The rain is still falling. I have started to build the ark. I haven’t told the dogs yet. They’ll be surprised. It is supposed to rain all day. It will be chilly, in the low 60’s, and also quite windy. Even the branches are swaying. I’m in my winter ensemble which includes a sweatshirt and socks. Days like today mean cozy and warm.

When I was a kid, I watched a lot of TV while sitting on the floor close to the screen and, despite my mother’s prediction, I did not go blind. TV was black and white then, but it was still a bit of a miracle. I had favorite programs, many of them westerns, but I guess I got my fill back then as I am no longer a fan of westerns except for a few of the old ones like The Lone Ranger. I still watch that every now and then.

I have always wondered why people didn’t notice that, except for the glasses, Clark Kent and Superman looked exactly alike and that Clark was never there when Superman was. Later I learned about suspension of disbelief, and it works for everything, especially my B science fiction movies. I enjoy the stories by ignoring the silly, even ridiculous, plots, by suspending disbelief. I had an answer when I was asked, “How can you watch this?”

This morning I had to grind more coffee before I could make a pot of what I suspect was the original nectar from the Gods. The aroma of the coffee beans was, and please excuse this as I couldn’t help myself, heavenly.

Where I lived in Ghana, there were no TV’s and computers were way off into the future. Telephones were scarce, and all calls from my school were long distance if they connected at all. My principal had a phone in her office, but I never saw her use it. Radios were the news and entertainment centers, but I didn’t have one of those either. Ghana had several newspapers, most of them graphic, but I didn’t buy those either. Each week the Peace Corps sent us the NY Times section The Week in Review, their attempt to keep us connected. It didn’t work. All of that news was in another world, far away from mine.

I remember once when I was sitting in the yard of the Hotel d’Bull, the only decent hotel in town, and having Coke after market shopping. There were a couple of white guys sitting at another table. That was a rare sight in my town. I guessed I was a rare sight to them as well because they asked me what I was doing there. I told them I lived there, in Bolga, that I was a Peace Corps volunteer. They had trouble digesting that. They couldn’t wait to leave. I felt sad for them.

The rain hasn’t stopped, and now there is also a wind. I’m wearing my sweatshirt in the chilly house. I have an empty dance card so I’m going nowhere, not for groceries and not to the dump. The dogs are quickly out and back. I’m watching Godzilla attack Tokyo.

When I was a kid, on Sunday rainy days, we were inside the house. We were many and the house was small. It always felt crowded when we were all there. I’d hang out for a while in the living room reading the Sunday comics and watching the Sunday movies. For some reason I remember Lassie, Come Home. Dinner was usually around two. I think the whole neighborhood had dinner around two. The backyards were empty and no cars drove up the street. After dinner we usually just lazed around. I’d sequester myself in my room with my latest book in hand.

Sometimes we’d go to East Boston in the afternoon to visit my grandparents. Sunday was the traditional day for the whole family to visit. My mother was the third of eight. We had a million cousins. They were all there some Sundays. I remember the younger cousins running up and down the stairs from the first floor to the kitchen below where my mother, my grandmother and the aunts hung out. I remember smoke in the air and spaghetti on the stove. My grandmother always had a hunk of parmesan cheese and a grater on the table. That was when I found out that not all cheese comes sliced in a package. I loved using the grater so much my spaghetti was hidden. The cheese looked like snow on a mountain top.

We’d go home in the early evening just as it was getting dark. My sisters would sometimes fall asleep. I’d look out the window. I remember a ranch house with a huge oxen yoke on the garage. That was the sign we were almost home. The yoke didn’t seem strange back then, but now I wonder. Why in the heck did they have an oxen yoke?

I woke up to the sound of rain. The house was chilly. I put on socks and a sweatshirt, major pieces of my winter ensemble. It will stay rainy and chilly all day. I have no plans to go out. I do have a book to read and a Snicker’s bar to enjoy. That seems like paradise to me.

When I was a kid, a day like today would have kept me home, my usual Saturday adventures on hold; instead, I’d have spend the morning in front of the TV and the afternoon with a book. I might have even napped. It always seems as if a rainy day is a great nap day.

When I was young, the only time I ever gave thought to the future was when someone asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I had a stock answer, a teacher. I didn’t know if that was really what I wanted, but it was as good an answer as any.

The other night I had peppers and eggs for dinner. My mother used to make it all the time. It was my favorite beach food. She always packed it in Tupperware by itself and brought rolls so we could make a sandwich of it. The first time I made it myself it didn’t taste right. My mother told me her secret: she added a touch of tomato sauce so I did. It tasted exactly as I remembered.

Even though my life was sort of regimented when I was a kid, I was seldom bored. Something new happened every day or something old was still fun.

