Keep the Coffee Comimg

Mother Nature has generously given us another summer’s day. It is already 75° with a bright sun and a few light clouds. We have a breeze. The weatherman says rain tonight.

When I was in the first grade, I had a stern nun, Sister Redempta. She scared all of us not only by her manner but also by her habit, all that black. On the Lone Ranger, bad guys wore black hats. We could see only her face and hands. She wore a rosary around her waist which made noise when she walked. When she spoke, we listened. None of us dared to speak out of turn. She’d have us fold our hands together in the middle of the desk. That was like calling us to attention. We used to have to stand up to talk, to answer questions. It was always, “Yes, sister. No, sister.” I think army basic training must be similar. We even wore uniforms though ours in the first grade were a bit different. Our skirts had over the shoulder straps. I still have my first grade school picture. I’m smiling. What is striking about it are my teeth. The two front teeth go in different directions. I’d get braces in second grade and in that school picture I’m not smiling. I’m hiding my braces. They weren’t so common back then. Luckily, metal mouth hadn’t yet hit playground taunting.

When I was a kid, I never liked tomatoes. I liked tomato soup and spaghetti sauce but not raw tomatoes, especially the hard ones from the grocery store. In Ghana onions and tomatoes were plentiful in the market. I didn’t eat them raw then either. They were sauce, almost a stew, in which the tough beef cooked for a long time to soften. I never ate a tomato in a sandwich. My subs were tomato less, lots of onions and hot peppers, but no tomatoes. I’d take them out of a burger from Carroll’s. I don’t know when my tastes changed. I’d add them to sandwiches and stopped picking them out of salads. Homegrown tomatoes are the stuff of legends. Small tables in front of houses by August are filled with tomatoes for sale. I keep small bills and change in the car so I can stop and buy them. A BLT toasted and slathered with mayo is a taste of heaven.

The morning is fairly quiet. Only Henry is noisy. He’s been barking. I have stopped checking why. Nala is spread out on the couch beside me. I do hear birds and occasionally a car. I have a concert this afternoon. I also need bread and cat food. I’ll join the world for just a little while.

The weather has the feel of fall about it. The morning temperature is a bit chilly, long sleeve chilly. The sunlight is sharp, the sky a clear blue, and the breeze ever so slight. Earlier, I sat on the deck steps to drink my coffee. Nala stayed with me. Henry went into the house. We each greet the mornings in different ways.

My life is pretty quiet. Most of my days are spent at home, just me and the dogs and Jack. I read or watch movies or do spot cleaning, my last resort. Ukulele gets me out of the house. I am still amazed I can actually play a musical instrument. I mostly live in my cozies. I am up until the wee hours. The nights are lovely. By then, my house is the only one with lights. We don’t have any street lights so the darkness is dense. I can hear birds and insects and every now and then Henry barks. When I finally go to bed, I fall asleep quickly.

I have a sort of morning routine. I read the paper, do all the puzzles and have two cups of coffee. Sometimes I have toast. I still slather it with fig jam if I have any. I then start writing Coffee and have YouTube on in the background. Often I watch the walks through Accra, Ghana. I feel as if I am there. I know the sounds and the smells. I recognize the aunties selling their wares along the sidewalks. They haven’t changed in all these years. I see fruits and vegetables and clothes on mannequins with no arms. Pots and pans in different sizes are piled. Tinned goods are stacked. It is all so familiar.

When I was a kid, my grandparents were the oldest people I knew. They were quite different, my mother’s parents and my father’s. We loved to visit my mother’s parents in East Boston. They were warm and loving. They lived in a city we could explore. On weekends, their house was a meeting place for all the siblings. My mother was the third of eight. I had what seemed like hundreds of cousins. I still picture my grandmother. She was short, the whole family was mostly short. She wore a bib apron usually with flowers. She wore slippers with the backs down. Her stockings were rolled down to her ankles. She was not really cheery. She sometimes wore a tired smiled.

My other grandmother was a tall woman, taller than my grandfather. She stooped. She also wore a bib apron with a flowered dress underneath. Her shoes were always black with clunky heels. She had a laugh that was always too loud, strident. My father visited them most Saturdays as they lived in the same town as we did. The rest of us seldom visited. They weren’t very welcoming. Once in a while they did invite us to dinner. I remember one time going on Thanksgiving night for a second turkey dinner. They had a dining room. The furniture was dark. It is funny what you remember.

The rain stayed around most of yesterday, but, by late afternoon, Mother Nature had finally gotten tired of pelting us with all that rainwater. The sky lightened, the dogs went out and the night had stars. Today is a perfect fall day. It was 62° this early morning, but the temperature has already creeped up to 72°. The breeze is constant, strong. The trunks are swaying and the leaves are spinning. I can hear them swishing.

