Today is a little bit cloudy, but the sun is hanging around waiting its turn. It’s warm again, in the low 70’s. The dogs were out for a while, but it now time for their morning naps. We are all comfy on the couch.

I have favorite sounds. When I lived in Ghana and first heard the rooster crowing, I thought it a wonderful way to greet the morning. It was loud, but I learned to listen, sort of smile and then go back to sleep. When I went back, a rooster greeted the day right outside my hotel window every morning. I was glad. The chimes in my backyard are sweet sounding. The morning birds sing at first light. The nights are filled with the sounds of katydids and crickets. The frogs from the small pond at the end of the street join the chorus. Sometimes I am lucky enough to hear an owl. I love the sound of the oak leaves blowing in the wind. I like thunder. The bell from my coffee maker has me hurrying to the kitchen for my first cup. Jack, my cat, has the loudest purr.

I know smells connect to memories. Cookies baking in the oven always remind me of my mother and her sugar cookies. They were Christmas. Wood burning brings me back to Ghana. The mornings in Ghana were filled with the aroma of wood burning from the compounds around my house. Breakfast was being cooked. Mine too was cooked using wood charcoal. When I went to Plimouth Plantation for the first time, the air was filled with the aroma of wood burning. It took me right back to Ghana. The pine scent of my Christmas tree is one of my favorite smells. This time of year the air is sweet with the fragrance of my lilac bushes and the flowers in the front garden.

Colors fill my world. In spring are the bright yellow dafs and the deep purples of the hyacinths. All summer my front garden blooms in riots of color. My deck pot flowers are red and pink and yellow. I never realized how colorful fall is here on the cape until I got back from Africa and saw my first fall. The bogs are red, ripe with cranberries. Oak trees leaves turn a sort of russet red, a muted color. Yellow and bright reds are less common so more striking when I see them.

To describe my favorite tastes would take pages and pages. I’ll just say that I never turn down chocolate. Every day has to start with coffee. My mother made the best tapioca pudding.

We seem to be in the most wonderful weather pattern. The days are in the 70’s and the nights are in the 60’s. Today we even have a bit of a breeze. I don’t mind errands. I love being out and enjoying the day.

When I was a kid, I sometimes drove to mass with my father. Other times I walked either by myself or with my brother. We could go to mass upstairs in the main part of the church or downstairs. Mostly we went downstairs as there was seldom a sermon. I usually glitched out during a sermon. If I wanted to be lectured, my parents were enough. Besides, I wasn’t really into sin. I’d read the hymnal, look around and get antsy. I only went upstairs if it was SRO, and I could sit outside on the steps. I was never really devout.

Sunday was usually such a peaceful day. Most stores were closed. The day was treated almost sacredly. Even my neighborhood which was filled with kids was quiet, but summer Sundays were a bit different. They were casual. We didn’t have a big dinner. My father often barbecued. It was always hamburgers and hot dogs. My mother made potato salad or pepper and eggs. There were always chips. Dessert was whatever we could find, sometimes cookies, sometimes watermelon, sometimes ice cream if we were really lucky. Sunday nights we usually watched TV. My mother used to cover the windows to keep the heat from the sun away so the TV was bright in the darkened room. I remember the flickering of the black and white screen.

The town pool was at the other end of town. Mostly we walked. I’d carry my towel and my bathing suit. I had a dime, the cost of admission. The girls’ section was to the left. It had benches and lockers. The locker key was on a sort of bracelet you could put on your wrist. I remember towels spread around the pool on the concrete. I remember teen couples on those towels. I sort of gaped on my way by. The diving board was at the far end of the pool. I used to dive off it. I’d stand ready as if it were an Olympic competition. I do remember one dive. I went so deeply I hit the bottom of the pool with my face. I cracked a tooth and split my lip. The lifeguard drove me home. I was ten.

Today is another glorious day, a just right day. The sun is bright and framed in a deep blue sky. It will be in the mid 60’s today and the 50’s tonight, perfect for daytime roaming and nighttime sleeping. This is such a lovely time of year.

When I was a kid, I thought my world was huge. It was filled with adventures and discoveries. This time of year the swamp was alive with tadpoles darting through the water and dragonflies skimming across the top of the water. The swamp was large in the middle with sort of little canals going back from it into the brush. In the winter we could walk the canals, but in the summer the brush was too thick. I remember the small canals froze first, and I could see all the plants under the ice. The swamp got green with algae in the summer.