In my house, in every room, are memories of where I’ve traveled. I have a few small wooden animals I lugged from Venezuela to Rio. I have a green woven cloth with a stitched nativity on it. That came from a market in Peru. One oval basket came from Columbia. I have tassels hanging on my fireplace screen. They are from Morocco as is the earthenware tagine in the dining room. I had a cooking lesson in Marrakech using one exactly like it. In every room is something from Ghana. In the dining room is a basket from Bolga I brought back in 1971. Another one, holding my metal chess set from Ouagadougou, is in the living room. Newer baskets from my three trips back to Ghana are everywhere. Painted pictures from Sirigu Women Organization for Poetry and Art (SWOPA), a village close to Bolga, are framed and hung in the living room. One is a lizard, the other a small girl. There are wooden figures on shelves, carved pieces on tables and painted pictures on the walls. A wool blanket I used on my bed mostly in December on chilly nights during the harmattan is on my couch. A pile of fabric is folded and on a table shelf. All of these souvenirs remind me of where I’ve been while the ones from Ghana remind me of where a piece of my heart lies.

Today is another lovely day, a day to hit the road and wander the cape. Maybe I’ll take all lefts this time. I did get to the dump yesterday but didn’t get any groceries. Last night I cooked spaghetti. I left the package on the counter. I didn’t expect it to be an enticement for Nala. I was wrong. I saw her with a few pieces of spaghetti in her mouth as she escaped out the dog door. The rest of the spaghetti was on the floor. Picking up spaghetti is not an easy task. It tends to break into smaller pieces. Nala was right beside me the whole time.

When I was young, we used to have pajama parties. Many were birthday parties. We’d arrive wearing our pajamas and carrying a pillow and a blanket. We’d stay up talking, laughing and eating junk until the wee hours. Mostly we’d be in the living room. At some point in the evening, one parent or the other would start periodically yelling for us to settle down. We always quietly laughed, but eventually we’d fall sleep on the floor wherever we could find room. Breakfast was always donuts and juice. As soon as I got home, I’d take a nap.

My mother usually served what she knew we’d eat at supper. The meat and the potatoes were never the problems. It was the vegetables. Carrots were mashed with potatoes in sort of a disguise so we’d eat them. For years, I thought mashed potatoes were orangey. She never served any beans except green beans or wax beans, both from a can, but I never really thought of them as beans. They were the wrong shape. My favorite vegetables were baby peas and niblet corn.

Ghana expanded my palate. I had no choice but to eat mostly unfamiliar foods. The only foods I recognized were tomatoes and onions, and I never used to eat tomatoes. During training I remember wondering what the green stuff was we were served for dinner. I didn’t eat it. It was kontomire, a stew made with cocoyam leaves. There they were, cocoyam leaves, another mystery food. I used to buy groundnut paste, peanut butter by a different name. I’d add a bit of groundnut oil to thin the paste which Ghanaians used as a soup base. I learned to like okro, garden eggs, groundnut stew, fufu, t-zed, yams, plantain, one of my favorites, pawpaw ( papaya) and mangoes. The fruit was spectacular: sweet green oranges, pineapple, bananas, coconut and the new to me fruits, pawpaw and mangoes. I never liked kontomire.

Yesterday it rained all day. Today is a lovely day, a gift after the rain. The high will be 75°, that’s summer weather. Looking out my den window, I can see the leaves are ruffling a bit in the breeze, a slight breeze. The sun is ever so bright and is warming the cool morning air.

Last night the air was redolent with the scent of burning wood. It reminded me of fall when I was a kid and the Saturday ritual of burning piles of leaves. I have a picture in my memory drawer of my father wearing his red wool jacket standing with rake in hand in the gutter below the curb minding the fire in the pile of leaves. I can see the flames in the air and the smoke rising. I can smell the aroma of those leaves. If I stood close, my clothes took on the sweet air. That is a favorite memory.

My mother didn’t work until long after we were grown and on our own which meant she was always home when I was a kid. She made us hot breakfasts before school on cold days. The oatmeal was palatable because it had milk and sugar on top. She made soft boiled eggs and served them in chicken egg cups with strips of toast for dunking. We always had a pot of tea on the table. She’d make the cocoa in individual mugs. I was a cocoa drinker.

During the day while we were in school my mother did the laundry, made the beds and cleaned the house. My brother was the only one with a chore, emptying the basket into the barrel, and he whined about it. I never gave much thought about not having a chore. It was just the way it was.

When I was in the first grade, Sister Redemptor asked my mother where I had gone to kindergarten. I hadn’t. Few of us did back then. The schools neither offered nor required it. Sister Redempta asked that question because I knew all my letters and numbers and some words, compliments of my mother who cultivate in me a love of reading. She always read to me when I was little. She told me my favorite book was Chicken Little. That makes perfect sense as I think it is really science fiction, a hoax about the world ending. I always have figured that’s why I love science fiction, even hoky science fiction.

I had heroes when I was a kid. I wanted to fly the world like Amelia Earhart. I tried to write poetry fancying myself the next Emily Dickinson. I thought her poem “I Never Saw a Purple Cow” was a masterpiece. I wanted to be Lois Lane writing for a newspaper. After I read Little Women and all of its sequels, being a writer topped the list, but when I grew up, I never became one of them. I ended up with pieces of all of them.

