Close to two this morning, the thunder started. It began as a rumble then heightened into cracks, some overhead. I saw the lightening out my west facing den window. It wasn’t spectacular, but lightening doesn’t have to be, small is impressive enough. The rain was heavy for a while then softened. Outside is mostly dry, but under the dense trees I can see the still wet leaves and moss and smell the damp. It is 73°. We have sun and blue sky, but rain is predicted for later.

Yesterday my sloth went into hiding because I got a burst of energy around 11. I ended up cleaning the kitchen, except for the floor. I washed the counter and everything on it. I cleaned behind the small appliances, the wooden drawers and the jars, dusted the picture tops and the shelf and scrubbed the stove top. I took out the utensil holder from the drawer, emptied it, washed it and cleaned the flowered oil cloth underneath it. But wait, I wasn’t done. I vacuumed all of downstairs and cleaned the bathroom. That was when I realized I had lost my mind. I staggered to the den to sit down until this dreaded cleaning frenzy passed. My breathing finally slowed. My sloth reappeared.

Summer was the noisiest time of the year. When I was a kid, my house was a duplex in a row of duplexes which went up and down the street. My house was at the bottom of a grassy hill, and more duplexes were spread across the top. The back side of all the houses, the kitchens, faced the hill. In the summers, all the screens were in the windows, and all the storm doors were replaced by screen doors. They were wooden doors which slammed when kids ran outside. All summer kids played in the yards. They ran through cold sprinklers and screamed. Mothers communicated by yelling out back doors. Everybody knew when dinner was ready. The murmurs of night conversations could be heard. TV’s blared. Even an argument could be heard by the whole neighborhood, and everyone listened.

Ghana was always noisy. On school grounds I could hear my students’ conversations in a variety of tribal languages. The morning chore for students was sweeping the yard, and the swish of the grass brooms outside my windows sometimes woke me up. I could also water hitting buckets so students could take bucket baths before class. Mostly women passed by the back of my house on the way to market. They chatted. Sheep baaed and goats bleated. Roosters greeted the morning.

I live in a quiet place now. Once in a while I hear my neighbors talking on their deck and the basketball hitting the road when the kid does the street shoots baskets. A car goes by every now and then. At night the sound of people disappears. The birds and the insects take center stage. Henry is often the noisiest.

The morning is cloudy, and it is 74°. Rain is a possibility. I like dark summer mornings. They keep the sun at bay. It is quiet in my neighborhood. Saturdays when I was growing up were always bustling.

Back when I was a kid, there were no school busses. Most everybody walked. The nearest school to my neighborhood was the East School, but it was far away. My school, St. Patrick’s, was far closer. The public schools had only six grades. St. Pat’s had eight. I remember three of the public schools were named after directions, unimaginative choices, but, whatever the reason, there was no west school.

My favorite ice cream changes. Vanilla is never on the list. My father loved vanilla ice cream drowning in Hershey’s syrup. He’d bring the filled bowl into the living room, sit on the couch, watch TV and eat. He used to give my dog Shauna her own bowl of ice cream without the syrup. He always shared his food with her. My favorite ice cream right now is coconut.

Santoro’s Sub Shop was just down the street from my school. On the Friday of pay week, my mother would often give us enough money to buy a small sub and chips for lunch. We’d walk down the street and usually have to wait in line. I loved the smell of Santoro’s. I always ordered a tuna sub, no meat on Friday’s back then, with pickles and hot peppers. When I was older, I added onions. I never eat tuna anymore. I had more than enough growing up.

My mother used to make English muffin pizza for Friday dinners, a break from fish sticks and French fries. She also made fried dough. We’d slather it with butter and add salt. She could never fry the pieces fast enough. I remember watching the dough fry in the electric skillet on the counter top. My father used to smelt fish. We’d sometimes have his catch for dinner.

I don’t get why people drink from cups or bottles holding their little fingers in the air. It always seems a bit pretentious to me. Other weird things bother me. Why, when older couples travel together, do the men have to sit together in the front, women together in the back? For many people, old ladies are the girls. I have mentioned it before, but I still keep seeing women hiding their mouths when they chew. Do they not chew with closed mouths or is chewing not ladylike? Why do many people use their blinkers only when they are stopped ready to turn? I really hate gawkers on the roads. They slow down to look. I want a cow catcher on my car.

Today is hot, already 76°, the high for the day. The sun is out though the weather calls for a cloudy day. The breeze is slight, but I’ll take any breeze as the days warm. The birds are serenading us. The windows are open.

When I add a piece or two to my jigsaw puzzle, I cheer. The colors left in the box are all red and green, mostly kiwis and watermelon, so each piece is a triumph. I hold the piece and check the box top hoping to find where it belongs. This morning it was two green and a red.

