Today is a lovely fall day. The air is still. Sun and blue sky are here for the meantime as clouds are predicted for later, but outside is so bright right now that even the brown leaves left on the trees are glistening in the sunlight. It is in the mid-60’s and will stay there most of the day. I was out on the deck earlier. I didn’t even need my sweatshirt.

This morning as I was waiting for my bread to toast I got to wondering. Why do we toast bread for breakfast? Who decided that untoasted bread is not for mornings? I’m sure somewhere on line people have speculated, but I’m not going to look. I like a little mystery.

I remember the first time I voted. I was a senior in college. It was 1968. I had turned twenty-one during the summer, and I had registered to vote right away. I followed the campaigns of both Nixon and Humphrey, but I knew for whom I would cast my vote. My candidate lost. In 1972, my next candidate also lost. I was on a roll, downhill.

During my junior year in college, I used to get up in the early hours on Fridays and go to the wholesale fruit market. I picketed for the grape workers. I remember walking the line one Friday in the rain. I was soaked. A man waiting in his car opened his window and waved at me. I went over. He handed me a rain bonnet, the sort my grandmother wore, and told me to put it on. He said he had a daughter my age.

In the fall of 1968, I went to a George Wallace political rally on Boston Common. I was with 20,000 of my closest friends. To say the crowd was unfriendly is almost polite. He raged against liberals. He said the only four letter words hippies didn’t know were work and soap. “They’re building a bridge over the Potomac for all the white liberals fleeing to Virginia,” was one of his memorable quotes.

I will be watching the results though I know some states will take a few days to tabulate ballots; regardless, I’m doing my best. I’ll have my fingers crossed, I’ll knock on wood and throw salt over my shoulder.

The morning is cloudy and chilly. The backyard has bare trees and a deep carpet of dead leaves. The lawn and deck are covered in brown leaves with curled edges. Gone are the glorious colors of fall. Drab winter is making a headway.

Yesterday I waxed the kitchen floor and hall. I dusted the living room. I am exhausted. Housework does not become me. My flamingo is now a turkey. He is wearing a pilgrim hat, a coat with a turkey tail and has a wattle.

My dance card is full this week with 4 uke events and company coming. I have already planned dinner, and I have a dessert to make or even two if I get really ambitious.

Language changes. Words and phrases are added as others disappear and are lost in time. When I was a kid, other kids had cooties. It was one of the worst insults. We even made cootie catchers out of pieces of paper. Cars were parked by Spot Pond for the submarine races. I really believed there were races. I never noticed all the steamed windows, and I doubt I would have known why if I had. We had party poopers and wet rags. We used to cluck at other kids and call them chicken. My father went to the can. My mother used to say everything is copacetic. I knew what a beatnik was because we watched Doobie Gillis. I remember yelling dibs when I wanted to ride shotgun. Don’t have a cow. Don’t be a fink. I wore pedal pushers and guys wore pegged pants. You gave someone the bird.

Lately I have noticed a few new phrases. People don’t die anymore. They are unalive. I’m hearing the phrase I’m not going to lie peppered in conversations. It always seems to come before an opinion. “Do you want to come with?” Dude is now ubiquitous.

I know I’ve told you before about Ghanaian English. It is both colorful and wonderfully descriptive. “ I went to your house and met your absence,” is my all time favorite. I wasn’t home sounds drab in comparison. “I’m going to come,” my students would say as they were leaving my house. They would return. Obroni waaru was loosely translated as dead white man clothes which were sold in the markets and thought to be castoffs or charity contributions.

I will always be a lover of words.

My calendar is still on October. I’m just not ready for November. The year is far too quickly speeding away. Winter is intruding. 39° will be the low today.

Yesterday my membership in the Organization of Sloths was in jeopardy. I did errands, grocery shopped and washed the kitchen floor. That last chore took a long time. Poor spiders were sent scurrying. They had thought they were safe. I hand scrubbed under bottles and bins and chair legs. Today I’ll wax the floor and fill the bird feeders. I may also nap just to maintain my revered status as a sloth.

When I was a kid, storing my bicycle in the cellar was a sad ritual at the beginning of winter. I rode as long as I could, but the cold got to be too much. The freezing air whipped at my face as I rode down the hills. I needed mittens to hold on to the handlebars. My coat would puff from the wind riding up the sleeves. I had to walk everywhere.

We counted down to Halloween, and we counted down to Christmas. Thanksgiving just sort of happened. We did color turkeys in school and used the outlines of our fingers for their tails, and my mother put up a few cardboard turkeys and Pilgrims on the insides of the windows, but there were no real festivities. There was just turkey and a few days off from school.

