Yesterday was a scorcher, at least for Cape Cod in June. It got into the 80’s, about as hot as we usually get in August, but I was lucky as my house got a breeze so it stayed cool. I did have to go out as I had an afternoon concert. We played bluegrass, and it went well. I have another concert this afternoon. We’re playing Beach Boys’ music.

When I was a kid, I didn’t know anyone who played a musical instrument. My grandparents had a piano but neither of them played. I think it was more of a status symbol and a place to put knick-knacks. I never saw the keys.

The last day of school was always a short day. We cleaned out our desks and got our report cards. The first thing each of us did was turn the card over and check the bottom where it said promoted to whatever the next grade was. You could hear sighs of relief from all over the room. Nobody cried or looked downtrodden so I figured everyone got promoted or there were some very fine actors in my class.

Summers always seemed endless back then. When I was young, I spend many hours at the playground under the trees on the field at the bottom of my street. I played softball, threw horseshoes, took tennis lessons, played checkers, learned to play chess and worked with gimp. I also remember one particular craft. I painted a wooden tray with rabbits among some branches and leaves. When I finished, it was beautiful which came as a huge surprise. I had no talent for painting or drawing though I do think my stick figures were fairly attractive. I always thought that tray was my biggest summer accomplishment.

Words and phrases go out of fashion. Yesterday going through the wringer popped into my head. My mother used to have a washing machine with a wringer, and I knew a kid whose arm had gotten caught in a wringer so that phrase had meaning for me. When we were going to bed, my mother used to say, “Sleep tight and don’t let the bedbugs bite.” I never quite got that one. Hit the hay meant going to bed. I never questioned it. I just went to bed.

There are phases we still use which make little sense anymore. I understand get off your high horse and burn the midnight oil but neither has a frame of reference. When I taught, I used to make carbon copies then I’d use a mimeograph machine to print pages. When I’d pass the pages out in class, many of the students used to smell the paper.

Sounding like a broken record was never a good thing not was the need to bite the bullet. When was the last time you rolled up the window or hung up the phone?

I have a night light in my upstairs bathroom. On it are umbrellas, and it is raining cats and dogs. I love the imagery.

The back of my house still has the coolness of the night chill so it is comfortable, but outside is already hot, 77°. It will get just a bit hotter, a couple of degrees. Tonight will be in the 60’s, perfect sleeping weather.

When I was a kid, my mother kept the house dark. She covered the windows in the living room to keep out the sun. It was as if we were living in a sort of a cave. The kitchen was the brightest room. Upstairs always got hot and stayed hot even at bedtime. I remember a bit of tossing and turning before I fell asleep. I kept flipping the pillow to find the cool side.

I had what I called my visor summer. I wore it all my waking hours. It was white, and when I wore it, I felt somehow older. I don’t think it did much against the sun, but I thought it the perfect look, even fashionable. I think I was around eleven or twelve.

When I was a teacher, I used to travel to Europe every summer. I carried a backpack. One summer I even carried a sleeping bag. I used it a couple of times. One time was in Helsinki, Finland. We got in town late and didn’t find a place to sleep so we slept in the brush among the trees somewhere in the city. The next day we found a hostel. I bought street food for breakfast. My friend, with whom I was traveling, warned me not to eat street food. I just laughed. I ate it in Africa.

We used to take overnight busses and trains. That saved us money because we didn’t need a place to sleep. I remember looking out at the houses long the tracks. It was dark so the houses were lit. I found it intriguing to wonder about the people living in those houses. I could see them from the train window. I could sneak a peek into their lives.

I still have that list of chores. The only thing I did was go to the dump, and it wasn’t even on the list. Today I have a couple of errands. It is my only uke-less day of the week so I’m torn. Do I finish some of the chores on this my free day or do I embrace the life of a sloth on this, my only free day? Such a dilemma!

Today is a pretty day with a cooling breeze, lots of sun and a temperature of 71°. The heat and humidity will arrive next week. Some of the state will be hot enough for record heat, but here on the cape we will be cooler. For that, we bless the ocean.

