I woke up to a dark, damp morning. I asked my Alexa the time. She said good morning. It is 11:25. I was shocked. I can’t remember the last time I slept so late, but now, after a cup of coffee, I am better suited to face the day.

The rain started a little while back. I’m happy for the rain. It has been a long while. I closed the window behind me. I could feel the cold, damp breeze on my back. I’m not complaining though. I’m glad for the chill.

I remember how excited I was for the first day of school. I didn’t have new school clothes; instead, I had a new uniform, a white blouse, blue skirt and a blue tie, a cowboy bow tie which clipped to my collar. My shoes were usually sturdy as my mother hoped they would last most of the school year. My socks changed with the seasons, short socks when it was warm and knee socks when it was cold. When I was young, on really cold days, I used to wear snow pants under my skirt. I wasn’t a fan. It took a while to undress in the cloak room and hang up the pants. I’d have to sit on the floor and pull them off. One year my mother found pink longish underwear. It came to my knees.

Okay, back to the first day. I always had a new lunch box. When I was young, it was a character box. One year I had a Mouseketeers’ box. It was talent roundup day. When I was a bit older, I went with designs. I remember a red and black plaid lunch box. That was in the fourth grade. My usual lunch was a sandwich and cookies for desert. We could buy milk. In the winter, my mother sometimes gave us soup and Saltines. I remember chicken noodle was my favorite. Sometimes, though, the noodles plopped into the thermos cup and my blouse would get a few drops of soup on the front.

I always got a new pencil box, a box of crayons and a school bag. I used to practice putting the pencil case into the bag and putting the bag across my shoulder. I wanted to be ready for that first day.

The morning is ugly, hot, cloudy and humid. It will stay the same all day. The only saving grace is a small breeze. This is weather befitting August, not September. The dogs aren’t enjoying the weather much either as they come inside panting. I figure they’ll spend the day napping.

The morning is quiet. I don’t hear any voices, any dogs barking or even any cars driving by. Every now and then I can hear the sweet music from the chimes hanging on trees in the backyard. I think the thick air is muting sounds.

Henry is a strange dog, has always been a strange dog. His latest fear is the den light. Its cord is in a power strip but it is loose. Every now and then the light blinks a few times when the cord is moved. Henry jumps off the couch and starts barking every time.

I walk better than I have been walking, but my leg still hurts. The doctor did say 3-5 weeks, and this is week 3, I think. I have lost track of time. Being inside and seeing no one has me losing track of the world. I talk on the phone to people who call to check up on me, but that is my only connection. I am a sort of Robinson Caruso without a Friday.

I have no inclination to do anything. I much prefer fighting for space on the couch. My defense is my leg feels best when I sit so this is a matter of health, not laziness.

When I was a kid, fall was my favorite season. The weather was a delight. The air was clear of summer’s humidity. The light had a sharpness. Everywhere I walked I saw beauty, the colors of the leaves. They seemed to surround me. My favorites were the orange-red leaves. I used to choose the best ones. I’d place the leaves on wax paper, cover them with the paper and iron. The leaves were bright and beautiful forever.

This morning I noticed a few red-yellow leaves on a tree over the deck. Fall has announced its arrival. The season is changing. The days are still warm, but the nights are chilly, perfect for sleeping. The daylight is less. Night comes quicker. Summer is having its last hurrah.

When I was a kid, the change in season meant a change in wardrobe. The mornings were chilly so my mother made us wear a light jacket for the walk to school, but by afternoon, the jacket was too warm. I used to tie it around my waist for the walk home. I remember in the afternoons the sun slanted a different way than it had all summer. After school we played outside in the shadows.

My mother always bought Oreos. They never lasted long. She’d pack them in lunches, and we’d grab a few for snacks. I used to separate the sides. I’d eat the plain side first then scrape my teeth across the white before I ate that side. My sisters used to eat the white and feed the cookies to Duke, our dog. I still love Oreos, double stuffed is my favorite, but I am also partial to chocolate covered Oreos. I think they are my favorite cookie.

I grew up with television. I knew all the theme songs, and I could sing along with all the commercials. All of them seemed to have their own catchy songs. I remember Chew Chew Charlie the engineer who powered his train with Good and Plenty. Bucky Beaver was an orthodontist’s dream. He pitched Ipana, a toothpaste. The Kool-Aid Man broke through the door. I still don’t understand why. My mother never bought Kool-Aid. She said it needed too much sugar. Cigarette commercials were the most common. They sang and danced their way cross the small screen. My parents smoked Pall Malls in the red package. They were unfiltered. I remember my mother picking pieces of tobacco off her tongue.

