Yesterday it rained then it stopped then it started again. The rain was so soft I wasn’t sure at first and had to lower the TV to hear it. It was the same this morning. It is not a pretty day. It is a muggy, damp and cloudy day.

We had the entire encyclopedia with the maroon covers when I was a kid. My mother bought a volume a week from the grocery store. I used to pick one book at random, open it and read wherever I landed. I used the books for research for school. I used to mix up the words so my papers wouldn’t seem copied. The grocery store was also where my mother got her dishes, her melmac dishes, the ones decorated with what looked like wheat sheaves, the ones which were indestructible. She used to buy the pieces of the week. My mother also collected green stamps. One of us would lick the backs and place the stamps on the booklet pages. When my mother had enough booklets, she’d go to the green stamp store to redeem them after deciding her sort of prize. The other day I was driving home from a concert in Hyannis. At a red light, while I was idling, my memory drawer opened. The green stamp redemption center had been right beside the road where I was. I could see it in my mind’s eye. A laundromat is there now.

When I moved into my house, I had almost nothing. My aunt gave me a set of pots and a frying pan as a housewarming gift. The outside of the pots was green. I still have one of those pots. I don’t use it anymore. I think of it as a relic of the earliest days of a nearly empty house devoid even of furniture and treat it reverently. When I had the phones installed, the phone man said I seem to be living almost primitively.

This is a slower week for me. I have empty days. I’ll never complain about that.

The weather is ugly. It is dark and damp. Off and on rain is predicted. My concert has been cancelled. The weather is too iffy and too chilly. That gives me another sloth day, my second in a row.

I was born the same day my aunt, my mother’s older sister, was having her wedding. The hospital was in the town where my grandparents and my aunt lived, the same grandparents who would move to East Boston. My father went back and forth from the hospital to their house to give updates and to have coffee. My aunt complained constantly. He was ruining her big day as she needed sleep so my father ended up sitting alone in the maternity waiting room. When the nurse came in and asked if Mr. Ryan would identify himself, my father yelled about being the only one there and who did she think he was. She announced my birth. My father ran to the hall and saw my mother and me just after I had been born. That was my entry into the world.

From this side of my eyes, I feel young. I also feel lucky at having lived an interesting life. When I was growing up, I had hopes, expectations. The last thing I wanted to be was average, part of the crowd, one of many walking in the same direction. I wanted to follow my hopes and experience the world in different ways than anyone I knew. When I was ten, I made an album of my travels. That I hadn’t been anywhere didn’t matter. I cut out pictures from magazines and travel pamphlets. I described where I’d been and what I’d seen. I even had pictures of airplanes taking me to exotic places. I showed the hotel rooms where I’d stayed. I wrote a travel log on each page. I wasn’t dreaming. I was predicting.

The two years I spent in the Peace Corps in Ghana were the two most important years of my life. Even though I was leaving behind everything and everyone I knew, I was excited to go, but at first I was homesick, unhappy being so far away from home. I didn’t expect that, but I held on, and by Christmas of my first year, Ghana had become my home, my safe place, my cherished place. I was fulfilling the hopes of that ten year old who glued pictures of her travels in her scrapbook.

The afternoon is cloudy and sunny and cloudy again. It is a warm 77°. It is a quiet Sunday. I have no plans for today except to do a few things around the house. I did vacuum downstairs yesterday, but I just noticed the Henry hair is again joining forces in the hall. It is making a concerted effort to drive me crazy.

When I was a kid, I always went to mass on Sunday. Most times I went without my parents. My father ushered at the early mass while my mother stayed home with my sisters. I was never devout. I did the sit, reluctantly kneel down and stand up parts of the service. Enthusiasm wasn’t demanded, only attendance. Sometimes I smuggled in a book. I’d hide it the hymn book and read. I sat in the corners or at the back as far as I could get so no one would notice. I’d stand if the pews were filled , but I couldn’t read my book if I stood in the back. I could read the free pamphlets in the rack on the back wall. Sin and repentance were big topics. I was usually among the first, if not the first, to run up the stairs and out.

Because of my travels, I have a well developed palate. The first thing I learned was not to ask what I was eating. My first unknown meal was in Ghana. Dinner was served in a wide bowl. In it was a lump of something gelatinous surrounded by soup and a bony piece of meat. The dinner was just about the same every night, only the soup changed. Curiosity finally overcame my reluctance, and I asked what I was eating. The gelatinous lump was T-Zed, Tuo Zaafi, the main food in northern Ghana. It was made with water and corn and cassava flour then stirred while boiling. It was not meant to be chewed but just swallowed. I didn’t like it first. I thought it tasteless, but I liked the soup. The meat was goat. Okra soup was my favorite though groundnut stew wasn’t far behind. I didn’t even know okra existed before Ghana. Groundnut stew was peanut stew. It was made with thick groundnut butter, peanut butter to us. I used to add peanut oil to it so I’d have a spreadable peanut butter. I ate other strange foods, but I didn’t care what it was. The best chicken broth came from boiling the head and feet of a chicken. They looked disgusting cooking in the roiling water. I tried them, sort of chewed the toes and head. I didn’t like either.