When I was a kid, my father was the great mosquito hunter. During the hunting season, he carried a rolled up newspaper. I remember him waking me up when he stood on the bed swatting mosquitos on the ceiling. If any had already bitten one of us, my father always commented. “We’re too late.” The ceilings always had squashed bugs and a bit of blood.

I love the sounds of summer, the leaves rustling in the trees, the birds greeting the morning, the buzzing of the insects and the clicking of the cicadas, the male cicadas. One other summer sound sits in my memory drawers, the slamming of the back screen door. When I was a kid, we had a wooden screen door. I remember the wood was painted green. All summer long you could hear my mother, “Don’t slam the door.” Usually her warning was too late. My screen doors click closed. I find that perfectly dull.

I have been the epitome of sloth. My to do list just gets longer. I did go to the dump yesterday. It was really crowded. That was my only accomplishment. My deck is cleaned but still needs unveiling. I have put that on the top of list. I want to enjoy my morning coffee and newspaper outside. I want to light my chiminea with the piñon wood I have. It smells so amazing when it burns. It always reminds me of my trips to Santa Fe.

My parents had the best dog. Her name was Bebe. She had been found with other pups in a box at the dump. Her breed was unknown. She was black with curly fur. If people asked, my father always said she was a Canadian sheepdog. They believed him. Bebe loved to ride in the car. If she heard keys, she was right there with a mournful look in her eyes. I’d take her for a ride around the block. Bebe fetched rocks. Her kingdom was the front yard. She seldom wandered. The one time she did, the dog officer arrested her. She would be released the next day, but that night it thundered. Bebe was afraid of thunder. My father went to where Bebe was being held and tried to get her as he was afraid for her. He couldn’t get her. She came home the next day to hugs and kisses. Bebe was the last dog my parents ever had, but they doted on mine, spoiled them rotten!

This is my annual Father’s Day post. Many of you read it every year. It is about my amazing father, my funny and loving father. It brings back a rush of memories every time I read it. It makes me smile and long for my father. He was one of a kind in the best of all possible ways. This morning, as soon as I woke up, I wished him a Happy Father’s Day.

In my front garden are a couple of ground cover plants. They have been there for years. My father planted them for me. One weekend he and my mother came down to visit. My dad brought his lawn mower, a hand mower, garden tools and those few plants. While my mother and I shopped, my dad mowed the lawn in the front and the back. Both yards were fields no longer. He weeded the garden. I could see the flowers. The garden was lovely. I get to remember that weekend every time I go out the front gate and see my father’s plants. They touch my heart.

I have so many memories of growing up, of family trips and my dad trying to whack at us from the front seat and never succeeding, of playing whist in the kitchen, with the teams being my mom and me against my dad and brother, of Sunday rides, of going to the drive-in and the beach and of being loved by my dad. Memories of my dad are with me always, but today my memories are all of my dad, and my heart is filled to the brim with missing him. When I close my eyes, I see him so clearly.

On a warm day he’d be sitting on the front steps with his coffee cup beside him while reading the paper. He’d have on a white t-shirt and maybe his blue shorts. He’d wave at the neighbors going by in their cars. They all knew him and would honk back. He loved being retired, and we were glad he had a few years of just enjoying life.

He was the funniest guy, mostly on purpose but lots of times by happenstance. We used to have Dad stories, all those times when we roared and he had no idea why. He used to laugh along with us and ask, “What did I say? What did I say?” We were usually laughing too hard to tell him. He was a good sport about it.

I know you’ve heard this before, but it is one of my favorite Dad stories. He, my mom and I were in Portugal. I was driving. My dad was beside me. On the road, we had passed many piggyback tandem trucks, all hauling several truck loads behind them. On the back of the last truck was always the sign Vehiculo Longo. We came out of a gas station behind one of those. My father nonchalantly noted, “That guy Longo owns a lot of trucks.” I was laughing so hard I could barely drive and my mother, in the back seat, was doubled over in laughter.

