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.

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.