Keep the Coffee Comimg

Today is a delight. The humidity is gone, waiting in the wings until Monday, and it is only 74˚, the high for the day. I haven’t any need to go out, but I will just to savor the day.

I woke up early because of the lawn mower. The grass was getting cut, and the deck was being blown clean just outside my bedroom window. The dogs wanted out so I went downstairs, let them out and waited for Henry to come back to the door. I let him in and went back to bed. Nala joined me. I slept two more hours. Henry went out while I was sleeping. He was still outside waiting at the door for me when I went downstairs. The poor boy!

The flowers, the clematis, covering the fence in the front yard have begun to bloom. This morning I stood to admire the white blossoms when I heard a buzzing sound. Strangely enough an Emily Dickinson poem jumped into my head. I heard a Fly buzz is the title of the poem, a title drawn from the first line of her poem as Emily didn’t title anything. Okay, back on topic, sorry for the tangent, enough with the random trivia. Anyway, the buzzing was from bees, not flies. The flowers draw bees. When all of the flowers have bloomed and covered the fence, I avoid the fence and gate because bees are everywhere though a couple of times I did risk my life and go through gate as sort of a self dare. The bees buzzed louder and a few took to flight. I ran to the house, got inside and exhaled deeply, happy I was safe.

When I was a kid, I would have roamed all day on a day like today. I’d have wrestled my bike from the cellar, made a lunch and been gone. My route changed from Saturday to Saturday, and I’d hit all my favorite spots. At the golf course, I’d hunt for errant balls, the victims of slices and hooks. I usually found one or two. I liked to stop at the train station in the next town over. I’d often sit on a bench, eat my lunch and hope to see a train. Sometimes I did. After lunch, I’d choose the rest of my route and explore.

I usually lasted until late afternoon before I headed home.

Today is pretty but already hot. It is 86˚ and humid. I’m not going anywhere. I doubt I’ll even get dressed. Today is a good day to stay in the cool house and maybe read or watch a movie. I have cheese, and I have crackers. I have ice cream. I’m content.

Both dogs came back inside panting heavily. It took a while for Nala to settle down for her morning nap. Henry is barking. It could be because a car went by, a walker walked by, my neighbor checked his yard or someone slammed a car door. Henry is the dog that cries wolf.

Both dogs have well dog visits together later in September. Henry needs a variety of shots. Nala needs to be seen. I have all her vet records to give them. I hope having Nala in the car with him will help Henry enjoy the ride more.

I have jumped into the plot of Charlotte’s Web. I know where all the baby spiders are, my house. They are threading their webs from plant to plant on the windowsills and on chairs leg to leg. The webs are small as are the spiders. They haven’t woven me a message yet, but I keep looking.

I have become a vampire. The nurse called from the doctor’s office to give me the results of my pre-physical blood tests, but I already knew. She said my vitamin D is in the dumps, a medical term I hadn’t heard used before in quite the same way. I am now taking a heavy regimen of vitamin D. I suppose I could sit in the sun for a while, but it is just too hot.

When I was a kid, I had two pairs of shoes, school shoes and play shoes. The school shoes doubled as church shoes. I never wore my school shoes outside when I played. I had ingrained in me that school shoes and playtime should never meet. I always changed out of school clothes as soon as I got home.

I have winter shoes and summer shoes, a pair of each. I have many more shoes than that, but I don’t wear them much. Mostly I still wear my wool clogs thus mixing summer and winter, but their future is bleak. My big toe has pushed through. Where’s the duct tape?

Today is hot. The temperature is 89˚, but the humidity makes it feel ever hotter, closer to 97˚. Earlier, I had to bring a box to the trunk anticipating a dump run later. The box was so heavy I had to turn it end to end to get it to the car. I have yet to develop a strategy to lift it into the car.

Having run out of excuses to delay the inevitable, I am going to wash the kitchen floor today. I have one appointment after which I’m free to don my house dress, grab the bucket and mop and wash and clean. I’ll sing a happy tune. No I won’t. There’s nothing happy about it, and I have no bluebirds.