My father wasn’t at all handy around the house. Putting up outside lights once, he gave himself a shock which knocked him off his step-ladder. He once sawed himself out of a tree by sitting on the wrong end of the limb. The bookcase he built in the cellar had two shelves, one on the floor and the other too high to use. He said it was lack of wood. When painting the house once, the ladder started to slide, but he stayed on his rung anyway with brush in hand. The stroke of the paint on the house followed the path of his fall. Lots of times he set his shoe or pant leg on fire when he was barbecuing. He was a big believer in lots of charcoal lighter fluid.

My father loved games, mostly cards. We played cribbage all the time, and I loved making fun of his loses, especially if I skunked him. When he won, it was superb playing. When I won, it was luck. I remember so many nights of all of us, including aunts and uncles, crowding around the kitchen table playing cards, especially hi-lo jack. He loved to win and we loved lording it over him when he lost.

My father always said he never snacked, and my mother would roll her eyes. He kept chocolate under the couch, hidden from everyone else, but, we, everyone else, knew. He loved Pilot Crackers covered with butter. Hydrox was his preferred cookie. His vanilla ice cream was always doused with Hershey’s syrup. That man did love his chocolate.

My father was a most successful businessman. He was hired to turn a company around and he did. He was personable and funny and remembered everyone’s names. Nobody turned him down.

My father always went out Sunday mornings for the paper and for donuts. He never remembered what kind of donut I like. His favorite was plain. He’d make Sunday breakfast when I visited: bacon, eggs and toast. I can still see him standing over the stove with a dish towel over his shoulders. He always put me in charge of the toast.

If I ever needed anything, I knew I could call my father. He was generous. When we went out to eat, he always wanted to pay and was indignant when we one upped him by setting it up ahead of time that one of us paid. One Christmas he gave us all $500.00, not as a gift but to buy gifts.

My father left us when he was far too young. It was sudden. He had a heart attack. I had spoken with him just the day before. It was pouring that day, and I told him how my dog Shauna was soaked. He loved that dog and told me to wipe his baby off. I still remember that whole conversation. I still miss my father every day. 

Last night the rain was heralded by thunder, a few large claps. I expected sheets of rain but, instead, it was small drops. I had to turn down the TV volume to listen. That first rain lasted all of five minutes. When it returned later, the rain lasted for a while.

The morning is lovely but only 68°. I shut the window behind me, Nala’s window from which she surveys the world. Her nose prints are the giveaway. The high today will be 72°, but I’m not complaining. That is just fine.

Saturday has always been my favorite day of the week. When I was a kid, it was the morning to plunk myself down in front of the TV and watch all the kid shows. With cereal bowl in hand, I’d sit on the rug close enough to the TV to go blind. I am not a fan of westerns now, but I watched them then. I loved Annie Oakley, a woman sheriff. I remember all the words to Happy Trails to You, the ending of The Roy Roger’s Show. Truth and Justice was the Lone Ranger’s mantra. “Yo, Rinty!” needs no explanation. I didn’t realize it back then, but there were several orphans, Rusty in Rin Tin Tin, Joey in Fury, The Circus Boy played by Mickey Dolenz of The Monkees, and Tagg, Annie Oakley’s brother. The Cisco Kid wore the best embroidered shirts, and I loved his sombrero.

My mother bought cereal we liked. My brother liked Cheerios, and I liked Rice Krispies. We never ate Corn Flakes. We always thought Corn Flakes were for adults. We had Frosted Flakes instead. I liked the little boxes of cereals. They gave us choices and could also be used as a bowl. My mother always bought whole milk.

Saturdays had a routine. In the warm months, after morning TV, we’d take off for the day, usually on our bikes. We varied our destinations. There were neat things to see in all directions. We had trains one way, the zoo and Spot Pond in another, the sheepfold and Wright’s Tower on the Fells, the farm with its dairy cows and, finally, window shopping uptown. Spot Pond was a reservoir so we had to stay off the water. I always wanted to put a boat in the water and paddle to the island filled with trees where I could camp and hide. In the next town over, I used to sit on the bench in the station and wait for the train, for the whoosh as it reached the station. At Wright’s Tower we could see all the way to Boston.

