The morning is pretty with a bright sun glinting off the leaves in the backyard. It is getting warmer after last night, a chilly night. For the last few weeks, our weather has been following that same pattern, days in the low 70’s and nights in the 50’s. That seems about perfect.

When I was a kid, I loved the fall most of all. It seemed to touch every sense. All the trees were covered in red or yellow leaves, and when they started to fall, it was like a shower of colors above and below. The leaves fell quietIy and sometimes fluttered and danced as they fell. I remember the sound of the rake. My father raked the leaves into piles on the side lawn. The rake made a scratching sound, a rhythmic sound as my father went back and forth across the grass. After he was finished with the yard, he’d rake the leaves to the gutter below the small grassy hill, the hill we’d ride our bikes down. He’d burn the leaves. I can still see the smoke billowing. I can see my father in his red jacket standing by the pile to tend the fire. He’d feed it with more leaves. The smoke rose straight up from the pile. It smelled sweet and a bit earthy from the dirt clinging to the leaves. It is my favorite memory of fall.

I loved walking to and from school during the fall. The morning air was clear. It had a crispness, a chill. I‘d wear my jacket. It was warm enough for the mornings but too warm in the afternoons so I’d tie it around my waist or stuff it into my school bag. The sun was different on fall afternoons. It looked faded. Its light was slanted. The sun went down early and the air chilled. You knew winter was coming.

If you’d like a bit of a weather report, just check yesterday’s Coffee. Today is the same. I do love this weather, but I’d like some rain. Everything is too dry.

When I was a kid, Sunday was sacrosanct. Most of the stores were closed. It was family dinner day. We hung around the house after church. My father read his paper, and we watched TV. Sometimes in the afternoon we went to visit my grandparents.

In my mind’s eye, I can see the way to East Boston where my grandparents lived. I remember places which caught my eye or piqued my curiosity. They sit in my memory drawers in no particular order. I remember the sportman’s club with the pond stocked with trout. It was just before my favorite part of the ride, Route 1. On the highway, right beside each other were a couple of seafood restaurants. Some of the menu was listed on signs by the road so drivers might be tantalized to stop. I also remember the small store which advertised bait. It was close to the church with its back to the highway. There was a sign to Wonderland, the dog track. Both sides of the highway were filled with all sorts of stores and buildings. On a corner with a strip of grass below an overpass was a bridal shop with mannequins wearing wedding dresses in the windows. The rotary was always busy. We had to wait for a break in traffic. Beyond that was a trailer park and a sort of project with brick buildings. It was at the bottom of the hill where the huge statue of Madonna Queen of the Universe looked down on the city. We’d leave the highway and ride through a couple of neighborhoods to get to my grandparents’ house. My father would drop us us then he’d hunt for a parking space. The house was always filled with cousins and aunts and uncles. My grandmother was in the kitchen as were my mother and the aunts. My grandfather hid from the turmoil. He used to give us each a dime.

My dance card is fairly empty for this week. I have the usual uke practice and lesson and only one concert. If the warm weather continues, I’ll be happy to sit on the deck to read and watch the birds. I’ll let my sloth have full rein.

I never tire of beautiful days. Today will be 75° and sunny while tonight will have a low of 58°. The morning is quiet and still. My tasks today are simple, fill the bird feeders and vacuum the Henry fur which is all over downstairs. The little balls of fur resemble tumbleweeds in their shape and in their ability to travel in the breeze when the dogs and I walk by them.

I miss phone booths. I miss the banks of them at train and bus stations. I miss them on corners. I never went by one without checking the change slot. I sometimes found a dime. They were refuges in the rain. I’d wait behind the folding door hoping the rain would stop. If I was walking and got tired, I’d sit in the booth for a while. I know cell phones are convenient and sometimes life saving, but the old phone booths had personality and real operators.

When I graduated from high school, my gift was a typewriter for college. I used it all four years. I also used bottles of white-out and those tiny typewriter sheets you put between the ribbon and the offending letter and then typed on the sheet the correct letter. I was often impatient waiting for the white-out to dry. My typewriter is in my cellar somewhere. I’d like to find it. I suspect hunting in the cellar will resemble an archeological dig.

My dogs and I have regimens. When we first get downstairs in the morning, the dogs rush out the dog door. One time they tried to go together and got stuck in the door. Henry goes to his favorite tree and lifts his leg. Nala runs into the yard. They both come back in for a biscuit and a small treat then they have their morning naps. I make my coffee. I read the newspaper and have two cups of coffee. This months the coffee is from Uganda. After that I start my musings. It is pretty much the same very day. It is never a grind. It is a routine.