Yesterday I cleaned the yard. Nala had stolen the newspapers while they were still in the plastic sleeve so I went to retrieve them. The Globe was spread out page after page. The Cape Times was intact but had teeth marks. Happily, I was able to reassemble the Globe to read it. This morning I watched her steal crumbled brown packing paper from the recycle bag. I let her have it. Chasing her would have been a lost cause. I’ll clean it up later.

When I was a kid, I loved this time of year. It was still warm, even hot, in the mornings for my walk to school. I remember Pomeworth Street, the long street I walked from top to bottom on my way to school. It had wonderfully big, old houses close to the sidewalks. Some had porches. All had yards. I walked over the tracks and by the train manager’s house. I loved those tracks. I had walked them many times but one thing bothered me. I didn’t know where the other end went. We never walked that far. I still don’t know.

I usually walked down the first sort of driveway into the school yard then into the school and my classroom where I was stuck for most of the day. At the end of school, after I’d changed out of my school clothes, I’d play outside until the street lights came on. I argued for more time using simple logic. The lights came on early because the day was shorter. I didn’t explain it as succinctly to my mother but the gist was there. My mother said no.

In September and October, my father and all the other men in the neighborhood were out every weekend, rakes in hand. I still remember the sounds of those rakes gathering and piling the leaves. I can still see my father in my mind’s eye standing by the pile holding his rake. I remember the flames from the burning piles, but I most remember the smell, the aroma, of leaves burning. Those Saturdays of the fathers raking leaves and then supervising the controlled burn were some of my favorite reasons for loving this time of year.

I’m going to end here leaving you in suspense. I said,”…some of my favorite reasons…” Are there more? Is this a serial? I’m shrugging my shoulders in response.

Some time last night it rained. The sides of the streets were still wet when I woke up. The air will be heavy with moisture today. 80˚will be the high. It was 70˚ just a little bit ago, but now is already 73˚. The heat is moving in fast.

Last night I heard a banging sound but no breaking sound so I ignored the bang. Later, on my way to the kitchen, I glanced into the living room and saw Nala chewing on a branch about three feet long. Around her were pieces of the branch she had already chewed off the big one. Henry was watching. The bang was the limb hitting the floor from the dog door. That was what amazed me. Nala had figured out how to bring a stick, a long stick, through the dog door. I threw the stick out but not far enough. I was in the kitchen when I saw the end of that branch appear through the dog door. I got to see Nala maneuver her branch through the door. She is a smart girl, annoying but smart. I wish she could learn to vacuum.

When I was a kid, my mother got a huge vacuum cleaner which was never easily moved. It caught on rugs, especially scatter rugs. The vacuum sucked up the tops and sides of the scatter rugs thus rendering itself immobile. My mother was determined to free her vacuum. She’d yank the vacuum cord while simultaneously stepping on the scatter rug until finally the vacuum was freed.

Much later, in a different house, my mother had a vacuum system installed. One of the main vacuum holes was in the living room. My mother was dog sitting Shauna, my first boxer. She decided to vacuum. Shauna hated vacuums. She always attacked mine. She’d whack it with her paws and try to eat it. My mother didn’t know. When Shauna went vacuum crazy, my mother tried to vacuum anyway. Shauna caught the vacuum cleaner. In retaliation, it ate Shauna’s tongue. My mother scrambled to turn off the machine and free Shauna’s tongue. At first, once freed, the tongue sort of just laid there. My mother checked it. The tongue appeared unharmed. Shauna was fine. My mother didn’t tell me for a long time.

Henri decided to go elsewhere and bypassed the Cape. We had wind but nothing extraordinary. We had a few minutes of rain. This morning it rained for another five minutes. Now we have a beautiful sunny day. The humidity is nearly gone. The breeze is refreshing.