When the weather got cold, Saturday matinees started at the movie theater uptown. We went almost every week. My mother gave us ticket money and money for popcorn or candy. She got rid of my brother and me for an entire afternoon for less than a dollar. We walked to the square and stood in line at the ticket window which was on a side wall inside the door. The candy counter was at the top of a small incline. Al owned the theater, and his wife ran the candy counter. The popcorn machine was on one side of the counter. Nothing was better than the aroma of corn popping, but I seldom bought popcorn; instead, I usually bought a long lasting candy like a Sugar Daddy. Coming attractions were usually first followed by a cartoon or two and the movie. The theater was never really quiet. In the back rows were the teenagers. They never watched the movie. I remember walking home in the late afternoon in the early darkness.

As usually my dance card for the week includes uke and not much else. This is the start of the busy season with two concerts this week and three next week. We’ll be playing transportation this week and bluegrass starting next week until December and Christmas music. I do love Christmas music.

It might rain today. I should have expected it as washing the kitchen floor tops my chore list. As for that chore list, my sloth days are over for a bit. I have to clean the house, friends are coming. Those clumps of Henry hair will soon be a memory, at least for a day or two.

When I was a kid, I loved rainy afternoons. I’d get soaked walking home from school. My shoes would bubble at the tops. That always amused me. I’d get home, hang up my wet clothes, put my shoes by the radiator and change into my pajamas. I’d get cozy in bed and read the afternoon away. Sometimes I’d even fall asleep with my open book in hand.

Life is quiet right now. My uke gets me out of the house. Without it, I would be the poster child for slothhood. I like the slower pace, but it did take me a while to get rid of the guilt of choosing to do little.

I met my friends who are coming this week on the first day of what is called staging in Peace Corps lingo, the day you check in to begin your journey. You meet the people with whom you’ll serve and learn more about where you’re going and what the training will be. I remember standing in line for the check in. I chatted with the people around me. That’s when I met Bill and Peg, kindred spirits from New Hampshire. We became accomplices. We did attend sessions, but we also skipped a few. We were in Philadelphia where none of us had ever been so we became tourists. We saw the Liberty Bell, Independence Hall, the art museum with the Rocky steps and the spectacular view from the top of the William Penn building, city hall. Bill and Peg were to be stationed about a 100 miles from me in Tamale then they found out Peg was pregnant. Peace Corps let them stay but moved them to the south a long way from me. We stayed close despite the distance. I saw them during school holidays, and we traveled together. Once back, we lost touch for a long while, but then we found each other again. The years melted away. They are still kindred spirits. We are still the best of friends.

Last night my Hershey bars were a success. Kids showed off the big bars to their waiting parents, and my neighbor told me her daughter told other kids mine was the best house, but I had fewer trick or treaters than usual so I have candy bars still left. I suspect they won’t be left for long.

Today will be warm, 68°. Right now we have sun, but the clouds will be around later. It is quite windy. Everything is blowing. I have a uke concert today. We are playing songs from the 70’s.

Some of my memories drawers are so stuffed I can barely open them. The Ghana drawers are like that. When I was there, I knew I was living a singular experience so I saved the memories. I can still see them all in my mind’s eye, a little bit faded over time but still so vibrant compared to other memories.

In Ghana, my house was on school grounds as were the houses of other tutors as we were called. Mine was a duplex, the last house by the back fence. At night, students would often drop by to visit. Having a white teacher was a curiosity so they’d chat about everything and ask questions about my home and family. On one visit I told them about Halloween. They loved the idea of free candy. On Halloween night, they remembered and showed up at my house and said, “Trick or treat!” Luckily I had peppermint candy, a Ghanaian treat.

My town, the capital of the Upper Region in Ghana, was in the far northeast. It was in the hottest part of the country with a long dry season. Few fruits and vegetables grew there. The local tribe was the FraFras. Many of my students were local but it was a boarding school so they lived in dorms. Everyone in town knew who I was. I think there was only one other white woman. I loved going into town and shopping there on market day, every third day. I wandered all over and bought eggs, beef, garden eggs, tomatoes and onions. The sellers, mostly women, would dash me, give me, a few extra onions or tomatoes. I’d stop at shops and chop bars, sort of restaurants. Everyone greeted me and called me madam. I loved every day. I loved Ghana. I loved my school, my town and my students most of all.

Spirits walk tonight. The veil between the living and the dead is lifted. Sounds echo in the darkness. Fallen leaves crackle under foot. Beams of light from houses radiate in the darkness. Happy Halloween!