Dinner was the same all over New England on Saturday nights: hot dogs, beans and brown bread. The hot dog rolls were slit at the top, the mustard was yellow, Howard’s piccalilli graced the dogs and the brown bread, the B&M brown bread, came in a can. I purposely left out a description of the beans. I scorned tradition and never ate them.

Today is too lovely to waste so I’ll make it an outside day. I have to organize my little library, put deck tarps away, decorate the trees hanging by the deck and fill the bird feeders. My deck needs to be cleared of debris, but it is too much for my broom and me so I’m hoping the grass gets cut this afternoon so my landscaper can blow the deck clean. I also need to pick up a few flowers for the deck’s clay pots. I don’t know how many tasks I can finish today, but I’m hoping for most of them. I’m trying to ignore my sloth which whispers nap into my ear.

My father was a lawn man. He used a hand mower and always cut the lawn in the same direction. He hated it when we rode our bikes down the small grassy hill in front of the house. Our tire tracks gave us away. My father had a sprinkler which watered the lawn in a circle. He used to keep moving the sprinkler around the yard. He was always proud of his grass.

My mother had a small flower garden in a corner of the yard. It was right outside the kitchen windows. She had a bird feeder in the garden, a statue of St. Francis with outstretched arms. She put the seeds in his hands. She also hung seed bags off the clothes line. The squirrels, aka spawns of Satan, deftly walked the lines to get the seeds. She seldom attracted pretty birds. She had pigeons and crows. Once she even had a seagull. She told us her pigeons were country birds.

I keep lists. I tape them to the table here in the den. One list has all of the uke concerts in June. Another one lists the flowers I’ll buy today. I keep a standing grocery list. Another has the birthdays of my friends. I never used to be a list person, but I find I forget things if I don’t write them down somewhere. I tape them to the table because if I put them somewhere else I’ll forget where they are.

The dogs are out in the yard. I haven’t seen them in a while. They do that on the best days.

I like mornings like today’s. The house is still a little chilly from nighttime. My den is dark. It gets afternoon light. When I turn on the light, it brightens every corner of the room. It feels cozy.

We leave people behind every new stage of our lives, but we also keep some with us every step we take. I remember the names of classmates from grammar school, classmates I haven’t seen or heard of since eighth grade. I sometimes wonder where they are, what sorts of lives they led. What happened to the bullies and the bullied?

I see high school friends and classmates around town. We always stop to catch up, to chat a bit, but I wonder. Where are the rest of my high school friends? Are they happy? Are they content with the lives they’ve led? I lost touch with my college friends when I went into the Peace Corps. They moved on with their lives. Some got married. A few died. My two best Peace Corps friends are still with me. We see each other and talk all the time. We even went back to Ghana together. I don’t know where the rest of my Peace Corps friends are, but I know if I see them, we will still be connected. We shared so much.

When I was a kid, the future was tomorrow. When my aunt the nun used to ask me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I was stymied. I used to say teacher just to answer the question, but I really had no idea. I was ten. I wish I could go back and tell her I want a world of choices. I want to be an adventurer. I want to live in Africa. I want to work at a job I love. I want to live life to the fullest. That’s what I would tell my aunt the nun.

The morning is just so pretty. The sun is bright. The sky is a lovely blue. The air is calm, nothing is moving. The dogs have been out for the longest time. They came in, got their biscuits and went right back outside. They love these mornings and their romps in the yard. They also love their biscuits.

My dance card is filled this week, all uke related. I have my usual practice and lesson and I also have three concerts. We are playing our book Songs Across America with Kansas City, Old Cape Cod, Walking in Memphis and similar songs about places here. We end it with a Patriotic medley.

I live in Massachusetts. People make fun of our accent, the old Harvard Yard bit. When I first got to Ghana, we had a full group sort of assembly where we were told about customs, the different tribes in the various parts of the country and Ghanaian English. I had been asked ahead of time to stand up and say a sentence they had given me. It leaned heavily on my Boston accent. I got laughed at. The speaker, an assistant director, stopped the laughter when he said I would be the first to be understood by Ghanaians. My accent, with remnants of a British accent, mirrored the Ghanaian accent.

I’m going to give you a language lesson in case you visit Massachusetts.