On Green Street, there was a field with a red barn. Two horses grazed the field. We used to try to feed them grass. We had notions of riding them but never dared to climb the fence. The fact I had never ridden a horse under saddle let alone bareback didn’t stop me from hoping.

My trusty steed, my bicycle, took me everywhere. It was the sort with no gears and back of the pedals brakes. It had a wire basket on the front. It had thick tires. It was quick down hills. I flew. I learned to ride it with no hands. I used to brake in the sand on purpose so my bike would slide. I used to ride by the golf courses and look for errant golf balls. Sometimes I’d ride along Spot Pond from the zoo to the pool then try to make it up the hill near the pool. I always ended up walking my bike partway. The downhill side was close to the square. I used to stop on the benches under the trees by the town hall and eat lunch.

I’d get home in the late afternoon. My mother usually asked where I’d been. I always answered, “Around.”

This morning is just lovely. The sun is bright and has already warmed the day. It is 64°. Last night got chilly, and the house is still cold. That always happens this time of year. The night air lingers. The day is calm and quiet.

My muse is on a break today. I started and stopped four or five times so I’ve decided on a here and there sort of blog today.

We used to go to the beach on weekends. We always went to Wingaersheek Beach in Gloucester. My mother never went into the water. My sisters used to walk the beach and collect shells. The water was cold so I did most of my swimming at low tide in the tidal pools at the sand bars. Huge rocks were in the water, and we’d climb them at low tide. I remember the huge, beautiful houses overlooking the beach. I always wanted to live in one. My father hated sand in his car. He’d also put a towel on the back seat in case our bathing suits were still wet. Before we could get into the car we had to dip our feet into a bucket of water to get all the sand off then we’d step right into the car. We’d go to bed early, tired from the day. Sometimes, with my head on the pillow, a bit of warm water would drain from my ear, a leftover from swimming underwater.

Most of the time we ate meat and potatoes, but we’d also eat Chinese and Italian. My mother made a Chinese dinner we loved. It had pea pods, water chestnuts, bamboo shoots and ground beef. She’d cook it her electric dry pan on the counter. It was served with chow mein noodles on the top.

My father’s mother was a horrible cook. On her spaghetti she’d put stewed tomatoes from a can. My mother was a good cook. Her spaghetti always had a tasty meat sauce. I am not a fan of eggplant, but I loved my mother’s eggplant Parmesan. I remember she made it for my after high school graduation party.

Going to Ghana expanded my palate exponentially. Of course, I ate Ghanaian food which introduced me to goat, okra, plantain, tuber yam, mango, pawpaw and garden eggs, little eggplants. I ate Lebanese food as there were several sort of small, hole in the wall Lebanese restaurants in Ghana, and the food wasn’t expensive. I became a fan of hummus and tabbouleh, foods I’d never heard of before. I ate Indian food at the Maharaja Restaurant. None of it was familiar.

I have a couple of errands today. It is a pretty day to be out and about.

Showers are predicted for today so the morning is a bit dark. There is a slight breeze ruffling the leaves on the oak trees. The dogs are having their naps. It’s a quiet morning.

My dance card is empty. I do have my usual weekly errands but not today. I figure it is time to do a bit of cleaning, mostly upstairs. I will never have a dog with white fur again.

When I was a kid, one of the best sounds of summer was the bell announcing the arrival of the ice cream man’s truck. Johnny was the ice cream man’s name. He used to stop at the top of the hill near the little rotary. Kids ran home from all directions yelling, “Johnny is here!” I mostly bought popsicles. My favorite was root beer followed closely by cherry. They were only a nickel. When I was really young, I wasn’t good at catching the drips. My hand and wrist had lines of red from the cherry, and my fingers got sticky. As I got older, I learned the popsicle technique. Licking from the bottom up was the key, and you had to be careful because sometimes the top part of the popsicle would fall off and hit the ground, a tragedy. It was the same with ice cream cones. As the ice cream melted it dripped down the cone. I remember my mother sometimes wrapped a napkin round the cone to catch the drips. It always got messy. Sometimes the bottom of the cone leaked. I think a sign of the end of childhood is eating an ice cream cone with no mess, no drips, no napkin.

I remember buying Push-Up ice cream. It was like an orange sherbet and came in what looked like a toilet paper roll with a stick in the bottom middle. That was the push-up part. They were a dime.

