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.

The weather is thick with humidity. It is hot, a scorcher at 89°. According to the weatherman it feels like 107°. My friend said she felt logy, a perfect description. I just sit. Moving around takes too much energy. I was going to the dump, but I don’t feel like hauling trash. The dogs have finally settled. They spent the morning panting, drooling a bit. Nala is asleep in front of the fan while Henry is by the door. They’ll perk up near dinner time.

I have friends I’ve known since the 1950’s. We were either in school together or on the drill team or both. I remember we’d have drill practice then we’d walk to O’Grady’s diner for a brownie with fudge sauce and ice cream if we had the money. We’d finish then separate and walk home in different directions. I always walked through the square, pass the fire station, the town hall and four churches. Three of those churches face each other on corners. I usually walked alone as no one else went in my direction. I loved those walks. The sidewalks had circles of light from lamps shining through windows. Street lights lit the sides of the road. It was quiet. I could hear my footsteps on the sidewalk. I could see flickering lights from TV’s through some windows. Very few cars passed by me. I sort of owned the night.

When I was in Accra, the capital of Ghana, I had the same sense. Some nights I’d walk to the hostel after a movie or dinner. I never worried about walking alone. Men talking low sat in small groups on chairs on the sidewalk. We greeted each other. I could see smoke from their pipes and cigarettes. It was mostly dark. Few stores were open. Some taxis were still on the road but very few cars. I loved that walk.

I am a night owl. I go to bed in the wee hours. When the dogs go out, I often join them and stand on the deck. All the houses are dark. It is always quiet, not even a car goes by my street. I often wonder on an especially beautiful night if people know they are missing one of the best parts of the day. I’d tell them, but I’m not so sure I want to share.

The air is thick, dripping with humidity. The morning is dark, cloudy, but the sun is there behind the clouds, waiting a turn. It is already 81°. It is a day to sit, maybe watch a movie, read for a bit and take an afternoon nap. The dogs are exhausted from doing nothing. They are sleeping soundly.

I haven’t any lists. The week is quiet. I didn’t even have any uke events. Our uke director is ill so everything was cancelled. I haven’t gotten dressed in outside clothes all week. I am enjoying idleness. I have become adept at guiltless lethargy.

My muse is taking a hiatus. Nothing much is happening. I find myself talking out loud to the dogs more, reflecting about what I’ve read or what I’ve seen on TV. They don’t even pretend to listen unless I say treat. But despite the inactivity, I haven’t yet reached ennui. I have a jigsaw puzzle started, a book I’m reading and old movies to watch. I’m watching World War II movies and 50’s science fiction.

I watch videos of Ghana, of walks through streets and markets. It is as if I am there. I remember the mornings. They are clear with sharp sunlight. On market day, women walk on paths from their villages carrying goods on their heads to sell. The market quickly gets busy, noisy. In one section, tables are in a line, one beside each other. Aunties selling their goods sit behind each table usually under an umbrella or an overhang. The tables are filled with the same offerings, mostly tomatoes, garden eggs, okra, plantain and onions. The oddly shaped tomatoes are usually stacked in a pyramid. The prices hardly differ from table to table. I remember randomly choosing a table. The transaction is always the same. The seller takes the money, puts the tomatoes in a clear plastic bag and adds a few, a dash, a thank you. That bag goes into another bag, a black plastic bag with hand holes. Every transaction is the same. It always ends with the black plastic bag.

The morning is pretty. It is still. The wind blew itself out last night. The rain stayed a while then it too left. The muggy air is gone. The sky is blue, a darkish blue. It is 80° but it is supposed to get hotter. The back of the house, though, is still cool. The sun has yet to make its way around. The dogs, as is their usual habit, are having their morning naps. Both are sleeping on the cool floor.

Tuesday has little to commend it. It is an ordinary day. Seldom does anything happen on a Tuesday. It just sort of moves the week along.

August is the summer’s last hurrah. It is also the hottest month. I always thought the heat happened so we’d look forward to September and cooler weather. It made sliding into the start of school easier. Woolworth’s was our go to back to school store for supplies. We’d walk uptown with my mother. We’d buy a book bag, a pencil case, crayons, just a six pack, note paper and a lunch box. I loved my new pencil case and used to open it just to check out what was inside. Besides the pencils, there was a ruler, a pink eraser, five small colored pencils, a pencil sharpener and the triangle. I never knew what the triangle was used for. I just made straight lines with it. Much later I found out it was a compass which sort of confused me at first. The only compass I knew indicated direction. I used to pack my school bag over and over, sort of test runs before the big day.

Every summer’s day was filled with fun, some with swimming or bike riding or games and crafts at the playground. After a while, though, they all sort of blended together. I didn’t want to admit it, but summer had become a bit boring. Nothing was new.