I have had an empty dance card for a few weeks. I am the sloth queen. I have been resting my leg, and I have also been bored. My house is quiet. I watch TV or I read. Every now and then I nap on the couch. The dogs usually join me so it a fight for space. I usually lose. I hope to rejoin the world next week starting with uke practice on Tuesday. It is time.

The morning is perfect, with lots of sun and a temperature of 72°. The breeze is ever so slight. I can hear only birds. The dogs are quietly napping, one in the hall and the other on the couch. I am taking it easy on the couch, moving as little as possible. My leg feels better this morning as it does each morning. I hope in the afternoon when it usually starts to hurt it will continue to improve.

I have been housebound for a couple of weeks. Mostly I read or watch movies. The last few days, though, I’ve watched the Sox play afternoon games. They are fun to watch. You can never count them out. You hold on to hope until the very last out. That’s always been the way. Every Sox fan is born with an over abundance of hope.

Today is the first day of school around here. I remember the excitement of the first day when I was a kid. Everything was new, my school uniform, lunch box, school bag, notebooks and pencils. We’d gather on the school yard in groups happy to see kids we haven’t seen since school ended. Usually the teacher we were getting was not a surprise, one year a nun and the next year a lay teacher, always a woman. A nun would ring a bell, and we’d line up to go into the buildings, into the old school and the new school. In the new school, the second floor held grades six, seven and eight, two classes of each grade. There were so many of us each classroom was filled with forty or more desks. We were the baby boomers.

I remember my first day of classes in Ghana. I was scared. I had only done student teaching. I had 70 students, 35 in each class of T2’s, second years. I had planned the lessons as I had to give the principal a note book outlining the lessons for each day of the week. At first I didn’t know how much I could get done in a single class. I over planned. During my first class a student raise her hand and said they could not hear me which meant they didn’t understand a word I was saying. They didn’t understand my American accent, and I spoke too quickly. I was devastated. I had meticulously planned that lesson, and it failed. I failed. It took me a while to slow down and change my accent. It took my students a while to hear me. Once they did, though, they understand everything, had caught on to the American English which often seeped through the lessons I taught. I had learned and they were learning.

The day is cloudy and will stay cloudy. It is 74°, a perfect temperature. This time of year the nights are cool, wonderful for sleeping. Most schools around here start tomorrow. The summer went quickly.

I am discouraged. I know my leg will take a while to heal, but I am so impatient I expect a miraculous recovery. I walk noisily, oohing and ahing when I use that leg. The walker helps going up and down the hall, but sitting is the best.

The only time I went to the hospital when I was a kid was when I broke my wrist. I was around 4. I had been jumping backwards off the fence gate all afternoon. I wanted my mother to watch. She opened the window in our apartment and watched from there. I took my position on the gate and jumped. It wasn’t a clean landing. I had to use my hand when I touch the ground to brace myself so I wouldn’t fall. My mother applauded despite my poor performance. Later, my mother worried about my wrist. When I was sleeping, she turned it around. I didn’t wake up, but she called my grandfather who told her to have it checked. She did. I had broken my wrist, a buckle fracture. My wrist was put in a cast. I was so proud of that cast. I showed it off everywhere.

There are sticks all over the floors of my house, compliments of Nala. She brings a bigger stick inside and chews on it leaving smaller pieces all over. Small chewed pieces of paper towels are on the deck, Nala’s work again. She is so funny when I catch her with something in her mouth. She has a tell. She almost smiles, and her tail wags so much her tail almost touches her muzzle. When I go to get whatever she has, she takes off out the dog door.

I hate flies. Once in a while one gets into the house so I carry a magazine for swatting. Usually a fly lands on the screen, and I can open the door to let it outside. In Ghana, flies were everywhere. Babies had flies on them. Mothers swatted but there were usually too many flies. I remember one Saturday night at my school. The USAID guy had brought a projector, a cartoon and a movie to my school. The cartoon was about flies. My students laughed the whole time. It showed flies stopping at night soil buckets and flying off with night soil on their legs. The flies next stopped on food where the night soil was left on the food. My students were so enchanted by the cartoon they missed the whole point. I admit it was funny.

Yesterday I did a few errands limping my way into the world. After that I just took it easy hoping my leg would hurt less. It did. Not moving is the key. The sloth in me never objects to that, to taking it easy. This morning, after a night of not moving, it feels even better. My cough is just about gone. I think I am on the way to getting better. I hope so as my mood needs an adjustment.

The railroad ran when I was a kid. An engine pulled a couple of cars. Up the street from my grandparent’s house was the station master’s house and a barrier which the station master dropped when the train was crossing the road. I used to watch from the front door if I was visiting my grandparents. It was always exciting to see and hear a train. It would cross two more roads before stopping at the chemical factory where it dropped off cargo and loaded more cargo. I remember walking right beside the still train and checking out the cars. Now, the station master’s house is still there but is a regular house like all the other houses. The tracks are gone.

