It is 79° and sunny though the clouds come and go. Rain is predicted for later. A strong breeze comes every now and then but does little to cool the air. I’ve turned on my fan. Nala has stopped panting and has fallen asleep with the breeze cooling her.

I have perfected being a sloth though yesterday I did sweep the floor as the dog hair had formed balls mostly in the hall, and I couldn’t take them anymore. I also had a concert, the usual Monday concert in Hyannis. That was the reason I got dressed. Most days I prefer to sit around in my comfies. My dogs reflect my lifestyle. They are both napping, the first of many naps. They sprawl. They don’t even move when I walk over them into the kitchen. I admire that.

When I was a kid, I never had quiet days, even in the rain. I had the playground with all of its activities, and I had my bike to fill in for any slow spots. I knew the best places in my town. A horse barn was behind the town hall. I used to look in from the open door at the stalls and the horses. The building is still there, but the horses are long gone. I’d walk the tracks. I always jumped over the double O railroad ties so my mother’s back wouldn’t break. That seemed perfectly reasonable to me. My mother never did break her back thanks to my jumping. I kept my heroics secret.

The junkman’s house was near the horse barn. The porch leaned. It had high piles of newspapers. A barn was beside the house. It is where he kept his horses. The clop of the horses on the street and the voice of the junkman calling for newspaper and rags always had me running to watch him go by the house. I didn’t realize back then that the days of the junkman and his wagon were numbered. They would be replaced by trash trucks.

My childhood was on the cusp of the old and the new. We still had that junkman, a knife sharpener on his bicycle with his grinding wheel propelled by the pedals, a milkman with clinking bottles against the metal bottle holder who delivered milk and left it in a case on the back steps and hand propelled lawn mowers which clicked and clicked as they cut the grass. I never thought about them disappearing, and they did disappear, replaced by trucks and machines which had no amazing sounds and no personalities.

The older I get the more nostalgic I am. Mind you, I don’t advocate going back to the old days. I do enjoy modern creature comforts, but I miss the fun of those days, of watching the sparks fly off the grinding wheel, of running to Johnny’s ice cream truck with a nickel for a popsicle, root beer if has one, and watching the horses drop poop on the road. We waited for and laughed at that last one. Every kid loves poop stories.

This morning is lovely. The house holds the coolness of last night. A bright sun is shining, and the blue sky is cloudless. The breeze is so slight the leaves barely move. Only the songs of some birds disturb the silence. It is only 71°, but the day will get warmer, as high as 78°. Henry is beside me sleeping on the couch. Nala is outside lying in the sun on her favorite spot. If I were to design the perfect summer’s day, it would be today.

I did get to the dump yesterday. It was crowded. Cars waited in line to get into the dump, to drop off recyclables and to dump their trash. My Sunday trash run has been a habit dating back to when I worked. It is time to pick a different day. I’m thinking Thursdays.

When I was a kid, my father always dragged out the barrels on trash day before he went to work. He’d line them up on the curb. When he got home, he’d drag them back to the yard. I remember the trash truck. It was a town truck. A couple of guys who held on to the back jumped off when the truck stopped at barrels. Their clothes were always filthy. I figured they were trash day clothes. The truck was noisy. The back presser would make the loudest noise when it compacted the trash. The trucks went to the town dump to drop off their trash. I didn’t know there was a town dump for the longest time. Here on the cape, you can pay private companies for trash pick-up or you can pay for a town dump sticker, an expensive dump sticker, but people prefer to pay for the sticker, a cheaper option in the long run, and go to the dump themselves. I always meet people I know at the dump. It is also the spot for candidates in local elections to say hello, shake hands and ask for votes.

When I was in Ghana, during my first year, we were forbidden to drive a car or own a motorcycle. The exceptions to the motorcycle rule were guys who were track coaches and had to travel from school to school. The Peace Corps gave them motos as the Ghanaians called them. The rule was changed for all of us my second year so I bought a Honda 90. I bought that size because I always wore a dress, and the 90 kept me modest, not straddled over the middle of a larger bike. I remember my first ride. It was when I bought the bike and rode from Tamale to Bolga, a trip of 162 kilometers or 101 miles. I loved every mile except for the bugs I swallowed. I stopped a couple of times just to stretch my legs. Lorries and cars honked as they passed by me. People waved from them and from villages I passed on the way. It felt as if I was flying. It was remarkable.