When I was a kid, fall was my favorite season. I loved all the colors. I loved the crisp mornings. The air was always clear, almost shimmery in the light. Summer humidity was finally gone. My mother used to make us wear a light jacket which, by afternoon, was too warm. I’d put it in my school bag for the walk home. Most afternoons I’d quickly get out of my school clothes into my play clothes. My neighborhood friends and I would sometimes play games on the street like Red Rover. We all knew the strategy. Pick the weakest player who probably couldn’t break the hand chain. We played Simon Says and Red Light. Other afternoons I’d bike ride, but I never went far from home. The street lights came on too early. That was fall afternoon’s only drawback.

Supper was more formal than in summer. We always had meat, mashed potatoes and a vegetable. My mother’s meatloaf was one of my favorites. Sometimes she’d put ketchup on the top and cover the ketchup with bacon. We fought over the bacon. It was always wonderfully crisp. Other times she used mashed potatoes like frosting. She’d cover the beef and put it back in the oven. The tips of the potatoes browned. It looked like a baked Alaska. We never had baked beans during the week. They were only for Saturdays. We had corn, niblets and creamed, baby peas, cut carrots which we ate reluctantly and green beans, mostly French green beans. I remember watching Leave It To Beaver and The Donna Reed Show. They always had a stack of white bread on the dinner table. We never did. Dessert was mostly cookies from the supermarket. I am and will forever be an Oreo Fan.

Lately I have been testing Oreo flavors, some new, some already traditional. Double Stuffed and Mega Stuffed are just perfection. I’ve had the Golden Oreo and liked it, but it took a while to get use to as Oreos were always chocolate when I was a kid. Mint and Peanut Butter are easy to like. I just tasted Banana Pudding Oreos. Okay, a taste doesn’t cover it. I ate the whole package. I also ate the whole package of Deep Fried Oreos. It wasn’t in one sitting but over time. I will never buy them again. They are so good they will never last. I‘d be making several trips to the kitchen for handfuls. Now I’ll just dream of my Oreos.

This time the lateness of the hour isn’t my fault. My iPad did not charge last night so I have been waiting patiently by the plug. Okay, I admit it was impatiently waiting. I was a bit unnerved when I saw what had happened. My iPad is my only link to the cyber world so losing it would be beyond tragic. I don’t have the resources to buy a replacement. It is usable now, but I am on edge.

At 9:30 every morning, my Alexa wakes up, tells me the date, the time and the weather. Sometimes I hear her but most times she is a background hum of sorts. This morning I heard her 9:30 report. She predicted rain would start in a half hour. That is accu-weather at its most brazen. I fell back to sleep and woke up at 10:15. It was raining. Way to go, Alexa. It is still raining. I can hear the drops. The house is rainy day dark so I have lit all the twinkling lights in the living room and the pepper lights in the kitchen. They are perfect to light a rainy day.

Last night I saw my sloth walking down the driveway with a battered brown suitcase in his paw. He was wearing a brown vest and a jaunty hat. He looked over his shoulder at the house as he left the yard. I was heartbroken, but I knew the reason. Yesterday I cleaned the dining room. I’m talking dusting or polishing everything. I’m talking clearing shelves to clean all the glassware. The spiders’ webs which numbered in the thousands are gone, but the spiders have been left to build again. The tablecloth has been changed. Now a fall runner decorates the table. All the dog hair tumbleweeds have been vacuumed. I’m sure it is no surprise that I took a nap yesterday afternoon.

When I was a kid, my mother did all the house chores. The bed was made, the laundry done, the dishes washed, and the house dusted and vacuumed. She made every meal. I didn’t even know how to work a washing machine. Once, when I did a load of layndry, the machine started buzzing, I didn’t know what that meant. I took out every piece of laundry and wrung it then put it all in the dryer. Later, I asked what had happened and was told the load was unbalanced. I felt silly and a bit stupid. In Ghana I paid for my laundry to be done. All of it, except for my unmentionables, was washed by hand and hung on lines to dry by Thomas. The unmentionables were my responsibility.

Today I rest.

The weather is fall perfect. It is 72° and beautifully sunny. The light glints through the still green leaves. A slight breeze blows the smallest branches. My house is chilly. It holds the cool air from the nighttime when the temperature goes down to the mid or low 60’s. I do have two dogs with me in bed every night who keep me warm, but I pay for that. They take up most of the room.

This morning I spent some time on the Coffee dashboard. I checked the map to see which countries had the most viewers. I was astonished to find number one is China by a wide margin. The US is second. India had one viewer.