I need to trash pick my yard today. When I went out on the deck, I could see evidence in the backyard of petty theft. Pieces of plastic, flattened boxes, the remnants of my bagels and some unidentifiable pieces of paper are strewn about the yard just below the deck. I brought in one pile of already collected trash and bagged it.

I vacuumed while the coffee was brewing. The rugs and floors have bits of pine branches all over. As soon as I throw one branch, Nala brings in another. I’ve given branch mess some thought. I could shut the door and eliminate access to the dog door, but Nala and Henry both go out that door. Do I really want to get up every time Nala wants out or in? Nope, the door stays accessible. I have no answer. I’m just going to have to quit complaining and keep the vacuum at hand.

Last night it was the voices of people staying next door and the sound of water falling into a pot which open my memory drawer. Nights in Ghana were never really quiet. Early on, when I went to town in the evenings, I could hear voices, the muted voices of women chatting in FraFra and selling mostly food on the sides of the street and the deep male voices coming from the tables outside the bar in the middle of town, from outside the Super Service Inn. I don’t know how well I can describe how neat these evenings were. After dark, lanterns twinkled up and down the street. Behind each lantern was a woman selling something. They’d call to entice us to stop. We often did and often bought plantain and yam chips and whatever meat concoction we’d find. We’d buy small groundnuts to have as snacks with the Cokes we bought every couple of days from the DPW, yup, the Department of Public Works. It had a small store around the corner from my school.

On school grounds, in the early mornings, I could hear sweeping sounds. Students swept the grounds and the classrooms every day. The loudest sound was tap water flowing into the empty metal buckets the students were filling for their morning baths after chores. The students’ voices were always part of the morning.

These wonderful memories come easily prompted by a sound or a smell or a feeling.

I need to trash pick my yard today. When I went out on the deck, I could see evidence in the backyard of petty theft. Pieces of plastic, flattened boxes, the remnants of my bagels and some unidentifiable pieces of paper are strewn about the yard just below the deck. I brought in one pile of already collected trash and bagged it.

I vacuumed while the coffee was brewing. The rugs and floors have bits of pine branches all over. As soon as I throw one branch, Nala brings in another. I’ve given branch mess some thought. I could shut the door and eliminate access to the dog door, but Nala and Henry both go out that door. Do I really want to get up every time Nala wants out or in. Nope, the door stays accessible. I have no answer. I’m just going to have to quit complaining and keep the vacuum at hand.

I have no energy left today. I emptied baskets and bags and put them in the car and hauled in a package from Chewy, 24 cans of dog food. That was more than enough exertion for today, that one box. I’m taking a shower later and then I’m headed to Hyannis for my uke concert. It’s Beatles Night. “I wanna hold your hand.”

The hurricane wasn’t, at least yet. Henri veered west. We got a bit of rain, and we have strong winds but nothing like what was predicted. I woke up early, and I saw sun and blue sky. I went back to sleep, and when I next woke, it was cloudy and windy. The humidity is stifling. We are still under a tropical storm warning though the sun has returned.

I’m staying close to hearth and home today. I have no reason to be out, no need to go anywhere, and I lack ambition. Getting dressed seems more like a chore. I don’t have a list for today. I figured I’d wing it. The only given is vacuuming the hall, den and kitchen, all part of the straight-away to the back door. Balls of dust and fur fly into the air when I walk to the kitchen even though I vacuumed twice yesterday. Today I found small lengths of a thick twig bitten off and left in the hall. Nala is a digger and a chewer. She loves bringing in small branches and gnawing them into pieces. Nala is a bad influence on Henry. I just took a bit of branch out of his mouth. He wasn’t happy. I might suggest he play with any of the toys strewn around the house or with Nala. She is always good for a bit of fun, a bit of chasing Henry up and down the hall.