The air is so thick, as the saying goes, you can cut it with a knife. It is damp, wet. The sky is cloudy. It is breezy, a constant breeze. The temperature is only 69°, a chilly morning. It might rain. Today is dump day, and the weather is perfect for a trip to the dump. I’d hate to waste sunshine on trash.

Henry has become suspicious of me. When I let him in, I sometimes spray his infection and rub his eyes with an anti-itch medication. This morning I did neither. I figured it would keep him off-balance and make him less suspicious.

Sunday has always been my least favorite day of the week. When I was a kid, if it weren’t for Sunday dinners, it would have been a completely wasted day. Sunday mornings meant mass, enough said about that. Some afternoons we’d visit my grandparents. My sisters loved to go to East Boston to visit as they had cousins to play with. I was too old for play. My aunt, five months younger than I, was unpleasant. She hated that so many of her siblings and their families visited. She usually stayed in her room, out of bounds for everybody. What I did love was the pasta. My grandmother always had a giant pot of pasta on the stove, sometimes shells, my favorite. It had that day after taste when the pasta and the sauce have melded perfectly. She kept Parmesan cheese and a grater on the table. I covered my pasta with a layer of that cheese then mixed the heavenly concoction. Sometimes there was Italian bread, and I’d cut a slice, an imperfect slice. I’d sit at the kitchen table between the aunts to eat.

During the school year, on Sunday nights, we had to go to bed early. “School tomorrow,” was always my mother’s reason as if Saturday and Sunday had so discombobulated our usual routines we had to be retrained. I’d usually read a little before my mother would yell up the stairs for me to turn off my light. I’d sometimes keep reading with a flashlight or my headboard lamp, hidden under covers.

The week began when my mother woke us up on Monday mornings. Every weekday had the same pattern between waking up and going to bed. It was a groove.

Last night got downright chilly, the low 50’s. I shut a few windows and closed doors. Today is another delightful day. It is 77°, the high for the day. The breeze is strong and northern. The leaves are jumping, twisting and turning. The sun shines framed by a lighter blue sky.

Since I was little, Saturday has been my favorite day. I’d stay in my pajamas, sit on the rug in front of the TV and watch all the Saturday morning programs. I’d eat my Rice Krispies. I always lifted the bowl to my ear to hear Snap, Crackle and Pop. By mid-morning, I was ready to get dressed and roam on my bicycle, my sort of trusty steed. My bike was a three season bike. Only in winter did it often stay in the cellar. In the cold, snowy weather my ice skates and my sled became my substitute trusty steeds though they were not for roaming. I sledded on my hill and skated either at the nearby swamp or at the park a few blocks from my house. I walked there. By late afternoon, I was usually home.

When I was older, I’d sleep in on Saturdays because Friday nights were busy. My friends and I often went out. My school dances were on Fridays. Some Fridays we’d bowl. I was always a bad bowler. Three balls were never enough. Mine tended to the gutters. If I hit even a couple of pins, it was time for celebration. We’d sometimes just get together at one of our houses. We’d play games. We’d eat snacks, usually chips and pizza. Saturday nights were usually unplanned, open for whatever. I remember one Saturday night my friend Jimmy and I went square dancing at Marconi Hall, the town’s social hub for special events, memorable family parties, birthday celebrations and after funeral get togethers. When we got to the door, we were stopped. The square dancing was an adult event, but it was decided we could join. That was one of the best nights. We do-si-doed all night. We were exhausted. I remember a slow walk home.

