Keep the Coffee Comimg

I am behind my time this morning. Nala was crying so I got up, went downstairs and let her out. I decided I was still tired so I went back to bed. When I finally dragged myself out of bed, I took my time, finished all the puzzles in the paper, made a pot of coffee and read my e-mail. This is the only day of the week I have an empty dance card so the sloth in me is strong.

The weather is a delight. It rained early this morning, in the wee hours. Last night was perfect for sleeping. Right now it is 78°, breezy and alternatively sunny and cloudy. It might rain.

My mother would have been 99 today. I thought of her as soon as I woke up. She was amazing. She was thoughtful and she was funny. I can’t recall the exact number of Boggle games we played, but I swear it had to be in the thousands. We’d sit at her kitchen table for hours. She gave our lives her special touch. I still miss her every day.

I have this gift. When I close my eyes, I can see places, routes, even the number of stop lights. One trip I loved was to East Boston to visit my grandparents. There was so much to see, so much I still remember. Part of the trip was on Route 1 through Saugus. My head swiveled from side to side so I wouldn’t miss a thing. Just before we got on the highway, there was a private pond for fishing. I remember the trespass warnings on the gate. A store right at the exit sold wedding gowns. I always checked the store window. Another store sold German sausages. It sold other things, but I only remember the sign for the sausages. A giant dinosaur stood at the miniature golf course. Adventure Car Hop, the restaurant Woo Woo Ginsberg on WMEX on his Night Train Show touted, was at the rotary. I always wanted for us to stop but we never did. The St. Anthony of Padua church was the biggest church I had ever seen. Its back faced the road. I remember oil tankers tied up at piers. The smell of the oil permeated the air. The last thing was the hill. A project with brick buildings was below that hill. On top of it was where the giant statue of Madonna Queen of the Universe Shrine stood. My grandparent’s house was just a few streets beyond that hill. I remember cars filled the parking spaces along the roadsides. My father used to drop us off then he’d hunt for a place to park.

So many other routes stick in my memory drawers. One vibrant memory is the walk from my school in Bolga to town. I see it perfectly. That is the most wonderful gift of memory.

Last night we had a lovely breeze for the concert, and that cool air hung around for a while, but today is going to be hot and humid again. For a change, though, I’ll be happy to abide today’s temperature and grouse less as starting tomorrow it should stay in the 70’s for a bit.

I remember exactly how my dream, my hope, maybe even my expectation, of seeing the world started. I remember being eleven and thinking my geography book was a travel brochure. That was around the same time I caught Barrett’s disease. Its main symptom is travel envy. My classmate, whose last name was Barrett, used to go to England to visit family. I was jealous of him. It was then I vowed to travel far and wide.

On my first morning in Ghana, I saw palm trees. They were exotic and proof I was somewhere I had only imagined. I had jumped into my geography book. I had jumped into Africa.

My longest trip was through South America. I was gone all summer. I landed in Caracas and seven weeks later I left from Rio for home. I didn’t know anyone who had gone there. I just decided that’s where I would go. Maybe Juan Valdez had a piece of that. I planned the trip and traveled with a friend. We saw amazing things. We took a bus from Caracas and traveled all day with a stop for lunch in the mountains. I had mountain trout. We arrived at night to Mérida, Venezuela, one of the main cities of the Venezuelan Andes. The mountains would stay with us most of the trip.

I remember in Bogota we went to the Gold Museum. We were in a vault. The door was closed. The lights were out. When they turned on the lights, we were surrounded by glass cases filled with gold. I think every person Oohed at the same time.

One of my favorite memories is of when we were traveling in Ecuador on what was basically a school bus painted green. We were the only foreigners on it. No one spoke English. We were stopped before the border. The guards wanted our passports. We were in the back of the bus. The other passengers took our passports and hand over hand passed them to the front of the bus and back again. No one spoke to us. They pointed.

We traveled before South America became a destination. During that whole trip we met only one other American. Even at Machu Picchu there were no crowds. We took a three day boat trip down the Paraná River from Asuncion Paraguay to Buenos Aires. We booked the day the boat left. There was plenty of room. For the other passengers it was a round trip. Only one other person on the boat spoke English, and they courteously put us at her table for meals.

I have memories of that trip as big as the mountains and as small as cuy, the Ecuadorian Guinea pig.

