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“There is a garden in every childhood, an enchanted place where colors are brighter, the air softer, and the morning more fragrant than ever again.”

July 15, 2011

The day is so beautiful I couldn’t bear to go inside so my mac and I are on the deck and so is Gracie. She is in the shaded corner and is asleep so deeply the tip of her tongue is out. The day is filled with sounds. I can hear the different birds as if in stereo, and I can hear the rattle when they land on one of the larger feeders. The fountain, though, one of my favorite sounds was quiet until I added water. Gracie thinks it’s here for her as it is the exact right height. She drinks out of it often so I keep water on the deck for refilling purposes.

Last night was cold, sweatshirt cold, and my feet needed slippers before they got warm. It was 56°, September weather. Tonight will be in the 60’s, perfect for sleeping. A few days ago I had the AC blasting, and I couldn’t even stay on the deck for the heat.

Sometimes I want to be ten years old again. Nothing bothered me then. I didn’t care about the heat or the cold. Bugs were fun and grasshoppers were the most fun. In my mind’s eye I can still see the brown field below our house and the grasshoppers which jumped in front of our every step. Our hands were quick then and we could catch them in the air. Running through the field and catching brown grasshoppers was a game, and we always let them go.

When I was ten, every new day was filled with adventure. My future was the afternoon and never beyond it in time. We lived for that day and no further until the next day, and it too was the only day. Some nights we’d sleep in the backyard, but that always a spur of the moment decision. We’d put the old tarp my dad kept in the cellar over the grass and bring out pillows and blankets. I never felt the hardness of the ground. I was involved in the adventure.

When I was ten, every day was a wonder. Since my retirement, almost every day is mine, and I am again finding that sense of wonder, but unlike the ten year old me, I have to plan and make appointments, and I begrudge losing even a minute of my day. I do more spur of the moment things than I have in years, but sleeping on the hard ground doesn’t happen to be one of them.

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Comments: 8 Comments

“He has Van Gogh’s ear for music.”

July 14, 2011

All that heat and humidity of the last two days gave way to an amazing thunder and lightning storm last night. It was fantastic. I sat by the window so I wouldn’t miss the lightning. The rain poured for the longest time, and it was still raining when I went to bed. Today is amazing. It’s the sort of day I’d invent if I were Mother Nature. It’s 66° and breezy, but the sun is hot. Tonight is predicted to be in the high 50’s. Now, where did I put that blanket?

When I was young, I used to sing out loud. I didn’t know you were supposed to be on key. After I found out how horribly I sang, I didn’t sing out loud in front of anyone again. I still sing in the car, and I remember the 100 mile trip from Tamale to Bolgatanga on my new motorcycle, a Honda 90, when I sang out loud for almost the whole trip. I even sang Christmas carols as I remember the words to them best of all.

I am a terrible dancer. I have no rhythm. Even when I was young, I was a terrible dancer. It was only in the crush of the crowd on the dance floor that I would dance. It was my way of staying anonymous. But when I was young, I was an extraordinary skipper. I could even skip all the way to school if I wanted. I was also a wonderful hopper on either leg because I had a great sense of balance. We always walked on one railroad track to see who could go the longest without falling off. I usually won.

I could never get the hula hoop to stay on my hips. It would turn once or twice then fall to the floor. My friends could walk while still spinning that hoop. I was always a bit jealous. When I was  in Ghana, my mother sent me one of those wooden paddles with the red ball on an elastic. Many nights we went out back and had contests to see how long we could keep the ball going. I may not have had hip coordination, but I could that ball bouncing well into the three hundreds.

I was a good athlete and a darn good softball pitcher. I played basketball as well. That was in the days of half court girls’ games, and I played defense so I could never shoot the ball, and I was stuck in the backcourt. Back then you could only dribble a couple of times before you had to pass. I was the secret weapon strong enough to throw the ball down the whole court. I’d throw it to our lone, undefended offensive player waiting for the ball under the basket. She almost always scored.

I always think it a bit ironic that my blog posts music, but I still sing along quite loudly. It’s for the joy of  music.

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“Gratitude is the memory of the heart.”

July 12, 2011

The day is cloudy and humid, but a breeze makes it tolerable. A thundershower is predicted for later. I would have guessed. I can feel it in the air.

