Keep the Coffee Comimg

Mother Nature has done a 180° from the weather which had started Friday night and lasted all day yesterday. The rain is gone. The clouds have disappeared. The sun is bright, but it is still a bit chilly at 61°. According to the weather report, light rain is predicted for later with a low of 49° tonight.

I was going to the dump today, but I decided I don’t want to haul trash bags from the deck to the car. I did enough hauling the other day. Today might just be a repeat of yesterday’s sloth day when I read and worked on my puzzle, a fruit platter. I got some of the middle done. Once I start a jigsaw puzzle I get obsessed.

In Bolgatanga, my Ghanaian home, the rainy season has started. The millet is already planted. Maize, groundnuts and yams are probably already planted as well. During the dry season, the fields are empty, and it seems as if you can see for miles. During the rainy season everything is hidden behind the tall millet. Only the dirt road between the fields is visible ahead and behind. It rains pretty much every day once the season is in full swing, usually by July. I learned to appreciate rain.

Peace Corps gave us a monthly living allowance to cover all our needs. We got American dollars for traveling. When I went to Accra, the capital, I stayed at the Peace Corps hostel for 50 pesewas a night, about 50 cents, including breakfast. I usually saw a movie or two. I ate cheaply at mostly Lebanese restaurants, but on every trip, I ate at the only Chinese restaurant in the city. It was a treat. We always ate outside.

I had one experience still bright in my memory drawers. I have mentioned this before, but today it is close again. In my Ghanaian days, old hotels still existed, the sort of places where rich expats stayed. A few friends and I decided to say goodbye to a friend leaving early. We went to one of those hotels, to the bar. I remember the room where we sat and drank, real drinks, not hot Coke. Fans turned overhead. The room was filled with tall windows. The chairs and couch cushions were soft and covered with cloth of bright flowered patterns. Palm plants were strewn about the room, mostly in corners. I had the oddest sense as if I had gone back in time to the 50’s or even the 40’s. I could see white couples sitting and drinking, the women wearing light, short sleeve dresses and wide brim hats, the men in white suits. It was easy to imagine.

Around 2:30 this morning the thunder started. It surprised all of us. Nala looked up at the ceiling and Henry just looked around. The rumbles lasted on and off for a while. The dogs lost interest and fell back to sleep. Next, the rain started, heavy drops. It was loud. In a bit, the rain softened but lasted for quite a time. It was still raining when I finally went to bed.

We are back to sweatshirt weather. The house is chilly. Earlier, the air was still, but the wind has since started. It will rain all day, a perfect stay at home day. Yesterday I cleaned. Today my sloth reigns supreme. I have a book and a new jigsaw puzzle.

Each day, the traffic on Coffee is analyzed on the home page by number and location. As you would expect, the highest traffic comes from the United States. What I find unexpected is that the next highest number is from Hong Kong then in order Singapore and Belgium.

When I was a kid, a rainy Saturday meant hanging around the house. I’d sometimes stay in my room, my quiet place, and read. Other times, I’d sit in front of the TV and watch all the Saturday morning programs. I always watched Creature Double Feature in the afternoon. I got to see all the classics, both American and Japanese. That’s where my love for those movies began. Last night I watched Atomic Age Vampire and The Day Mars Invaded Earth. I even ate some popcorn generously buttered.

We had an operator who connected phone calls. The upgrade was a dial phone. Our TV was black and white, but everyones’ were black and white. Most of the movies I watched on Saturdays were made in black and white anyway. The milk man delivered each week. I remember the rattle of the bottles in his wire container as he walked to the back steps. The trash track had men who rode on the back. They jumped off to empty the barrels lined up on the street and the garbage in the below ground container with a pedal on the top to open it. Clothes dried on the backyard lines. My sheets always had the best smell. The ice cream man, Johnny, came most late afternoons. The truck bell announced his arrival. His truck was white with a small door halfway up the back of the truck. The ragman came on his horse and wagon. The knife sharpener man rode his bike with the grinding tool attached.

Life when I was a kid was more colorful, filled with characters. It was simple. It was a great life.

I slept late and had a leisurely morning so I’m behind my time. I even stood on the deck for a bit to watch the dogs and take in the beauty of the day. It is sunny but light rain is predicted for later. It is in the low 60’s but feels warmer.

Pine pollen is covering every bit of my little corner of the world. My blue car is now a yellow green. The deck and even the flowers are covered in pollen. My allergy is making a mess of me. I cough whenever I do anything requiring breathing. My nose needs constant blowing. This is my least favorite time of year.