We’re still stuck in the mid 80’s, but the day is hazy, cloudy. The breeze is strong at times. I feel subdued. My muse is napping on the couch oblivious to my pleas for help, for inspiration. Last week I mostly stayed home. My most exciting trip was to the dump. How sad!

Henry came in the dog door twice yesterday. He stuck his head in the door, checked around, made some noises, then decided to go it alone. The key, I’ve found, is to wait him out, but I usually give in first as he sounds so plaintive, even abandoned. He knows how to work me.

My mother taught me how to play jacks. I used to get a set of them in my Easter basket and my Christmas stocking. We’d sit on the floor and play. We used to keep track of where we were by calling the steps onesie, twosies, threesies and on from there to tensies. The key was in how you threw the jacks: the higher numbered the turn, the closer the jacks needed to be to each other. I remember the next rounds added different steps. One was clicking the jacks after you picked them up.

We were a game family. Every Christmas we always got new games. We always played both board and card games. My parents taught my brother and me whist when we were young. We had girls’ versus boys’ tournaments. We girls usually won. My favorite game was Sorry. Nothing was better than sending an opponent’s man back to start. We were never sorry. I have the game Go to the Head of the Class, the exact one we used. The board has rows of desks and the desks have colors indicating the type of questions. You move up the board to the head of the class when you answer questions correctly. The questions are different levels of difficulty so we could play with my parents. I loved the names of the pieces like Cowboy Joe, Dimples, Butch and Buttercup. My parents always used the Mommy and Daddy pieces.

The Christmas boxes my mother sent me when I was in Ghana always had a game or two in them. We played Password so many times we knew all the words on all the cards. We competed in paddle ball every night after dinner. You know the one, the wooden paddle with the red rubber ball on an elastic. We were devastated when the elastic broke. We played word games with pen and paper. We entertained ourselves.

The day is a pretty one again, but it is also a hot one again. We are in the mid to high 80’s every day. The dogs pant. Their morning naps are now on the cool tile of the kitchen floor, quite the change for my couch dogs. Despite the heat I did go to the dump yesterday. That means today I can loll. I have become quite adept at lolling.

I lived in a hot country. It was especially hot during the dry season, but I abided the heat. It was expected. Here, I grouse when it is this hot. I even grouse out loud though there is no one to hear me. The weather report predicts this same weather will hang around all week. I’ll get even more dramatic. I’ll swoon on the couch overcome by the vapors.

When I was a kid, I lived in a dark house. My mother pulled down every shade to keep the sun at bay. My sisters ran through the sprinkler. They laid out towels on the lawn as if they were at the pool or the beach. The sprinkler water was cold so they screamed and laughed. I sometimes went to the pool, but it was at the other end of town. I always got hot walking home. Sleeping was difficult. The upstairs never cooled down. I tossed and turned before I finally fell sleep. It took a while.

Every now and then I’d sleep outside with my friend in her backyard. It had a fence on the backside of the grass separating it from the big, white house on the street behind it, on Green Street. Close to the fence on the other side were pear trees. We’d eat the fallen pears. They were always hard. We’d put my father’s old, stiff tarp on the grass and sleep on top of it. I’d bring my sheet and pillow. I remember lying on my back looking at the sky filled with stars. They brightened the night. They cut through the darkness. Their light made shadows on the grass. I could see the old man in the moon. He was always smiling. Those were magical nights.

Today is a scorcher. Already it is 85°. The air is thick, humid. A thunder storm is predicted for this afternoon, but the sun and blue sky seem to belie the prediction. Every now and then a breeze strong enough to flutter the leaves and sway small branches gives a bit of relief. The dogs are stretched out, sleeping on the kitchen floor, the coolest spot in the house. I am in the den, the coolest spot not on the floor.

I will do my dump run this afternoon. The trash bags are in front waiting to be loaded into the trunk. I also need to water my house plants. I figure those chores are enough for today.

I have strange pictures in my memory drawers. They are single moments which have stayed with me. I don’t know why those specific memories are still fresh, recallable, but there they are. I remember riding a bus into Boston. In the front seats facing each other were two old ladies. They were dressed like my grandmother. They chatted with each other from the moment they sat down. I watched one woman take out a cigarette, light it and hold it between her fingers. She wasn’t paying attention. She put the lit end into her mouth. She sputtered and spit. I remember watching a woman who worked at Hank’s Bakery putting a pastry box together, filling it with cupcakes and then tying it closed almost in one motion. The string was red and white. I remember walking home through the square by the fire station. The firemen, not fire fighters back then, sat in wooden chairs outside the bays in front of the trucks. They wore blue.

