This is a delightful time of year. The days are warm, even hot, and the nights are cool. It is almost its own season, the last hurrah of summer. In the early mornings the air has a chill leftover from the night before, but then the sun rises and warms the day, summer reappears.

I am a noisy person when I’m in pain. I walk, sort of walk, down the hall to the kitchen and moan with each step. Henry stays out of the way. Nala follows me closely, stops when I stop then follows me again. She was so close behind me this morning she walked on the back end of my sandal.

I am late again today. I have been couch sitting and drifting off for the tiniest of naps, minutes of naps. I didn’t get coffee. The hall is an obstacle, but I’m going to take a bit of a break here and be brave. I am going to face the hall, to tackle the demon. Coffee is the best incentive.

Years ago I was riding on a bus from Melrose to Boston. The where isn’t really important to the story, but it does help me remember. An older woman boarded the bus with a couple of friends. She was talking non-stop. She chose a front seat, one which faces another front seat so she was riding sideways. Her friends faced her. Mind you, she never stopped talking. I watched her open her purse, a huge purse, pull out a pack of cigarettes and some matches. She got a cigarette and put it her mouth, backwards into her mouth. This still did not interfere with her monologue. She lit the cigarette. She started sputtering and spitting, using her tongue to spit out tiny pieces of tobacco onto herself and the floor. The filter was in her mouth. That was the only time she didn’t talk.

I used to smoke. In Ghana I smoked Embassy Cigarettes. On most street corners cigarettes and matches were sold. I bought them by the pack though you could buy one cigarette or a couple at a time. They only sold wooden matches which fell apart in the humidity when the top of the match crumbled into little red bits.

Henry used to come in the dog door, but then he stopped for no reason as far as I know; instead, he whacks the dog door and makes a little noise to let me know he wants in. He does this over and over until I can’t stand it any more so I dutifully get up and let him in. The dog has me trained; however, things have changed. Given my current mobility issue, I don’t get up to let him into the house. I wait him out. Yesterday and today he has come in on his own. I applaud and tell him what a good boy he is. The biscuit I give him doesn’t hurt either.

Today I have assumed the mantle of a sloth. I walk in slow motion. It takes me hours, okay, a slight exaggeration here, to go up and down stairs. The hall gets further and further away as I head to the kitchen. It looks like a scene from The Shining. I even stop to rest midway. Getting out of my bed this morning took me forever, or at least it felt that way. The doctor said I have a right adductor muscle sprain which will take 3-5 weeks to heal. My nephew and my friend, both sports medicine professionals, agreed. I wasn’t surprised. The pain gives it away. Last night I moaned every time I moved in bed. The moaning woke me up, but it didn’t matter. It was only temporary. I’d find a good spot and fall back to sleep until the next moaning.

This morning I finished all the word puzzles in the paper, the jumble, the cryptoquip and the crossword puzzle. I took that as a sign. My body is falling apart but not my mind.

There sat a possum with wide opened eyes looking at me, imploring me to save him. He was just outside the deck fence sitting on a concrete post. How did I find him? Nala. She was sitting on this side of the fence wagging her stub of a tail as she watched the possum. I knew that wagging was clickbait. Nala loves running through the yard with a possum in her mouth. Her pseudo friendly gesture was meant as false reassuring. I ended it all by grabbing Nala and bringing her into the house.

Today’s weather is strange. It rained before I woke up as the deck and driveway were wet. Then the sun came out. It was lovely. Then, while I wasn’t looking, the clouds returned and the sun departed, quietly. It looked like rain. I continued writing. When next I looked, the sun was back, not a trace of a cloud remaining. Right now it is a combination as if the sun is making up her mind.

Henry won’t come in the dog door. He stands outside the door crying. He pokes his head and neck through the door to see if I am coming. He sounds so pitiful, but today I decided he can wait. I just didn’t want to walk down the hall limping and cursing. Finally he came in. I was effusive with my praise.

My plans for today and maybe the rest of the week are to do nothing, my response to medical advice. I’m not lazy. I’m healing.

The morning is cloudy and in the mid 70’s where it will stay all day. The air is a bit humid. It is the sort of day lending itself to quiet. Even the dogs feel it, and both are lying around napping on comfy spots, the couch and the bed. They are my heroes.

When I was a kid, we didn’t have our own house. We lived in one side of a duplex in the project where most of the families were young. Living there was usually a first stop, the one before house ownership. When the families moved, most of them stayed in town. It was a good town. I think we moved the furthest away. Later, when I was in Ghana, my parents and my two sisters moved back to that town. My sister still lives there. It is mostly a good town.