I ate my first curry in Ghana and my first Indian food. I ate Lebanese food like hummus and tabbouleh with pita bread. I stopped asking what I was eating. I stopped caring. I went by taste, not origin. It was the same after Ghana, everywhere I traveled. I remember eating sketchy meat and more unknown lumps. Some of it tasted good, some didn’t, but I didn’t mind. The tasting is always a piece of the journey.

We have been gifted with another lovely morning. It is wear your sunglasses bright with a little breeze from the south keeping the air cool. It is in the low 70’s. The dogs just settled down to take their morning naps. I am getting my second cup of coffee and a couple of pieces of toast. All is well.

My days are pretty much the same, but I delight in each day. I wake up whenever. I get the paper and start reading while the coffee brews. The coffee is always delicious. The toast is perfectly browned and covered with fig jam. I usually finish all three of the word games and puzzles in the paper. I read the comics then start to write Coffee. It takes a while. My muse is not always available, and sometimes I can’t find the right music. This morning the cable went off for a while, but I didn’t even grouse. I just made more coffee. I could wait. I had all day. It came back on after a bit so here I am again.

I loved the sound of the roosters greeting the morning in Ghana. It was the perfect way to start another day in Africa. Goats and sheep wandered freely. At night they slept in the middle of the road. This time of year it rained every day. The fields were green. The millet was high. The market tables were filled with onions, tomatoes and tuber yams, piles of oranges, mangoes, bananas and pineapples. The aunties, the vegetable and fruit sellers, called out to me as I walked by them, but I had my favorite vegetable lady where I always stopped. I went to the egg market. The men sold eggs. They always held the eggs to the light so I could choose the fresh ones. I would smile and buy the eggs, but, in truth, I never saw the shadow of the fresh eggs, but they knew I would never return if the eggs were bad. I wandered up and down the lines of hens looking for a plumb one for dinner. I went to the meat market. I had become inured to the smells, to the dirty aprons of the sellers and to meat just sitting there. I checked out the piles of cloth looking for material for a new dress. I wandered all over. I was a familiar sight, the white lady who taught at the school.

I have a concert tonight.

The weather has shifted the last few days from the heat of last week to cooler days and nights, but that will probably change as August still has a way to go before it gives way to September. Last night was perfect for sleeping at 70° despite two big dogs who don’t respect personal space beside me on the bed.

The morning is quiet and still. It is also quite lovely with a breeze and dappled sunlight shining on the leaves of the oak trees. It is only 73°. I’m in the den, my everything room. It is dark here. The sun moves around the house from front to back. The den is in the back.

Today I need to vacuum the tumbleweeds from the hall and living room. They jump and whirl in the air when I walk by them. They are composed of Henry fur. When I scratch him, white fur piles on his back. I’d brush him, but he is Henry who has a quirky personality, and I know he’d find brushing a personal offense.

When I was a kid, summer seemed endless. I was up and out early. I didn’t want to waste any part of the day. I’d be at the playground for most of the day or exploring on my bike. I remember one ride had me ending up on a main road two towns over. It was a new spot, but I had a sense of where I needed to go to get home. The obstacle was the traffic. I had to move my bike across two lanes of cars so I grabbed the handlebars and ran. I was greeted by not so friendly horns. I think I held my breath until I reached the sidewalk on the other side. When I got home, my mother asked about my day. I didn’t tell her about the traffic and the horns. I told her I had just ridden around which was enough of the truth.

My mother taught me how to tie my sneakers. I remember she was sitting on the living room chair, and I was kneeling beside the arm of the chair. She held the sneaker and slowly showed me how to manipulate the laces to make the bow. I watched a couple of times then she had me try. My first few attempts were unsuccessful. I couldn’t get the looping around and through to make the second part of the bow. I got frustrated and wanted to send my sneaker airborne, but my mother patiently showed me again even slower than before. I finally got it, but I had created the loosest bow known to the civilized world. After a while I did get better at tighter bows. My sneakers eventually stayed on my feet.

My dance card has a concert tonight from 7-9 on Main Street in Hyannis and another tomorrow from 6:30-7:30 in Sandwich. The weather should be perfect.

I am behind my time this morning. Nala was crying so I got up, went downstairs and let her out. I decided I was still tired so I went back to bed. When I finally dragged myself out of bed, I took my time, finished all the puzzles in the paper, made a pot of coffee and read my e-mail. This is the only day of the week I have an empty dance card so the sloth in me is strong.

