I am sitting in the dark trying to keep the heat at bay. It is already 80°. The morning haze has disappeared. The sky is blue. The air is quite still. It is a quiet morning. The dogs are napping. Henry still limps, but he is no longer in pain. He is back to himself. He does his usual circles waiting for me to open the door. He jumps up and down while waiting for his food. He smiles again.

Strangers talk to one another in lines at the supermarket, and the weather always starts the conversations. It is a safe conversation starter. On Tuesday a woman at the nurse practitioner’s office, a woman I was just meeting, mentioned to be that this heat is better than shoveling snow. She was quite old, older than I am anyway, so I figured she was speaking proverbially. I doubt she ever shovels. I mentioned I preferred the winter mostly because it is easier to get warm than it is to cool down on a hot day. That was the entirety of our conversation. My father always said there was something about me which invited conversations. He didn’t see that as a compliment. It is no coincidence that when learning a new language, any language, the first things we learn are the conversations, the hellos, the how are you’s, the ice breakers. In Ghana, language was often an impediment to conversations, but when I used Hausa to greet people, I got smiles and responses. The Ghanaians were always surprised a white woman could speak Hausa.

When I was growing up, families were mostly the same with multiple kids, fathers who worked and mothers who stayed home. Just about everybody had only one car, the family car, which fathers drove to work every day. My mother didn’t learn to drive until we moved to the cape where driving is a necessity as nothing was close, and there wasn’t any public transportation. We became a two car family.

A couple of summers, I went to Girl Scout day camp. It was at the scout cabin in the woods, Camp Aleska. I waited on the corner for the camp bus. I brought my own lunch. The days started the same, raising the flag at the morning ceremonies where we sang and recited the scout pledge. The days were filled with activities. The cabin was surrounded by trees, mostly pine trees and the air smelled amazing. Below the cabin was a wide trail where we hiked. It was always shaded by the boughs of the giant pines. Two mornings a week we took swimming lessons at the town pool. I already knew how to swim, but we had to go. Many days we did crafts, some using pine cones we salvaged from the woods. We made popsicle stick crafts. We used Elmer’s glue to keep the sticks together. The glue clumped, and, sometimes my fingers got stuck to one another. We learned to make some campfire foods, like hobo stew which we cooked over the charcoal fire pit. I loved hobo stew. The days always ended with us lowering the flag and folding it until the next day.

I have an empty dance card today and tomorrow. On Saturday I have a full day of uke, lessons all afternoon from a well-known ukulele player, Jim Beloff, and a concert in the evening by him. I can’t remember the last time I had a full day of anything.

Hot! Hot! Hot! It is already 83°. For some that is relief, but for us, it is too hot for July. It will stay hot the rest of the week and may hit 90° on Thursday. Idleness is the best way to spend the days, to do nothing but sit down, drink something icy and read.

I remember when I was eleven and made the vow to travel. Though I didn’t know anyone who traveled much out of New England, I knew I would. It wasn’t a hope but an expectation. Once afternoon I spent the day at Logan Airport just watching the planes. In those days the roof of the terminals was an observation spot. The planes were all props, and I remember how much the props spun. I’d watch the planes in the sky until they were too far away to see. I knew one day I would be on one of those planes looking out the window watching the land disappear. My first books were Golden Books. My mother read them to me. She’d point out everything in all the pictures and ask me what they were. Mostly they were animals, baby animals. Some animals wore clothes. Hats were big. I remember Chicken Little in a straw hat wearing a shawl with lace. The animals talked, regular conversations. My mother read me nursery rhymes. Humpty Dumpy was also wearing clothes. I remember his yolk on the sidewalk after his fall off the wall. It made perfect sense to me that all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put him back together again. Jack and Jill fell down the hill. The baby in its cradle fell down after the bough broke. The snoring old man woke up and hit his head. Goosey Goosey Gander threw an old man down the stairs. The nursery rhymes were dark, but I really didn’t notice. It was the rhyming I loved, the sounds of the words. I learned new words like Jack’s crown was his head, a bough is a branch and a lady’s chamber is her bedroom.

I moved on to fairy tales. I wanted the goose Jack stole from the giant, the one that laid golden eggs. Like Hansel and Gretel, I’d push the witch into the over so she wouldn’t eat me. Rumplestiltskin is still a favorite. Disney cartoons had me reading Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty. I really loved the witch with her poison apples. She was scary and had all those warts.