The town where I grew up had every sort of tree. I remember up the hill from where I lived was a chestnut tree. Sometimes we pelted the chestnuts at each other. They really hurt. An old elm tree with a giant trunk was across the street from my house. It came down in a hurricane, split at the trunk. My father took us outside during the eye of the storm to check out the tree. The rest of the trunk and all the branches were across the road. I climbed through the smaller branches. The other trees I remember were the red maples and the amazing color of their leaves. Those were the leaves we ironed in wax paper to save them at their brightest. We did have a few pine. The white pines were tall and had fluffy needles. I don’t remember their pollen covering surfaces. Maybe, unlike here on the cape, they were few. The oak trees were many, maybe the most of all. The lilac is a bush but grows so tall and full it might just qualify as a baby tree. The houses around my street had tall lilac bushes. The purple flowers smiled divine. My house had a few trees in the side yard, some sort of a fir tree. They were young trees, not every tall. When I drove pass my old house many years later, I was amazed. The trees are now taller than the house.

I have an empty dance card until Tuesday, unless you count a dump run on Sunday. To keep busy, I may have to do a few chores. I swept the downstairs a couple of days ago and ended up with a dust ball bigger than a soccer ball. Today I noticed the dust clumps are back. I feel a bit like Sisyphus but with a broom instead of a rock.

The morning is perfect. The sky is that deep blue which almost defies description, the sun is bright, and there is a slight breeze. When I asked Alexa the weather for today, she said light showers. I didn’t believe her given the beauty of the morning so I asked Google the same question. Google said cloudy with light rain. He got the cloudy part wrong, but he did agree with Miss Alexa about the showers. It is 63°.

I took Henry to the vet’s on Tuesday to have his leg checked. He has been limping on his right front leg. The vet checked his paw and felt all round his leg then she took him out back so she would watch him walk. When she came back, she did he did not limp at all. I was a bit flabbergasted. She gave him pain pills and told me to use them at my discretion. When we got home, Henry limped to the house. He is still limping.

When I was a kid, every day was just about the same. I had breakfast, hot cereal or eggs in winter and cold cereal in the warmer months. Breakfast was always ready on school days when I got down stairs to the kitchen. I didn’t have to choose school clothes. I wore the same uniform, a blue skirt, white blouse and a blue cowboy tie, for eight years. My only fashion flairs were shoes and socks. Mostly my shoes were sturdy and meant to last all year unless I grew out of them or something catastrophic happened. It never did. On cold days I wore knee socks, on warm days, ankle socks. I never complained about having to wear a uniform. That was just the way it was, the norm when I was a kid, just because.

My plate was expanded when I went to Ghana. It wasn’t just Ghanaian food. It was also Lebanese food and Indian food. I remember thinking how exotic the Maharaja restaurant was to me, whose only foray into exotic food was spaghetti and meatballs and fried rice, Chinese spare ribs and pork strips. The restaurant was on the second floor of a building near the post office. It was decorated exactly how I had imagined an Indian restaurant should look like. We sat on floor pillows. I don’t even remember what I ate. I do know I developed a taste for Indian food. Small corner Lebanese restaurants were common in Ghana. I used to eat at a place called Talahl’s, right near the Peace Corps office. That was the first time I ever had hummus. I never asked what was in it. I just tried it. The hummus was served in a circle on a flat plate. It had a small amount of sesame oil in the middle and was ringed with red pepper. The pita bread was large and freshly made. I remember being told to take a piece of bread and scoop it through the hummus after running it through the oil and making sure it got some pepper. I still love hummus. I’m not so sure if I would have eaten it if I knew about the chickpeas and tahini.

After all the rain, this beautiful morning is welcome. The bright green leaves are brilliant in the brightness of the sun. The flowers in the front yard, the blues and the whites, are striking. It is already 71°. I can taste summer.

When I was a kid, a day like today was my favorite sort of day. Walking to school in the warmth of the sun gave me the energy to face the grueling day ahead. I remember the trees with their overhanging branches filled with leaves. The houses along the sidewalk were old. Some had porches. Ivy climbed the walls. Along the way there were still railroad tracks crossing the road and continuing out of sight on both sides of the road. We used to jump over them. I remember the station master’s house. I always thought it would have been a great place to live. I’d get to hear the trains pass and watch the bar come down to stop the cars. On one side of the street was a long grass hill, part of the landscaping of the old brick high school. Before we got to our school, we could see part of the convent, the little building with the stone front. The convent was huge with so many windows in the front. We knew those windows were in the nuns’ rooms. I always imagined those rooms were stark with a bed, a bureau and a cross on the wall. Across the street from the convent was my school.

