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Last night it rained, and I missed it. I am a lover of rain. A metal barrel holding the birdseed is outside my den window. The rain taps the top of the barrel. It plinks in a small rain but sounds like drums or thunder in a heavy rain. My house in Ghana had a metal roof. During the rainy season a soft rain sounded like small pebbles hitting the roof. A heavy rain was tremendous, loud and overwhelming. I’d sit in my living room and just listen to the music of the rain.

When I was a kid, I always got wet walking to school in the rain, mostly my shoes and my hair got soaked. My coat, not a raincoat but a long coat, covered the rest of me. My shoes sometimes bubbled at the toes. My hair dried faster. I loved school on a rainy day. The classroom was lit by hanging pendant lights but was still shadowy, dark in places. I liked to watch the rain hit the tall windows, windows so tall only a hook on a long stick could reach to open or close them. When the windows were closed, the rain drops would roll down from the top until they disappeared. I watched covertly.

A spawn of Satan has pushed one of my clay pots to the deck where it broke. It is a grey spawn who dines al fresco at a long feeder. He eats upside down. I always wish I had a slingshot. To think, when I was a kid, I loved feeding the squirrels in the Public Garden. They came right up to us to get the peanuts we had bought. We squealed in delight. I was young, naive.

Many of the appliances in my house have reached the pinnacles of their lives. My washing machine was the first to go to its proverbial heavenly reward. I started leaving my clothes at the laundromat to be washed and dried. The other day I decided to hand wash some clothes as the bags of dirty clothes were filled and towering. I brought the clean clothes to the dryer. I checked in a while. They were still wet. It took three long cycles before they dried. My dryer is dying. My fridge too needs help. It doesn’t stay cold enough. These appliances are old. I just wished they had staggered the ends of their lives.

My dance card for the week is uke filled. I had a concert yesterday and have a few more this week: today, Wednesday and Friday. I also have practice and a lesson. I never imagined my life would revolve around a musical instrument with four strings.

Today is cloudy and feels damp. It will be around 75°. My sister and brother in law just left. They came down in the early morning so my brother in law could fix my weird electrical problems. He did. All my house is lit.

I have never had expectations for Sundays. The rest of the week was mine, sort of, while Sundays revolved around family. When I was a kid, during the summer, it was often a beach day. During the rest of the year it was a visit my grandparents day or just a stay around the house day. The best thing about Sunday was dinner. It was my favorite meal of the week. The worst thing about Sunday was it was the day before Monday when everything sort of changed. My father left early for work and usually came home late, after dinner. We had school.

I always thought nuns were a bit mysterious. Because of their habits, I could only see their hands and faces. They wore black with a few white accents on their wimples. They wore clunky tie shoes, also black. They also wore giant rosary beads around their waists. I always thought of the rosary as a sort of early warning system. The beads clinked together when the nuns walked so we could hear them coming. Nuns moved in herds. None of them traveled alone. They had made up names like Sister Hildegard and Sister Redempta, actual nuns I had. I never thought of them as regular people. They were their own species.

When I was in Ghana, I’d fill up a Jerry can, attach it to the back of my motorcycle and then take a ride in the bush on tiny roads, more like pathways, some just dirt and others laterite. I was always a point of interest to any Ghanaians I saw. They stopped and stared a bit. I guess they seldom saw a white woman riding a motorcycle on a back road. I’d ride until my gas was low then I’d fill the tank and head home. I loved those rides. I was surrounded by savanna grass and fields of tall millet and corn. I saw singular compounds, no villages. Goats and sheep stuck together and were free range. Women were walking along the side of the roads carrying stuff on their heads. On market days some toted tomatoes or yams or corn. I always felt part of the world around me yet by myself.

The morning is cloudy and a bit chilly, summer chilly. From my den window I watched the birds at the feeders. More of them are taking advantage of a free lunch. I noticed a couple of nuthatches here for their first visit in a long time. I hadn’t filled the feeders in a while so I’m so glad the word is out!

I was born in the wee hours of the morning. My grandparents lived in the same town as the hospital so my father kept going to their house for coffee. My grandparents were up and my aunt, also still up, was perturbed. It was her wedding day, and my father was keeping her awake. She complained about getting bags under her eyes. My father went back to the hospital where he was the only person in the waiting room. He said the nurse came in and said, “Mr. Ryan? Mr. Ryan?” a couple of times. He jumped up and said, “I’m the only one here.” She told him I had been born and my mother and I were fine. He ran into the hall, and he saw me just moments after my birth when they were just moving my mother and me. My mother only remembers seeing his head and no face. She was still a bit woozy. She told me she sat in bed wearing her corsage, the one she was to wear at the wedding.