My first real books were classics. My mother read us Robinson Crusoe. I imagined living alone on a deserted island. It piqued my sense of adventure. To see footprints in the sand would have been mysterious but amazing. The Bobbsey Twins were easy to read. They came from a rich family and traveled. They had hired help, Dinah and Sam. In the first books, they spoke in a dialect I had trouble reading. The twins solved mysteries. I loved the mysteries. I remember riding the school bus and reading Little Women, a Christmas present. My mother gave me the best Christmas presents. I read all the Little Women, Little Men stories. Books do that. They lead to more books. How wonderful that is.

The morning is already 79°. It is also humid, but we do have a strong breeze spinning the air. Regrettably, today is the start of a really hot spell. We’ll get into the high 80’s and, by Wednesday, the low 90’s, uncommonly hot for July here. I am so glad I now have a fan.

Henry is still limping, but he seems to be in less pain. He gets his pills and spray twice a day. I hide the pills in food, but he tolerates the direct spray. Yesterday he did his usual barking at the door, and he slept on the couch beside me for a while last night, all Henry things he hadn’t been doing. The vet did say the limp could take as long as five weeks before it goes away.

When I was a kid, my world was filled with so much to do. My neighborhood was a kid’s paradise. In the summer, the small field of grass below the hill near my house got high. It always turned brown. It was filled with small grasshoppers. I remember chasing them and trying to catch them in my hands. I also remember the brown guck they’d leave on my hands. We thought it was grasshopper poop. We never kept the grasshoppers. It was the hunt and chase we loved. The summer swamp was spotted with algae and had sewing needle bugs flitting across the water. We thought they’d sew our eyes. Trees surrounded the swamp on three sides. On the longest side, a small canal led further into the woods. I don’t know why, but I never looked for the end of those woods and how far the swamp went.

Blueberry bushes along a hill path filled with berries. We never collected them but rather ate them off the bushes. They were big, juicy berries.

What sticks out in my memory is the trunk of a dead tree with one branch still connected to the tree but lying on the ground. It was beside the end of the path to the swamp. We never walked around the limb on the path but climbed over it instead. Kids always take the most interesting way, not the easiest.

My favorite summer lunch back then was a bologna sandwich. My mother bought bologna in a roll so I had to cut it into slices, and I never cut it well. It was usually thin on one side and thick on the other. We always had Wonder Bread which was so soft it sort of fitted around the slices so you could see the lumps. I slathered the meat with yellow mustard. I had to hold the sandwich with both hands.

On my dance card this week are my usual uke events, a concert on the Hyannis green tonight and one in Brewster on Wednesday with songs of the sea music. I have my practice and my lesson. The special event is this Saturday, the Uke Fest with two lesson workshops and an evening concert. It is a busy week.

Yesterday morning I dropped Henry off for x-rays on his leg. The house was quiet while he was gone, no barking and no nails clip clopping on the floor. Nala and I slept while he was gone. I was able to pick him up at 2:15. The vets told me they could find only some swelling in the soft tissue. She said he didn’t even limp while he was there. He was also tested for Lyme disease, but we won’t know until next week. Right now he seems to be comfortable and is sleeping on the couch. He is taking pain pills and is getting a spray for his infection.

When I was a kid, we did mostly day trips for vacation. Going away was rare as it was expensive, but we did have one memorable vacation, to Niagara Falls. We got to stay in motels for the first time. We ate in restaurants or at McDonald’s. While at the falls, we had some excursions. We dressed in those ugly yellow slickers and walked under the falls. That walk was a historical thing, a family thing, as my father had taken the same walk with his parents and his two sisters. They even dressed in the same sort of slicker. I remember laughing at getting sprayed by the water. It was exhilarating. My favorite memory is about my father and Madame Toussauds’ Wax Museum. He went up to the wax teller and told her 4 adults and two children. He was ignored so he told her a second time, much louder the second time. Two old ladies were sitting on a bench watching and laughing. When he realized the teller was wax, my father was totally embarrassed. I loved it. There was a chamber of horrors at that museum. It was wonderfully bloody and macabre. It was my favorite part, after my father of course.

We went home through New York staying one night on the shore of Lake Ontario. I walked to the lake shore and remember watching a tiny wave hit the shoreline. It just seemed so small, used as I was to the ocean, but I hadn’t expect to see even a small wave on the shore of a lake. My father decided to drive home through the night. My mother was not happy. The four of us slept the whole way home. I suspect my mother might have napped as well. We arrived home in the wee hours, my father exhausted and my mother grumpy.

The heat is on. It has returned today and will hang around a few days. The humidity is at 76%. This afternoon we will have a rain storm which will morph into a heavy thunderstorm, but, for now, we have sun.