I used to love to go to the record store. I’d browse through the records looking for a bargain. The first records I bought were folk music, Peter, Paul and Mary mostly. I remember buying a Roy Orbison. I have a collection of records. Many were my parents. Some were giveaways at Christmas. One is from a tire store and a couple are from Grants. I love to play them when I decorate the house. Down Cape in Orleans is a record store. A couple of years back I got money for my birthday and shopped there. I bought a couple of records. I remember one was a Gordon Lightfoot. It was fun browsing.

Sundays still seem to be quiet days. When I was a kid, nothing but corner stores were open so people mostly stayed close to home. My father would buy the paper and get donuts. We’d have breakfast. When I was older, my father often made the breakfast. He’d cook the eggs and bacon in the cast iron skillet. I was in charge of toast. I always had my eggs over easy. I like dipping toast into the yokes. The bacon was crisp. I can still see my father standing at that stove with a spatula in hand as he cooked the eggs.

I have an empty dance card. I’m waiting to see if I can start back to uke. It mostly depends on my leg. I’ll decide on Tuesday.

Today is a pretty day with sun and a blue sky. It will be around 74° all day, a perfect temperature. I am still housebound. I don’t drive because my leg still hurts, but it is getting better. At least that’s what I tell myself every day.

I remember my first night game at Fenway Park. I was twelve. A friend of mine had a sister who worked at Fenway, and she got tickets. I remember the magical look of the field when I walked out of the concourse behind right field. I swear my jaw dropped. The field was as light as day. The grass was the greenest grass I’d ever seen. The sand was smooth, untouched by cleats. Players came onto the field for batting practice. I watched for a while and tried to identify the players at bat, but I was a long way from home plate. One ball landed by me, and I got it. The ball was scuffed and was a bit dirty, but I didn’t care. It was the best souvenir.

I’ve always loved New England. I remember Sunday family trips to the best places. We went to Boston to ride on the swan boats in summer, and we went to Boston in the winter to see the lights on the common and in the store windows. We saw Santa Claus at Jordan Marsh. My mother said he was always the best looking Santa. We went to museums, and I remember a dairy farm. My father drove us up Mount Washington. He drove ever so slowly. When a car going in the opposite direction passed us on the inside, I looked over as were on the outside. It always looked as if we were right on the edge and only inches from tumbling over the side. I’m sure it wasn’t inches that’s how I remember it. It was scary. I got to see the Old Man of the Mountain. His face was easy to see. The Old Man collapsed in 2003. People laid flowers on the site.

We went to the beach, mostly on Sundays. My mother packed great lunches, with sandwiches, chips and treats. The Tartan cooler held bug juice. At first I could hear the ice cubes clink on the sides of the cooler then as the day got older, it was just a splashing sound. By the end of the day the bug juice was warm, the remaining sandwiches had sand in each bite and the Oreos were only a memory. It was a great beach day.

Yesterday it rained, at times a heavy rain. Accompanying the rain was a cool breeze, a northern breeze. I shut the window behind me and put on a flannel top. The dogs stayed cozy on the couch, one on each side of me. They didn’t go out in the rain.

My coughing is less frequent than it has been but is still fierce at times. It sounds like a car motor which doesn’t turn over but comes close. My morning voice is raspy, a Robert F. Kennedy Jr. voice. It gets better during the day but is raspy again at night. I still limp, but the walker helps get me down the hall. Sitting is the best. I am getting better but slower than I want. I complain to the dogs but they don’t really care.

I seldom was sick enough to stay home from school, but, if I did, I had the luxury of staying in bed and reading. It made being sick worthwhile.

When I was a kid and got sick, my mother had remedies. She made tea and chicken soup. She sometimes gave us flat ginger ale, meant to settle stomachs, and unbuttered toast. I am not a hot tea drinker. I think it is because I associate hot tea with being sick. The flat ginger ale tasted horrible, but I had to drink it to wash down the dry toast.

My father was a Vicks man. It was his panacea. He even had a sweatshirt he wore every time he slathered his chest. I hated the smell. He also loved Bengay. He had a bad back and always asked for help, for someone to put it on his back. I’d do it for him. I actually liked the smell of Bengay.

My friend brought groceries yestetday including a chicken pot pie. She keeps track of me to make sure I’m okay. Another friend picked up my medication and dropped it off with a chocolate bar to brighten my day. My friend Elaine filled my fridge this morning with homemade goodies, stew and pasta. John came and got my trash. Friends write to me on Facebook asking if I need anything. My sisters call. My friend Peg calls. I have a village.