I remember being impatient waiting to go trick or treating. My mother was the gatekeeper. The early darkness was deceitful. We’d ask over and over again if it was time. We’d sit in our costumes and wait. Finally, after dinner, she’d let us loose. We carried pillow slips hoping to fill them. We’d start in the neighborhood then go beyond. We knew the houses which always had nickel bars. We also knew the houses which had apples and popcorn balls. Sometimes we’d get pennies or even a nickel pushed into an apple so the apples got checked. They never got eaten. At first all the houses had their outside lights on, invitations to stop and trick or treat. The sidewalks were filled with ghosts, hoboes and cowboys, some in store bought costumes. Ours were always homemade. We went far and wide, but as the night got older, houses went dark. Fewer ghosts and goblins walked the streets. It was time to head home.

At home, we sit on the floor and go through our candy treasures. We opened all the little bags and make three piles, keepers, traders and tosses. The keepers went into big bowls. The traders were negotiated. The tosses were the apples, the popcorn 1and the candy corn. They unceremoniously went into the trash in the kitchen. We’d watch a little TV, mostly the old horror movies like Dracula, The Mummy and Frankenstein, and eat candy. When my mother sent us to bed, we’d take our bowls with us. Mine went under my bed.

All Saints’ Day is the day after Halloween. It is what’s called a holy day of obligation. We didn’t have school, only the public schools did. We had to go to mass, a small price to pay for a free day and a bowl of candy.

Today is beautiful and warm. It will stay sunny with a high of 69°. I am ready for tonight. I already have my candy, nickel bars of Hershey’s chocolate. I do have a couple of errands, but I’m glad to get out and enjoy the day. BOO! BOO!

My deck flowers have drooped. It was just too cold last night. Even Nala was out and back inside quickly. She usually roams the yard. I put a blanket on my bed. With that and the two dogs around me, I was cozy last night.

Today will be cold, in the 40’s. We have sun now, but it’ll disappear. It is a bundle day, a layer against the cold day. It feels like winter.

When I travel, I am a morning person. I am up and about early. I wander. The cities are themselves in the morning with people walking to work, stopping for coffee to go and munching pastry or bread. As for now, I am a night person. I go to bed in the wee hours. The house next door always leaves a light on as does the house behind mine. I love the silence of the night.

I went to St. Patrick’s grammar school for eight years. We had two of each grade. We baby boomers were many. Mostly it was all the same kids in my classes through the years, and I still keep in touch with some of the friends I made back then. I have snippets of memories of those years. I can even still see some of those memories in my mind’s eye. The cloak room outside my first grade classroom is bright in my memories. Every hook was filled with a couple of winter coats, and coats were squeezed between the hooked coats. I remember sitting on the floor to put my boots on.

I remember Mrs. Kerrigan, my second grade teacher. She was old. She wore flowered dresses and old lady black shoes with laces and clunky heels. She lived in a second floor apartment across from the church. In hindsight, I figure she could have been the poster lady for unmarried teachers in the 1950’s and earlier.

I had a nun teacher in the third grade. Our class was in the cellar of the rectory. I mostly liked her. She let Duke my dog stay in the room when he followed me to school. I didn’t like her when she embarrassed me in front of the class by telling me not to sing for the May procession. I didn’t sing in public after that until I started playing the uke.

In the fourth grade we were in double sessions. I had a no nonsense teacher but I liked her. She had gone to high school with my mother. That’s what I remember.

In the fifth grade, I had an enormous nun who mostly sat at her desk. She had favorites. I wasn’t one of them.

The best memories are from the last three grades. I’ll save them for later.

The heat is cranking. It is a cold morning at 49°. It won’t get much warmer. The day, though, is pretty but best seen from inside, out the window. We have bright sun, a blue sky and a breeze, sometimes even a wind. I have no reason to leave the house. I will stay warm and cozy inside.

When I was a kid, I had a small turntable for my records. It was its own carrying case. The records were yellow and red, 78’s. I remember Frosty the Snowman, Home on the Range and a few Disney songs. I used to sing along. I still have a few of those records in an old record case, and I bought a turn table a few years back so I could listen to my old records, the 33 and 1/3 albums, my LP’s, and my 45’s. The record player came with a few discs for the 45’s so they’d fit on the turntable sort of knob in the middle. I like to play the albums when I read. They crackle a bit, but it is a welcome sound, one straight out of my memory drawers. My oldest LP’s are Dylan and Peter, Paul and Mary. I have a Roy Orbison Greatest Hits album I bought in Hyannis. I remember my brother and I had hitched to Hyannis, did a bit of shopping then met up with my father at his office. He was surprised to see us but not pleased we had hitched, but back then we felt safe hitching.

