Keep the Coffee Comimg

Yesterday was miserable. It was hot and humid, an August day, not a June day. I didn’t post as I had a concert smack dab during my usual posting time. Thankfully, today’s weather is better. A slight breeze is coming through the window behind me, a north facing window. The high today will only be 81° while the low will be in the high 60’s tonight, perfect for sleeping.

As I age, I have had to accept so many changes. Getting down is easy but getting up requires a boost from burly men or grabbing something so I can hoist my body upward. I can’t carry anything beyond 10 pounds in weight. I used to carry in 50 pounds of cat litter. Now I drag dog food bags and use my feet to push boxes cross the floor. I no longer carry my uke stuff. I use a basket I can push. My storm door windows will sit against the cellar door a while. I need to brave myself to take them down to the cellar one at a time, one step at a time. I used to be steady on my feet. I could walk on rail tracks (okay I was really young then), go upstairs without tripping and could go downstairs using both feet. Now I have to plan my route so there is something to grab onto in case I need it. If I ever get stopped on suspicion of drunk driving (not a possibility), I’d get arrested because I can’t stand on one leg. I had no wounds. Now I have cuts and bruises from hitting something. I even hit my head on the freezer door because I bent over and forgot it was open. I never walk fast. It takes too much energy, besides I might trip. I wonder how I have lived this long.

When I was in Ghana, I read all the time. One of my Peace Corps friends said one of the things she loved the most about being in Ghana was the unfettered time for reading. My town even had a library, the Bolgatanga Library built by American architect J Max Bond Jr. I had a book locker made of cardboard and once given out by Peace Corps. A volunteer who was leaving gifted it to me. It was a treasure. In it was The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings trilogy. I devoured those books. I even read the trilogy twice, once each year. I read every night. It was always quiet. I found Ngaio Marsh in the library. I read every mystery they had and any books by African writers. I remember the library wasn’t loud but there was a murmur of voices. It was a warming sound. I visited that library often. I felt blessed to have it.

I’m thinking I want to sit and read the day away except I still need to wash that pesky kitchen floor.

Alexa told me it would rain between 7 and 8 this morning. It was ten by then, but she was right. It had rained. The driveway inside the fence was still wet.

We have another wonderful morning. It is 75° and sunny. The air is mostly still. Only the leaves at the top of the tallest oak are moving. I can hear the hum of insects and an occasional bird song.

I need to do house chores. My sloth has to ignore me for a while.

I have some mementoes from the town where I grew up. On the window sill in the kitchen is a Weiss Farm milk bottle. I used to bike to the farm and watch the cows. The path from the barn to the field was filled with hoof prints, and it was all muddy when it rained. I remember thinking cows only rambled. They were in no hurry. I think they were Holstein cows. I could see bales of hay in front of the barn. I never saw people.

I have several old post cards of places now only memories. The uptown card has all the stores where I used to window shop rolling my bike on the sidewalk. The police box in the middle of the square is still there. It was destroyed when a car hit it. I remember seeing the policeman inside working the traffic lights. Pullo’s Drug is there. Mr. Pollo was my father’s friend. His store was small compared to Middlesex Drug across the street. The soda fountain had only four stools. The tops were red. I can see Hank’s Bakery and another pharmacy two doors down from Pullo’s. My town seemed to have a plethora of drug stores. One picture of the square has a horse and wagon in the middle. I love the card of my grammar school, St. Pat’s, and of the rectory beside it. It is a wonderful three story building with a wrap-around porch. My school is beside it, the angel statue in front. Out the side door is a walkway with planks. In my day it was paved. I used that door because the crowd went out the other side. The Dairy Queen picture has a full parking lot. The building resembles a barn. In front is an ad for a quart of Mr. Misty.

The library is where I spent so much time. On the card is a picture of the original, small building. A girl is walking on the sidewalk in front. She is wearing a hat, a mid-length dress and what looks like button top shoes. On the back is a message starting with Friend and ending with bushels of hugs and kisses. The postmark is dated 1911. I remember seeing the metal plaque by the front door which said it was a Carnegie library. The building was opened in 1904. It is on the National Register of Historic Places. It is so much bigger now.