Henry has been limping for a few days. I knew he had to go to the vets, but I just didn’t have the money. I arranged to get some and off we went. Henry got checked, and it was decided he needs an x-ray. That will be tomorrow. Meanwhile, he is in pain so they gave him an ejection and he’ll start taking pain pills today. Also, he has a yeast infection. I won’t even describe his reaction to the spray on his groin. It wasn’t pretty. I am still aghast at the cost so far, and they have yet to diagnosis him.

This is the final installment of staging, the first step in Peace Corps training. My friends and I ditched a few sessions and did the tourist bit in Philadelphia. We went to the Museum of Art and pre-dated Rocky on the steps. We immersed ourselves in history, Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell. We went to the top of the William Penn Building. On one of the last nights, the psychologist I mentioned invited a few of us to dinner. It was a loud, fun evening and a last hurrah of sorts. The night before I left I called my parents to say good-bye. My mother cried. It broke my heart. I told her I would write almost immediately as I had no way to let her know I had arrived safely. I spoke to my father. We took a long time to say good-bye.

The next morning we left. Think about 120+ people with 80 pounds of luggage each and loading buses. It took a while. I remember the excitement. It was palpable. We boarded a TWA charter. The plane was full. I don’t know why, but I remember I sat towards the back. We flew over the cape. I remember the arm jutting into the sea and the water sparkling. Later, we had some food and many drinks. I think the drink cart was in perpetual motion. The film they showed was The Love Bug. That insignificant detail has stayed in my memory drawers all these years. We stopped in Madrid for refueling and a new crew. When we got back on-board, my seat belt was jammed, another strange memory which still hangs round 57 years later. After we flew out, the drinks began again before dinner two or three. We flew over the Sahara. I still remember the view.

We were exhausted when we arrived in Accra, but the excitement was greater. I remember walking out the plane door into the brightest sun. It was hot. The air smelled lush, of greenery. In the airport, we were greeted by Peace Corps and a Ghanaian official. We listened to the welcomes and had a libation of hot Fanta, the orange one. We then loaded the luggage and took off in buses. I snapped a few pictures of kiosks along the roadway and women in colorful cloth. I then promptly fell asleep and missed the long ride to Winneba, our first training site. What I remember most about arriving is the awe. I was in Africa.

I have a concert today.

We had a couple of days of rain then came the perfect day. Today, though, is hot at 84° with humidity making the day uglier. I have a new fan, a gift from my sister, so let the heat can come.

I have lived alone for most of my life. I’ve been mostly okay with that, but there are times I am lonely for conversation. I talk to my dogs, but they just listen. It is not a conversation but rather a soliloquy. I’d be gobsmacked if they talked back to me. When I do call people, I really don’t have anything spectacular to talk about. Mostly I just chit-chat about my days, unexciting as they are. The other day I chatted to my friend Peg about my uke events for the week and going to the dump. I added a bit of excitement to the narration by talking about how crowded the dump was. She listened patiently. We usually discuss the weather. She lives in New Hampshire so the weather is different, an exciting edge to the conversation. She tells me about her garden. I am always envious of her flowers and her vegetables. We talk doctors. Never did I envision that doctors would ever be part of any conversation of mine.

I left you at Logan the other day when I told you about the start of my Peace Corps journey so let me continue. I got to my seat in the plane and tried to put away everything I had carried with me. My seatmate wanted to know if I was running away from home. When I told him I was going into the Peace Corps, he bought me a drink. In Philadelphia I shared a cab to the hotel with another volunteer hopeful. I had seen some guy surrounded by luggage and asked. We were at the hotel Sylvania. I checked into the hotel, left my luggage then checked in with Peace Corps. I gave them my missing information and received my packet with the schedule and some per diem. I met people in line who over time would become good friends. It all started that evening. We met the staff, heard about Ghana, got an overview of the week and felt overwhelmed. Scheduled were lectures, slide shows, a one on one with a shrink of some sort, a dental checkup and a yellow fever shot. We were given addresses and had to find our way to the dentists assigned to each of us. Mine was a bus ride or two away. It was the same with the yellow fever shot.

I took some time alone by the fire escape and read an evening or two. I decompressed. I saw a movie I don’t remember. I do remember walking back to the hotel. I loved the interview with the psychologist. He worked at BU. He had a huge book of what he needed to ask and observe and gave it to me to read a bit. He walked me to the elevator, put his arm around my shoulder and said Africans liked big women.

That’s the end of today’s installment. There is only a bit more before our flight to Ghana.