One of the joys of Coffee has been the people who drop by to visit. I have friends I haven’t ever met, but they are friends almost as close to me as the ones I see all the time. A few disappeared without a by your leave or a note. I still miss Richard and his comments, his pictures and his trips to the farmers’ market. Chris was one of the first Coffee people, but he’s been gone a long while from here as has Dan from Canada. Rick told me how my former Blogger site had been high-jacked so I suspect some of my old friends think I’m the one who disappeared though this site pops up before the old one on a Google search. My friends are from all over. One of my best lives in Australia and another in Sweden. My friend from Canada makes the funniest, often drollest comments, sends great youtube sites and has helped de-mystify my mac. A couple live in South Africa. In the US we’re talking a great friend in Ohio, another in California, one in Florida, another in Maine who usually stops by every day to say hi and whose life seems to parallel mine, and a couple in Texas. Every day I can count on Zoey & Me and Christer to stop and comment. Splendid comes by when she can and always leaves a comment. Morphy is also a hit or miss visitor. He made the different headers I’ve been using, and I love all of them. Bob too drops by a lot, and if my wishes ever came true, he and Rick would get the rain they need. There are more Coffee people but these are the most faithful and the reasons I write every day. If I haven’t said thank you, consider this a huge one.

Categories: Musings

Comments: 41 Comments

“Small children disturb your sleep, big children your life.”

July 11, 2011

For me it’s still early, and I’ve already been busy. First was a blood test which meant no coffee when I woke up-a painful way to start the day. Then I got yelled at to slow down by an elderly lady who had turned the corner halfway into my lane such that I had to stop or be hit. She looked panicked. Next was the pharmacy then Dunkin’ Donut’s where I ordered an iced coffee with equal and cream. She repeated my order: hot, black and medium. Slowly, distinctly and loudly I tried again. I figured take away the loudly and it was like practicing Ghanaian English for my trip. Such was my morning.

It’s a deck day no question about it. I have a few things to do this afternoon, but I’m staying outside and lolling for as long as I can. Today makes me grateful I’m retired.

My house has no shades. I wanted it that way. When I was a kid, my mother put the shades down all over the house on hot summer days. She was trying to keep the house cool, but it was always dark and cave-like to me, cooler definitely but still cave-like. The kitchen was the only room with light because the back door was always open to the screen door. I remember that screen door perfectly and can still see and place it in my mind’s eye. It was wooden and painted dark green. It never shut slowly but always slammed. The screen was one piece and was replaced every fall by the storm door which shut more slowly because of the weight of the glass. We never walked out the screen door; we always ran and it always slammed.

I loved our house in South Yarmouth. It was close to everything, and my brother and I had our own rooms. We were on the first floor while my parents and my sisters were on the second. The house had a dormer added later so the stairs were behind a door and couldn’t be seen from the living room. That also meant my brother and I couldn’t be heard. He sneaked out a lot. I didn’t. Most times, he was lucky enough to get home before my father woke up. Once he didn’t and all hell broke loose. My father yelled at me figuring I was a co-conspirator, but I wasn’t as I had no idea where he’d gone. I only vaguely remembered hearing him leave through his window. I was surprised my father didn’t think to nail his windows shut because in a short while my brother was back to his nighttime escapades.

I always think it interesting the memories we keep.

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“Childhood is measured out by sounds and smells and sights, before the dark hour of reason grows.”

July 8, 2011

Today is a favorite sort of days. Earlier, I was awakened by the sound of a torrential rain storm. The rain came straight down and pounded the deck and umbrellas. That was the sound I heard: rain hitting the umbrellas, almost as good as rain on a tin roof. The rain stopped quickly giving me enough time to run for the papers. In a bit after that, it started again but far more gently. The day is dark, and I have turned on a light. Sitting in my house surrounded by rain with a single light brightening the room gives me a cozy feeling, a feeling of being safe and warm and dry. Those feelings coupled with the wonderful sounds of rain are why this sort of day is a favorite.

Yesterday a giant crow used my deck as a perch. I heard him first and looked out the window to investigate the sounds I was hearing. He was strutting up and down and stopping occasionally to caw. I think it’s the same crow who visits often. He never eats from the feeders but just sits on a branch near the deck making noise or preening his feathers. I think he’s beautiful. I also think he’s huge.

As a kid, I don’t remember ever watching birds, except seagulls. Flowers and gardens went unnoticed, but the garbage truck got a great deal of attention as did the garbage man. The rag man too was a favorite with his horse and wagon. Back then, my world was filled with people who did the neatest things and roamed the neighborhoods offering their services. The sharpening knives and scissors man rode a bicycle and shouted as he pedaled through. My mother sometimes sent me with her knives. The milk man came every other day, and I could hear the clinking of the bottles and the sound of his truck left running as he went from neighbor to neighbor. The trash truck came once a week, and my dad dragged his barrels to the sidewalk before he left for work. The ice cream man came about the same time every afternoon. He had a bell, a sound we all recognized as belonging to Johnny and his truck. The paperboy threw our paper against the front door usually about an hour before school. He came around himself to collect for the paper every week. We knew the mailman. He was on our route for years. Around my birthday, I’d sit on the steps and wait for him to come hoping he was bringing cards with a bit of cash inside.