I still love ice cream. My current favorites are coconut and coffee chip. I eat ice cream out of a bowl now, and sometimes I add chocolate syrup or hot fudge to make a sort of sundae. Every now and then I still buy what my father, who worked for an ice cream company, used to call an ice cream novelty. I buy Drumsticks, sort of portable sundaes, sugar cones with vanilla sort of ice cream, chocolate shells and nuts. I don’t buy them often. They get eaten really fast.

Last night’s storm was classic, right out of an old mystery novel. The thunder rumbled, the lightning lit up the night and the rain poured. If I were living in a decrepit mansion, I’d expect to see a dead body in the library. It rained a long time. I am a lover of storms.

My dance card is nearly empty this week. If I didn’t have uke and my usual dump run, I’d have nothing listed, but I don’t really mine. The summer will be busy enough.

When I was a kid, this time of year went slowly. I could barely wait for summer vacation, but I had to suffer through final exams before that happened. I still remember one final because it was peculiar. It was music, and it had a section on Gregorian chant. I still don’t know why. Never in my life have I been asked to read the notes in Gregorian chant.

Where I lived in Ghana was the driest part of the country. It didn’t rain for months. The roads turned dusty. Riding anywhere meant being covered in dust and even tasting it. Nothing grew. The fields were empty. The brown stalks of corn and millet had been burned. I remember the days of smoke as the fires moved across the fields. The water was turned off a few days a week, but I was ready. I filled all of my water bottles ahead of time and kept them in the fridge. I had buckets I used to fill, and I’d line them up in the shower for my nightly bucket baths. I became an expert at taking a bucket bath. I’d even have leftover water to flush the toilet at the end of the day. Food choices in the market were limited. Some tomatoes were grown through irrigation so I could always find them and usually onions. I also ate yams, tuber yams which looked a bit like tree trunks. My heels and lips cracked. I walked on my tip toes. The heat was extraordinary, but it was dry which made it bearable. I’d go to bed wet after my shower or my bucket bath. It was the best way to fall asleep in the heat. I became an expert in dry season survival.

The dead soldier’s silence sings our national anthem.”

For special days, I have traditional postings. This is one of them. 

Memorial Day is a day for reflection and a day to give thanks. It is a day for honoring the men and women who died while serving in the U.S. military, those who gave, as President Lincoln once said, their “last full measure of devotion.” This is my annual tribute. 

Memorial Day, originally called Decoration Day, is a day of remembrance for those who have died in our nation’s service. It originated during the American Civi War when citizens placed flowers on the graves of those who had been killed in battle. There are many stories as to its actual beginnings, with over two dozen cities and towns laying claim to being the birthplace of Memorial Day. There is also evidence that organized women’s groups in the South were decorating graves before the end of the Civil War: a hymn published in 1867, “Kneel Where Our Loves are Sleeping” by Nella L. Sweet carried the dedication “To The Ladies of the South who are Decorating the Graves of the Confederate Dead.” While Waterloo N.Y. was officially declared the birthplace of Memorial Day by President Lyndon Johnson in May 1966, it’s difficult to prove conclusively the origins of the day. It is more likely that it had many separate beginnings; each of those towns and every planned or spontaneous gathering of people to honor the war dead in the 1860′s tapped into the general human need to honor our dead, each contributed honorably to the growing movement that culminated in General Logan, Commander in Chief of the Grand Army of the Republic, giving his official proclamation in 1868 designating May 30 as a memorial day “for the purpose of strewing with flowers or otherwise decorating the graves of comrades who died in defense of their country during the late rebellion, and whose bodies now lie in almost every city, village, and hamlet churchyard in the land.”. It is not important who was the very first, what is important is that Memorial Day was established. Memorial Day is not about division. It is about reconciliation; it is about coming together to honor those who gave their all.

The clouds are back, but the sun every now and then tries to poke through. Right now it is in the 60’s but could get warmer. The nights still go down to the 50’s so the house is cool in the mornings. When I went to get the paper today, I noticed the pine pollen. The green powder is covering my car. I need to keep the windows closed.

My dance card is near empty this week. I have the usual uke practice and lesson, but no concerts, and nothing else is scheduled. I think I’ll have no excuse for avoiding cleaning. The dust balls have taken over. Even a sloth has to work occasionally.