Some of my travel moments are etched into my memories. I remember standing on the equator straddling the line between the hemispheres. I remember in Caracas going to buy a ticket to Merida. The building was huge with kiosks lined up on the sides and in the middle. I can still see the sea of booths. I was amazed I found the right ticket booth and later the right bus. In Columbia I toured the factory where salt was extracted from salt stones. I was chewing gum which disintegrated in my mouth and tasted awful from the salt permeating the air. I spit the remnants into my hand. On my first visit to a market in Ghana, I remember the table right beside the entrance. Round black balls were in piles on that table. I asked, goat dung was the answer. I threw up.

When I was young, probably 8 or 9, we went to Vermont for vacation. The house was huge, painted white and had a wrap around porch. A lake was across the street from the house. It was shallow for a bit then there was huge drop and the water was deep. My father would have me hold on to his shoulders, and he’d dive. I remember seeing fish.

I have flown. I was on my bike on the hill by my house. I swear my bike tires left the ground, and I was airborne.

The weather is thick with humidity. It is hot, a scorcher at 89°. According to the weatherman it feels like 107°. My friend said she felt logy, a perfect description. I just sit. Moving around takes too much energy. I was going to the dump, but I don’t feel like hauling trash. The dogs have finally settled. They spent the morning panting, drooling a bit. Nala is asleep in front of the fan while Henry is by the door. They’ll perk up near dinner time.

I have friends I’ve known since the 1950’s. We were either in school together or on the drill team or both. I remember we’d have drill practice then we’d walk to O’Grady’s diner for a brownie with fudge sauce and ice cream if we had the money. We’d finish then separate and walk home in different directions. I always walked through the square, pass the fire station, the town hall and four churches. Three of those churches face each other on corners. I usually walked alone as no one else went in my direction. I loved those walks. The sidewalks had circles of light from lamps shining through windows. Street lights lit the sides of the road. It was quiet. I could hear my footsteps on the sidewalk. I could see flickering lights from TV’s through some windows. Very few cars passed by me. I sort of owned the night.

When I was in Accra, the capital of Ghana, I had the same sense. Some nights I’d walk to the hostel after a movie or dinner. I never worried about walking alone. Men talking low sat in small groups on chairs on the sidewalk. We greeted each other. I could see smoke from their pipes and cigarettes. It was mostly dark. Few stores were open. Some taxis were still on the road but very few cars. I loved that walk.

I am a night owl. I go to bed in the wee hours. When the dogs go out, I often join them and stand on the deck. All the houses are dark. It is always quiet, not even a car goes by my street. I often wonder on an especially beautiful night if people know they are missing one of the best parts of the day. I’d tell them, but I’m not so sure I want to share.

The air is thick, dripping with humidity. The morning is dark, cloudy, but the sun is there behind the clouds, waiting a turn. It is already 81°. It is a day to sit, maybe watch a movie, read for a bit and take an afternoon nap. The dogs are exhausted from doing nothing. They are sleeping soundly.

I haven’t any lists. The week is quiet. I didn’t even have any uke events. Our uke director is ill so everything was cancelled. I haven’t gotten dressed in outside clothes all week. I am enjoying idleness. I have become adept at guiltless lethargy.

My muse is taking a hiatus. Nothing much is happening. I find myself talking out loud to the dogs more, reflecting about what I’ve read or what I’ve seen on TV. They don’t even pretend to listen unless I say treat. But despite the inactivity, I haven’t yet reached ennui. I have a jigsaw puzzle started, a book I’m reading and old movies to watch. I’m watching World War II movies and 50’s science fiction.