I have a newspaper person who delivers before I’m awake. I’ve never seen her even though she’s delivered my papers for years. Bill is my mailman, and he waves from his truck as he leaves the mail in the box across the street. If I have a package, he’ll walk it over to my house. My landscaper lives next door.

My childhood was wonderfully filled with the most interesting people who were pieces in the fabric of my life. Some came every day, some less often, but I knew them. They were like friends in an odd sort of way. Now I only have two I know and one I don’t. It makes my world emptier and far less interesting.

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“The traveler sees what he sees, the tourist sees what he has come to see.”

July 7, 2011

The day is already hot; yesterday was hot. I am inside right now with the air conditioner on and am quite comfortable, but, because the back door has to be shut, Gracie is driving me crazy. She rings her doggie bells to go out and a couple of minutes later flaps the dog door to come back inside. I think it’s a test. Either that or she’s out to drive me crazy. After I finish here, I’ll join her on the deck while there is still a breeze.

This morning I got my yellow fever shot for Ghana and a lecture from the doctor. He told me to wear cotton socks and sneakers: New Balance was his suggestion, and he thought two pairs of socks a day would be best, and I should travel with large zip-lock bags so I can store my muddy sneakers. Never wear sandals is what he said. Your feet could get horribly sunburned, and there is danger of rocks getting between your feet and the bottom of your sandals which could cause cuts which would lead to infections. He didn’t mention possible amputation from wide-spread infection, but I thought that’s where he was heading. Avoiding packs of dogs was another suggestion. I never once saw a pack of dogs; herds of goats is as close as I got. He said he assumed I was going economy so he was giving me a series of exercises to avoid blood clots. I took the paper and didn’t correct him. I figured with my t-shirt having a hole or two and my wearing rubber flip flops the assumption made sense. He gave me a pamphlet warning me about armed robbery, war in the north and the poor quality of hotels in Ghana. I just thanked him and left. I didn’t tell him I won’t be bringing socks or sneakers, and up north is exactly where I want to go, including Bawku which had had gunfire a year ago between robbers and police.

If I listen to the doctor, I can imagine what my new packing list will look like: sunscreen for my feet, pairs and pairs of old socks (old because the doctor suggested I could just throw them away after wearing them), sneakers, a bullet proof vest and one of those wrist locks connecting me and my suitcase. I just hope no one thanks of chopping off my wrist. It could get infected.

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Comments: 20 Comments

“The traveler sees what he sees, the tourist sees what he has come to see.”

July 7, 2011

The day is already hot; yesterday was hot. I am inside right now with the air conditioner on and am quite comfortable, but, because the back door has to be shut, Gracie is driving me crazy. She rings her doggie bells to go out and a couple of minutes later flaps the dog door to come back inside. I think it’s a test. Either that or she’s out to drive me crazy. After I finish here, I’ll join her on the deck while there is still a breeze.

This morning I got my yellow fever shot for Ghana and a lecture from the doctor. He told me to wear cotton socks and sneakers: New Balance was his suggestion, and he thought two pairs of socks a day would be best, and I should travel with large zip-lock bags so I can store my muddy sneakers. Never wear sandals is what he said. Your feet could get horribly sunburned, and there is danger of rocks getting between your feet and the bottom of your sandals which could cause cuts which would lead to infections. He didn’t mention possible amputation from wide-spread infection, but I thought that’s where he was heading. Avoiding packs of dogs was another suggestion. I never once saw a pack of dogs; herds of goats is as close as I got. He said he assumed I was going economy so he was giving me a series of exercises to avoid blood clots. I took the paper and didn’t correct him. I figured with my t-shirt having a hole or two and my wearing rubber flip flops the assumption made sense. He gave me a pamphlet warning me about armed robbery, war in the north and the poor quality of hotels in Ghana. I just thanked him and left. I didn’t tell him I won’t be bringing socks or sneakers, and up north is exactly where I want to go, including Bawku which had had gunfire a year ago between robbers and police.

If I listen to the doctor, I can imagine what my new packing list will look like: sunscreen for my feet, pairs and pairs of old socks (old because the doctor suggested I could just throw them away after wearing them), sneakers, a bullet proof vest and one of those wrist locks connecting me and my suitcase. I just hope no one thanks of chopping off my wrist. It could get infected.

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Comments: 20 Comments

“It’s always the badly dressed people who are the most interesting.”

