The morning is cold, sweatshirt weather. It has been, as my mother would say, spitting rain. I’ve lost track of the number of ugly days in a row. The sun is a fading memory. I am becoming the little girl in Bradbury’s All Summer In a Day.

If my 77 almost 78 year old self surprised my ten year old self, I wondered what questions I’d ask the so much older me. I decided that was a neat idea so I gave it some thought and came up with a few questions.

Has my life been happy? Has it been fun? Have my dreams come true? I think those are the most important questions of all. My answers would delight the young me. Have I ever traveled? Oh, the stories I would tell about the places I’ve been, the most amazing things I’ve seen and the people I’ve met. I’d let it slip that I actually lived in Africa and rode a camel in the Sahara. The young me would be in awe and listen with the widest grin on my face. What did I grow up to do? I’d talk about the job I was lucky enough to choose, the job I loved. It was seldom work. What did I like to do? They’d be no surprise that I love to read and watch old black and white science fiction movies probably still current back then. I love to cook, and that is a surprise. I do needlework, and that’s even a bigger surprise. The young me never gave thought I’d love what are sort of, to me, old womanly activities, tasks. I’d talk about playing the ukulele. Back then I didn’t believe I had a musical bone in my body. I sang so badly off tune it even hurt my ears.

After the questions were asked and answered, I’d use a sort of Neuralyzer to wipe away the memories of my visit. I wouldn’t want to influence the young me. I’d want my life to follow its natural course.

Today will have some light rain. The morning is chilly. It will be in the low 60’s during the day and the 50’s tonight. The sun has disappeared. Usually it hides all weekend but reappears on Monday, but today, I think the sun is lost.

When I was a kid, I never gave much thought to the future beyond the day or maybe even the next day. I counted the days before Christmas, but that was special. When my aunt the nun asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I made up an answer. I didn’t even know what I wanted to do on the next Saturday let alone some ambiguous future. Give me a break. I was nine.

The first time I even thought about the future was when I vowed to travel. That was when I contracted Barrett’s disease. My classmate Marty Barrett had been to England to visit his grandmother, and I was jealous. I used to go to East Boston to see mine. I had always pored over the pictures in my geography book and dreamed about traveling, about visiting far off places. The only relatives that ever traveled did so compliments of Uncle Sam. They were in the service. That included my father who, during World War II, had been to England, Belgium and the Netherlands. Canada was my first foreign country but, in my mind, it didn’t count. It felt unforeign, a perfect new word. I’d have to wait for Ghana for my next country which was about as foreign as I ever could have imagined.

Some places I have visited filled me with wonder and awe. Standing on the equator was one of them. I was in two hemispheres at the same time, one foot in each. Machu Picchu was another. I remember looking out one window and thinking that so very long ago an Incan looked out that same window and saw what I was seeing. Flying over the Andes and seeing the shadow of the plane on the mountain tops was like a scene from an adventure movie. It would have fit perfectly into Raiders of the Lost Ark. I remember thinking how craggy the tops of the mountains were.

I live in Massachusetts which has always felt old in a good way, but then I found out what old can actually be. The first trip I took after Ghana was to Europe, England first. Being there made me feel like I was in a history book. I walked in and around Stonehenge, visited all the tourist places in London, ate all sorts of interesting food, saw plays and traveled in the countryside. Nothing disappointed me.

It has been a while since I last traveled. I just haven’t been able to afford a trip, but I am starting to scrimp and save as in two years I want back to Ghana. I will be 80. It will be a present to myself.

Yesterday it rained; of course, it rained. Yesterday was the weekend, and it always rains on the weekends. This morning was sunny when I woke up. That didn’t last long. The clouds are back.

This car is smaller than my last car, the difference in size between a Corolla and a Camry. I’m not used to it yet. Yesterday I opened the back door to unload laundry and whacked myself hard in the face with the door. A bump between my eyebrows appeared almost immediately, and above my left eyebrow swelled. Luckily it hasn’t black and blued as I’d need a cover story to explain the injury rather than the real story, the door story. I think I need a keeper.

When I was a kid, going to mass on Sunday was more of an inconvenience than an act of faith. In the upstairs of my church, I’d try for the back pew. It was a corner pew for one person. It didn’t have a kneeler. It was the best pew for an early escape.