Saturday has always been my favorite day. When I was a kid, Saturday had a pattern. I was up early, filled my bowl with milk and cereal, usually Rice Krispies, then I’d plunk down in front of the TV to watch cartoons and TV shows like Fury, Sky King, Sergeant Preston, Howdy Doody and Kukla, Fran and Ollie. I’d watch a while then grab my bike to start an adventure. I never had a plan. I just rode. If something caught my eye, I’d stop. I’d eat lunch on the road. Sometimes I went to the library. When the weather changed and fall fell into winter, I’d go to the matinee or ice skate or go sledding if we had snow. I filled my Saturdays. I loved Saturday nights as we got to stay up later. When I was older, I’d sleep in on Saturdays. In the afternoon, I’d sometimes meet friends. On Saturday nights we’d get together often at one of our houses. We had fun being together.

In Ghana, Saturday started slowly. I’d have my breakfast then maybe read a little or write letters home. I’d go into town. If it was market day, I’d shop the tables. I’d bring my stretchy shepherd’s bag and fill it with fruit, tomatoes and onions and beef from the meat market. The bag got bottom heavy. Before I got my motor cycle, I’d start walking home. Someone always stopped and gave me a ride. Saturday nights were my favorite nights. It was a fun night. One Saturday night might have tribal dancing. Each tribe would have its own spot for their tribal dancing. I’d wander the school grounds and watch. Once in a while they’d be a movie compliments of the USAID guy who would periodically drop by my town. I remember the movie that showed flies walking in poop then walking on food. It was a cartoon. My students loved it. Another night was in the dining room with all the tables and chairs moved out. It was a dance night. Music boomed, and my students, all females, danced with each other. They sang along loudly. I remember them singing at the tops of their voice, “Say it loud. I’m black and proud.”

I’ll stop here, and keep you on the edges of your seats as to the Saturdays when I was older. I will admit I now enjoy a nap on Saturday afternoons.

Last night was clear and wonderfully breezy and cool. The insects were singing, and I could hear a bird. The dogs were active. Henry jumped off the couch a few times and ran to the door. Nala followed. I don’t think she knew why, but she was willing to back Henry. Both of them barked for a bit then went back to the couch.

Today is sunny and warm, already 79°. It is a quiet day. Thursday seems to be an insignificant day. It just blends into the rest of the week. I do have a dentist appointment later, just a cleaning, but I don’t think it gives Thursday any prominence.

When I was a kid, I never went to the dentist unless I had a tooth ache. The visit always started with me biting on the red tab which then covered the spots on my teeth where I wasn’t brushing well. A brushing demonstration from the dentist usually followed. I liked my dentist as he always used gas. I remember the mask on my face. I remember the weird smell. I could hear muted voices, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying. When I was brought back from oblivion, I was glad I had missed it all.

Before I went to Ghana, I had to have a dental exam and have any teeth needing attention fixed. I found a dentist in Lawrence. My father said he’d pay the whole bill because I had rotted my teeth on his time, but forever after, it was on me. It took a few visits. The only thing we didn’t have time for was a tooth cleaning. He didn’t use gas, but I survived.

School started this week. I followed a bus which seemed to stop at every street. Little kids got off. Their parents were sitting in cars or standing on corners waiting. I remember my first day of school. My mother walked me to school. She had my two sisters in tow and pushed a carriage. The walk to school was easy. Most of it was a straightaway. After that first day, I walked with some neighborhood friends. I never got lost.

On my first day of school in Ghana, I was nervous. The walk to the school compound took maybe 3 minutes. My house was right by the back gate. Each class had 35 students. They sat at tables for two. The windows and doors were free of glass or screens. Occasionally a goat dropped by to visit. The bathroom was across the compound. A student would raise her hand and tell me she needed to urinate. Outside my classroom were bushes. One time my students were throwing rocks at the bushes. I wondered why. Come to find out, they were trying to kill a snake. I got through my first day, but at the end of the first lesson, a student raised her hand and said, “We didn’t hear you, madam.” They didn’t understand my English. Theirs was a sort of British English. Mine was pure American. I needed to learn to speak Ghanaian English. It took a while.

We have been blessed with another lovely day, a perfect weather day. It is 75° with a bright sun, a cooling breeze and a deep blue sky. While the dogs were in the yard, I stood on the deck and watched them romp, well, Nala romped while Henry plodded.

I’m going to reenter the world today. I’m going to dress in outside clothes and leave the house. The last time I was out was Wednesday. Since then I haven’t needed anything, and I’ve been content in my cozies. I have uke practice tonight and during the week a lesson and two concerts.