July 5, 2011

I’m outside on the deck where a wonderful breeze is keeping me cool. When I went inside to get my mac and read my e-mail, I was hot and sticky in no time, even in the still shady part of the house. Today is going to be a scorcher, 88°, the hottest day yet, but if the breeze stays on the deck, so will I.

I wore my new sandals yesterday so I could start breaking them in before my trip. I bought a pair of Chacos with a great strap design. It reminded us of the 60’s and the bottoms of our pant legs which had cloth with similar designs sewn on them while we wore matching headbands. I also remember a great vest with a bit of fringe, influenced I suspect by Donovan. Those days were great for clothes with giant flowers and brilliant colors. Fringe was just a perk.

It was back then I started wearing sandals. As a kid, I wore sneakers all summer, different colors when I was little and white ones when I was a teenager. In Africa we wore sandals all the time. After I retired, I wore sandals well into November or December. I just added socks on the really cold days. I haven’t gone back to fringe yet but who knows?

When I was younger, I’d see old men and women wearing the most God-awful clothes . The colors and patterns clashed, and I’d shake my head and wonder how they couldn’t notice. Those stripes definitely didn’t match those plaids. Men were the worst as women still retained a bit of fashion sense despite their ages, but their dresses were ugly and so were their shoes.

I’m at that age now, but my clothes more closely resemble the clothes of my youth. I have flowery, bright shirts, cool sandals and comfy pants missing only that strip of cloth.

I did a buy a dress recently as I needed one for a family event. It will come with me on my trip just in case. With it, I wore sandals. It felt strange wearing a dress as it has been so long that any event necessitated wearing one. The dress has flowers.

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Happy Birthday, America!

July 4, 2011

Happy July 4th! I hope your day is spent in pure leisure, in eating wonderful food and in enjoying friends and family. That’s going to be my day!

When I was young, I knew today was America’s birthday, but I didn’t know why today was the big day until I was a little older. It was then I learned about Philadelphia and the Declaration of Independence and the brave men who risked treason to sign and adopt it. Parades with their pageantry and fireworks with their colors and bursting designs seem the perfect way to celebrate our country’s birthday.  I’ll wear my red, white and blue proudly.

I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear;

Those of mechanics – each one singing his, as it should be,
blithe and strong;
The carpenter singing his, as he measures his plank and beam;
The mason singing his, as he makes ready for work,
or leaves off work;
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat –
the deckhand singing on the streamboat deck;
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench –
the hatter singing as he stands:
The wood-cutter’s song the ploughboy’s, on his way
The delicious singing of the mother – or of the young wife
at work – or of the girl sewing or washing – Each singing
what belongs to her, and to none else;
The day what belongs to the day – At night, the party of
young fellows, robust, friendly,
Singing, with open mouths, their strong melodious songs

– Walt Whitman (1819–1892). Leaves of Grass


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“Grilling, broiling, barbecuing – whatever you want to call it – is an art, not just a matter of building a pyre and throwing on a piece of meat as a sacrifice to the gods of the stomach.”

July 3, 2011

The sun has already disappeared though I expect it will peek back in every now and then. Rain, thundershowers, are predicted, and the rain will be heavy at times. I look forward to the storm. It hasn’t rained in a while, and I love a rousing bit of thunder. It will be nature’s way of celebrating the 4th.

Houses are all decked out in buntings and flags. The 4th has become a huge celebration again. For a while, back in my college days, celebrations were muted. Flags were burned and worn as shirts or cut into pieces for patches on pants. The flag no longer held the reverence which should have been accorded to the symbol of our country, but over time those feelings changed. Patriotism, love of country, has returned and is celebrated. I put bunting on my fence and happily and proudly wave our flag.

I always think of the 4th of July as a family holiday. Everyone in our neighborhood had a cook-out, and you could smell and almost taste the charcoal fluid in the air. My dad loved his charcoal fluid, and often we would hear the whoosh of a fire as he lit the fluid drenched briquets. That was often followed by stomping as my dad tried to put out the fire on his shoes and the bottom of his pant legs. He’d take a lawn chair and sit by the barbecue and tend the meat. He’d have a beer and a few pops, shots of whiskey, as he cooked. It was tradition.

My dad cooked the meat just right. It was always still juicy and tasty. When we were young, it was hot dogs and burgers. When we were older, it was steak tips, chicken, ribs and sausages. My mother always made her potato salad, and, if we whined enough, we got her deviled eggs. Once in a while she’d cook peppers and eggs, still a favorite of mine. The kitchen table would be heaped with food, and after dinner, we’d all groan about how full we were and how great the food tasted.

Later, that night, we’d sit at the table and play cards until late into the night. July 4th with my family was always the best of days.

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