I loved growing up in my town.

Today is the ideal day. The breeze is constant. The bright sun is glinting off every leaf. It is 74°. I’m thinking it is time to put on the screen doors.

The other night I watched a WWII movie, The 1000 Plane Raid. The title is a spoiler. It is the entire plot. Though I had already seen the movie, I watched it again. The movie was released in 1969. I saw it in 1970 in Niamey, Niger of all places. It was at an outside venue. The showing was sponsored by the American Embassy. I don’t remember if there was popcorn. What I do remember are the mosquitoes. They were relentless.

When I was a kid, my father hunted mosquitos. He’d chase them with a rolled up magazine in hand. He’d go from room to room weapon in hand. I’d wake up when he was on my mattress and juggling his feet back and forth to keep his balance. The mattress rolled so much I remember thinking I’d get seasick. I remember his cursing when he killed a mosquito which had already bitten. The bloody spot stayed on the ceiling. I remember the blotches.

Summer suppers were more casual. The oven made the kitchen too hot to use. The heat just stayed there lingering in the air. We were not a salad family except when I was older, but it was potato salad, not green salad. We ate a lot of corn on the cob mostly in August. My father loved his native tomatoes slathered with mayo. I ate hot dogs often and never minded how frequently. I topped them with mustard and piccalilli. We only had yellow mustard back then. Nobody ever put ketchup on a hot dog. That seemed like desecration. When I was older, I ate cheeseburgers. That pattern still continues. I eat a lot hot dogs. My mustard right now is honey pineapple. I don’t cook burgers at home, but I order them often when I eat out. Sometimes I use mayo and other times ketchup. I like my roll toasted.

My dance card this week is uke heavy. In addition to practice and my lesson, I have three concerts. Our book this month is across America.

The morning is pleasant, cool and sunny. It is 66°. Outside is calling. I’m thinking it is time to clean the deck furniture, to start the day outside with my morning coffee, the paper and my dogs. I love the look of the backyard this time of year, early summer. The trees are laden with bright green leaves. They dance in the breeze.

My deck is high off the ground like a treehouse. I sit at the table under the umbrella and watch the dogs romp in the backyard. Nala is prone to a zoomie or two before she collapses on the grass. Henry mostly walks the yard. After a bit, both of them usually join me on the deck. They lie down. I just sit.

By the time this time of year came round, I was done with school. The days were too pretty to sit inside all day penned at a desk. I longed to be free. We got out fairly early in June. The last big hurtle was end of year tests. I always did well. The last day of school was a half day, a wasted day. We sat around until we got our report cards. The grades were hand written on the cards. On the back my mother had signed each term that she had seen the grades. On the bottom was promoted to grade and then a line for the number. I don’t know anyone who was not promoted, but who knows.

When I was five, my aunt gave us Duke, our first dog, our boxer, as a present. He was the runt of his litter who came from a breeder in our town. He had been bought then returned because the first owner did not know what to expect. Boxers are unique dogs. They stay puppies until they are about three. They love to play. Nala still carries her stuffed elf around the house. They are smart dogs. They are also stubborn and sassy. Boxers are wonderfully protective. When Shauna, my first boxer, was at my mother’s house, the man from a siding company came to show her house siding colors. Shauna immediately got up and stood beside my mother. The man wanted to know if he was safe. The only problem with boxers is they don’t have long lives. Gracie lived to be twelve, the oldest so far of any of my dogs. Duke died when I was a sophomore in college. My mother was with him. It was, up to then, the worst day of my life.

Close to two this morning, the thunder started. It began as a rumble then heightened into cracks, some overhead. I saw the lightening out my west facing den window. It wasn’t spectacular, but lightening doesn’t have to be, small is impressive enough. The rain was heavy for a while then softened. Outside is mostly dry, but under the dense trees I can see the still wet leaves and moss and smell the damp. It is 73°. We have sun and blue sky, but rain is predicted for later.