When we first moved to the cape, I didn’t settle right away. I kept taking the bus to spend weekends with my friends. I’d come home from school and stay in my room, hating it all. I don’t remember when that changed, when the cape became home. When I got back from Ghana, even though my parents had moved away to our old town, I went home to the cape.

We sometimes went on Sunday rides. My father took all back roads. I remember seeing a few deer eating grass in a field. I was so excited I probably scared them. I think it was the first time I had ever seen animals in the wild other than the spawns and maybe a skunk or two. In the fall, we’d stop to buy apples or pumpkins. In the summer we’d sometimes get ice cream at one of those dairy farm stands that appeared on the side of the road almost in the middle of nowhere. There were always lines.

Later, after I finish here, I’m going to go get checked. I still limp, and I still cough. I woke up coughing once last night and scared Henry. He went downstairs. He came back at some point but I didn’t notice. Mostly they stay close to me. Nala tilts her head. She is trying to figure out what is happening. I just tell her it is okay, and she wags her tail.

Today I am late again. I stayed in bed for a while as did Nala and Henry. I figured I was comfortable so I wasn’t going to move. Yup, I’m still coughing, but it is less intense. I’m still limping for reasons unknown as my leg hurts. I’m contemplating heading to the medical center tomorrow. That gives my leg one more night to heal miraculously.

The morning is again lovely. It is quiet except for the birds. When I was a kid, Saturday was the nosiest day. It was the day for lawn mowing. Back then the fathers used hand mowers, and the blades clicked as they turned. My father cut the same pattern with his mower every Saturday when he mowed the grass. Green grass and a lovely lawn were objects of pride. No yards were overgrown. That would have been frowned upon.

Most Saturdays I was out and about. I never had a plan or a direction. I made my lunch figuring I would be gone most of the day. I went by myself. My neighborhood friend wasn’t a bike rider. I was fine with that as I could just ride wherever I wanted. Sometimes I just rode around town looking at the old houses. Sometimes I’d stop at the library. I’d sit at one of the tables and read a magazine. It was a rest stop.

I got fifty cents allowance, an extravagant amount. My father always encouraged me to save it. I didn’t. A new book was only $.49 which gave me a penny to spend at the corner store. I’d hurry home, go to my room and get cozy in bed to read. My new book was often a detective story with a teen girl as the main character. My favorite was Trixie Belden with Ginny Gordon a close section. They solved mysteries. Every book had a new mystery. I never had any mysteries in my life so I was always a bit jealous of their adventures.

I haven’t been anywhere all week. I missed all of this week’s uke events. I have just been resting and complaining. I hope to attend this Monday’s last outside concert. I can’t believe it is the last. The summer has just whooshed by. Soon enough the leaves will be changing and carved pumpkins with lit candles inside will sit on the front steps. I am glad for autumn. It is my favorite season.

I apologize for not writing yesterday. I was in the middle of one my three naps, and when I woke up, it was late afternoon. This plague is still with me. When I cough, the dogs give me a weird look and tilt their heads. Added to that, walking is painful. My right leg hurts. I have no idea why. This has been the worst week.

Because I hadn’t left my house since last week, my larder was almost empty. Luckily, one of my uke friends called to see what I needed. She brought me groceries and surprises. She brought the usual bread and cream for my coffee. The surprises were the best: a cake, brownies, chicken salad, fruit, cheesecake, sliders and more. She wouldn’t take any money and said it was a late birthday present. Later, another uke buddy called to see if I needed anything. My uke friends take great care of me.

When I was a kid, I was seldom sick. I had the usual childhood ailments back then: mumps, measles and chicken pox. I might have had a cold or two. I remember the sniffles. I didn’t miss school other than a day or two here and there. I guess we were hardy kids.

In Ghana I was really healthy. I did have the scourge of traveling during training and a few times after but not often. I had an infected mosquito bite and a burn from goats running into my moto, but that was it. I was still hardy.

I had every shot imaginable so this illness is unexpected and, even worse, unknown.

My sloth has been quietly celebrating. I have done nothing. The hair ball tumbleweeds are taking over my house. If I were a character in a low budget science fiction movie, those tumbleweeds would have teeth, the ability to move and hunter-prey instinct. I would be the prey. I can see them hurrying down the hall with teeth clicking as I run screaming.

Fall is giving us a preview. Last night got down to 57°. I wore socks and a fleece wrap. I shut windows and doors. Right now it is 70° and cloudy. It will stay that way all day. Tonight will be in the 50’s again. I’m thinking we will have leaves changing early this year.

I still have a cold, mostly coughing. I seldom get a cold in the winter so this summer cold throws me a bit. It is just wrong.

