We had light rain last night for a little while. It left the morning damp and the sky cloudy. A slight breeze ruffles the leaves every now and then. More rain is predicted for today. It is a perfect sloth day to stay home and be lazy.

I have always had a great memory. Sometimes I remember in words. Other times I remember in images. As I’ve gotten older, though, I’ve had to rely more on images as the words are harder to remember, harder to find. Those missing words eventually come to mind but often too late to be helpful. As for images, they stay. Even after all these years, I can still close my eyes and see my walk to school, what houses I passed and how the sidewalk was shaded by overhanging branches. I can count the houses along the street. I can see them all.

When I was in the eighth grade, the infamous Sister Hildegard made us memorize the Declaration of Independence, the Gettysburg Address and the Bill of Rights. Each of us had to stand and recite the parts we’d memorized until we had finished with each document. The Gettysburg Address was the easiest to memorize followed by the Bill of Rights. The Declaration of Independence took a long while. Somehow she kept track of our progress. It was easy for me.

In Ghana, my school was off the main road. Between the school and town there were fields and a few buildings. I used to walk to town to shop on market day. It was downhill into town and uphill back. I still remember the road, the kiosks and the buildings. I can close my eyes and see the post office, the bank, the Super Service Inn, the small kiosks selling canned goods like butter and a few veggies, the book store, the aunties selling food along the sides of the road, the entrances to the market and the few spots to rest a bit and have a Coke. It has changed over the years, but I still remember how it was. I think of that as a gift.

I store things in usual places figuring usual will help me remember where those things are when I need them. Sometimes, though, I go to those usual places and don’t find what I want. I had put them somewhere else, somewhere safe. My memory had failed me, but then an imagine, a snapshot, jumps into my head, and I remember. I get my stuff, use it and then put it back in a safe place.

The morning is cloudy but warm, 72°. I’m going to collect branches so I can be working outside enjoying the lovely weather. The dogs stay out much longer on days like today. Nala sleeps on a patch of grass in the sun. Henry is near the deck just sitting and watching the world. They appreciate the day.

When I was a little kid, I didn’t have many decisions I needed to make. I wore uniforms to school so I didn’t need to choose an outfit. I had school shoes which doubled as church shoes. I had church clothes, dresses or skirts. I had play clothes. The first thing I did after school every day was to change from my school clothes to my play clothes. That had been ingrained in me as soon as first grade, and it stayed with me all of my life. I never gave it any thought. It just was.

My father always claimed I had a wise mouth. He didn’t mean it as a compliment. He meant I answered him back. I even answered his rhetorical questions. That bothered him the most. My favorite was, “What do you think you’re doing?” I figured that deserved an answer. My father didn’t agree. His, “How many times do I have to tell you,” was also rhetorical, but I gave him an answer anyway. My mother’s favorite was, “Just wait until your father gets home.” When I was little, it scared me, but as I got older, I considered it an idle threat. At some point when I was older, the threats and questions stopped. I don’t remember when.

Spring and summer are noisy seasons. My windows are open so I hear all the sounds. The birds sing to welcome the dawn. On a breezy day, I can hear the winds chimes. Their sound sweetens the air. Henry barks if anyone dares walk by my house. He has a deep bark. At night, when he is outside, it can be disconcerting. At night, I can hear the frogs who live by the tiny pond at the end of my street. The crickets and katydids chirp, and sometimes I even hear the cicadas buzzing. The night is alive.

I know all the sounds my house makes. At night, it creaks and groans. The dogs’ paws click on the wood floors. Sometimes when both dogs run down the stairs they sound like a herd of buffalos. My street is small so I know when a car goes by the house. Henry sometimes barks. He is my protector.

As for today, I can hear the leaves rustling and the chimes ringing.

This is the sort of morning which should be greeted with Maria singing on the hill about the Sound of Music or Curly greeting the day with Oh, What a Beautiful Mornin’. It is already 69°. The air is so still the leaves barely move. The brilliant sun is framed by a Crayola blue sky. I think I’ll work a bit outside today clearing branches, cleaning Nala trash and hanging my Peace Corps flag.

When I was a kid, I loved days like today. I’d rush out of school, just about run home, change from my school clothes then go out and play or go out and explore. We’d play games like Red Rover, Hide and Seek or Red Light, Green Light. We’d play on the street. There were never many cars but there were packs of kids divided by ages. If we explored, we’d go through the woods or to the swamp to check for tadpoles. The swamp had a grassy part right by the edge. I’d lie on my stomach and watch the tadpoles. They just swam and ate. I’d keep checking the swamp to watch the tadpoles get legs and tails and turn into frogs. I’d check the wild blueberry bushes. Mostly it was too early.