My mother would walk up town. We take the subway to go in town. We drank tonic. My father used to take his shirts to the cleanser. We buy liquor at a packie. My father was a townie. We drink water from a bubbler. We bang a u-ie. The best mornings start at a Dunks. We wore dungarees. We drink frappes. I hosied the front seat. Regular coffee comes with cream and sugar. Cars on the rotary have the right of way. We ate supper every night. My mother carried a pocketbook. We put jimmies on our ice cream cones. My father always said so don’t I. I could care less is also common. Staties hide hoping to catch speeders on the highways. Wicked and very are interchangeable.

I buy subs. Other people buy grinders. I live on The Cape. Here we drive up Cape or down Cape. My brother-in-law wanted to know how far way something was. I told him about twenty minutes. We don’t talk miles here.

You are now well versed in English as it is spoken here. Enjoy your visit. You’ll fit right in.

Yesterday I was awake so early, at least for me, you’d think it was Christmas, and I was six. We had a uke concert at ten at the Chatham Airport open house, and we were supposed to be there by nine. I needed coffee first, hence the early alarm, and I wanted a good parking space. It all worked out just fine. We played The Beatles, and the audience sang along. I had lunch and then wandered around the old cars and the planes. It was fun.

We are expecting rain. It is 67°. It is windy and not windy. The morning feels chilly. I’m staying home today. I have nowhere I need to go, and I am where I want to be.

When I was a kid, we never drank tonic, which is Massachusetts for soft drinks like Coke. We drank Zarez, a sweet syrup which came in a small glass jug and was mixed with water. Mostly we drank orange. My mother used to keep a pitcher full in the fridge. They don’t make Zarex any more.

We were not a big salad family except for potato salad, that was a barbecue staple, and maybe Waldorf salad at Thanksgiving. I thought the grossest salad was Ambrosia. It didn’t even look appealing. Some were a disgusting green in color and some had little marshmallows.

My mother always bought Oreos. The best way to eat them was to split them and save the cream side for last. When they were young, my sisters used to feed the plain side to Duke, our dog. The three of them would sit on the back steps to eat their cookies. My father loved Hydrox so my mother bought those too. My father was a dipper. He dipped his Hydrox in milk. Oreos are great the same way. Cookies never lasted long in our house. I still like Oreos, but I eat them whole. I am partial to the original though I’d never turn down double stuffed.

In summer all the rules changed. Bedtime was later. If we stayed close, in the neighborhood, we could play outside even after the street lights had turned on. I remember the circle of light on the ground. I remember the shadows. I remember the excitement of being outside in the dark.

The sun hasn’t yet appeared, but it is supposed to later. Right now it is damp and in the mid 60’s. We have a breeze.

I remember the first time I stayed up until the TV station ended its day. I watched a jet flying through the clouds while a poem about slipping the bonds of Earth played in the background. I was thrilled about being up so late. My mother called it the wee hours of the morning. I thought she said whee.

I remember my last rides on the roller coaster at Paragon Park Nantasket, on the old wooden coaster called the Giant Coaster. I’ll never forget the sounds as it clanked up that first huge hill. My friends and I heard it had been sold and would be dismantled so we knew we needed to ride it for my last, and for my friend, her first, time. I didn’t tell her about the hill going down. She screamed at the top of the hill even before we started going down. She screamed the whole ride and kept banging into me. I held on as tightly as I could to the front bar to keep myself from banging against my side of the car. I loved that ride even with her screaming. To give her credit, she rode a couple of times more with much less screaming.

I remember riding on Edaville Railroad. My roller coaster friend and I went one summer. Mostly the riders were kids with their parents. They knelt on the seats and looked out the windows. I did the same thing on the subway trains. We also went to the train museum. Our last stop was for ice cream.

My dogs keep disappearing. I’m never sure if they are out or upstairs napping on my bed. I hate to call them and interrupt their napping if they are upstairs. Sometimes I stand on the deck hoping to see them in the yard. Nala is the one who might be out as Henry is a bit of a sloth. I have been finding chewed sticks on the hall and the living room floors. I have no doubt how they got into the house.