Yesterday my sloth went into hiding because I got a burst of energy around 11. I ended up cleaning the kitchen, except for the floor. I washed the counter and everything on it. I cleaned behind the small appliances, the wooden drawers and the jars, dusted the picture tops and the shelf and scrubbed the stove top. I took out the utensil holder from the drawer, emptied it, washed it and cleaned the flowered oil cloth underneath it. But wait, I wasn’t done. I vacuumed all of downstairs and cleaned the bathroom. That was when I realized I had lost my mind. I staggered to the den to sit down until this dreaded cleaning frenzy passed. My breathing finally slowed. My sloth reappeared.

Summer was the noisiest time of the year. When I was a kid, my house was a duplex in a row of duplexes which went up and down the street. My house was at the bottom of a grassy hill, and more duplexes were spread across the top. The back side of all the houses, the kitchens, faced the hill. In the summers, all the screens were in the windows, and all the storm doors were replaced by screen doors. They were wooden doors which slammed when kids ran outside. All summer kids played in the yards. They ran through cold sprinklers and screamed. Mothers communicated by yelling out back doors. Everybody knew when dinner was ready. The murmurs of night conversations could be heard. TV’s blared. Even an argument could be heard by the whole neighborhood, and everyone listened.

Ghana was always noisy. On school grounds I could hear my students’ conversations in a variety of tribal languages. The morning chore for students was sweeping the yard, and the swish of the grass brooms outside my windows sometimes woke me up. I could also water hitting buckets so students could take bucket baths before class. Mostly women passed by the back of my house on the way to market. They chatted. Sheep baaed and goats bleated. Roosters greeted the morning.

I live in a quiet place now. Once in a while I hear my neighbors talking on their deck and the basketball hitting the road when the kid does the street shoots baskets. A car goes by every now and then. At night the sound of people disappears. The birds and the insects take center stage. Henry is often the noisiest.

The morning is cloudy, and it is 74°. Rain is a possibility. I like dark summer mornings. They keep the sun at bay. It is quiet in my neighborhood. Saturdays when I was growing up were always bustling.

Back when I was a kid, there were no school busses. Most everybody walked. The nearest school to my neighborhood was the East School, but it was far away. My school, St. Patrick’s, was far closer. The public schools had only six grades. St. Pat’s had eight. I remember three of the public schools were named after directions, unimaginative choices, but, whatever the reason, there was no west school.

My favorite ice cream changes. Vanilla is never on the list. My father loved vanilla ice cream drowning in Hershey’s syrup. He’d bring the filled bowl into the living room, sit on the couch, watch TV and eat. He used to give my dog Shauna her own bowl of ice cream without the syrup. He always shared his food with her. My favorite ice cream right now is coconut.

Santoro’s Sub Shop was just down the street from my school. On the Friday of pay week, my mother would often give us enough money to buy a small sub and chips for lunch. We’d walk down the street and usually have to wait in line. I loved the smell of Santoro’s. I always ordered a tuna sub, no meat on Friday’s back then, with pickles and hot peppers. When I was older, I added onions. I never eat tuna anymore. I had more than enough growing up.

My mother used to make English muffin pizza for Friday dinners, a break from fish sticks and French fries. She also made fried dough. We’d slather it with butter and add salt. She could never fry the pieces fast enough. I remember watching the dough fry in the electric skillet on the counter top. My father used to smelt fish. We’d sometimes have his catch for dinner.

I don’t get why people drink from cups or bottles holding their little fingers in the air. It always seems a bit pretentious to me. Other weird things bother me. Why, when older couples travel together, do the men have to sit together in the front, women together in the back? For many people, old ladies are the girls. I have mentioned it before, but I still keep seeing women hiding their mouths when they chew. Do they not chew with closed mouths or is chewing not ladylike? Why do many people use their blinkers only when they are stopped ready to turn? I really hate gawkers on the roads. They slow down to look. I want a cow catcher on my car.