I watch videos of Ghana, of walks through streets and markets. It is as if I am there. I remember the mornings. They are clear with sharp sunlight. On market day, women walk on paths from their villages carrying goods on their heads to sell. The market quickly gets busy, noisy. In one section, tables are in a line, one beside each other. Aunties selling their goods sit behind each table usually under an umbrella or an overhang. The tables are filled with the same offerings, mostly tomatoes, garden eggs, okra, plantain and onions. The oddly shaped tomatoes are usually stacked in a pyramid. The prices hardly differ from table to table. I remember randomly choosing a table. The transaction is always the same. The seller takes the money, puts the tomatoes in a clear plastic bag and adds a few, a dash, a thank you. That bag goes into another bag, a black plastic bag with hand holes. Every transaction is the same. It always ends with the black plastic bag.

The morning is pretty. It is still. The wind blew itself out last night. The rain stayed a while then it too left. The muggy air is gone. The sky is blue, a darkish blue. It is 80° but it is supposed to get hotter. The back of the house, though, is still cool. The sun has yet to make its way around. The dogs, as is their usual habit, are having their morning naps. Both are sleeping on the cool floor.

Tuesday has little to commend it. It is an ordinary day. Seldom does anything happen on a Tuesday. It just sort of moves the week along.

August is the summer’s last hurrah. It is also the hottest month. I always thought the heat happened so we’d look forward to September and cooler weather. It made sliding into the start of school easier. Woolworth’s was our go to back to school store for supplies. We’d walk uptown with my mother. We’d buy a book bag, a pencil case, crayons, just a six pack, note paper and a lunch box. I loved my new pencil case and used to open it just to check out what was inside. Besides the pencils, there was a ruler, a pink eraser, five small colored pencils, a pencil sharpener and the triangle. I never knew what the triangle was used for. I just made straight lines with it. Much later I found out it was a compass which sort of confused me at first. The only compass I knew indicated direction. I used to pack my school bag over and over, sort of test runs before the big day.

Every summer’s day was filled with fun, some with swimming or bike riding or games and crafts at the playground. After a while, though, they all sort of blended together. I didn’t want to admit it, but summer had become a bit boring. Nothing was new.

Time kept moving faster. The end of summer and the start of school was nipping at our heels. We still had new school shoes’ shopping and clothes’ shopping for parts of uniforms we had grown out of or which looked the worst for wear, but those shopping trips weren’t fun. The shoes had to be sturdy. The uniform was boring, just a blue skirt, a white blouse and a cowboy sort of blue tie. They sort of lent themselves to the acknowledgment that summer had already had its heyday.

The wind is so strong and constant it is blowing everything, even the biggest branches, and the trees and leaves are noisy. Last night it rained, but now it is sunny. It is 76°. A thunderstorm is predicted for later, but, with the sunshine, that seems remote. I have an outside concert today so I need to keep an eye on the weather.

The spiders are here. Webs are everywhere. Even the tiniest spider is busy weaving. From here in the den I can see a couple of webs close to the ceiling and another hanging down from the wood around the door. That one is bothering me. It won’t last much longer.

Summers when I was a kid were busy. On weekdays I was always home for breakfast and supper but only sometimes for lunch as I often took lunch on the road. I made a sandwich, added cookies or chips and used a peanut butter jar for my ZaRex. Orange was the usual syrup flavor. ZaRex came in glass jugs, moonshine looking jugs, the sort Snuffy Smith used for his brew. I’d make a pitcher full, often using the colored pitcher made out of aluminum, the one with accompanying colorful glasses. It kept the ZaRex really cold. The outside of it was usually covered in condensation. I remember there was always ZaRex. My father called it bug juice.

The first sport I understood was baseball, nine innings, three outs for each side per inning. I was older before I learned nuisances like the infield fly rule, a sacrifice bunt or defensive indifference on a steal, strategic plays. The bleachers at Fenway were cheap. The T-station was close. We’d spend a day at the park. When I was a kid, the Sox weren’t very good, but I didn’t care. I loved baseball, the Red Sox and Fenway Park.

I had a friend who collected baseball cards, the only girl I knew who did. She kept her cards in boxes sorted by teams and stored under her bed. When I visited, she’d pull out her newest cards and her current favorites to show me. She went to a different school than I did after 8th grade. I lost track of her and always wondered what happened to her and her cards.

Cloudy days tend to be busy days. The house is cooler so I don’t have the heat as an excuse to be a sloth. Chores are easier to finish. I sweep and polish. I brush away the webs. I clean the appliances on the counter and the outside of the fridge, chores I seldom do. I’ll read or nap in the afternoon. I earned the idleness.