My world is awash. It started raining yesterday and is still raining. It isn’t a heavy rain, but it is a noisy rain. I love it. The dogs don’t mind the rain. They do leave paw prints in the kitchen despite the rug by the door so I see washing the floor in my future. Right now it is their nap time. After all, they have been awake for about an hour.

When I applied for the Peace Corps, I wrote my preferences for placement as South or Latin America. My parents didn’t even know I had applied so I chose Latin or South American as I figured those places would be easier for my parents to accept, not so far away, somehow a bit familiar. When I was accepted for Ghana, I was over the moon. I couldn’t even imagine living in Africa. I accepted right away. The next hurtle was telling my parents, especially my father. I knew Africa would be a problem. I told my mother first. I asked her to tell my father. I just didn’t want to hear him. She reluctantly agreed. I called a day later. My father screamed, said some unkindly things about Africa and forbade me to go. I would have laughed outright but that seemed just the wrong time. I said I was going. He said he would stop sending money. I would have to support myself for my last semester of college. I said fine knowing that would never happen. It was one of his idle threats. I hung up on him when he started yelling again. That was where we left it.

I had to go home the next weekend as my parents were going to an off-Cape wedding and needed me to stay with my sisters. I persuaded a friend to come with me. He said I was using him. I said I was. My father picked us up at the bus station. He did not talk to me, only to my friend. It was sort of amusing. They all left the next morning.

My father finally accepted my choice. He never did stop sending money. Later, I found out he had talked to a friend of mine who convinced him this was a good thing. The preparations began. I had five months from acceptance to departure. I was allowed 80 pounds of luggage. I had a list from Peace Corps with suggested packing items. Women wore only dresses so that was first. I also had some skirts which would work, but we needed to shop. Check! We bought luggage, an Instamatic, the height of new technology, slide film, plenty of underwear, toiletries, sandals and sheets and towels. Those were the main items.

Peace Corps had sent me a bus ticket from Boston to Philadelphia for staging as I didn’t live far enough away for a plane ticket. My father bought the plane ticket. We drove to Boston, to Logan. We didn’t talk much. I think we were all afraid to talk. We walked to the gate together. I have mentioned before the hugs and that last view of my parents, and my mother’s little wave. There is more to this story, this start of my journey, but I’ll end here. I don’t want to overstay my welcome.

The rain came last night. It was heavy at times. It stopped but started again a while later. The weather for today is rain on and off. The air has a damp chilly breeze, but I love it after all that heat.

The dogs and I slept upstairs last night. It was the sleep of the dead. The morning had already started when I went to bed. The light had come, and the birds were singing. I slept until 12:30. My Monday night concert is already cancelled because of the weather prediction. I’m okay with that. We have two more concerts this week.

I watched a mouse here in the den come out, see me then run and hide. The beastie did it a couple of times. I set a trap and caught it, but I don’t think it was the same mouse. I’m going to reset the trap.

When I was a kid, I didn’t know anyone who played a musical instrument. My foray into the world of music had been a triangle in the rhythm band and a tin flute the nuns taught us to play in the third grade. My grandparents had a piano, but it was a status symbol and sat unused in the living room. Never did I imagine I would learn to play any instrument. Big Brother Bob Emery and Arthur Godfrey played ukes, but I always thought of ukes as mini guitars. I can actually play music now. I love my uke, have two of them. The one I use most times was a Christmas present from my sister. The other came from a friend. It had belonged to his sister who passed away. I cherish both my ukes, my very wonderful gifts.

When I was a kid, the future was the next day or even that day after school. I had no answer when my aunt the nun asked what I wanted to be when I grew up. I always made up the answer. Writing a Christmas list was one of the few look to the future things I did. I remember hoping for a bike, putting it first on my list. My mother taught me to ride. I can still see in my mind’s eye when I finally figured it out. We were on the road in front of the house. I was on my own headed to the hill. I got scared and fell off. I remember counting the days until Christmas and to my birthday. I needed to count to see so far into the future.

I’m back to thinking of the future as a day or two in front of me. That’s about as far as I need to see.

Did you hear it? I imagine it was so loud it went far and wide. That was a sigh you heard. The heat has finally broken. My world is getting back to normal. Last night it even rained, sort of a cherry on the sundae of cool air. I slept soundly though still on the couch as upstairs was beastly hot. During the night I even grabbed a throw as it got cold, yup, cold, at least in comparison. The dogs have stopped panting. Nala slept with me on the couch. I have stopped sweating without even moving. It is 74°. Tomorrow may even get down to the 60’s. Glorious!