In the summer, the early masses were so full there was an overflow. People stood in the back by the doors and even outside. I remember sitting on the stairs with my back to the doors. I chatted a bit. It was more of a lark than a rite. Downstairs was much smaller than upstairs and filled fast mostly because there was no sermon. I loved standing in the back. There were books and pamphlets. I usually read a few.

In Ghana, my school always had a Sunday service. It was in the dining hall. The tables were moved, and the chairs were in rows. The sermon giver was from one of the churches in town. They alternated. I remember when my principal asked me to give the sermon. I wanted to say no but no one said no to her. I spent hours trying to figure out what to say. I ended up using Aesop fables. I had to use fables to which my students could find a connection, and, for a couple, I changed the animals to those found in Africa. The Ant and the Grasshopper, The Boy Who Cried Wolf and the Tortoise and the Hare were my choices. The wolf became a lion and the hare a bush rat.

My principal never asked me again. I think she was shocked.

The morning is dark, damp and cloudy. The usual weekend rain is predicted for tonight. I have errands today. If this were summer, I’d never leave the house. Tourists fill the roads on ugly days.

Saturday has always been my favorite day of the week. When I was a kid, Saturday mornings started with TV and Rice Krispies. I’d sit on the rug too close to the TV for my mother’s comfort and eat my cereal. I had favorite shows. I remember Andy’s Gang with Andy Devine. I knew Andy Devine because he had been Jingles, Wild Bill Hickok’s buddy, “Wild Bill, wait for me.” I remember Froggy, a sort of evil magic frog, “Plunk your magic twanger, Froggy.” He’d appear in a cloud of smoke. I was enchanted. Midnight was the black cat, of course he was. I think my love for science fiction made Captain Midnight a favorite. He had a sidekick whose name was Mudd with 2 d’s. The sponsor was Ovaltine. I used to beg my mother to buy Ovaltine so I could send away a box top for a decoder. I never got one. Sky King was an original. He was a rancher who spent more time in his plane, the Songbird, than on his horse.

The rest of Saturday was an adventure day. I’d wander either by foot or on my bike. I had no set plans. I just sort of let the day happen. Saturday night was out of my control. It was the same menu every week, the same TV shows and always a bath.

As I got older, I explored less. Saturday was a fun day. During high school, my friends and I would often spend the day or the evening together. I remember playing miniature golf in the warm months and tobogganing in the cold. We bowled. I was a horrible bowler. Sometimes we went to the movies, inside or outside depending on the time of year. Saturday supper was whatever we were in the mood to eat.

Since my retirement, every day has been a Saturday without the hot dogs, beans or brown bread, and I can’t remember the last time I took a bath.

This morning feels like a summer morning. Outside is hot, but the house holds a bit of the cooler night. The rooms are dark. Out my window, I can nothing is moving in the still air. The sky is blue, and the sky is cloudy. The high today will be 74°.

My father graduated from high school when he was sixteen. It was 1943. He wanted to enlist right away, but his mother wouldn’t sign the papers. He had to wait until his seventeenth December birthday when he didn’t need permission. My father went into the navy. In the pictures of him after bootcamp, he looks so young, a baby, metaphorically. He was assigned to a ship which plied the North Sea. In 1944, his ship was sunk, broken in half. My father was in the cold water a long time before he was rescued. He was brought to a hospital in England. The doctors worried about saving his legs, but they did. My dad told us he was still in the hospital when casualties from D-Day and the Battle of the Bulge were admitted. They all said U.S. forces were being overwhelmed. That was the only memory my father had of D-Day.

My mother once had a D-Day party. In the living room she had The Longest Day playing on the TV. In the kitchen the music of World War II played, and everyone sang along. Around the house were maps of the Normandy coast with the landing points highlighting. She had found decorations, cardboard soldiers, lots of American flags and even smaller flags sticking from the food on the table. The party was perfect.

Now that I have a car, I don’t mind staying home.

Today is summer. It is already 81°. The morning is still and quiet. Nala was panting when she came back inside the house after her romp. She is now comfy on the couch. It is time for her morning nap.

Yesterday was a normal day. I drove, yup, drove, to my uke lesson then I had my hair cut. I’m working on crossing off all the errands I couldn’t do without a car. I feel free.