The sun is breaking through the early morning clouds, and I can see the blue. It will be another lovely day in the 70’s and in the 50’s tonight. That’s just about perfect.

My favorite Sunday dinner was roast beef with gravy, mashed potatoes and baby peas. I used to make a crater in the potatoes to hold the gravy. I’d also mix my peas with the potatoes. It wasn’t pretty, but it was tasty. My mother used to put slices of onion on the beef when it was roasting. I’d try to steal an onion, but the oven door was loud, and I always got caught.

When I was a kid, I dreamed of traveling the world. I’d be Nelly Bly. I had no specific destination. I wanted to see the whole world. I don’t know when my dream started. I remember making travel books filled with pictures from brochures and magazines. On each page, I’d write about my travels as if I’d really been there. They were my dream books.

Canada was my first foreign country. We stayed on the Canadian side of Niagara Falls. We didn’t need passports. Everyone spoke English. We ate at McDonald’s for lunch. I loved the falls, but I was disappointed that Canada didn’t seem foreign at all.

I wish I lived in the days of the Pan Am Clipper. I’d be traveling in luxury, crossing oceans and landing in foreign countries, really foreign countries. I’d travel first to Hawaii then on to Asia, exotic Asia. I’d make my way across the continent. I’d fill my travel trunk with souvenirs like a kimono from Japan. I’d write in my journal every night and not have to imagine.

I always think I have been lucky in life. My childhood dreams became real. I got to travel the world, except for Asia. I had a trip booked but bought a house instead. I always sort of joke about living in Asia. I’d still like to go there, but I want to go back to Ghana first. I’m hoping for a trip in three years, a birthday present from me to me. That is when I turn 80. Such a monumental birthday demands a monumental gift.

Today will be summer hot at 75°. It is a bright, lovely morning. Everything is still. Last night was cool, perfect for sleeping. The house still holds the chill.

The spiders’ webs have taken over. They stretch from corner to corner, across plant fronds, on the stairs and at the bottoms of chair legs. I keep moving.

I am a railroad fan. That love started when I was a kid and rode the subway with my mother. We’d take the bus to Sullivan Square from uptown then board the subway. I remember standing on the platform as close to the tracks as my mother allowed. I’d watch for the train. It came with a whoosh of wind. I always knelt on the seat so I could look out the window. I remember the squeal of the breaks when the train stopped at a station.

I didn’t take a passenger train until Ghana where I rode the train every place I could. Mostly I’d travel from Accra to Kumasi where the train tracks ended. I always traveled first class which didn’t cost a whole lot. I’d sit in my own compartment which had a glass door and a huge window next to the comfy chair. Harry Potter’s train reminded me of the Ghanaian train. At every stop, people came to the window trying to sell us food like bread, fruit and mystery meat kabobs. I always bought something. Once I took an overnight train. I had my own compartment with a pull down bed and a sink. The front of the train derailed during the night and shook me awake. We had to leave the train to walk on the tracks across a trestle bridge to the rescue train. That was my most exciting ride.

I rode trains all over Europe. The train in Finland took me to the Arctic Circle. The train from Copenhagen went across Europe to Hook of Holland. It took around 12 hours. The woman sharing our compartment was German, married to an Englishman and going home. She had a basket filled with food she shared with my friend and me. At Hook of Holland we took a ferry across the channel and picked up a train on the other side.

I rode trains in South America with spectacular views. I saw the Andes covered with snow. I saw bananas growing. The train changed directions at a switchback, at the Devil’s Nose. It was a bit scary. The most amazing ride was from Cusco to the train station below Machu Picchu. We saw Incan ruins, villages build on Incan stone, and, at one, point, I could see the front of the train from near the back. The trains were mostly just regular trains. Back, when I traveled there, few Americans did so the trains did not cater to tourists.

On my wish list, when I win the lottery, is riding the Orient Express. I hope Poirot is one of the passengers.

We have such a beautiful morning I should be breaking into song. The temperatures are perfect, 72° during the day and 57° at night, but hot weather is coming later in the week, the high 70’s, summer weather. Fall always has trouble making up its mind.

When I was a kid, my wardrobe was divided into school clothes, play clothes and church clothes. The first thing I did when I got home from school was change into play clothes because I had only one blue skirt and a couple of white blouses to last me the whole school year. That habit stayed with me even when I was an adult. I always changed as soon as I got home from school, from work. I even called them my play clothes. Now, my wardrobe is divided into outside and inside clothes. Comfort is the key.