We got to play outside well into the afternoon this time of year. The days were longer, and the streetlights were later. It was closer to supper when my mother called out the door for us. We’d sit and watch TV for a bit until my mother finished cooking. Supper was chicken or ground beef, potatoes and a vegetable. My mother always served vegetables we’d eat. We all loved corn, ears of corn or canned kernel corn. I was not a fan of creamed corn. It was messy and looked like baby food. We’d have cookies for dessert and watch TV.

My kitchen floor is a disgrace. All that rain and dogs’ wet paws left streaks of dirt. I need to make a to-do list with washing the kitchen floor at the top. I won’t add a time table. I’d hate to be hoisted with my own petard.

For special days, I have traditional postings. This is one of them. 

Memorial Day is a day for reflection and a day to give thanks. It is a day for honoring the men and women who died while serving in the U.S. military, those who gave, as President Lincoln once said, their “last full measure of devotion.” This is my annual tribute. 

Memorial Day, originally called Decoration Day, is a day of remembrance for those who have died in our nation’s service. It originated during the American Civi War when citizens placed flowers on the graves of those who had been killed in battle. There are many stories as to its actual beginnings, with over two dozen cities and towns laying claim to being the birthplace of Memorial Day. There is also evidence that organized women’s groups in the South were decorating graves before the end of the Civil War: a hymn published in 1867, “Kneel Where Our Loves are Sleeping” by Nella L. Sweet carried the dedication “To The Ladies of the South who are Decorating the Graves of the Confederate Dead.”

While Waterloo N.Y. was officially declared the birthplace of Memorial Day by President Lyndon Johnson in May 1966, it’s difficult to prove conclusively the origins of the day. It is more likely that it had many separate beginnings; each of those towns and every planned or spontaneous gathering of people to honor the war dead in the 1860′s tapped into the general human need to honor our dead, each contributed honorably to the growing movement that culminated in General Logan, Commander in Chief of the Grand Army of the Republic, giving his official proclamation in 1868 designating May 30 as a memorial day “for the purpose of strewing with flowers or otherwise decorating the graves of comrades who died in defense of their country during the late rebellion, and whose bodies now lie in almost every city, village, and hamlet churchyard in the land.”. It is not important who was the very first, what is important is that Memorial Day was established. Memorial Day is not about division. It is about reconciliation; it is about coming together to honor those who gave their all.

Earlier, clouds covered the sky, but the sun has broken through. After all the rain, the sunlight is brilliant. Some leaves are in shadows while others shine in the light. According to the weather report, though, the sun is transient. The day will be cloudy and in the high 50’s, but I’m skeptical or maybe hopeful. I see blue. (Aside, the sun is gone as is the blue. The day is dark.)

Some things are sacred. My morning coffee is on the list, always at least two cups with cream, not milk. I drink coffee from all over. My last coffee was from Vietnam. I don’t like girly coffees like French vanilla or peppermint. They are ice cream flavors.

Since my retirement, almost twenty one years ago, I have lived in mostly cozy clothes, a sacred ensemble. Every day when I worked, I wore a dress or a skirt and blouse and panty hose, yup I said panty hose from an egg. Now, I wear flannel and corduroy in the winter and short sleeves and light pants in the summer. The last time I wore a dress was Easter a few years ago. The dress was blue and flowered, perfect for spring and Easter.

My house is a sacred place. It is all of me. It is filled with treasures from my travels. They hold my memories. So many are from Africa, from my town and from my trips back to Ghana. I have baskets, tablecloths, napkins, art, wooden figures and gold weights. I remember a first time visitor to my house called them knick knacks. I was horrified. I wanted to snarl at her. I still have a few pieces from my South American trip in the 70’s and from my trips to Morocco, Panama and so much of Europe. I love the memories the different pieces conjure, of the singular experiences in each country, the different foods, the shapes of houses and shops, the smells, and colors. The strongest memories are of markets, of me wandering the streets and the souks and meeting new people. My memory drawers are the most sacred places.

Yesterday’s storm was epic. The trees were bent by the wind, and the rain was, at times, torrential. The thunder was so loud it scared Henry who began to shake. Usually thunder does not bother Henry. I held him tightly, and he stopped shaking. The lights flickered and died a few times, not for long but long enough to be annoying. You’d think that storm was the only excitement but it wasn’t.