When I was a little kid, we went to visit one of my father’s relatives, an aunt I think. She lived on a pond. I remember an old rowboat filled with flowers was in the yard by the pond as were wooden Adirondack chairs. We, my brother and I, asked if we could go swimming. We stripped down to our underwear to swim as we didn’t have bathing suits. I remember there was tall grass by the side of the pond and water lilies floating. I didn’t know how to swim yet so I mostly walked in the water. When we got out of the pond, my mother took one look at my brother and me and screamed. Blood suckers were on our chests and legs and had made themselves comfortable dining al fresco. My father pulled them off. My mother just stayed horrified. I was mostly curious.

We have black and white pictures of a vacation in New Hampshire. I was probably around three. I do remember there was a screened porch, and we were on a lake. In one of the pictures my brother and I are sitting on the top of a very small waterfall. We were all smiles. I remember the moving water we sat on tickled and sort of tingled our legs. It made me laugh.

One other vacation picture, also black and white, brings back a few memories. We were in Islesboro, Maine. In the picture I look around ten maybe eleven. I’m leaning against a tree on a small hill. The picture taker was below me so the picture angle is weird. I look long and tall. I am wearing a visor. I remember that visor. It was white. I loved it and wore it that whole summer. I wore it everywhere until it wasn’t wearable anymore.

The morning is spring. The nighttime is still waiting for spring. When I wake up, the house is cold. Outside is warmer. I wear my sweatshirt inside and short sleeves outside. The weather is quirky this time of year.

I am no longer house bound. This morning I bought a used Honda Civic. I waved good-bye to my pedestrian life. I reentered the world.

When I was growing up, every family I knew had only one car. It was used every day mostly by the fathers to go to work. My father was a salesman. His job was on the road. He worked for a company called J.P. Manning. It sold tobacco products. I remember going with him once to the office in Boston. The name J.P. Manning was on a sign across the top front of the company. The background of the sign was red. His territory was mostly south of Boston, a distance away. He was never home for dinner. In my memory drawer, I have a picture of him coming in the front door of our house. I can see him wearing a top coat and a fedora. The first thing he always did was hang his coat in the closet near the door and put his hat on the shelf. In my hat collection I have a fedora. I bought it as it always brings my father to mind.

My mother walked uptown to shop the different stores or she waited until Saturday when my father could drive her. She did grocery shopping Friday nights. My dad would wait in the car or stop to visit his parents who lived right down the street from the First National. In the summer, one of my uncles would sometimes pick us up, and we’d spend the day at Revere Beach with uncles and aunts and cousins. I remember when I was really young, one uncle’s car had a running board. At the beach, we’d swim and play in the sand. The adults took turns running across the street to have a few drinks. One or two stayed behind to watch us, to keep us safe. We’d leave for home in the late afternoon. I usually fell asleep in the car.

Oh the horror! Yesterday was a strange day. I never wrote Coffee; instead, I ignore my sloth, poor baby. First, I washed the kitchen floor twice. The second time it was wash and wax. I just couldn’t take the dirty floor any longer. I also washed and waxed the hall and the stairs. I polished the dining room furniture and dusted everything else. During all of this, I could hear the cries of my sloth. As for today, a friend is taking me to do a couple of errands. Yesterday, another friend took my trash. I am lucky in my friends.

Today is another lovely day, the sort of day where outside is wonderfully warm while inside is still holding the night and is chilly. I’m wearing a sweatshirt.

When I was a kid, the arrival of June meant summer was close. The last day of school was nearing, and the nearer we got, the more my attention drifted. My eyes would glaze, and I’d daydream. I’d look out the window and wish I was outside far away from school. The nun’s voice became an incoherent background hum. I was through with school, but I just had to be patient until it was through with me.

My house is mostly quiet. Henry barks when he’s looking out the front door and sees movement, but the rest of the time he’s quiet. Nala whines and talks back. She whacks me with her paw if I don’t pay attention. I have lived alone in this house since the day I bought it. I sometimes am lonely for conversation, but mostly I love the solitude and the freedom to do what I want. I live in my cozies, eat when I’m hungry and sleep when I’m tired, usually in the wee hours.

