The dogs are out in the yard enjoying the day. They come in every now and then to check on me. Nala brings branches and dead leaves with her. I have found pieces of both in the living room, hall and den. I’m thinking vacuuming and a bit of sweeping are in my future.

When I was a kid, my father would go crazy if we left an unrinsed glass on the counter. He called it the height of laziness, but I knew, even back then, he was exaggerating for effect. Still, we complied. It was a small thing and easier than having to listen to him. My father had a pointing finger, also used for effect. When he had one of us cornered for a lecture about something, he used the finger for emphasis by tapping it on our chests. My sisters have a great story about that finger. They used to sneak out of our house when our parents were sleeping. They’d go to the pond on the street over and swim. Our cousin used to spend the summer with us. She became the sacrificial lamb. My father caught them. He was behind them, my two sisters and my cousin, as they walked up the stairs to their bedroom. My two conniving sisters had put my cousin last. She got the finger on her back all the way up the stairs as he lectured them. My sisters still chuckle about that night.

This weekend always had special significance for me. It was the last weekend before the start of school, sort of my last hurrah. Bedtime would again be imposed with the tag line, “You have school tomorrow.” That only made it worse. Labor Day Monday meant the oddity of a Monday bath night. I had to be clean for school which also made it worse. For school I’d wear my new shoes, blue uniform skirt, white blouse and a blue clip-on sort of cowboy tie. I’d eat breakfast then put on my uniform. My new pencil cases and notebooks were already packed into my new school bag. I did it the night before. My mother packed my lunch in my new lunch box. That first lunch was always spectacular, an attempt to dull the pain.

It didn’t take long to get back into the routine which made me both happy and sad.

The wind is blowing. The top branches of the oak trees are swaying. It is a lovely day, a sunny day. The temperature is 74°. My house, though, is cold. It holds the night chill. I had to put on a shirt with long sleeves.

When I was a kid, Saturday was my dad’s chore day. In the morning, he’d collect his cleaned and starched shirts at the Chinese laundry up town, and he’d leave his dirty shirts until the next Saturday. He’d get a trim at the small barber shop just a short way up the street from the laundry. He’d sometimes drop-in to visit a few friends at some stores uptown. In the summer, when he’d get home, he’d mow the lawn and rake the grass. My father loved his lawns. In the fall, he’d rake leaves across the lawn, down the grassy hill into the gutter below the lawn and the sidewalk and then rake them into piles for burning. The gutter was the safe place to burn them. I remember the smoke billowing into the air and the sweet aroma of the leaves burning. On another fall Saturday, once it started getting cold, my father would climb a ladder and remove the screens from the windows. He’d then carry one storm window at a time up the ladder and replace the screen. The screens were stored in the cellar.

My parents had moved off-cape when I was in the Peace Corps. I’d visit for weekends. In the summer, my father always showed off his lawn to me. It was cut in a pattern of rows. It was his pride and joy.

Saturday has always been my favorite day of the week, a play day. When I was a kid, it meant Saturday mornings in front of the TV and Saturday afternoons either at the matinee uptown or on my bike all over town and even into the next towns. When I was in Ghana, Saturday was a day to shop either at the market or to one of the kiosks lining the road. Some Saturday nights the Hotel d’Bull in town showed a movie in the courtyard though I always sat on the roof where there were tables and a few chairs. When I was teaching here, I never did school work on a Saturday. It was still my play day.

I retired nineteen years ago. Since then, I always say every day is a Saturday.

Last night was shut the windows and doors cold. I even pulled out a sweatshirt. Today though, is lovely, sunny and in the low 70’s. The weekend is predicted to have perfect weather, just what the last weekend of summer deserves before the season fades away.

When I was growing up, I didn’t realize the memories I was making. Even now I can close my eyes and see so much of what fills the the dustiest of my memory drawers. When we lived in a duplex in the project, there was a small rotary in front of my house because the road ended, and it made it easier to sort of turn around. Four duplexes circled the rotary. Behind and below the four houses was the field. It was filled with tall grass in the summer. A path led across the field to the old fallen tree then to a glade and finally to the swamp. Beyond the field on the right beside the path to the water tower were blueberry bushes. They were a snack on the go. I still lived near the field when it was plowed under to make room for elderly apartments. That broke our hearts.

I remember every inch of my walk to school. I walked back and forth for 1440 days from first grade through eighth. During that time, the train still ran, not a passenger train but a freight train. It was usually only the engine and a couple of cars. I loved the sound of the train whistle when it warned cars the train was crossing the road. I still count it among my favorite sounds.

I remember my mother and I going to Arlington to buy my school uniform before I started the ninth grade. The room was large and around the room were tall boxes where all the parts of the uniform were hanging: the pleated skirts, the grey vests, the short-sleeve white blouses and the grey blazers. I used to wonder why this memory was in the front of those memory drawers. but I finally came to realize it was a giant step for me. I was officially ending childhood. I was going to high school where my future was becoming my present.