Today is hot, already 76°, the high for the day. The sun is out though the weather calls for a cloudy day. The breeze is slight, but I’ll take any breeze as the days warm. The birds are serenading us. The windows are open.

When I add a piece or two to my jigsaw puzzle, I cheer. The colors left in the box are all red and green, mostly kiwis and watermelon, so each piece is a triumph. I hold the piece and check the box top hoping to find where it belongs. This morning it was two green and a red.

My mother used to do jigsaw puzzles on her dining room table. She’d spread out all the pieces making it easy to find the right piece. Anyone going to the kitchen had to pass through the dining room. Just about everybody stopped to work on the puzzle. Success was announced out loud, “I got one.”

My favorite Ghanaian dishes are jollof rice and kelewele. Jollof rice has, of course, the rice with tomatoes, onions, tomato paste, peppers and spices. Most times it has chicken. On my last trip to Ghana, I ordered jollof every night with dinner.

I used to buy kelewele from aunties cooking it in large pots over wood fires on the sides of the road. Kelewele’s main ingredient is plantain which I came to love. The plantain is fried and has a crispy outside and a soft inside. Added to that is fresh ginger and grated onions. The Ghanaians grind the ginger and grated onion in a heavy, black clay sort of bowl with sides. They use a wooden piece shaped like an hour glass to do the grinding. I brought the bowl and grinder back on one of my trips. It was so heavy I could barely lift the carry on. Hot pepper is added. I think the Ghanaians add hot pepper to just about every dish. The paste is added to the plantain which is then cooked. Groundnuts, peanuts, are sprinkled on the top of the cooked plantain then served. I would eat this every day if I could find it or had someone cook it for me.

I haven’t a list today. I do need a few groceries, the usual bread and cream, and whatever treat catches my eye, but I’m hoping for a coconut cupcake.

The morning is sunny and bright. It is already 73°, the high for the day. This time of year my backyard is hidden by greenery. I love the full trees with their fluttering deep green leaves and small branches bending in the breeze. Nala has a favorite spot near the back deck steps where she naps in the sun. She lies full flat, showing life only when her ears twitch, probably bothered by a bug. Henry is in and out sort of dog.

My mornings start perfectly. I make my coffee, Costa Rican coffee, this month, let the dogs out then grab my newspaper. I read mostly local news, national news being so depressing, then I do the three puzzles. Some mornings I have toast with my first cup of coffee. This morning it was a bagel smeared with fig jam. I always have two cups of coffee though on cold mornings I might even have three.

This time of year, unless it rained, my bike was always parked in the backyard ready for adventure. Every time I hopped on and rode down the grassy hill in the front yard, I wondered what I’d find as I rode familiar routes. By the golf course, I’d often find a ball across the street in the gutter or on someone’s lawn. Round perfect stones found their way into my pockets. Once in a while I’d find a penny, a worthwhile find back then. I’d stop at fruit trees, usually apple trees, to grab a snack. The apples were small, hard and tart. I’d hope to be on time to watch the train pass through the next town over. I loved when the speed of the train sent a breeze which ruffled my hair, a short breeze but just enough for the sense of it. I’d ride around Spot Pond, the reservoir. I always dreamed of sneaking to the island in the middle and camping for a night. Now you can boat on the pond. I’d ride up town. It was always called up town. In town was Boston. I’d window shop. Hank’s Bakery and the Gloucester Fish Market had the best windows. I loved watching the lobsters swim around in the window tank, and at Hank’s, I wished I could buy a cupcake, always chocolate when I was a kid, though later I preferred coconut. It was late afternoon when I’d finally get home and park my bike in the back.