When I graduated from the eighth grade, we had a class picture taken. We sat in front of the convent. Many years later I found that picture. It was rolled, and the picture cracked when I unrolled it. I decided I wanted to save it so I took it to a photography shop where a copy was made and mounted for hanging. I see it every day. It is over the sink in my downstairs bathroom. That probably sounds like an odd spot for a school picture, but my bathroom has sorts of school stuff including a small rolled desk where I keep soap and hand towels. The room even has a blackboard. Ding Dong school artifacts are on the side of the sink and under the blackboard. On the walls are old class pictures and diplomas I bought. I don’t know anyone in the pictures or any of the names on the diplomas. I chose the school theme as something unexpected for the bathroom.

I have to miss my concert today to take Henry to the vet’s to check his leg, but not to worry, I have two more concerts this week and the usual practice and lesson. Uke events again are the only entries on my dance card.

For special days, I have traditional postings. This is one of them. 

Memorial Day is a day for reflection and a day to give thanks. It is a day for honoring the men and women who died while serving in the U.S. military, those who gave, as President Lincoln once said, their “…last full measure of devotion.” This is my annual tribute. 

Memorial Day, originally called Decoration Day, is a day of remembrance for those who have died in our nation’s service. It originated during the American Civi War when citizens placed flowers on the graves of those who had been killed in battle. There are many stories as to its actual beginnings, with over two dozen cities and towns laying claim to being the birthplace of Memorial Day. There is also evidence that organized women’s groups in the South were decorating graves before the end of the Civil War: a hymn published in 1867, “Kneel Where Our Loves are Sleeping” by Nella L. Sweet carried the dedication “To The Ladies of the South who are Decorating the Graves of the Confederate Dead.” 

While Waterloo N.Y. was officially declared the birthplace of Memorial Day by President Lyndon Johnson in May 1966, it’s difficult to prove conclusively the origins of the day. It is more likely that it had many separate beginnings; each of those towns and every planned or spontaneous gathering of people to honor the war dead in the 1860′s tapped into the general human need to honor our dead, each contributed honorably to the growing movement that culminated in General Logan, Commander in Chief of the Grand Army of the Republic, giving his official proclamation in 1868 designating May 30 as a memorial day “.. for the purpose of strewing with flowers or otherwise decorating the graves of comrades who died in defense of their country during the late rebellion, and whose bodies now lie in almost every city, village, and hamlet churchyard in the land.” It is not important who was the very first, what is important is that Memorial Day was established. Memorial Day is not about division. It is about reconciliation; it is about coming together to honor those who gave their all.

Even though it is 60°, I’m wearing a sweatshirt and socks. The house is so cold the butter hardened. The day is quite ugly. The sky is filled with clouds. It is an inside day.

I can hear a lawnmower disturbing the morning. A few cars went up my street. Somebody walked by the house. Henry barked. He always barks.

When I worked, Saturday was my chore day. I changed the bed and cleaned the house. I grocery shopped. Some Saturday nights I’d get together with friends. We’d eat and play games. Saturday has always been my favorite day.

When I was a kid, Saturday was the day to do whatever I wanted. On warm days I’d ride around. I never really had a destination. I’d ride by myself. None of my neighborhood friends were big on bike rides. My closest neighborhood friend didn’t even have a bike. I couldn’t imagine life without my bike, without the freedom of the ride. Nothing came close to the sound and feel of the wind as I rode down a hill as fast as I could. I’d take my feet off the pedals and hold my legs out. I’d let the hill propel me. It was as close as I came to flying.

I don’t like plain black licorice. I do like black jelly beans, Good and Plenty and black Necco Wafers. I used to buy a box of Good and Plenty for a nickel at the movie theater. Sometimes the pieces were stale. The outsides cracked when I bit them. I didn’t really mind, mostly because I had low standards. Candy is good almost no matter what. Besides, the stale pieces lasted longer than the fresh ones did. They were a workout for my jaw.

I remember eating TV dinners. They were a treat. The dinners came on aluminum foil divided sort of dishes and were baked. I remember chicken, mashed potatoes, peas and a cherry dessert. The package had a picture of the dinner on the front which looked delicious. The only thing I was keen about was the hot pie desserts.