My parents drove me to Logan where I boarded a plane to Philadelphia, to Peace Corps staging. I remember the beginning of the flight when my seat mate, seeing all my carry-on bags, asked me if I was running away from home. I told him I was going to Peace Corps and West Africa. He bought me some drinks, out of embarrassment I figured. Next, I remember standing outside the airport with all my bags while waiting for a taxi. I noticed a guy wearing khaki pants and a button-down collar shirt who was surrounded by bags. I asked. He and I were both going to staging. We shared a cab. The other prominent memory of that day was standing in line at the hotel to check in with Peace Corps. After that I went to my room and dropped my bags. The adventure had begun.

These memories were insignificant, I thought, until I spent some time with them. Now, so many years later, I see them as stepping stones, as important moments in my life.

The breeze is strong, even windy, the sun bright and the temperature a bit chilly at 67°. August is leaving. Fall is impatient, chomping at the bit.

This has been a week of lasts. We had our last uke concert on the Hyannis green. My last play is tomorrow night. This weekend, Labor Day weekend, is the last gasp of summer. Next week school starts. The traffic will be heavy only on the weekends, and I won’t curse as much. The tour buses have already started to arrive. The nights are chilly, light blanket chilly. It is almost time for long sleeves and fall jackets, but I welcome fall. It is my favorite season.

When I was a kid, once school started, we had little time to play. I only roamed on weekends, usually on my trusty steed, my bike. I remember finding golf balls across the street from the Bear Hill golf course. My mother told me she had had her senior prom at the Bear Hill Golf Club. She had graduated from St. Patrick’s High School. The building still exists but the school closed long ago. For a while the outside still looked the same. It was a bit gaudy with bright yellow paint. It was where the Knights of Columbus met. On the second floor was a large room for events like bridal showers. I remember going to one and having my mother point out where the classrooms used to be. The building now doesn’t resemble at all what I remember. It is white with a decorative door and is the Boston Korean SDA Church. It seems the building has come to a sort of full circle.

I have put some things in safe places. The places are so safe I can’t find the things I put there. I know I have a box with more checks and a check register, but I don’t know where it is. My first hunt for anything is always where I think I would have put it. Nope. I’ve checked drawers where I was surprised by a few things I did find, but checks weren’t among them. I’m going to order more today, and we all know that once that is done, the checks will surface. I have a lazy Susan from the Peterborough Basket Company. I have two cloth inserts. The current one was for July 4th. It is red, white and blue. I can’t change it. I don’t remember where I put the other one. I checked the obvious places. Nope. My mother used to say pray to St. Anthony, the saint of lost things. Sometimes that actually worked. I’m going to give it a try.

Today has yet to make up its mind. When I woke up, it was sunny. Now it is cloudy. Earlier it was still. Now it is breezy. The only constant has been the temperature, 71°. I have no plans. I have no need to leave the house. I don’t even have to get dressed.

I heat coffee in the microwave. When the buzz goes off, I get the coffee. The cup’s handle is always facing away from the door. It is an odd phenomenon.

Henry barks if someone or something passes my house. He barks until they are out of sight. The amount of barking sometimes drives me crazy, but I hate to have him stop. My father always told me to let the dog bark. He is keeping me safe. When I was in the hospital, friends came to tend to the dogs and cat. Henry did not bark. I wasn’t home. I didn’t need protection.

Toast always falls on the buttered side. I learned why. As toast falls off the table, the toast rotates, but the spin rate is too slow to bring the buttered side up. I think I prefer it to be a mystery.

Cats throw up. Even though Jack gets hair ball treatment, he still throws up hair balls. He also sometimes tosses his dinner. Jack is an ace that leaving his rejections right where I walk in his room. At night, I have to get to the table to turn on the night. That is usually too late. I walk right in what Jack left. Sometimes I am barefoot. I won’t get into specifics. It has to do with my toes and is gross.

I learned to tie my shoes when I was five. My mother taught me. Because, at first, my bows were loose, I had to stop often to tie my shoes, but I got better at bows and didn’t have to stop. Kids today learn later. They have velcro. Kids today tell time digitally. Though they learn what the numbers mean, all the time telling is done for them. I was in the second grade when I learned to tell time, analog time. I still have only analog watches. Cursive writing is not taught anymore. Why bother? People don’t write letters. They e-mail letters. The only cursive anyone needs to know is how to write your name. I get that times change and the old ways disappear, replaced by newer, more efficient ways to do things, but though I can do the new ways, I still hang on to the old. After all, by the numbers, I am old. It is quarter past one.

The air is so thick with humidity nothing is moving. The house is dark. Rain is predicted for this evening. Yesterday the rain was torrential. The dogs wouldn’t go out. Nala poked her head out the dog door then walked backwards into the kitchen. Her head was soaked. They did go out before the three of us went to bed. They had no choice.

I went to the dump yesterday during the lightest part of the rain storm. I also got a few groceries, mostly pet food. Today I have nothing planned.