I had a doctor’s appointment yesterday and today is the dentist. Both were and are maintenance. The older I get the larger my stable of doctors.

I keep my eggs in the fridge, but when I lived in Ghana, I didn’t. I used to buy my eggs in the market. I’d go the egg section and buy enough for a few days. I never knew how old the eggs were. At home if someone was selling eggs at my door, I’d put the eggs in a bucket of water. I bought the ones which sunk. In the market holding the egg up to the sun showed a level in the shell. My egg man lifted each egg to show me. I looked and nodded and bought each egg. I had no idea what I was looking at, but the egg man was smart. He knew I’d be back if the eggs were all good.

I remember Dick and Jane, little sister Sally, Spot the dog and Puff the cat, the characters in my first grade reading books. Jane and Sally were blond and always wore dresses. Dick had dark hair and wore shorts or pants. Spot was black and white. Puff was orange. The words in the early books were repetitious and almost singsongy. That made them easy to read. “See Spot. See Spot run. Run, Spot, run. Bow wow said Spot. Mew said Puff.”

I never liked arithmetic when I was young or math of any sort when I was older. My mind was not wired for numbers. It wanted words. I easily learned my times tables but that was memory, not skill. The nuns frowned on using fingers so I used to hide my fingers under my desk so I could count out the answers. When I was older, the problems were too complex for fingers so I was stuck using arithmetic. I have never used algebra or geometry. I have always used words.

While the coffee was brewing, we, the dogs and I, watched the birds from the deck as they flew in and out of the feeders. A couple of the feeders need to be refilled. The birds are eating me out of house and home. I have only a small bag of sunflower seeds left. I noticed a mourning dove this morning. I’ll have to get mixed seeds and throw some below the deck as doves are ground feeders.

Last night was cold. I shut all the windows and wore a sweatshirt. I was glad the dogs snuggled while we were in bed. This morning I checked the weather for the week. The heat will be back on Thursday and Friday. The sweatshirt will be put away and the windows reopened for the meantime.

My walk to school wasn’t very far. In my mind’s eye I can see everything on that walk, the walk I took going and coming for eight years. Most of it was a straightaway. Older houses lined the sidewalk. Maple trees shaded the walk. I remember one house, probably the oldest house, was below the height of the sidewalk. A set of steps led down to the house. I always wondered how the house got there. I crossed the tracks, the same tracks I sometimes walked which led to the station. I only had to cross one road before I arrived at school.

When I was a kid, I ate some vegetables. I loved corn, even creamy corn which spread across my plate. I ate peas but only baby peas. Carrots were hidden, mixed with mashed potatoes. I never questioned the color of the potatoes. We ate canned beans, yellow and green, and French green beans. I loved potatoes of any sort, especially mashed. We ate French fries mostly on Friday nights with the fish sticks. My father ate canned asparagus. It always flopped over on his fork. He never did like fresh asparagus.

When I was a kid, the future was the next day or, if I was being farsighted, the weekend. The only times I was keeping track of days were the countdowns before Halloween and before Christmas. I’m sort of back to that now. I keep a dance card of events for the week. That is as far in the future as I need to know. Time takes care of itself.

I will never tire of these lovely days. This morning’s air has a coolness leftover from last night. A bright sun is framed by the deepest blue sky. The trees in the back are still so ladened with green leaves much of the yard is in shadows with only a spot of sun here and there. The birds are dining and taking turns at the feeders. The dogs are sleeping. I am drinking my second cup of coffee. We are all content.

When I was a kid, Sundays always started with mass. I didn’t have a choice. The alternative was a mortal sin symbolized in my catechism by a blackened milk bottle and an afterlife of eternal damnation in the fire pits of hell. I was afraid of both so I went to mass every Sunday. When I was younger, I paid attention and gave all the correct responses in Latin. When I was older, I sometimes smuggled in a book surreptitiously and sat in a corner to read it. With my head bowed while I was reading, I looked pious.

Today is another one of those days when my muses have deserted me. I wrote a few ideas, but they didn’t lead anywhere so I deleted them. One was about fashion. I had little fashion sense when I growing up. I always wore a uniform so it didn’t matter, but I do remember one Christmas when I got the best clothes, fashionable clothes, what everyone was wearing. I got a pink fuzzy sweater, a bright pink fuzzy sweater. I got ski pants, black stirrup ski pants, and a pullover ski jacket which had a zipper from the top and a zippered pocket. I wore it all the time even on the coldest days.