I have hit that stage in my life when small things brother me while other things I can easily ignore. I am not fond of too much heat or too much cold. I have trouble getting up and sitting down. I have a stoop when I walk. I want comfortable shoes and loose clothes. I can ignore dust. Most times I am content just staying home. I eat at odd hours. My meals no longer have names, no longer breakfast, lunch or dinner. They don’t fit anymore. My bedtimes are whenever. Lately I go to bed close to when I used to wake up when I worked. My complaints are small, about little things. I have settled well into this stage of my life.

In Ghana, small cardboard coasters came with every drink. I used to put mine under my glass, American style. Ghanaians put theirs on the top rims of their glasses. I never gave that much thought. Since then, especially lately, I have appreciated those rim coasters. They are big deterrents. The gnats are back, but few bother me. They are drawn to the den light. Small black bugs are piled under the lamp. They are also attracted to whatever I am drinking. They float belly up on top of the liquid, but now I am using a coaster on the rim. In the way back days, before Ghana, bugs in my food would have disgusted me. Now I just pick them out

I can hear the world returning. The birds are singing. I heard voices earlier as people emerged from their caves. The people next door even had a bit of a spat, yelling at each other. I didn’t understand as they were speaking in maybe Portuguese. They do speak perfect English, but I guess fights are far better in a family language.

Today’s dump day. My trunk is nearly filled. The heaviest one is waiting by the front door. I’m going to go late in the afternoon. I also need a few groceries. That’s my day.

My life has become the plot of a cheesy science fiction movie. You know the one where, in the middle of a heat wave, a throwaway character says this can’t last forever, and, sadly, the opposite turns out to be prophetic. Cue the title.

Last night I was a pool of sweat. On the way back from the kitchen, I found a puzzle piece on the floor in the hall. It had hitched a ride on my arm.

The dogs are still asleep sprawled out on the floor. I was abruptly awakened when my legs slid off the couch. I had become one of those balance toys where the toy’s ends flip.

I heard a dog yipping for a while this morning. I think it was my neighbor’s very little dog. It’s yipping could have been a chair creaking.

If this heat is a preview of hell, I am going to change my ways.

My life has become a metaphor.

I have many memories of July 4th. One of my favorites was from when I was a kid. From my backyard steps, I could see the fireworks, from the next town over, break high in the sky. I oohed and ahed. One of my neighbors heard me and invited me inside for a drink. He had been a friend of my mother’s since high school. His wife and I sat around their kitchen table and chatted. They drank beer. I drank root beer. I felt special.

Every July 4th I marched with my drill team in the Wakefield parade. My father’s friend had a house with a huge porch along the parade route. He hosted a party every year. When I’d march by, the whole crowd, watching the parade from the porch, yelled my name. I was both embarrassed and pleased.

My grossest memory is from a cold July 4th. I was wearing a sweatshirt, and we were sitting around the fire drinking. I picked up my ubiquitous red cup and a slug was riding along the side. The crowd ughed, and I dropped my cup.

The heat wave will begin to break tonight starting at 8. Tomorrow will be in the low 80’s. That, according to the weatherman, will bring relief. We are in such a state that relief is the low 80’s.

A bit from one of my traditional July 4th posts:

On July 3rd 1776, John Adams wrote a letter to his wife Abigail. In it, he predicted the celebrations for American Independence Day, including the parties:

“It ought to be solemnized with Pomp and Parade, with Shews, Games, Sports, Guns, Bells, Bonfires and Illuminations from one End of this Continent to the other from this time forward evermore.”

 I know some people complain that the meaning of the day is lost in the barbecues and the fireworks, but they have forgotten John Adams’ hope. We are honoring the day exactly as he wished. Flags are waving everywhere. Families get together to celebrate and to break bread, albeit hot dog rolls. Fireworks illuminate the sky. Baseball is played on small town fields and in huge stadiums. Drums beat the cadence in parades. We sing rousing songs celebrating America and our freedom. We also sing heartfelt songs about what America means to us. We are many sorts of people, we Americans. We don’t all look the same, practice the same religion, eat the same foods or dress in the same way, but we all celebrate today.”

“You have to love a nation that celebrates its independence every July 4th, not with a parade of guns, tanks, and soldiers who file by the White House in a show of strength and muscle, but with family picnics where kids throw Frisbees, the potato salad gets iffy and the flies die from happiness. You may think you have overeaten but it is patriotism.” (Erma Bombeck)

Happy birthday, America, from all us Americans.