When I was a kid, I used to eat sardines, those gross headless fish packed tightly in oil in an oval can. I ate them on Saltines. To open the can you had to detach a metal key stuck to the bottom of the can. The key had a hole in the top. The can had a tab you put through the hole then you rolled off the top. I was a bad roller. Most times I never managed to remove the whole top. I’d have to use a fork to get at the fish under the top. Now, I find the whole idea disgusting, gag producing.

We played the best outside games in the street in front of my house. Hide and Seek was the first game we learned. You didn’t want to be it. I always wondered if Stephen King’s It started when he played hide and seek. Red Rover was another game. Picking was the key. The strongest got picked first. You always hated to be among the last picked because you knew you’d be the target, the place to break the hold of the human chain held together with hands. Red light, Green light was also called statues. A kid was chosen to yell out the commands. He’d yell green light, and we’d all run toward him hoping to be the first to get to him. He’d then yell red light and try to catch kids still moving who’d be out. Simon Says was fun. The player who was Simon had to be clever to catch players who did what was asked without hearing Simon Says. We had so many kids in my neighborhood there were always plenty of games and plenty of players.

It didn’t matter the season. We always had the best times. My bike was used all year except in the snow. I loved being able to ride it to school and on Saturdays when I biked all over, including towns around where I lived. We roamed the woods around my house. We played Hopscotch. We sometimes played board games inside on the cold or rainy days, but if I was by myself, I’d spend the inside days reading. I’d get so engrossed in my book, I’d lose the world. That was the best part.

The rain started around 2:30 this morning. I had just turned out my light then I thought I heard drops at the window. For a strange reason I’ve never understood, I need to turn on the light again to listen to make sure it is raining. It was. It still is. It will get as high as 72° today. I have a couple of errands. It is time for the dump, and I need bread and peanut butter, two of life’s essentials.

I like naps, especially on rainy days and cold winter days. The dogs and I get cozy in bed and sleep for a couple of hours. When I lived in Ghana, afternoon siestas were traditional. Most shops and the post office closed from noon to 2 because of the heat. I sometime took naps during that time. It was hot, but I still fell asleep.

The first time I went to Europe I was excited. I couldn’t believe my geography book was coming to life. This was after Peace Corps. I went to England, Scotland and Ireland. I was a backpacker. I stayed in B&B’s and traveled by bus, boat and train. My favorite times were always the mornings when everything was coming to life. People were walking to work and trucks were parked in the road while delivering goods. Little corner coffee spots offered not just hot coffee but also pasties. I’d walk and eat. The mornings had a different feel than the rest of the day. I always felt I was seeing well beyond what tourists saw. I was seeing a bit of the soul of each country.

My sister Moe turned 69 today. I am taken aback. How in the heck can my baby sister be 69? Moe is amazing. She is the best mother and grandmother. She is loving, kind and generous. She also has a neat sense of humor and laughs a lot. Moe is short and the grayest of us all. She was a preschool teacher her whole career. She was Miss Moe. She has rheumatoid arthritis and has had it since her 20’s. It is debilitating at times, but she never lets it stop her. I admire my sister Moe.

The weather has stayed amazing. The days are warm and the nights cool for sleeping. Last night I closed windows. I wore long sleeves. Fall is impatiently waiting in the wings.

This time of the year the house, in the morning, keeps the evening chill. I am always surprised when I walk outside and it’s warm. It is already 75°, but I’m wearing long sleeves as here, in the den, the sun doesn’t hit until the afternoon.

I remember the weather changing when I was a kid. The mornings were brisk. It was time to wear a fall jacket. On the walk to school, the trees hanging over the sidewalk began to change color, a few leaves at a time. My walk was short: down the hill, take a left, take a right then walk the straightaway. The straightaway had a sidewalk and was lined with houses. I remember on the corner was a two family, a double decker. It was a faded brown. Across the street from that house was one side of the convent. The school and the other parish buildings, the rectory and the church, were across from the front of the convent. The convent is gone now. The nuns left first. I remember every part of that walk. For eight years coming and going it was my walk to school.

As soon as I walked into the house after school, I’d change out of my school clothes. I’d throw my shoes on the closet floor then hang up the skirt and blouse. I preferred my play clothes anyway. They were a sort of uniform too: pants or shorts, a blouse and sneakers.

When I was in the fourth grade, we went to double sessions. I preferred the morning as that gave me all afternoon to play. The afternoon session was difficult. We hung around the house all morning sometimes playing outside but usually watching some TV. Getting dressed for school late in the morning seemed wrong somehow. In the winter, it was just about dark walking home from school. We never ate lunch at school.

This is a slow week for me. The uke concert was Monday, practice Tuesday and my lesson yesterday. Nothing else is scheduled. I’m doing odd cleaning again. The other day it was the cabinet under the upstairs bathroom sink. It was a jumbled mess. After I was finished, I had two bags of trash. Now I have plenty of room for storage. I really don’t like this mood. It offends my inner sloth.