I make lists every day. Some days I finish one or two chores, but other days nothing gets done. When I was younger, I compulsively finished every chore on my list and took delight in crossing off each finished item. Now my lists are small, maybe a couple of chores. I sometimes finish my list, sometimes not. The compulsion is gone, replaced by a book, a jigsaw puzzle or a few crosswords. Yesterday I cleaned down the stairs and in the downstairs bathroom, neither was on my list. Today I have no list though I do want to wash the kitchen floor, maybe tomorrow.

Last night was cold, down to 40°. This morning the house was really cold, 62°. I figured I had somehow gone back in time to early spring so I checked the calendar. It said June 2nd but sitting here in my sweatshirt with socks on my feet has made me skeptical.

My dance card has only two entries, my uke practice and lesson, no concerts. It will be a week of doing a few chores, really only a few, reading and finishing my jigsaw puzzle. I like lazy weeks.

My neighborhood is quiet. The kids are older now. The only sound I usually hear is the kid down the street shooting hoops and the sound of his basketball bouncing on the street and then hitting the rim. Henry is the loudest dog. He barks at every person who dares walk on his street or every truck which stops. Amazon, UPS and the mailman’s truck are, to Henry, the worst offenders. He barks constantly at them and scares most delivery persons trying to drop off a package at my house. The mornings are delightfully noisy with the songs of birds while, at night, insects rule the air. They are a welcome break to the silence.

When I was growing up, I lived in a noisy neighborhood. It was filled with kids. Most families had multiple kids. Summer was the loudest season. Doors slammed, kids played outside all day, dogs barked and mothers yelled out back doors. I was five when we moved to that neighborhood. Back then, our playgrounds were the field, the swamp and the woods on two sides of the field. The grass in the field was high, green in the spring, but it turned brown quickly under the summer sun. We hunted grasshoppers. We played tag and ran through the field chasing each other. We walked to the swamp. In the spring there were water lilies and tadpoles. In the summer dragon flies skimmed the top of the green water. Frogs jumped from half submerged tree branches into the water. We tried to catch the ones closest to the edge of the water, but they were too quick. We just got wet. A water tower was up a small hill close to the swamp. We always wished we could climb it so we could see the world from the top. It was probably a good thing we couldn’t. On the street behind the water tower was a field with a red barn and two grazing horses. We tried to catch them so we could ride. It was probably a good thing we couldn’t. Growing up, I never realized I lived in paradise.

After the last couple of days of rain, today is a welcomed change. The sun has decided to reappear and brought with it a blue sky, but it is only 55°. I’m wearing my hoodie.

This is not one of my better days. I feel logy despite my sloth days. I envision another day of reading, doing my puzzle and filling in my crossword book except I really need to water plants and vacuum the hall. This morning I bent over to pick up a dust ball with my coffee cup in hand. When I bent over, I tipped the cup and spilled the little coffee which was left. That is how the morning started.

My dance card is empty except for uke practice and my lesson. We are starting a new book, Across America, for the first two weeks of the month then we move on to John Denver. We are getting ready for our weekly concerts on the green starting the end of the month when we do a new book every week.

There is a picture of me from when I was about three years old. It was taken in my grandparents’ back yard. I am sitting in a fire engine which belonged to my brother. It seems to be still but my hands are on the steering wheel. What I like best about this picture is I am wearing a frilly dress, The frilliest parts are hanging outside the wagon. Those were my girly days.

When I was in college, my friends and I met every morning at the same table in the canteen. We had coffee together. We also did the crossword puzzle in the newspapers we had bought from the kiosk. It was a race. We’d go to classes but return to that table all day. We were merciless to each other in a fun way. If somebody talked on, we’d turn our backs or we’d pretend to fall asleep. We were close. When I was in Ghana, we wrote at first, but the letters got fewer and fewer. They were moving on while I was living a different life. We lost track of each other. I saw them only a couple of times after I got home and not again. It has been over 50 years since those canteen days. I wonder about them now. Where are they? How were their lives? Are they happy? I still drink my coffee and do the crossword puzzle every day. I have found that pieces of my life through time stay with me. They are a part of who I have become.