Saturday in Ghana for me wasn’t special. It was a regular day, just not a teaching day. Sometimes a Saturday was market day. I loved market days and always went to town. I went to my usual tables for eggs, onions and tomatoes then I roamed around looking for surprises. Sometimes I’d buy cloth for a new dress. I’d buy a chicken. The chickens were tied to a rope stretched across the ground. I’d walk around the lines looking for a plump chicken. My choice was handed to me with its feet tied. It would be Saturday’s dinner. I’d fill my shepherd’s bag, put it around the handle on one side of my moto then I’d put the chicken on the other side. On Saturday afternoons, I’d sit around to read and listen to music. Sometimes I’d nap. In the evenings students often came to visit, a Saturday only event.

When I was home and teaching, I never did school work on a Saturday. It was my free day. It was my favorite day. We’d often get together at somebody’s house, have a few drinks, some snacks and some great conversation. Sometimes we’d go out to eat, nowhere fancy.

Since my retirement, I think of every day as a Saturday, open and free for happenstance.

Today is sunny and cloudy and sunny again. It is warm at 79°. The air is thick and still. I don’t hear anything, not even a bird. Nala is napping on the couch while Henry is napping on the floor by the back door. My house is dark. I can feel a bit of air coming from the north window. Tonight will again get down to the 50’s.

My life has been interesting. When I was a kid, that is what I hoped my life would be. I wanted to travel, to see the world. It didn’t matter where I traveled, just traveling would be enough. I did figure Europe would be first, probably England and maybe Ireland. That, of course, didn’t happen. Ghana was my first stop.

I remember much of my life in moments. On a Sunday in January 1969, I remember answering the door, getting a special delivery letter and bounding up the stairs to my apartment where I tore it open while I was standing in the living room right in front of the TV. That was the moment I got my Peace Corps letter.

When I was graduating from high school, they gave out scholarships during the ceremony. I was called up twice. I remember my father sort of sitting up off his chair mouthing to me, “How much?” That was one moment. My mother made chicken parmigiana for the party after graduation. That was another.

During baccalaureate, when I was a senior in college, I was part of the communion procession. I don’t remember what I carried, but I do remember hearing my father’s cough. He had a distinctive, smoker’s cough, and I recognized it right away. I was happy to know he was there.

I was confirmed when I was in the sixth grade. I wore a white gown with a red collar and red beanie. We had practiced our roles. I remember one moment of that ceremony. The nun had warned us about the slap. The bishop would lightly slap us to symbolize we were now soldiers of Christ. I knelt on the red kneeler in front of the altar. The bishop went from one to another of us slapping our cheeks and saying, “Peace be with you,” I remember being a little nervous, but the slap barely made an impression. They don’t slap any more.

I remember during my first two weeks of Peace Corps training my language instructor took us to a market. The first table I saw had round, dark balls on it. Lawal, my language instructor, told us the balls were dried goat dung which would be used as fuel. That disgusted me. I ran out of the market and threw up in the sewer. I remember a crowd watching me. A few weeks later, a friend and I were chatting while standing on a board across an open sewer. I didn’t notice. The goat dung fiasco was a moment in what seemed eons ago. Market day in my town was my favorite day, and they sold goat dung balls.

The rain has finally disappeared. Today is as perfect a summer day as anyone can imagine. It is 71°. The high will only be 75°, and tonight will get down to the 50’s. The bright sun is framed by a beautiful blue sky. The breeze is strong. The branches sway. The leaves turn over, left and right. The house is still cool from last night. The dogs are sleeping. All is right with my world.

Henry is skeptical of me. He comes inside reluctantly. He suspects I might spray his yeast infection or rub anti-itch on the outside of his eyes which are red from his allergy. I hide pain pills in his food. He only gets them once a day now, in the late afternoon, when his limp is still a bit pronounced after he sort of runs around all day. Poor Henry!

When I was nearly twelve, my friend invited me to a Red Sox game. Her sister worked for the Sox. It was a night game, a magical game. In my excitement, I tripped on the front steps when I was running to the car, and I sprained my ankle. I didn’t care. I was not going to miss that game. I limped all the rest of the evening. We got to Fenway in time for batting practice. I remember walking out from the concourse to the field. The lights were so bright it was like mid-day, and the grass was as green as any grass I’d ever seen. I caught a ball. My friend’s sister took it to get signed. I had that ball for the longest time. I don’t know what happened to it. We had great seats. I was enthralled. We ate hot dogs and peanuts. The peanut shells surrounded my feet. We sang Take Me Out to the Ballgame. That the Sox lost was, for me, no nevermind.