My first grade teacher was Sister Redempta. She scared me. She scared most of us. Our class was huge, almost 50 of us, baby boomers. None of us dared even to whisper. We didn’t want the wrath of her look. My classroom was on the first floor, to the right of a set of stairs. We had a cloakroom and two doors into the classroom, one from the cloakroom. Banks of tall windows were on the side and the back of the room. You needed a long stick with a hook at the top to open and shut the windows. The bathrooms were down two sets of stairs from my classroom, boys to the right, girls to the left. We’d walk two by two and stand in line waiting for our turns. We ate lunch at our desks then went out for recess, weather permitting. Our comings and goings were ruled by a bell, a hand rung bell. An eight grader would ring the bell over the bannister from the top floor so we all could hear. I still have my report card from the first grade. Every subject was satisfactory.

I have scattered memories of the different grades I traveled through in elementary school, but my first grade memories are still the brightest in my memories drawers. My life had irrevocably changed. My days were now regimented. My time was no longer mine from Monday to Friday. I had to wear a uniform. I had to raise my hand to speak and to have permission to go to the bathroom. I was good at following rules, but I also was good at breaking the rules without being caught. I had learned the system.

What a delightful morning! It is 67° with a strong breeze. I can hear the leaves brushing against each other as their branches sway. The sky is a Crayola blue, cornflower. The sun is warm. It is a day to enjoy, to embrace.

Today is a day for the senses, for sounds and smells and sights. That’s a bit of alliteration to start your morning.

A crowing rooster is a favorite sound of mine. The first time I heard one in real life was in Ghana. He crowed from my backyard. I listened then fell back to sleep. After that, I listened for him every early morning. When I returned to Ghana forty years later, a rooster crowed outside my hotel window. I smiled at the familiar sound. He made me feel at home.

During my live-in with a Ghanaian family, a part of my Peace Corps training, my room was off the balcony. Below the balcony was a small mosque. Just before sunrise, the muezzin sang the Fajr, the call to prayer. It was beautiful. I didn’t know what it was so I asked. My sister explained. After that, I sort of woke up when the prayer was sung. I listened then went back to sleep. Where I lived in Ghana had no mosque close. I missed the sound. The next time I heard a call to prayer was in Marrakech. I was sitting on the roof of my riad when I heard the call. I could see the minaret from my roof. All the memories came back.

The sunsets and the sunrises are often riots of color of reds and purples, oranges and pink. The colors are reflected on the trees, and the branches are silhouettes against the sky. The colors of fall here in New England are vibrant. The leaves turn red and yellow and orange. The maple trees turn such a vibrant blaze of red that I always stop to look. I am amazed, every year, every autumn.

The smells of evergreen and of cookies baking are Christmas to me. The smell of turkey roasting is Thanksgiving and Christmas, fancy dinners to celebrate the days. The smell of wood charcoal burning is Ghana. Every morning fires were lit to cook breakfast, mine included. I could smell the sweetness of the burning wood. When I bought a charcoal grill, I always used wood charcoal, never briquettes.

I have the beginnings of a summer cold. I skipped today’s afternoon concert and am waiting before I decide whether or not to go the 5:30 concert. Tomorrow we have a barbecue before practice, and I’d like to feel good to go.

I started with alliteration and am ending with an oxymoron, summer cold.

The lovely mornings continue. Today is bright, sunny. We have a breeze, a strong breeze. I can hear the chimes from my backyard. I can feel the breeze from the back door. According to the weather, we can expect light rain. That seems improbable given the sun and blue sky.

I was born in the wee hours of the morning. My father, never a patient man, left the hospital a few times before I was born to go to my grandparent’s house in the same town as the hospital to give updates. That infuriate my aunt. She was getting married that day and needed her sleep so she told my father not to come back. He did anyway. He was pacing in the hospital waiting room when the nurse came in to tell him I had been born. He said she ask for Mr. Ryan. Given that he was the only one in the waiting room, he got a bit exasperated. When he first saw me, my mother and I were just being wheeled out of the operating room. He kept asking her if it was a boy or girl. My mother remembers wearing her wedding corsage on her robe when she was still in the hospital. My aunt never liked we shared the day especially when I reminded her I was born before she got married so it was more my day than hers.

I used to wonder how it felt to be old. I can now attest I feel no different than I did when I was young. The surprise comes when I look in the mirror and see an old woman with a wrinkled face. I know. I know. Old is relative. I always hear that from old people. It is supposed to be comforting.

My sister sent money and said I was not to use it to pay bills so I’ll treat myself to Chinese food. It has been a long while since I last had it. I’m thinking jumbo shrimp for one appetizer and maybe crab Rangoon. Lo mein is always a good choice. I can almost taste it now. I always use the hot mustard. I remember my father used to put so much mustard on his Chinese food his eyes watered and his nose ran. Luckily he always had a handkerchief at hand. I don’t use as much, just enough for watery eyes!

Today I celebrate!