When I was growing up, I learned certain things. My mother used to tell us it was too cold to snow. We believed her. If we swallowed gum, it would form a giant ball in our stomachs. I envisioned something the size of a cannon ball just waiting to burst. I never swallowed watermelon seeds. I didn’t want a garden of them growing in my stomach. We couldn’t leave anything on our plates. Kids were dying of starvation in China. Drinking coffee stunts growth. Going outside in winter with wet hair causes a cold. We all know about sitting close to the TV. Lying makes your tongue turn black. Eating chocolate gives you pimples. Despite all the carrots I’ve eaten, I’m still waiting to see in the dark.

My house has sounds, but I know most of them. The nights are noisy, but I know who or what is making the sounds. I usually sleep deeply, but every now and then my subconscious jolts me awake to a sound I don’t recognize. Sometimes I go to the window and listen out of curiosity, not fear. The sounds are not scary. They are just a surprise.

Today is a perfect day. The sun is strong and bright and is sitting in a deep blue sky. The air is still. The temperature will stay around the high 60’s.

I’m keeping close to hearth and home this weekend. Though summer will not officially arrive until June 20th, this weekend is its unofficial start. I was out yesterday and got caught in traffic, the bane of summer around here. It is time to practice my expletives.

When I was a kid, this would have been a day to ride my trusty steed, my bicycle. I never tired of riding. I went in different directions on different Saturdays. I had favorite places like the zoo, Weiss dairy farm and even walking through the square with my bicycle in hand. The square back then was the hopping spot. It had all the stores except The First National, a grocery store down Main Street from the square. I used to get my 50¢ allowance on Fridays so I was flush with money to do a bit of shopping. That money never stayed long in my pocket.

I remember my first visit to Fenway Park. I was twelve. It was a night game. My friend had a sister who worked with the Sox. She got the tickets. We arrived early to watch batting practice. I still remember walking out of the tunnel at the back of left field and seeing Fenway for the first time. The lights were on, and it was as bright as day. The grass was lush. I could hear the crack of the bat, and I watched arcing liners being caught by outfielders. One ball landed right where we stood, and I grabbed it. My friend’s sister took it to get autographed. I don’t know what happened to that ball, but I looked at it so many times I still remember some of the signatures, Frank Malzone, Gary Geiger and Bill Monbouquette. Years later, when Fenway was being refurbished, my friends bought me a brick for the floor of the concourse with my name on the top line, on the second line was Peace Corps and on the third line was 1969-1971. I got a certificate of authenticity and a map showing where I could find it in the concourse. It was in the Bill Monbouquette section.

Mother Nature is especially kind today. It is already in the 70’s. The sun is so amazingly bright everything shines. The sky is a deep blue and not a cloud is in sight. A slight breeze ruffles the leaves on the oak trees. It is time to put my flannel shirts away and almost time for the door screens.

When I was a kid, my grammar school wasn’t all that far away. I always walked no matter the weather. The school is still there and is still in use. It was built in 1910. The building is brick with wood around the doors. It has two doors but we only used one. A statue stands in front of it. The school was too small for all of us. Every classroom was filled. My classes had at least 40 or 45 kids, but there was never noise or chaos. All it took was one nun to keep us in line. Sometimes she didn’t even have to say anything. A look was enough. We didn’t have a gym or a cafeteria. The only bathrooms were in what I always thought of as the cellar. It was a long run from the second floor. I loved the inside of that school. It was all wood, everywhere wood. The stairs dipped a bit from age and made creaky noises the way old stairs do. Each classroom had a cloakroom, also too small for all of us. The coats were hung on the hooks, but there were so many coats on one hook I could push my coat between the hooks, and it wouldn’t fall down. The windows were tall. A long pole was needed to open and shut the windows from the top. That was a boy’s job.

I spent my first and second grade in that school. For my third grade, I was in the cellar of the rectory. There were just too many of us for the school to hold. In fourth grade we did double sessions. I liked sleeping in when I had the afternoon session, but I hated having little time to play after school, especially in winter. For the start of the fifth grade we were bused to the next town over. I remember my nun sitting in the middle of the back seat of the bus. She had her eyes on all of us.

We moved into the new school in the spring. I remember it looked huge with wide corridors and bathrooms on each floor. I was in a room on the first floor. I sat next to the windows. My nun, who was huge, always sat at her desk. She didn’t move. We did.

I graduated from that school three years later. I have never been back.