It felt comforting somehow.

Staging is when Peace Corps trainees get together before leaving the country to meet each other and for last minute details. My staging was in the Hotel Sylvania in Philadelphia. The hotel had a very tiny lobby with a table and a few chairs. Around the corner facing the desk was a bank of pay phones. I remember standing in line to check in. I remember where the elevators were. I remember returning to the hotel after being out for a bit. I sat on one of the chairs in the lobby and read a newspaper someone had left. On one page was an announcement that Judy Garland had died. For some reason I remember that moment.

The first time I saw The Wizard of Oz was at a Saturday matinee. I was probably nine or ten. I didn’t know anything about the movie. I had never read the Oz books. I remember when Dorothy landed in Oz and everything was in color. It was jaw dropping wonder.

I remember my mother sitting in the chair by the picture window, and I was beside the chair. She had a stuffed animal with a long piece of ribbon around its neck. That was when she taught me to tie a bow. I can still see her fingers making the bow over and over. My first bows were clumsy looking and didn’t hold. When I finally tied a bow which held its own, my mother clapped.

My life has been a series of adventures made up of singular moments.

A clap of thunder woke all three of us, the two dogs and I, around 6 this morning. A deluge started almost immediately. I decided to get up and face the day, such as it is. The dogs wouldn’t go out. They backed into the house. It was pouring.

When I was a kid, walking to school in the rain usually meant wearing wet shoes and socks all day. Sometimes bubbles popped up between my toes, and if I took my shoes off, I’d leave footprints. The bottom of my uniform skirt sometimes got wet, but that dried quickly. The rain subdued us. The classroom was unusually quiet except for the sounds of the rain and the rustlings of papers. I remember silent reading. We’d pull out our literature books and read. I never understood a grade in silent reading. I guessed the nun watched for restless kids and gave them lower grades. I could have spent the whole day reading without moving a muscle. We stayed inside for lunch. The milk was delivered just before the lunch bell rang. When I was really young, it came in small bottles. When I was older, it was a carton of milk. We’d walk up to the desk, give the nun our money, grab the milk and then walk back and start to eat. I was never good at opening cartons. If it weren’t for the straw we got, I’d have spilled milk all over me and the desk. I am still no good with cartons. I love the screw tops.

When I was in Ghana, I learned to do with less and never minded. I had a hand can opener. I still have one, the old silver opener with the turner. The only problem is it is getting difficult for me to turn it. The good news is few cans are missing the pull off tab.

Yesterday I went to my uke lesson. I was able to keep my foot elevated the whole time, but the excursion was still painful. My leg and foot hurt. I took an early nap. I did nothing the rest of the day.

The mornings are the worst for my foot and leg. After being elevated all night, my foot does not take well to walking. I whine a lot. I still haven’t worn a shoe. My slippers have holes for my big toes, hardly attractive, and faux fur around the top. I wear therm everywhere. I have no shame.

The morning is pretty. It is already warm at 72˚. I’ve opened windows. I love the smell of the morning air and the songs of the birds. The breeze is sometimes strong. It moves the tall oak branches sending the leaves waving rhythmically back and forth. They need their own song.

My leg still hurts. I am so tired of this. I’m beginning to bemoan my fate. I even whine out loud. The dogs have stopped listening. They are both having their morning naps.

When I was a kid, I loved this time of year. Heavy clothes were finally stored away until next winter. I got to wear my spring jacket. I skipped to school on sidewalks shadowed by the tree branches hanging over the walk, branches filled with leaves. Sometimes we’d jump from shadow to shadow in a game of sidewalk hopscotch, a game we made up with ever chasing rules. The school yard was loud. We didn’t need to huddle in groups to keep warm. We hated when the nun rang the bell, and we had to line up in twos by classes to walk into the building. It was a long time until recess.

Finally the day got longer and the streetlights came on later so we got to play outside almost until supper time. We played games like red light, green light, red rover and hide and seek. Sometimes we drew hopscotch on the sidewalk then went looking for the perfect rock before we played. It had to be flat. Once the streetlight came on, it took only a minute or two for us to run inside. If we waited even the shortest time, my mother yelled out the door for us. The other mothers did the same.