The first time I lived alone was in Ghana, on one side of a duplex on school grounds. It was difficult at first. I was homesick and unhappy. I didn’t write about it in letters as I didn’t want my parents to worry. Every day I checked for mail, for my connection to home. Finally, I decided if things didn’t change I’d leave before Christmas. Happily for me things changed. Ghana became home. I loved my life there. Teaching was a joy every day. My students understood me, and they learned. I kept busy even outside the classroom. I loved going to town. I loved the market and my market ladies. I had plenty of books, and my town had a library. In one box from home was an origami book with diagrams and colored paper. Nothing I folded looked familiar, looked the same as the illustrations, but I had fun. I still can’t do origami.

Today is yesterday. The breeze is heavy at times, the sun and the clouds are taking turns, the dogs are napping, and I am a sloth.

Yesterday, late at night, I did polish the dining room furniture. I noticed the dust on the table. It guilted me. Maybe tonight I’ll wash the kitchen floor, but that will take an immense amount of guilt.

When I was a kid, Saturday was my favorite day of the week. It didn’t matter the season or the weather. Sometimes I went to the movies. Sometimes I ice skated. Lots of times I rode my bike. I knew all the best rides to all the best places. By the golf course, I’d find golf balls across the street on someone’s lawn. At the farm, I’d check out the cows in the field. It was a dairy farm. I have a couple of their glass bottles. I remember the route from the barn to the field was always muddy and thick with hoof prints. I’d bike to the next town over and circle the lake. I’d skim rocks across the water. I saved bird feathers. I’d stop at the library and take out as many books as they’d let me. I visited the town barn, the railroad station, rode by the junk man’s house and walked the tracks. I was never bored.

Saturday night supper was never a surprise. It was universal: hot dogs, baked beans and brown bread. The hot dogs rolls opened at the top. Back then I slathered yellow mustard all across the top of my dog then added piccalilli. I never ate the beans. The brown bread came from a can. it was fried in slices in the pan and topped with butter. I still love hot dogs in rolls which open at the top. I add mustard. Lately, it has been German mustard. I’m still a fan of piccalilli. My mother used to bottle it every year. It was the best piccalilli.

As the White Rabbit said, “I’m late. I’m late. I’m late for a very important date.” Scratch the important date, and the rest is mine. First, I got up late, after ten, and, still being in the sloth mode, I took my time. I made coffee and read the paper. I had two cups of coffee then some toast, rye toast. After that, I paid bills. I’m still in pain. I grocery shopped for delivery. Now I’m here.

If this were winter, I’d be hibernating; instead, I’m a hermit by circumstance. I could be the star of a 50’s science fiction movie entitled The Only Woman Alive. Tuesday was the last time I was out, the last time I interacted with people. It was uke practice. Since then, I have been home with a cat and two dogs. I find myself correcting the TV out loud but don’t worry. It never answers back. I correct grammar, continuity mistakes and I scoff. I watch movies and old TV shows. I am entertained.

The early morning was chilly. It rained last night for a bit. We have an every now and then strong breeze. Right now it is 64°. The sun is disappearing and reappearing. The dogs are having their morning naps. Soon enough it will be time for their afternoon naps. After that they’ll eat then have their evening naps. They’ll go to bed when I do. It’s a dog’s life has a new meaning.

When I was a kid, we had only a small front garden below the picture window. My father planted petunias or pansies. I loved the multi-colored pansies with all their faces and their bonnets. That’s what I saw.

I used to have cut out paper dolls. They were always in their underwear. The clothes had small tabs at the top so you could put them on the dolls. Each page had a different set of clothes like winter clothes with jackets and boots, summer clothes like shorts and bathing suits and fancy dresses, party clothes. I had to use big, real scissors to cut out the clothes as kid’s scissors weren’t sharp enough to go around on the lines to cut out the clothes and save the tabs. I remember I’d sometimes glue a popsicle stick on the back of the dolls because it was easier to play with them. They were great stocking stuffers and Easter basket gifts.

My errand list is overwhelming with no car. The trash alone is giving me hives, okay not really, but you get the point. I need my hair cut and my blood drawn. I need my garden flowers. I keep looking on line but haven’t yet found a car. That really is giving me hives!