When I was a kid, I wondered about old people; of course, old back then was relative. My parents were old to me, even when they were young. The first time I thought I was getting old was when I turned 30. I remembered the mantra, “Don’t trust anybody over thirty,” and there I was. Fifty was difficult. I was half a century old. I am much older than that now, but I don’t mind anymore how old I am. I am thankful for getting old. I am thankful for every day.

My dance card has two entries, concerts. One is tonight. The other is tomorrow in a gazebo on the beach.

Late last night it rained. The drops were quiet. The air smelled damp, earthy and had gotten chilly, down to 61°. It was a beautiful night. It was a harbinger of fall.

When I was a kid, I loved the fall. The mornings were cool, the days warm. I walked to school on a sidewalk with a mantle of leafy, tall trees whose branches I could almost touch. I didn’t need a coat, just a jacket. I carried my school bag and my lunch box. It was a walk of only a couple of blocks to school. We waited in the schoolyard for the nuns to ring the bell, a handbell they rang from the steps of the school. We got into lines and walked into the building. I always wished I could stay outside to enjoy the morning.

When I bought my house, my mother brought down treasures she had saved for me from my childhood. She brought books. The earliest books were about The Bobbsey Twins, two sets of them: Bert and Nan and Freddie and Flossie. My grandmother had written Happy Birthday in two of those books. I had several Nancy Drew books. I also read the classics. Heidi has yellow pages and is close to falling apart. The binding of Treasure Island is loose. I bought a small bookcase just for those books. I have eggs cups, yellow chicks from Fannie Farmer. My mother often made soft boiled eggs for our breakfasts. She’d toast some bread and cut it to fit the top of the eggs. Most of the chicks have lost their beaks. A child’s wooden chair painted white was made by my grandmother’s brother as a gift for me. My sisters also used it. The chair is still so sturdy I stood on it a while back to get at boxes on the shelf in my closet. I love those pieces of my childhood and my mother’s thoughtfulness.

I used to love to color. Every Christmas my stocking always had a coloring book and crayons. I remember the year I got a box of 24 crayons. It seemed so big until the year I got a box of 64. That box even had a sharpener. Crayons had a long life. As they got shorter, I’d tear off the paper and sharpen the ends. I used to keep the stubs in a cigar box. Last Christmas my sister gave me a box of 96 crayons and a coloring book of scenes from Ghana. I colored a few. I used all bright colors. That’s how I see Ghana.

The weather the last few days has been a delight. The days are hot but not unbearable. The nights are perfect. Last night it got down to 58°, closed window and light blanket weather. Today will be in the high 70’s with clouds popping in and out. I’m thinking this is a deck day.

When I was a kid, my friend and I sometimes slept in her backyard where there was a fence beyond the grass with a small field and pear trees behind it. We’d sometimes grab a pear from an overhanging branch. The pears never seemed to get ripe. They were always hard. We’d lie on our backs on a blanket on the soft grass so we could see the stars. Back then there were thousands or maybe millions of stars. At least that’s how I remember it. We’d eat a few snacks, chat a while then finally fall sleep. I loved waking up to the sounds of the birds in the early morning.

As we got closer to school starting, the days got shorter a little bit at a time. We still played outside after supper under the streetlights, but that was coming to an end. My mother soon enough would start sending us to bed early reminding us,” It’s a school day tomorrow,” as if we really needed reminding.

I remember school shopping. In Woolworth’s we’d buy all our supplies. I got to pick out my pencil case, my lunch box and my school bag. We’d also buy a few lined Big Chief notepads with an Indian on the front, pencils, a box of crayons and a wooden ruler. When I was young, I wanted TV stars on my lunchbox, but when I was older, I outgrew the stars. I’d choose a tartan design or something similar. I remember a red tartan lunchbox. My school bag was square with a handle on the top and a strap for over my shoulder.

School clothes were easy, a white blouse, a blue skirt and a clip-on western tie. I did get to choose my own shoes, but I was steered to sturdy shoes so they’d last longer. They were tie shoes. My mother would buy us new socks and underwear. School shopping was completed.