Time kept moving faster. The end of summer and the start of school was nipping at our heels. We still had new school shoes’ shopping and clothes’ shopping for parts of uniforms we had grown out of or which looked the worst for wear, but those shopping trips weren’t fun. The shoes had to be sturdy. The uniform was boring, just a blue skirt, a white blouse and a cowboy sort of blue tie. They sort of lent themselves to the acknowledgment that summer had already had its heyday.

The wind is so strong and constant it is blowing everything, even the biggest branches, and the trees and leaves are noisy. Last night it rained, but now it is sunny. It is 76°. A thunderstorm is predicted for later, but, with the sunshine, that seems remote. I have an outside concert today so I need to keep an eye on the weather.

The spiders are here. Webs are everywhere. Even the tiniest spider is busy weaving. From here in the den I can see a couple of webs close to the ceiling and another hanging down from the wood around the door. That one is bothering me. It won’t last much longer.

Summers when I was a kid were busy. On weekdays I was always home for breakfast and supper but only sometimes for lunch as I often took lunch on the road. I made a sandwich, added cookies or chips and used a peanut butter jar for my ZaRex. Orange was the usual syrup flavor. ZaRex came in glass jugs, moonshine looking jugs, the sort Snuffy Smith used for his brew. I’d make a pitcher full, often using the colored pitcher made out of aluminum, the one with accompanying colorful glasses. It kept the ZaRex really cold. The outside of it was usually covered in condensation. I remember there was always ZaRex. My father called it bug juice.

The first sport I understood was baseball, nine innings, three outs for each side per inning. I was older before I learned nuisances like the infield fly rule, a sacrifice bunt or defensive indifference on a steal, strategic plays. The bleachers at Fenway were cheap. The T-station was close. We’d spend a day at the park. When I was a kid, the Sox weren’t very good, but I didn’t care. I loved baseball, the Red Sox and Fenway Park.

I had a friend who collected baseball cards, the only girl I knew who did. She kept her cards in boxes sorted by teams and stored under her bed. When I visited, she’d pull out her newest cards and her current favorites to show me. She went to a different school than I did after 8th grade. I lost track of her and always wondered what happened to her and her cards.

Cloudy days tend to be busy days. The house is cooler so I don’t have the heat as an excuse to be a sloth. Chores are easier to finish. I sweep and polish. I brush away the webs. I clean the appliances on the counter and the outside of the fridge, chores I seldom do. I’ll read or nap in the afternoon. I earned the idleness.

The day is hazy, humid and cloudy. It is 79°. Showers are predicted for tonight. The fan is keeping us cool in the thick, hot air. Nala is deep asleep on the couch. Henry is asleep on the floor in the breeze from the back door. I suspect he thinks he’s roughing it. I think today is a perfect sloth day.

Henry is suspicious when I open the door to let him inside the house. He wonders if his infection is going to get sprayed or if his eyes are to have anti-itch cream rubbed around them. I keep him wondering. Sometimes he gets one while other times he gets both, and then there are times he gets neither. That was this morning. I’ll get him later.

I remember having to wear a bathing cap in the town pool. It was sort of like a head girdle as it was rubber and difficult to stretch. Getting it off was even more difficult, it being wet and all. I never understood the need for it.

I am watching the 1954 movie Monster from the Ocean Floor. It is wonderfully bad and filled with stereotypes typical back then. I was thrilled to find a 50’s black and white science fiction movie I’ve never seen. Now I need popcorn.

When I was a kid, Sunday was always a special day. I had to go to mass. Usually I walked. I went to the downstairs mass. It was always shorter than upstairs as often there wasn’t a sermon. It was also really crowded. People decided short was better than pious. I stayed around the house after mass, no exploring. I waited for Sunday dinner, the best meal of the week. The house always had an amazing aroma when dinner was cooking. My favorite was a roast beef or as my grandmother jokingly called it a-roasta-beefa. I never thought it funny but smiled anyway. I still love mashed potatoes drowned in gravy. They were the Sunday dinner staple. The vegetables changed though peas appeared most often followed closely by corn, niblet corn. Sometimes we had brownies for dessert. My mother’s brownies were the best. She frosted them with chocolate frosting and sprinkled them with jimmies. I always liked the crusty corner.

My dance card is uke heavy this week. I have my usual practice and lesson and two concerts. We are playing the color book and practicing Motown for next week. I have no choice but to dress in outside clothes and leave the house. Goodbye cozies!

The morning got away from me. I woke early as there was a time window for my grocery delivery, 8 to 12. I hadn’t gone to bed until after 4 so when Alexa woke me at 8, I had to drag myself out of bed. My groceries came at 10. I hauled the bags to the kitchen and put everything away then I joined Nala on the couch and fell back to sleep with the fan cooling me. I slept wonderfully. When I finally woke up, I had coffee and a hermit cookie. I do love when my larder is full. Given the time, I thought I’d forego today but changed my mind so here I am.