The bookcase in my bedroom goes from side to side on one wall. It is plain wood. A friend build it maybe forty years or so ago. On it I keep, beside books, some treasures. The only Barbie doll I own is on the top shelf. Barbies came after my childhood. This one is a Ghanaian Barbie wearing Kente cloth, the handwoven cloth from Ghana. There are nostalgic pieces on the shelves like small plastic Howdy Doody, Mr. Bluster and Dilly Dally toys. A stuffed Mikey Mouse is there as are a few small tin toys. That filled bookcase is my of my favorite pieces of furniture because of those treasures and memories it holds.

I apologize for the lateness of the hour, but it has been one of those mornings. The pine pollen has started. It covers my windshield and most of my car; consequently, I am wheezing and having trouble breathing. I guess, though, that too has a weird sort of upside. If I do anything requiring exertion, I have to stop to breathe. I figure I’ll just have to relax for most of the day except I do need to put bags in the trunk, but for that I’ll use my carriage, the one for hauling all my uke stuff. My nose is permanently clogged. I should probably carry a handkerchief in my back pocket the way my father did or stuffed up the cuff of my sleeve the way the nuns did.

Henry has a vet appointment for Tuesday to check the reason for his limp and to get the medication for his eye allergy.

We are back to needing sweatshirts. The high today will be 59° while the low will be 50°. The sky is mostly cloudy but a glint of sun is managing to break through.

When I was a kid, my dog was Duke, a boxer. He gave me a love for boxers which has never diminished. Henry is my first non-boxer, but the tradition continues with Nala. Duke was scrabby and stubborn. He was also protective and loving. Nobody would have dared mess with us if Duke was with us. The house down the street had a dog Duke hated. They went after each other when they could. The dog was bigger than Duke who was small, the runt of his litter. One fight was horrendous. Duke got the worst of it. His neck was torn. My mother wanted him taken to the vet. My father said Duke would take care of it, licking it and cleaning it. That was when my father was away working all week so while he was gone, my mother took Duke to the vet where he got medication against infection and his wound cleaned. He got small stitches below his neck. You could’t see them. When my father got home, he mentioned how great the wound looked, how well Duke had done. My mother said nothing.

When I was growing up, I believed most things I was told. My mother had her admonitions about blindness, balls of stomach gum, giant knuckles and death from drowning, and I never questioned her. The nuns too had their warnings about sin and hell so I stayed on the straight and narrow rather than risk the devil and eternal hellfire.

My weekend dance card is empty except for a dump run. I figure I’ll go on Sunday as sort of paying homage to my father.

Yesterday was hellishly warm for May, maybe even for August. The heat had me reconsidering my life. Was I virtuous enough to avoid hell? Could I escape eternal damnation? I certainly hope I am.

Last night it rained for only a short while, but it set the stage for today’s weather. It is 61° with light showers. Earlier, my usual quiet morning was jolted by the sound of a tree company parked next door felling some pine trees and chipping the downed branches and trees from that big storm a while back. The tree which had landed on my back fence is gone. I now have to brace the fence as it is leaning. I tried before, but the fence is heavy by itself let alone with a leaning pine tree. That chore is for another day.

My dance card has only chores on it including a dump run tomorrow. Today, I’m going to finish cleaning the dining room and try to start on my room which has boxes and clothes all over, the start of my switching winter for summer clothes. I figure it being the end of May that task needs to be completed.

My father was a lawn specialist in his own way. He used a hand mower his whole life. Every spring he had it sharpened. He cut his lawn in the same pattern most summer Saturdays. I loved the sound of that mower, the click click as he pushed it across the lawn. The grass flew out from the blade. He always raked with his bamboo rake, later his metal rake. Some teeth of that rake were bent but made no difference. I remember the cuffs of my father’s pants had grass in them from the flying blades of his mower.

The only ukulele players I remember are Arthur Godfrey, Big Brother Bob Emery and Tiny Tim. Bob Emery was the host of Big Brother, a show on TV in the 50’s when I was a kid. His theme song was The Grass Is Always Greener in the Other Fellow’s Yard which he accompanied with his uke. I sang along but didn’t really understand what the song was about. Toward the start of the show, we drank a milk toast to a picture of President Eisenhower while Hail to the Chief played in the background. I remember I saw him in person one July 4th during the yearly festivities in Wakefield, the town next to mine. He was in the middle of the bandstand surrounded by kids. I was one. He was wearing his usual sports coat and tie. I remember the coat always looked checkered on TV. I was right behind him. I remember a bug was on his neck.