The first day of school was always exciting. The rest were seldom exciting.

The first song in this week’s uke concert book is “Oh What a Beautiful Morning,” and it fits today perfectly. The air is dry. It is only 73° now, but later the high will reach 80°. The backyard trees and leaves are sunlit. Nothing is moving in the still, still air. The dogs are having their morning naps. Nala is beside me while Henry is upstairs stretched on my bed. I have a few errands today, mainly animal food shopping, and a concert tonight. It is a busy uke week.

When I lived in Ghana, I had chickens. A hen with her eggs was a gift from a friend. The hen was white. Thomas who worked for me put a big piece of a broken pottery bowl on the floor of the toilet room, added straw and put the hens and her eggs on it. I used to check out the eggs when I went to the bathroom. They were entertainment though the hen sometimes objected, and I’d get pecked. I was so excited when the first crack appeared, and I could the chick tapping away at the shell. Five or six chicks finally emerged from the shells, but the hen was an irresponsible mother. Every day she’d leave in the morning and come home in the late afternoon missing a chick or two. All of them disappeared, and I ate the hen for dinner. Later I had more hens, and they were good mothers.

My most amazing animal encounter was on a back dirt road. I was riding my motorcycle going to visit a friend who lived in a remote village. On both sides of the road were tall grasses. As I was riding, I saw in front of me, not a great distance away but far enough, animals using both their hands and feet to move across the road. I stopped to watch. That’s when I realized they were baboons. One stopped, turned and looked up the road at me. I didn’t move. He must have figured I was not a threat so he went on his way. I didn’t know there were baboons in Ghana, monkeys yes but not baboons. I wanted to make sure what I’d seen was real, not imagined, and not some other animal so I did a bit of research. I found out I wasn’t crazy. Ghana has several different primates, and yes, olive baboons are one of them. I had seen what I thought I had seen. I had had an adventure.

The morning is warm. The air is still. It will be 80° for the high, but it will get down to the 60’s tonight. That’s perfect sleeping weather. I have a few chores: watering plants inside and out, filling the bird feeders and vacuuming the Henry fur which rises into the air when I walk down the hall. I also think I’ll manage some deck time.

When I was a kid, I had an orthodontist. Back then that was not so common as it is now. His name was Doctor Nice. His office was in Boston not so far from Kenmore Square. I remember his office. It was a converted house, an old house with high ceilings on Commonwealth Ave. In the huge waiting room was his nurse and her desk, a couple of couches and chairs. Where he worked on my teeth had windows looking out to Comm Ave. He was old, at least to me. He always wore a white jacket. It was a process when I had an appointment. Usually my appointments were in the mornings. My mother would find a babysitter for my sisters, usually a neighbor. We’d walk uptown and take a bus to Sullivan Square. From there we’d ride the subway to Kenmore then walk up the street. We reversed it on the way home. I remember waiting at Sullivan Square for the bus. We’d stop at the kiosk, and I’d get a snack. Once back in Stoneham, we’d stop at the restaurant where my mother would buy me a sandwich for lunch. I’d eat as we walked to school which was half over when I got there. I remember my school pictures that year. I didn’t even open my mouth. I have that picture somewhere.

Sundays were quiet when I was growing up. Everyone I knew had a Sunday dinner. It was the special meal of the week. I remember we always had mashed potatoes. The roast was sometimes beef and sometimes chicken. The vegetables changed. My favorites were baby peas and corn, not creamed corn, but corn nuggets. I always thought creamed corn was disgusting looking. The vegetables always came from a can.

Nala is bringing in acorns and pine cones. She chews them. I stepped on an acorn the other day, and it hurt. I cursed and yelled at Nala. I’m sure she had no idea why I was yelling.

The morning is rainy, a soft rain. Last night a branch blown by the strong wind hit the house a few times, but I was the only one who noticed. The birds are swooping in and out of the feeders. I watched them from the bathroom window. There were as many of them as I’ve since I filled the feeders. I guess the word is out. I saw Mrs. Cardinal at the open feeder. She dines al fresco. I am so happy my birds are back.

Yesterday I saw a hawk way above the house riding the thermals. It was such a graceful bird as it swooped up and down, round and round.

My father loved to go to the dump. When friends came down for the weekend, he always invited them to go along with him. They usually did. The dump had heaps of trash. Circling the dump were the ever present seagulls, the nosiest birds with their shrilly squawking. Some other gulls sat on the tops of the trash piles. They reminded me of the game king of the hill we played when we were kids.