A Sunday frame of mind was firmly etched in my psyche when I was a kid. The morning was mass. It was either riding early with my dad or walking to a later mass. Dinner was always a big affair, usually around 2. They’d be a roast of some sort, often a roast beef, mashed potatoes and two vegetables, peas and asparagus for my father, fresh from the can. I’d hang around the rest of the afternoon, maybe watch a movie on TV or read in my room. Sunday was a day of rest, biblically and, in my family, actually.

Nala is napping on the couch. Henry is upstairs sleeping on my bed. The cats are asleep in their room. I am the only one awake.

The day is pretty. The sun is shining, and the sky is a lovely blue. A slight breeze barely moves the leaves. It is already hot at 84˚, today’s high. We are still under a tropical storm warning. People are moving boats out of the water. Bumper to bumper traffic waits to get over the bridges. The tourists are bailing. As for my preparations, I’m just about set. Everything is charged. The larder is full. I only need to get some canned dog food and a little more chocolate. There is never enough chocolate.

When I was a kid, the only weather that held my attention was snow. I wanted a no school day. I’d watch the snow out the picture window until bedtime and hoped it would pile up during the night, and we’d hear the no school whistle blown from the fire station. When it did, that was cause for loud celebration.

When I have gone back to Ghana, it has always been during the rainy season, the coolest time of the year, when everything is green and lush. The rain comes every day, sometimes dramatically, sometimes quietly. When I lived in Ghana, I often sat under the small metal overhang outside my front door to watch the rain. At the beginning of the rainy season, everything flooded because the ground was rock hard having gone so long without rain. Behind my house were millet fields and a family compound. Everything was brown: the grass, the fields and even the mud compound. Soon enough, though, I’d see the small green shoots in the fields. With all the rain, the millet quickly got so tall the compound almost disappeared, and I was surrounded by green.

I am carrying an opened dry dog food bag around the house. I opened it yesterday and have no place for storage so I move it from room to room to keep it safe. Right now it is in here, the den, with me. Henry just came further into the room than he has ever come, right to where the bag is. Earlier, I had forgotten to shut the bathroom door when I heard a rustling. I knew exactly what it was. Both dogs were at the feed bag. I moved it here again. Tonight is dinner and game night with friends. I’m going to have to figure out where to hide the dog food. I’m thinking irony. I’ll put it in the cats’ room. I expect both cats to stand next to the bag and razz the dogs, maybe even snack on a bit of dry dog food and wave.

The sun was out when I woke up but has since disappeared. Partly cloudy is the forecast. Right now it is fully cloudy. It is 82˚, another hot day. We are under a hurricane watch. It has been 30 years since Bob, our last landfall hurricane. The powers that be are now tracking Henri which has the potential to be an historic event for New England. It all depends on the storm’s track. Sunday could be the big day.

I have a small grocery order being delivered today. The dogs’ canned food didn’t arrive so I ordered a few cans for the meantime and some storm provisions for me: chocolate chip cookies, potato chips and more bananas which I’ll hide from Nala. Tomorrow I’ll head for the dump.

I didn’t wash my kitchen floor anticipating rain yesterday and more paw prints, but I am at a breaking point. I need, for my psychological well being, to wash the floor today. It is a disgusting mess of prints, pine needles, leaves and box pieces Nala drags in and out of the house. Her latest prize is an empty milk container.

When I was a kid, hurricane Carol hit us. I was seven. I remember it well because my sister Moe had just been born and was being kept in the hospital for which my parents were relieved. We lost electricity. We also lost the giant elm tree from across the street. It fell and covered the road with its topmost branches. My father took my brother and me out during the storm’s eye so we could see the tree. We climbed around the branches and stood on the small part of the trunk still in the ground.

I remember Hurricane Bob. It hit in August 1991 and wreaked havoc on the cape destroying houses and trees and even roads. We had no electricity for days. So many trees fell the roads were impassable, and people were stuck inside their houses. I could hear the whirr of electric saws cutting into the trunks of trees and lopping off branches from the trees on the roads and no other sounds. It was almost eerie like the soundtrack from a horror movie. Crews came from off cape to help. Nothing was open. I was glad I had provisioned. I even had plenty of charcoal and cooked up some good meals. What I didn’t have was a coffee pot safe to use over charcoal. I have one now.