When I was a kid, the first week of school was, at first, exciting, then exhausting. All day was regimented. After the freedom of summer, being stuck at my desk except for recess and a class bathroom visit, each of us in line waiting our turn while the nun kept the line moving, was difficult. I felt restless. My classroom, though, was mostly quiet except for the sounds of kids shifting in their chairs, the occasional rustling of papers and the nun in front giving instruction. No one spoke out of turn or dared to whisper because retribution was swift and public. It didn’t take long for us to fall into the familiar pattern of each school day. We knew we were stuck.

I followed the changes in seasons when I walked to school and home again. At the start of school, all the trees were heavy with green leaves which gave shade and protection from the rain. When the leaves started to turn color, we knew winter was banging on the door. The first fallen leaves were yellow and red. I’d pick up perfect leaves to save between ironed sheets of wax paper. Soon enough the leaves covered the sidewalks and piled in the gutters. The mornings got chilly. The trees grew barer and barer. Winter announced itself with frost on windows. I could see my breath on frosty mornings. The walk to school was cold. I always thought winter was the longest season. Spring arrived when small buds appeared on the trees over the sidewalk. My eyes welcomed that first sight of green after a dull, dark winter. I got to watch the leaves grow.

I watch the change in seasons still. I watch the trees in my backyard. Right now they are heavy with green leaves. The whole yard is shaded, but fall will soon come. The clues are there. The nights are chilly, and the early mornings hold on to that chill. I’m keeping my eye out for the first fallen leaves. They are red.

Coffee is quite late today. It was a mirror under the nose sort of morning. I slept until after noontime, well, we slept until after noontime, the dogs and I, as the night was cool and perfect for sleeping, and I had gone to bed well into the wee hours. I was going to skip Coffee today given the lateness of the hour, but I decided to write anyway.

Today is Labor Day, summer’s last hurrah. It was our final day of freedom. School started on Tuesday. I was ready. The summer had started to drag by the end of August. The playground closed so no more crafts or sports. I was left to my own devices. I rode my bike uptown and around town, even to the zoo. I went to the library to stack up on books. I hunted balls by the golf course. I rode around the lake. I filled the days.

The fourth grade was my last year in the old school. I loved that school with all its dark wood, the tall classroom windows on two sides of the rooms and the cloak rooms. A hand bell was always rung for the change of classes, recess and the end of the day. It was rung from the very top floor by one of the eighth graders. The bell had a sweet sound.

For the first half of my fifth grade I was bused to the next town over. I’d walk to school then wait by the driveway behind the church for the buses. We always lost time and had a shortened school day because of the rides to and back. The new school opened for the second half of my fifth grade. My classroom was on the first floor on the school yard side. The halls were lined with lockers. The rooms had bookcases under the windows. The desks were light wood. I felt the difference. It was a new school with no warmth. Later I realized we were the ones who would give it warmth, the warmth of memories, of the stories we’d tell over and over. The punch I threw during recess to defend my friend in the fifth grade was the stuff of legend. By the eighth grade we were a rowdy bunch. Sister Hildegard was a star in our memories. By the time we graduated from the eighth grade we had embraced the new school. Our escapades had given it some character, some colorful memories and lots of funny stories.

A long sleeve shirt is the order of the morning because the house is chilly. I can feel a breeze coming from my back door, from the south. Outside is warmer. The sun is bright. The day is pretty.

When I was a kid, Sunday was a real day of rest. My neighborhood was quiet. Saturday was the noisy day, the day for the sounds of lawn mowers and of rakes pulled across the cut grass. The lawn mowers were hand mowers. They clicked. The backyards were busy on Saturdays. The wash was hung on clotheslines to dry. All the duplexes up and down the street had their clotheslines in the back, and on my street the backs of the houses faced a grassy hill. You could stand by the clotheslines and see all the backyards in a row, in a straight line down the street. They all looked exactly the same. Little kids, like my two younger sisters, played in the backyards.

Sunday was different, always quiet. Everyone, often whole families together, went to church. The pews were sometimes filled so people stood in the back. I liked standing. I got credit for going without having to do anything. My father ushered at an early mass. After mass, he’d buy the Sunday paper and donuts. As soon as he’d get home, he’d change out of his suit and sit in the chair by the picture window to read the paper. I used to read the Sunday comics. I’d lie on the rug to read them. I never went exploring on Sundays. If I went anywhere, it was with the family. Sunday was the least interesting day of the week.

My sister reminded me old age is not for the faint of heart. I am limping. I again hurt my right leg. I moan when I move, when I walk. Nala is sympathetic. She wags her tail at me and gives me kisses. Henry is disinterested in my plight. The other night I must have slept wrong as my neck hurts if I look to the right. I seem to be falling apart one piece at a time. I’ll keep a list.