The weather is a delight. It rained early this morning, in the wee hours. Last night was perfect for sleeping. Right now it is 78°, breezy and alternatively sunny and cloudy. It might rain.

My mother would have been 99 today. I thought of her as soon as I woke up. She was amazing. She was thoughtful and she was funny. I can’t recall the exact number of Boggle games we played, but I swear it had to be in the thousands. We’d sit at her kitchen table for hours. She gave our lives her special touch. I still miss her every day.

I have this gift. When I close my eyes, I can see places, routes, even the number of stop lights. One trip I loved was to East Boston to visit my grandparents. There was so much to see, so much I still remember. Part of the trip was on Route 1 through Saugus. My head swiveled from side to side so I wouldn’t miss a thing. Just before we got on the highway, there was a private pond for fishing. I remember the trespass warnings on the gate. A store right at the exit sold wedding gowns. I always checked the store window. Another store sold German sausages. It sold other things, but I only remember the sign for the sausages. A giant dinosaur stood at the miniature golf course. Adventure Car Hop, the restaurant Woo Woo Ginsberg on WMEX on his Night Train Show touted, was at the rotary. I always wanted for us to stop but we never did. The St. Anthony of Padua church was the biggest church I had ever seen. Its back faced the road. I remember oil tankers tied up at piers. The smell of the oil permeated the air. The last thing was the hill. A project with brick buildings was below that hill. On top of it was where the giant statue of Madonna Queen of the Universe Shrine stood. My grandparent’s house was just a few streets beyond that hill. I remember cars filled the parking spaces along the roadsides. My father used to drop us off then he’d hunt for a place to park.

So many other routes stick in my memory drawers. One vibrant memory is the walk from my school in Bolga to town. I see it perfectly. That is the most wonderful gift of memory.

Last night we had a lovely breeze for the concert, and that cool air hung around for a while, but today is going to be hot and humid again. For a change, though, I’ll be happy to abide today’s temperature and grouse less as starting tomorrow it should stay in the 70’s for a bit.

I remember exactly how my dream, my hope, maybe even my expectation, of seeing the world started. I remember being eleven and thinking my geography book was a travel brochure. That was around the same time I caught Barrett’s disease. Its main symptom is travel envy. My classmate, whose last name was Barrett, used to go to England to visit family. I was jealous of him. It was then I vowed to travel far and wide.

On my first morning in Ghana, I saw palm trees. They were exotic and proof I was somewhere I had only imagined. I had jumped into my geography book. I had jumped into Africa.

My longest trip was through South America. I was gone all summer. I landed in Caracas and seven weeks later I left from Rio for home. I didn’t know anyone who had gone there. I just decided that’s where I would go. Maybe Juan Valdez had a piece of that. I planned the trip and traveled with a friend. We saw amazing things. We took a bus from Caracas and traveled all day with a stop for lunch in the mountains. I had mountain trout. We arrived at night to Mérida, Venezuela, one of the main cities of the Venezuelan Andes. The mountains would stay with us most of the trip.

I remember in Bogota we went to the Gold Museum. We were in a vault. The door was closed. The lights were out. When they turned on the lights, we were surrounded by glass cases filled with gold. I think every person Oohed at the same time.

One of my favorite memories is of when we were traveling in Ecuador on what was basically a school bus painted green. We were the only foreigners on it. No one spoke English. We were stopped before the border. The guards wanted our passports. We were in the back of the bus. The other passengers took our passports and hand over hand passed them to the front of the bus and back again. No one spoke to us. They pointed.

We traveled before South America became a destination. During that whole trip we met only one other American. Even at Machu Picchu there were no crowds. We took a three day boat trip down the Paraná River from Asuncion Paraguay to Buenos Aires. We booked the day the boat left. There was plenty of room. For the other passengers it was a round trip. Only one other person on the boat spoke English, and they courteously put us at her table for meals.

I have memories of that trip as big as the mountains and as small as cuy, the Ecuadorian Guinea pig.

We’re still stuck in the mid 80’s, but the day is hazy, cloudy. The breeze is strong at times. I feel subdued. My muse is napping on the couch oblivious to my pleas for help, for inspiration. Last week I mostly stayed home. My most exciting trip was to the dump. How sad!

Henry came in the dog door twice yesterday. He stuck his head in the door, checked around, made some noises, then decided to go it alone. The key, I’ve found, is to wait him out, but I usually give in first as he sounds so plaintive, even abandoned. He knows how to work me.

My mother taught me how to play jacks. I used to get a set of them in my Easter basket and my Christmas stocking. We’d sit on the floor and play. We used to keep track of where we were by calling the steps onesie, twosies, threesies and on from there to tensies. The key was in how you threw the jacks: the higher numbered the turn, the closer the jacks needed to be to each other. I remember the next rounds added different steps. One was clicking the jacks after you picked them up.