Earlier I hear a lawn mower but now there is quiet. The day is sunny and hot at 82°, but the humidity makes it feel even hotter, muggy and a bit stifling. The breeze is every now and then but does little to mitigate the warmth. My den, where I am most of the time, is dark. The sun doesn’t hit here until the late afternoon. I am watching the walk video filmed in Accra, the capital of Ghana. I watch it often. I always wish I were there. It is pouring. Street ruts are muddy and filled with water. Heavy rain drops fall in a rhythm from the tin roofs onto the sidewalks. Some people are walking oblivious to the rain. Others wear colorful plastic rain coats. Aunties sit on the sidewalks and sell their goods. Most have an umbrella over them, and their wares are covered in see through plastic sheets. I never had a rain coat or an umbrella. I used to go to the market when the rain was soft. It was cooling.

I am in a hermit phase, not the cookies though I did have a couple today. I have nowhere I need to go. I am comfortable being barefoot and in my cozies. When I was a kid, this sort of Saturday would have been appalling, a wasted day. I always thought Saturdays were meant for adventure, for exploring. I usually went on my own, on my bike. My neighborhood friend never rode with me. She didn’t have a bike. If we roller skated though, we’d skate together. My neighborhood was a great roller skating spot. The sidewalk was hilly. The parking lot at the top of the hill was always empty. I loved the sound of the skates as they rumbled down the hill.

The dogs are sleeping. Nala is beside me. Henry is in the hall. They have the best lives.

The rain has finally gone and been replaced by sun and blue sky. It is in the low 70’s, perfect weather though there is still a chance of rain but much later. I don’t have an errand but I have one chore, to grocery shop from the comfort of my couch. I have a list.

My mother always grocery shopped on Friday nights. She didn’t drive so my father dropped her at the supermarket, and he waited. We loved Friday nights. The larder was filled with cold cuts, cheese and, best of all, cookies, especially Oreos. They went fast. During the school year, my mother declared some cookies hands off so she could pack them in our lunches. During the summer, no cookies were safe. Sometimes I would pack a lunch if I was roaming for the day. I’d make a bologna sandwich with mustard and hot peppers. The sandwich was never symmetrical. It had lumps, an odd cut of the bologna and the hot peppers cut in half. I’d pack cookies for dessert. I’d put the bag in my bike’s basket and hold on to it over bumps so it wouldn’t fall out of the basket. When I’d get hungry, I’d find a shady spot where I could sit and eat. The town hall had benches beside it under leafy trees. That was the best spot.

The town hall always felt cool inside even on a hot summer’s day back when there was no air conditioning. It was dark in places, especially the stairs where there were no windows. When walking on the stairs, footsteps echoed. My mother and I went there to get my birth certificate as I needed it for my Peace Corps passport. We went to the bottom floor, the darkest floor, sort of the cellar. The lady quickly gave me my official birth certificate. I still have that copy of my birth certificate. It is yellow with age and the official stamp has lost its luster and its bumps. It has become an historical document.

The summer is quickly passing, today being the last of July. When I was a kid, I knew school days were getting closer so it was almost time to school shop. Every year we got new shoes, a new pencil case, a lunch box and a school bag. Because we wore uniforms, we didn’t get a choice of clothes. We tried on last year’s uniform clothes, a blue skirt and a white blouse, to see if they fit. If they did, we were done.

Yesterday it rained both during the day and last night with a bit of space between them. I could hear the drops hitting the metal top of the barbecue, one of my favorite sounds. Today will also be wet with a high in the 60’s. I do love summer rain.

I used to love to ride my bike through puddles. If I saw any puddle, big or small, I’d aim. When I hit the water, I’d take my feet off the pedals and raise my legs up on each side. My bike would sort of surf through the water which rose up in waves on each side, my Red Sea moment. Sometimes I’d hydroplane and hope my bike would stay afloat. It always did.

I don’t remember how old I was when we got our first TV. We had one as long as I can remember. Our first set was huge, a giant console cabinet with a tiny screen behind two cabinet doors which took up a whole corner of the living room. It was best watched sitting on the rug on the floor in front of it. We had an antenna, rabbit ears, which got local stations. My father wrapped aluminum foil around each ear thinking it got better reception that way. We used to take turns getting up to the change the channel. On weekdays, we’d watch TV in the late afternoons before supper and for a little time before bed. Our best watch times were Saturday mornings when every show was a kid’s show. One of my TV milestones was the first time I stayed up long enough for the channels to go off the air to the stirring sound of The Star Spangled Banner which was then followed by the Indian-head test pattern and the sound of snow.

I remember the record player which played only 45’s. It was small. It had a chunky round spindle on which you loaded the records and which automatically dropped the next record. I never had one; instead, I’d put in the hole of the 45 one of those plastic adapters so the record could play on a regular size spindle, like on a hi-fi. I had a good collection of 45’s. When I was young, they were cheap to buy, and I could buy the song I loved instead of a whole album. Later, though, I always bought the albums. I still have many of my records, and I still play them.

Today I have a concert.