My memory drawers are filled with images. They are the way I remember best. When I close my eyes, I can see the memories. I remember walking to school across the field thinking it was a shortcut. I can still see the houses on the street. I passed them every school day for eight years. In my mind’s eye, when I drive through the square, I remember all the stores which were once uptown. The corner stores, the red store and the white store, neither of which was really on a corner, are still there in my memories. Walking into the red store, the first thing you saw was a display of Hostess products. In the white store, on the inside right was the penny candy display case. My mind’s eye is weirdly selective.

My dance card is empty until Monday’s concert. I have no lists. I have no must do chores. I have a book to read.

The morning is cloudy, dark and muggy. It is in the high 70’s where it will stay all day, but the breeze, luckily, is a strong one. It is coming from the south. There is a 59%’chance of a thunder shower later this afternoon. I do love thunder showers.

Summer rains are often gentle. When I was a kid, I’d stay outside in the rain. Getting wet was cooling, and my clothes dried quickly in the summer heat. I’d listen to the thunder and be amazed by the lightning. Thunder has a personality. Sometimes it rumbles while other times it cracks and seems to shake the house. My dogs don’t mind the thunder, but if it is loud, they check the ceiling. I once saw lightning hit the ground close to my house. It was jagged and looked like a kid’s drawing of what lightning should be. I sort of forgot myself in the excitement. I was standing under a metal overhang in the front of my house, but the lightning ignored me.

Some days just feel right. I felt that just about every summer day when I was a kid. I had no obligations, no chores and nothing I had to do except enjoy the day. At the playground, I had group tennis lessons a few mornings a week then my coach decided to give me individual lessons the other mornings. I loved tennis. I loved smashing the ball. The rackets were wooden. A wooden frame was attached to the rackets to store them and keep them from warping. The coach brought the rackets. My favorite had a red shaft. At the courts, the air was filled with the sounds of rackets hitting balls. It was a distinctive sound. During the day, I’d do crafts, play horseshoes and checkers. In the afternoons, after lunch, we had softball games against the other playgrounds. I was a pitcher and a first baseman. We won more than we lost. Every rainless summer day was filled with fun. I always slept well.

Last night I had a fluffernutter for dinner with extra crunchy peanut butter. I slathered the white bread with Marshmallow Fluff on one side and peanut butter on the other. The Fluff oozed a bit out the sides, but I caught it with my tongue. It was like keeping ice cream from melting down the cone. Both are feats at which kids excel.

I will be mostly lazy today. The only thing I need to do is vacuum. The balls of fur strewn about the floor are too many to ignore. I have noticed spider webs around the house, especially in the corners and joining one thing to another. I make sure the spiders are elsewhere before I clear the webs. My to-do list has nothing else.

The days are still delightful. Right now it is wonderfully sunny and morning cool at 73°. The nights have been in the high 50’s or low 60’s so sleep comes easily. I know the hot days of August are coming closer so I will revel in today.

On July 20th 1969, Neil Armstrong was the first man to set foot on the moon. It was televised, but I didn’t see it. I was in the middle of my Peace Corps training. It was live-in time. I was staying in Bawku with a Ghanaian family, my new family. My group was the smallest language group. We were learning Hausa. We met every day for lunch and more language instruction. On this day, in 1969, we ate lunch sitting around the radio listening to a reporter from the VOA, the Voice of America, describe the moon landing. We had to imagine. People were glued to their TV’s. They saw. We heard.

During my 2+ years in Ghana, the Peace Corps tried to keep us connected to what was happening at home. Every week they sent us the New York Times Week in Review. I read it, but the news seemed remote. My life was centered around learning a new language, adapting to living in a very different country, eating strange foods and fighting homesickness. The events were disconnected from my reality. I was in Africa. I shopped in the market every third day. I bought my chickens live. I hoped my eggs hadn’t been sat on by a hen. I hoped they were good eggs. I bought meat from the very dirty meat market sold by a man in an equally dirty apron. The meat was wrapped in banana leaves. I stopped noticing the dirt. It just was. My showers were always cold. Life was centered around my school where I lived and worked and my town. I lost track of the rest of the world. I was delighting in my new world.