At night the dogs sleep on the couch. Henry is to the left and Nala to the right of me. Last night they were not on the couch. I assumed they were upstairs on my bed sleeping off the storm. Around 1:30 I went upstairs to bed. The dogs were not there. I panicked, ran downstairs and opened the back door thinking they were by the back door, but they were not. It was pouring so I thought they might be under the deck. I grabbed a jacket and a flashlight, no dogs under the deck. I did a circuit of the yard to check the fence, and it was fine. I walked to the steps and saw the gate was open. The dogs were loose outside the yard for the first time. I screamed their names and Henry, some minutes later, came running through the gate. I put him inside and started screaming for Nala. I went out to the street and started calling as I walked, no Nala. I ran back into the house for a better flashlight. I turned around and there she was. She had found home.

Both dogs were soaked, as wet as I’ve ever seen them. I don’t know how long they were on the run, but given how wet they were, it was a while. I went out to make sure the gate was closed and heard a voice. It was my neighbor who had heard me yelling and came to help. I told her both dogs had come home. I could breathe again.

My dance card is empty, and I couldn’t be happier. I’ll stay in my cozies, read my book and nap if I feel like it. I earned a sloth day.

A rainy morning is one of my favorite starts to any day. Sun is easy to enjoy, not so much rain. I could hear the drops starting just before I went to bed. We’re talking around three this morning. The rain was singular, drop by drop, no deluge. It is the same now. I’m still waiting for the predicted nor’easter with its heavy rain and strong winds.

In this house, we are all creatures of habit. When we wake up, the dogs and I, we hurry downstairs, me to open the door and the dogs to run into the yard. I have at least two cups of coffee and some toast. The dogs enjoy a biscuit and a small treat. After their treats, the dogs have their morning nap time, one on each side of me on the couch. Meanwhile, Jack cries for attention, and he gets his morning pats and a treat. I then read the paper and do all the puzzles. Writing Coffee is last.

I take my time writing on rainy days. I watch out the window at the wind blowing the leaves, and I sit quietly in the house so I can hear the rain. I warm my hands by cradling the coffee cup. I am cozy and warm.

When I was a kid, I always got really wet on rainy days because I walked to and from school. I’d have to sit at my desk waiting for my wet shoes and wet hair to dry. On chilly, rainy days, the radiators used to hiss steam. The classroom windows got foggy from condensation though I didn’t know that word back then. I’d watch the drops roll to the sills. Rain subdued classroom sounds. Mostly I could only hear paper rustling and the squeaking of chairs as we tried to get comfortable. Even the nun seemed to whisper. We ate lunch inside and had no recess. We could move around and talk during the whole of lunchtime. Afterwards, getting back on task wasn’t easy. I was an afternoon clock watcher. I wanted out.

In Ghana, I couldn’t teach on heavy rainy days. The classroom block had metal roofs. A heavy rain pummeled the roof and drowned out any other sounds. I did board work and gave my students written lessons. My house too had a metal roof. I loved the sound of rain on that roof. It surrounded me. The back room of my house had a big screened window, no glass. That room was where my kitchen table and chairs and the fridge were. A big rain storm would often flood the floor which was concrete and painted red. Over time, the paint started to wear away. That’s what I remember.

The morning is chilly and cloudy. The top branches of the oak trees and their leaves are being blown by the wind. Today is a sweatshirt day.

My to do card is uke heavy. My friends have been kind and have been driving me everywhere. I am still needing a car. I know nothing about cars beyond the need for oil changes and such. I’ve been checking used car lots. I hope for the best.

When I was a kid, the world was smaller and life was slower. We walked most places. My father had the only car, and he needed it for work. My mother didn’t drive anyway. She’d grocery shop on Fridays nights. My father drove her and waited. If my mother shopped uptown, she walked. She pushed my sisters in the carriage when they were young. Uptown had the shops and stores and the bank and the post office, all the stores except the grocery store which was down the street from the square. Back then it was the First National. The barber shop had only two chairs. Uptown also had the only movie theater and Hank’s Bakery. My mother worked there for a bit. The library is a Carnegie library. The town had two newspapers, the Press and the Independent, the one still publishing. The police news was mostly cats in trees and night noises. The town was first settled in 1634. Every day at 9 am and 9 pm the horn blows from the fire station. Some famous people came from Stoneham. A couple of them surprised me like Buffy Sainte-Marie and Killer Kowalski.

I never worried about walking. I always felt safe even if I was walking alone. At night, streetlights lit my way, and lights shined from house windows onto the sidewalks. Traffic was sparse. Few cars were on the streets at night. Most everything was closed. It was so quiet I could hear the sound of my shoes clicking on the sidewalks. Home was never far away.