The spiders are taking over. Every day there are new webs and rebuild webs. This morning I saw a web which crisscrossed from one leg to another to another on a dining room chair. It is gone now. The top of one lampshade has a new web every morning. Other webs stretch from one frond to another on some plants. I have become frenzied in my search.

This uke week includes practice, my lesson and two concerts.

The morning is cloudy and dark. Every now and then a wind blows. The high will be 71°. Tonight will get down to the 50’s. I could do errands today, but I’m thinking today is a good day to stay home. I’ll do my errands tomorrow.

Yesterday, I filled the bird feeders, my single accomplishment for the day. Today, I have no to-do list. I’ve decided, instead, to support my inner sloth.

Today I muse.

When I was a kid, one of the talents I developed and was most proud of was my ability to dunk a Graham cracker in cocoa and eat it before it dissolved into the cup. It took timing and finesse. I still dunk, but now I use a biscotti and dunk it into coffee, a grown up choice I guess.

I always thought the milk left in the bowl after the cereal was gone was the tastiest. The only way to drink it was by lifting the bowl to your mouth, but you had to be careful as sometimes the milk sloshed from the rim of the bowl.

We always had white bread. It was soft white bread. Peanut butter, when I tried to spread it on the bread, always tore a hole, but I used the peanut butter like paste and repaired the hole.

I always thought the praying mantis was the most amazing bug. I remember watching one for the longest time when I was a kid. What I found amazing was it stood upright and really did look like it was praying. Its eyes were bulging and a bit scary looking. It never flew. Last night I watched The Deadly Mantis from 1957. It flew. It ate people.

Saturday was the busiest day. My father did his errands uptown. He’d drop off and pick up his white shirts at the Chinese laundry, have his hair trimmed and visit a few friends. At home, he’d do his mowing in the summer and his raking and burning leaves in the fall. The winter meant no outside work unless it snowed. Every father on the street did the same. It was an unwritten rule.

We didn’t have much when I was a kid, but we had butter, not margarine, and the milkman always left one bottle of chocolate milk with the white. It was supper during the week but dinner on Sundays because there was always a roast, fancy meat.

We couldn’t eat meat on Fridays. Sometimes we’d have frozen fish sticks with French fries for supper or English muffin pizzas. My favorite supper was fried dough slathered with butter and a bit of salt. We stood in line at the frying pan.

I’m watching, in between words, a science fiction film from the 50’s. It is Saturday and time for Creature Double Feature. I chose The Crawling Eye, but The Tollenberg Terror, released in 1958, started instead. I tried twice for The Crawling Eye with no luck. Finally, I set Google on a task. Come to find out they are the same movie with different titles. The Tottenberg Terror was the name in England while we got The Crawling Eye. For my second creature feature I’m hoping to find The Fiend Without a Face.

Today is another delightful day, sunny and warm. It will reach 75°. A few clouds dot the pale, blue sky, but the sun still streams. I have nothing on my dance card. I’m glad for the quiet day. I’ll fill the bird feeders and water the deck plants. That’s it.

When I was a kid, our neighborhood was seldom quiet. Every house had kids, and they played outside. A hill dominated the backyards. Each house took care to mow the patch of grass nearest them on the hill. We had one grass fanatic. She was one of the few to use a power mower. She mowed in rows and mowed a square on the hill behind her clothesline. In her mind, the square was her hill grass property border. If anyone walked on her square, she always yelled for the transgressor to get off the hill. We figured she kept guard through the kitchen window. All the kids laughed at her and made fun of her behind her back, but she did have the greenest, most well-kept hill grass.

My father loved his grass. He always mowed it in the same pattern. Saturday was mowing day. I can still hear and remember the clicking sound of the blades as he mowed up and down the lawn and around the bushes in the side yard which had the biggest patch of grass. The last house they lived in had a front lawn. When I’d visit, my father always asked if I’d seen how great his grass looked. “It’s the best lawn you’ve ever had,” I’d tell him.

Dinner last night was fun. I had everything ready so I could sit and enjoy my friends. We started on the deck. The night was quiet. I had a fire lit in my chiminea. The burning piñon wood filled the air with its sweet aroma. We noshed on a charcuterie board and sat for a while. The dogs were good. They even fell asleep on the deck. We moved inside for dinner which was pesto lemon shrimp fettuccini and crispy bread. For dessert we had cannolis. We sat eating and talking and laughing for the longest time.

Dinner was delicious but being with old friends was the best part of the evening.