My dance card is pretty much the same as last week’s. It is uke heavy.

Last night the rain was, at times, torrential. It drummed the metal top of the barbecue. The back door was open so the kitchen floor below it got soaked. The dogs looked out the door and back pedaled away from the rain. A lovely morning has followed the storm. It is sunny, and the sky is an amazing Crayola cerulean blue without a single cloud. It is 72°’, but a strong, intermittent breeze makes it feel cooler. Tonight will go down to the 50’s. Today is the best sort of a Cape Cod summer day.

Ukulele gets me out of the house. Without it I would be the consummate sloth. I have outside and inside clothes. Outside clothes are presentable. Inside clothes are comfortable and sometimes don’t match. I just grab whatever clothes are handy. That they often clash is no never mind. The dogs don’t care if they do. They are my only audience.

When I was a kid, I had to wear dresses or skirts to Sunday mass. I wore a uniform to school, a skirt and a blouse and regular shoes, not sneakers. The first thing I always did when I got home was put my school clothes away and put on my comfy clothes. In winter I wore girly jeans, ones where the zipper was in the front pocket, and a long sleeve jersey. I wore what once were white sneakers. They had pointed toes, the style back then. I was never a fan of going to mass and having to sort of dress up made it even a bit more miserable. In Ghana, I had to wear a dress every day. I had no really comfy clothes, but I didn’t mind. That was the custom, and my dresses were beautiful, made from native cloth, and dresses were cooler than pants.

I can’t even remember the last time I wore a dress. I used to wear one out to dinner every Easter. I have two spring like dresses, both with tiny flowers. They are in the back of my closet. I suspect they are quite wrinkled. I can’t think of a time when I’ll have to wear them again.

Sunday dinners were always my favorite meals of the week. They were special even on an ordinary Sunday. My mother always served a roast. She’d stuff the chicken. She’d place pieces of onion on the top of the roast beef. I usually tried to steal a piece of that onion. Her mashed potatoes seldom had any lumps. She’d serve them with a big melting piece of butter in the middle. When I’d get my potatoes, the melted butter would ooze down the side, and I’d fill the serving spoon with those butter covered potatoes. A pile of peas finished out my plate.

On my dance card is a uke concert tomorrow, Tuesday and Wednesday and my usual practice and lesson. It is a big outside clothes week.

The morning is delightful. It is breezy, sunny and cool at 72°. I had to shut the window behind me because the breeze felt a bit chilly. The high today will only be 80°. Tonight the temperature will go down to 61°. That’s light blanket and snuggle with the dogs weather.

I have to do a few house chores. The fur tumbleweeds are back and the plants need watering. I’d make my bed, but I suspect I’ll nap later. I went to bed in the wee hours but woke up early anyway. I enjoy the single digit late night hours when my house is the only one alive, the only one with lights, but I also enjoy the early mornings when the birds are singing and everything else is quiet, a conundrum of sorts.

I was young when we spent a Saturday on a lake with our neighbors, Janet and Buddy. Around the lake was grassy. I remember at one end of the lake was a snack bar with window service. With two families we were many so we settled at a couple of picnic tables beside each other. They were the closest tables to the water. The lake had a slide into the water and one of those old time pulley zip lines with a stick which you held to with your hands while gravity moved you. My brother and I went down the slide over and over. It was so much fun when the slide shot us into the water. My father did the pulley line and held on to the stick until almost the end of the line when he dropped into the water. Janet, our neighbor, was a big woman. She decided to try the zip line. We and just about everyone else watched her. Janet grabbed the stick, jumped off from the land and promptly fell into the lake. It was not pretty. A plume of water like a waterspout shot up when she hit the lake. She disappeared for a bit then resurfaced. She was fine. The crowd was entertained. I can still picture the moment she hit the water. For an unknown reason, this one day, this small event, has been tucked into my memory drawers for a long while. I always find it strange what stays.