We were a game family. Every Christmas we always got new games. We always played both board and card games. My parents taught my brother and me whist when we were young. We had girls’ versus boys’ tournaments. We girls usually won. My favorite game was Sorry. Nothing was better than sending an opponent’s man back to start. We were never sorry. I have the game Go to the Head of the Class, the exact one we used. The board has rows of desks and the desks have colors indicating the type of questions. You move up the board to the head of the class when you answer questions correctly. The questions are different levels of difficulty so we could play with my parents. I loved the names of the pieces like Cowboy Joe, Dimples, Butch and Buttercup. My parents always used the Mommy and Daddy pieces.

The Christmas boxes my mother sent me when I was in Ghana always had a game or two in them. We played Password so many times we knew all the words on all the cards. We competed in paddle ball every night after dinner. You know the one, the wooden paddle with the red rubber ball on an elastic. We were devastated when the elastic broke. We played word games with pen and paper. We entertained ourselves.

The day is a pretty one again, but it is also a hot one again. We are in the mid to high 80’s every day. The dogs pant. Their morning naps are now on the cool tile of the kitchen floor, quite the change for my couch dogs. Despite the heat I did go to the dump yesterday. That means today I can loll. I have become quite adept at lolling.

I lived in a hot country. It was especially hot during the dry season, but I abided the heat. It was expected. Here, I grouse when it is this hot. I even grouse out loud though there is no one to hear me. The weather report predicts this same weather will hang around all week. I’ll get even more dramatic. I’ll swoon on the couch overcome by the vapors.

When I was a kid, I lived in a dark house. My mother pulled down every shade to keep the sun at bay. My sisters ran through the sprinkler. They laid out towels on the lawn as if they were at the pool or the beach. The sprinkler water was cold so they screamed and laughed. I sometimes went to the pool, but it was at the other end of town. I always got hot walking home. Sleeping was difficult. The upstairs never cooled down. I tossed and turned before I finally fell sleep. It took a while.

Every now and then I’d sleep outside with my friend in her backyard. It had a fence on the backside of the grass separating it from the big, white house on the street behind it, on Green Street. Close to the fence on the other side were pear trees. We’d eat the fallen pears. They were always hard. We’d put my father’s old, stiff tarp on the grass and sleep on top of it. I’d bring my sheet and pillow. I remember lying on my back looking at the sky filled with stars. They brightened the night. They cut through the darkness. Their light made shadows on the grass. I could see the old man in the moon. He was always smiling. Those were magical nights.

Today is a scorcher. Already it is 85°. The air is thick, humid. A thunder storm is predicted for this afternoon, but the sun and blue sky seem to belie the prediction. Every now and then a breeze strong enough to flutter the leaves and sway small branches gives a bit of relief. The dogs are stretched out, sleeping on the kitchen floor, the coolest spot in the house. I am in the den, the coolest spot not on the floor.

I will do my dump run this afternoon. The trash bags are in front waiting to be loaded into the trunk. I also need to water my house plants. I figure those chores are enough for today.

I have strange pictures in my memory drawers. They are single moments which have stayed with me. I don’t know why those specific memories are still fresh, recallable, but there they are. I remember riding a bus into Boston. In the front seats facing each other were two old ladies. They were dressed like my grandmother. They chatted with each other from the moment they sat down. I watched one woman take out a cigarette, light it and hold it between her fingers. She wasn’t paying attention. She put the lit end into her mouth. She sputtered and spit. I remember watching a woman who worked at Hank’s Bakery putting a pastry box together, filling it with cupcakes and then tying it closed almost in one motion. The string was red and white. I remember walking home through the square by the fire station. The firemen, not fire fighters back then, sat in wooden chairs outside the bays in front of the trucks. They wore blue.

Some of my travel moments are etched into my memories. I remember standing on the equator straddling the line between the hemispheres. I remember in Caracas going to buy a ticket to Merida. The building was huge with kiosks lined up on the sides and in the middle. I can still see the sea of booths. I was amazed I found the right ticket booth and later the right bus. In Columbia I toured the factory where salt was extracted from salt stones. I was chewing gum which disintegrated in my mouth and tasted awful from the salt permeating the air. I spit the remnants into my hand. On my first visit to a market in Ghana, I remember the table right beside the entrance. Round black balls were in piles on that table. I asked, goat dung was the answer. I threw up.

When I was young, probably 8 or 9, we went to Vermont for vacation. The house was huge, painted white and had a wrap around porch. A lake was across the street from the house. It was shallow for a bit then there was huge drop and the water was deep. My father would have me hold on to his shoulders, and he’d dive. I remember seeing fish.

I have flown. I was on my bike on the hill by my house. I swear my bike tires left the ground, and I was airborne.