In my memory drawers I can see scenes from the places where I’ve traveled. They are small memories. In Finland, I was in a restaurant with a huge menu board hung on the wall. The dishes were listed in Finnish and Swedish. I could see the food set as if for a buffet. I picked what looked good. In a small hole in the wall restaurant in Ecuador, Guinea pigs called cuy by the Ecuadorians ran all round on the floor. They were bigger than the Guinea pigs here. I found out they are raised for food. I remember sitting in the afternoons having coffee at a cafe in Marrakesh. The cafe faced the Djemaa El Fna, the main square. At night restaurants took over the square but during the day it had musicians, snake charmers and women drawing henna. I had one do my hands. I remember lying on a bench in the airport at Niamey. I had had a mild case of cholera. Though I was on the mend I was still feeling the effects. I remember the airport back then was a huge hanger. I can close my eyes and see Main Street Bolga as it was. It is enshrined in my memories.

I am often surprised by what pops into my head from my memory drawers. The memories are simple, just sort of day to day events, nothing spectacular like Machu Picchu or Christ of the Andes which I easily remember. The small things are remarkable in their own way. They sit waiting for me to remember, and when I do, I am a traveler once again on trains or busses or eating in small restaurants with only a couple of chairs or walking by myself through neighborhoods and seeing the small worlds of wherever I am.

The morning is sunny and breezy. It will be hot, close to 80°. The humidity too will be high, not unusual for August. My dance card is full for today, a concert in the afternoon and a play tonight.

Dinner last night was wonderful. We talked and laughed and caught up with one another. We stayed on the deck until late despite the rain. The umbrella kept us dry. We could hear the rain above us hitting the umbrella and all around us hitting the leaves. A few birds flew in for their evening meals. The dogs finally settled and slept on the deck. The deck was the perfect place to be.

When I was a kid, fathers were the grill masters. On Saturday nights, my father pulled out the grill, filled it with briquettes and poured lighter fluid over all over the briquettes. He’d throw a match into the grill, and the fire always whooshed into the air. I remember once his shoes and the bottom of his pant leg caught on fire. He put the fire out with a tarp. Once the fire was ready, my father would sit outside with his cigarettes and a drink to mind the meat. He took barbecuing seriously.

The field below our house was special. It had a path to the swamp and off that path was another to the water tower at the top of a small hill. Beside the field on one side were trees in a small wood. On the other side was a road, the one which ran below my house. I can close my eyes and see and hear that field. In the spring the grass was green. As the summer got warmer, the grass grew tall and turned brown. The field was never quiet. It was filled with buzzing and a sort of clicking sound of the grasshoppers who lived in the field. If I ran through the field, the grasshoppers jumped over and over above the grass to stay out of my way. They were brown, katydids. I loved watching them leap into the air. I’d catch one in mid-air and hold it cupped in my hands then I’d let it go. I loved the joy of the hunt.

Today will be a short musing. I have a huge list of chores. Friends are coming to dinner. It has been a while since I have entertained. It will be a game night.

The deck needs sweeping as it is filled with acorns. Nala does her best to clear the deck by bringing the acorns inside the house. The air was blue with cursing when I stepped on one with my bare feet.

Last night got cold. I even had to shut the windows. It was down to the mid 60’s. The change was delightful. Right now it is cloudy and a bit damp though no rain is predicted. It is 70° but feels chillier. The sun is working its way through the clouds. I’m rooting for the sunshine.

When I was a kid, the summer seemed to last forever. Every day was filled. I loved all the sun, but I also loved summer rains. I remember kicking the water in the sort of river running along the road beside the sidewalk. The water arced left and right as I kicked. My sneakers got so soaked they bubbled at the toes. I loved both a downpour and a gentle summer rain.

I bought Oreos the other day. I can’t remember the last time I ate Oreos. They were our go to cookies when I was kid. Back then there was only one variety, your plain regular Oreos. Now there are just so many choices. I am a purist at heart, but I consider doubt stuffed to be the younger brother of the original, just bigger and stronger. My sisters used to sit on the back step, pull the Oreos apart, scrape off the cream with their teeth, the best method to eat the cream, and give Duke, our boxer, the cookies. My Oreos did not disappoint.

Well, I need to start on that extensive to-so list. I wished for elves, but they didn’t surprise me the way they surprised the shoemaker.