Today is September at its best. The slight breeze is perfect for an already warm day at 73°. The sky is a beautiful clear blue. The sun is so bright it glints through the leaves in the backyard. Today defines fall. Tomorrow it will rain.

When I was a kid, Sunday was my least favorite day. Going to church was the start of it. I’d grab a hat or stuff a mantilla in my pocket, take my missal and pocket a dime or a quarter for the offering. The choice of where to sit was critical. In the upper church, the back pew was the best spot. It only held two people and had no kneeler. You sat the whole mass without guilt. It was also the nearest pew to the door so it was perfect for a quick getaway. In the downstairs, if there was an overflow, standing in the back was the best spot. Next to the wall were all sorts of pamphlets which I’d read. They were religious so I always figured they were acceptable reading during mass.

The best part of Sunday was dinner. It was the grandest meal of the week. On weekdays my father was never home from work in time for supper. On Sundays he was around all day. He even cut the meat. My favorite Sunday dinner was roast beef, mashed potatoes, baby peas and gravy. Sometimes we also had corn, niblet corn, another favorite of mine. I was never a fan of creamed corn. It looked gross and spread everywhere on the plate. Dessert was usually just cookies, Oreos, if any were left as they were always the first to go.

Bedtime was earlier on Sundays because of school on Monday. I guessed my mother figured with later to bed nights on Friday and Saturday we were out of practice. I thought it a con.

Today I have an empty dance card. I could go to the dump, but I won’t; however, I do have a couple of chores. I need to sweep the kitchen floor. It has leaves and pieces of small, chewed pine branches, compliments of Nala who brings outside inside. Last night I found a clump of pine needles near the front door. This morning I found a few piles of dead leaves in the living room on the rug. That dog is sly. I never catch her with her flora. Well, at least she has a hobby.

Hurricane Lee came and went. We had heavy winds and rain. My electricity flickered then went out, but before I could curse my fate, it came back on, all except the cable. That happened again when I was upstairs ready for bed. Alexa was quiet, no internet. I turned off the light and went to sleep. This morning Alexa was her cheerful self. The weather is damp and cold. The temperature will get down to the high 50’s, but tomorrow summer will reappear. The predicted high is 77°.

Today will be a cozy day. I won’t get dressed. I’ll loll and watch bad science fiction movies. I’ll also read a bit and snack a little.

When I was a kid, getting cozy meant lying in my bed with a good book. I had a light which hung over the bed board. It was pink plastic. When I used to sneak and read at night, I’d be under the covers with my light, but I had to keep surfacing because it got so hot under the blankets. A few times the plastic melted. My mother could never understand why, and I never explained. That bed lamp was such a good thing even now I have one hanging from the bed board, but I don’t have to sneak under the covers.

One of my favorite snacks was peanut butter on Saltines. Sometimes I made a Saltine sandwich with peanut butter and marshmallow. Other times it was peanut butter and jam or jelly. My mother used to buy Welch’s grape jelly in the glasses. I remember my Howdy Doody glass. I was heart-struck when it fell and broke. Still now I always have the makings of a peanut butter and jelly cracker sandwich though I sometimes branch out to Ritz.

It is time for another cup of coffee, maybe even some toast. I’ll slathered it with fig jam. I don’t have any Welch’s.

This morning is chilly, 66°. It is cloudy, but the sun is trying to break through, unsuccessfully so far. We have a wind, maybe a portent of the hurricane to come. Lee will hit us tonight and bring winds up to 60 mph. It will also bring heavy rain. I have a uke concert today, and I need a few of life’s essentials, think coffee and eggs, at the grocery store. After that I’ll hunker down.

The other day I stopped my car to let a turkey family cross the road. The mother and father were herding their four babies. When one baby lagged, one of its parents moved it along to the field and woods on the other side of the road. I hadn’t seen babies before. They were about as cute as turkeys get.

When I was a kid, and we were on a ride, I remember seeing a couple of deer in a field. We all shouted in excitement so my dad stopped to let us watch. Seeing a deer was rare. Around my house, we did see spawns of Satan, grey spawns, and maybe a raccoon or a skunk. The skunk waddled. The raccoon scudded as if it were sneaking something and needed a quick exit.

No one is allowed to pass my house. Henry barks, loud, incessant barks. It doesn’t matter if the door is closed. He hears or senses the interlopers. Nala does not bark at the door though she does bark at me when I don’t do her bidding. Henry has a deep, scary bark but Nala’s is not so much scary as shrilly.

I watched The Screaming Skull last night. At the beginning of the movie there is a warning about the horrific ending. A casket is the only thing on the screen during the warning. The disembodied voice said the producers of the movie were offering free burial to anyone who died of fright. The last scene before the movie started was of the inside of the casket with a note which said, “This is for you.”