In Ghana I had my cassette recorder and some cassettes of my favorite singers and groups. I played the recorder just about every night. The music was comforting, familiar. I, of course, brought Peter, Paul and Mary along, Album 1700, Joni Mitchell’s Clouds, Simon and Garfunkel’s Bookends and Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young’s Deja Vu. Later, my sister sent me a cassette of songs she had recorded from the radio. None were familiar but became familiar over time.

Nala is a cheeky beast. I was in the bathroom, and she stopped at the bathroom door and looked at me defiantly. She had a napkin in her mouth stolen off the den table. She took it outside and shredded it.

Yesterday I crossed the dump off my to-do list, but I added washing the kitchen floor and polishing the furniture. The list is never ending. I think I’ll start writing it in calligraphy, more of a work of art than a chore list.

If you look in the dictionary at the definition of fall, you’d see a description of today. The sun is brilliant. The sky is a Crayola blue, a perfect cerulean color. The every now and then breeze ruffles even the top most branches. It is 49° but will reach the mid-50’s today. I didn’t get out yesterday so today is dump day. I did fill the bird feeders. This morning, I watched out the window while my coffee was brewing. For the first time, a couple of blue jays dropped by but didn’t stay. I was glad. They are pigs who scare away the small birds. The chickadees came right back.

I spent too much of the time I have remaining here on Earth on the phone this morning. I was trying to refill a prescription. I jumped between two web sites trying to find a person. I was not successful, but I got close. My patience, not my long suit, finally gave out so I’ll try again tomorrow.

In Ghana, time was described as European or Ghanaian. Even though I was from the US, I was considered European because I am white. If you invited Ghanaians to your house, they would always ask Ghanaian or European time. European time was punctual. Ghanaian time was whenever. When I traveled a distance, I used to take government buses because they left on time. Local lorries left when they were full. I’d sit in the shade sometimes for a few hours before the lorry would leave. I have never been as patient as I was when I lived in Ghana.

When I was a kid, the time of day was only important on weekdays and Sunday mornings, for school and for church. My mother was the timekeeper. She made sure we were never late. She always added a few extra minutes in case we meandered. All the rest of the time was ours. We didn’t need watches. After school we played outside until the streetlights turned on, later in summer and earlier in winter. Saturdays were timeless. I just needed to be home for supper.

As for now, I don’t wear a watch. Most of every day is mine to do what I want or to do nothing, which is often my choice. Time is only important if I have an obligation like an appointment. I just make sure I leave to arrive on time.

The dump closes at 4. I figure to leave the house no later than 3:30. My next obligation is uke practice on Tuesday. Until then, I’m on my own.

The morning is cloudy and still. It will stay partly cloudy all day or partly sunny if you lean toward optimism. It is 58° and won’t get much higher. I have a couple of errands including the dump. I have a couple of chores, fill the feeders and water the plants, a sort of fauna and floral list.

Yesterday, after my concert, I took the long way home. I saw ghosts, giant black cats, pumpkins and one shark in front of houses on the back road. I noticed many of the trees have bare branches and fallen leaves cover the sides of the road. Fall is winding down and will soon have to make way for winter. Here in New England, every season has its turn.

When I think back, I remember places and people now gone. They sit waiting in my memory drawers for their turn to be recalled. If I close my eyes, I can see moments frozen in time.

When I was a kid, we moved out of the city, out of South Boston. I was four and already a city kid. I played on the hot top behind our apartment building in between the clothes lines, on the sidewalks and on the parking lot across the street. I have memories of back then. I can still see the tall chain link fence around the lines in the backyard. I’d climb it and then jump off. I jumped off backwards a few times then had my mother watch my grand feat. When I landed, I hurt my wrist bracing myself. It was my worst performance. My mother told me the after story. She was worried about my wrist and called my grandfather. He told her to move it a bit. I was sleeping at the time. She told him I never moved or made a sound. I just kept sleeping. My grandfather suggested she have it x-rayed. The wrist was fractured. I was quite proud of my cast.

Soon after we moved, my brother and I went exploring. We walked down the hill out of the neighborhood. We saw a stream behind some houses and checked it out. We put small branches in the stream and watched them float. We built a bit of a dam with rocks. We stayed there a while. I still remember where the stream was. It is gone now, but the houses are still there. We kept wandering. We didn’t realize we were lost explorers. Our parents got worried. The police found us walking on the sidewalk a distance from the house. I thought it was an adventure, my very first adventure.