Supper seldom varied, only the vegetable changed. We’d have potatoes, usually mashed, and meat, often ground beef. I liked peas but not many other veggies. I’ve mentioned before how my mother often mixed carrots in with the potatoes. We were never the wiser despite the orange flecks in the potatoes. I think my mother must have explained them away and we believed her. Mothers didn’t lie!

Every day the swelling goes down, and the pain decreases. It doesn’t disappear which is disheartening. I so want a miracle, one of those middle ages miracles where I throw my crutches to the ground and walk while the crowd falls to their knees and yells halleluia! My mood today is better, not great but better. I’m watching Killers from Space, a black and white movie from 1954. Few movies are better than old black and white science fiction, those grainy films of my childhood. This one has bug-eyed aliens from Venus hoping for world domination. But don’t they all?

I’m wearing my cozies every day. I haven’t been clothes dressed since last Wednesday when I drove home from the hospital. The repairman is coming to fix my fridge today so I may dress in my cozies but add a constricting garment for the sake of propriety.

When I was a kid, I never stayed in a hospital. Whatever ailments I had were taken care of at the doctor’s office, but those ailments were few, just the typical 1950’s kid diseases and maybe a cut or two needing stitches.

When I was young, my mother always used to say beggars can’t be choosers. Mostly that was when I carped about the vegetables.

When I was in the Peace Corps, in the town where I lived, most beggars stayed away from me knowing I lived in town and was not going to be forthcoming with money. If I gave money once, the beggars would descent on me en masse and expect money all the time. They’d harass me if I didn’t give them any. One beggar was especially persistent. He had had leprosy and was missing some finger tips. I used to give him a blessing. My language instructor Lawel said you could never let a beggar leave empty handed so giving a blessing, instead of money, was appropriate. I’m not so sure the beggars agreed. My favorite beggar was an old lady. She would follow me from store to store and beg and beg. She wasn’t content with a blessing. I remember being at the post office where I had parked my moto under trees. She followed me, grabbed a stick then screamed and started to attack me and my bike. I didn’t want to hurt her, but I didn’t want to be attacked either. I turned the front of my bike toward her and revved the motor. The threat was enough. She took off and never bothered me again.

The morning is perfectly lovely. The sun is bright and glints through the branches of the trees in the backyard. A few white clouds dot the blue sky. The big branches at the tops of the pine trees sway in the now and again wind. Leaves on the smaller branches twist in the wind. It is warm, already 67˚. It may even get into the low 70’s. It is a delightful Sunday.

My foot is nearly back to normal. Only the top is still swollen which is, of course, where my slipper goes. The toes are back and blue but the dark colors are fading. The redness of the hematoma is shrinking, but the leg is tender to the touch, an ow! ow! tenderness if even cloth touches the shin, and it still hurts almost all the time but in a smaller area. I have a compression bandage to wrap around the leg, but it is a grit your teeth procedure so I’m waiting a bit longer. When I first get up, the pain is shorter lasting, but I still have to grab hold of things on my way to the bathroom. Thank the Lord for door knobs.

When I was a kid, I saw the Roy Rogers rodeo in Boston Garden. We had front row seats so during the parade I could almost pat Trigger as he and Roy rode by us. It was the same with Buttercup and Dale. Pat Brady drove by us in his Nellybelle. I loved watching the horses, especially the bucking broncs. There were covered wagons pulled by oxen, rodeo clowns in barrels and so many horses. It was one of the neatest things I’d ever seen.

When I was growing up, almost nothing was boring. I had woods and a field below my house. I could pick wild blueberries on the bushes near the water tower or chase grasshoppers across the field through the tall brown grass. The paths crisscrossed the woods and field. Horses on the field across the road always came to the fence. I dreamed of grabbing their manes, jumping on and taking off across the field. It never happened which was a good thing.

I went out on the deck right in front of the back door to survey the yard. I noticed paper from the trash and something orange. I realized the orange objects were the socks from the hospital stolen from my bedroom by a marauding thief, the lovely Miss Nala. I decided I didn’t care as I just couldn’t walk all the way there and up and down the stairs, but then…The back door wouldn’t open. It had locked itself. That had happened one other time last winter, but this time I was just fine as I knew the front door was open. I tentatively went down the stairs one step at a time holding on to the rail for dear life. I got through the gate then rested. I got to the grass then rested. I walk a bit across the grass then rested again. I was exhausted. When I got into the house, I unlocked the back door then collapsed on the couch. I think it’s close to nap time.