The sun is out. It is the partly sunny portion of the day.

Today, a thunder storm is predicted for both day and night. The air is humid, hot at 76˚. I needed to go out again, fourth day in a row. I went out early so I get home quickly. I had to get gas first. This needing to go out is just too-too. I sometimes long for those quiet winter weeks when I traveled only 8 miles, usually to the dump and back with maybe a stop at Ring’s, my favorite grocery store and on the way home anyway.

When I was a kid, Duke, our boxer, ate everything. He’d sometimes sit under the dinner table hoping for food. He always got some. We’d sneak it to him. I remember trying to sneak him the food without bending over and giving myself away, but Duke figured out the solution on his own. He came to me, and I put my hand down, and he ate the food from my fingers. It all looked perfectly innocent. Duke and I were co-conspirators.

Yesterday, while I was out, Nala stole papers from the recycle bin and shredded a few pages of the Globe from the day before. I noticed the mess as soon as I got home. I had two bags of groceries which I put on the floor while I cleaned the paper up. I turned and found Nala with the loaf of bread in her mouth, but she couldn’t escape. The back door was still closed. I got my bread back and put it in the oven for safe keeping. I put the rest of the groceries away.

Because Nala was outside a long while yesterday afternoon, I went to check on her. She was on the deck eating my bananas. I had completely forgotten my bananas. I had put them in a wire basket and thought they were safe. When I saw a couple of untouched bananas in the yard, I ran down and managed to save the two bananas. Nala had eaten 4. I was heart-broken. No, no, not my bananas!!

I have a birthday balloon still flying in the dining room. It surprises me that Nala either hasn’t noticed or has no interest; instead, she tore apart two packages of napkins I was saving for drinks with company. I found the trashed napkins outside when I was rescuing my bananas. I also found more paper from stolen goods I hadn’t noticed were missing. That dog does not discriminate. Anything is fair game whether I am home or not, but I do feel a little silly when I’m home, and she takes off out the back door with food or papers, groceries and books or magazines. She did steal a four pound bag of dry dog food, but I caught her outside with it. I think she is in training. The big bag of dry dog food is still in the car. I have to find a hiding place.

Lately, the weather’s been the same every day: partly cloudy and partly sunny according to the forecast. I’ve always thought that forecast silly. If it is partly sunny, isn’t it then partly cloudy as well or is that too esoteric. Anyway, regardless of the sky, it is warm, verging on hot, at 79˚ which will be the high. 67˚ will be the low.

I have a leisurely day planned. I won’t get dressed until my uke practice tonight. We’re playing Beatles music which I’m finding difficult. The chords change faster than my fingers.

Right now my attention is caught between writing this and watching all the serial episodes of The Green Archer from 1940. There are so many fights, and in none of them do the combatants lose their fedoras. All of their cars are parked right in front for their getaways. My car would have been parked a few blocks away. Nobody gets hurt. They get murdered but never wounded. They survive going over cliffs, fire-bombed cars and arrows. These chapters are perfect watching today.

When I was a kid, I always hated cake and ice cream on the same plate. It was served that way at every birthday party. A spoon scoop from the flat paper plate was always complicated. It could be crumbs, melted ice cream and a bit of ice cream still unmelted at the same time. It was a jumble. It was a mess. I remember the taste and texture of the crumbs. It’s one of those weird memories.

The other day I asked someone about celebrating his birthday. He told me he doesn’t celebrate. I was horrified. I told him my philosophy: you don’t have to celebrate your age, but you must celebrate the occasion. It is a day for paper hats and paper noisemakers like the ones we had when I was a kid. They had a yellow feather near the plastic blow tube. When you blew through the tube, the horn unfurled. It was like giving somebody a raspberry. At some parties mayhem ensued, and kids chased each other blowing horns. It was always fun.