My mother used to do jigsaw puzzles on her dining room table. She’d spread out all the pieces making it easy to find the right piece. Anyone going to the kitchen had to pass through the dining room. Just about everybody stopped to work on the puzzle. Success was announced out loud, “I got one.”

My favorite Ghanaian dishes are jollof rice and kelewele. Jollof rice has, of course, the rice with tomatoes, onions, tomato paste, peppers and spices. Most times it has chicken. On my last trip to Ghana, I ordered jollof every night with dinner.

I used to buy kelewele from aunties cooking it in large pots over wood fires on the sides of the road. Kelewele’s main ingredient is plantain which I came to love. The plantain is fried and has a crispy outside and a soft inside. Added to that is fresh ginger and grated onions. The Ghanaians grind the ginger and grated onion in a heavy, black clay sort of bowl with sides. They use a wooden piece shaped like an hour glass to do the grinding. I brought the bowl and grinder back on one of my trips. It was so heavy I could barely lift the carry on. Hot pepper is added. I think the Ghanaians add hot pepper to just about every dish. The paste is added to the plantain which is then cooked. Groundnuts, peanuts, are sprinkled on the top of the cooked plantain then served. I would eat this every day if I could find it or had someone cook it for me.

I haven’t a list today. I do need a few groceries, the usual bread and cream, and whatever treat catches my eye, but I’m hoping for a coconut cupcake.

The morning is sunny and bright. It is already 73°, the high for the day. This time of year my backyard is hidden by greenery. I love the full trees with their fluttering deep green leaves and small branches bending in the breeze. Nala has a favorite spot near the back deck steps where she naps in the sun. She lies full flat, showing life only when her ears twitch, probably bothered by a bug. Henry is in and out sort of dog.

My mornings start perfectly. I make my coffee, Costa Rican coffee, this month, let the dogs out then grab my newspaper. I read mostly local news, national news being so depressing, then I do the three puzzles. Some mornings I have toast with my first cup of coffee. This morning it was a bagel smeared with fig jam. I always have two cups of coffee though on cold mornings I might even have three.

This time of year, unless it rained, my bike was always parked in the backyard ready for adventure. Every time I hopped on and rode down the grassy hill in the front yard, I wondered what I’d find as I rode familiar routes. By the golf course, I’d often find a ball across the street in the gutter or on someone’s lawn. Round perfect stones found their way into my pockets. Once in a while I’d find a penny, a worthwhile find back then. I’d stop at fruit trees, usually apple trees, to grab a snack. The apples were small, hard and tart. I’d hope to be on time to watch the train pass through the next town over. I loved when the speed of the train sent a breeze which ruffled my hair, a short breeze but just enough for the sense of it. I’d ride around Spot Pond, the reservoir. I always dreamed of sneaking to the island in the middle and camping for a night. Now you can boat on the pond. I’d ride up town. It was always called up town. In town was Boston. I’d window shop. Hank’s Bakery and the Gloucester Fish Market had the best windows. I loved watching the lobsters swim around in the window tank, and at Hank’s, I wished I could buy a cupcake, always chocolate when I was a kid, though later I preferred coconut. It was late afternoon when I’d finally get home and park my bike in the back.

I make lists every day. Some days I finish one or two chores, but other days nothing gets done. When I was younger, I compulsively finished every chore on my list and took delight in crossing off each finished item. Now my lists are small, maybe a couple of chores. I sometimes finish my list, sometimes not. The compulsion is gone, replaced by a book, a jigsaw puzzle or a few crosswords. Yesterday I cleaned down the stairs and in the downstairs bathroom, neither was on my list. Today I have no list though I do want to wash the kitchen floor, maybe tomorrow.

Last night was cold, down to 40°. This morning the house was really cold, 62°. I figured I had somehow gone back in time to early spring so I checked the calendar. It said June 2nd but sitting here in my sweatshirt with socks on my feet has made me skeptical.

My dance card has only two entries, my uke practice and lesson, no concerts. It will be a week of doing a few chores, really only a few, reading and finishing my jigsaw puzzle. I like lazy weeks.

My neighborhood is quiet. The kids are older now. The only sound I usually hear is the kid down the street shooting hoops and the sound of his basketball bouncing on the street and then hitting the rim. Henry is the loudest dog. He barks at every person who dares walk on his street or every truck which stops. Amazon, UPS and the mailman’s truck are, to Henry, the worst offenders. He barks constantly at them and scares most delivery persons trying to drop off a package at my house. The mornings are delightfully noisy with the songs of birds while, at night, insects rule the air. They are a welcome break to the silence.

When I was growing up, I lived in a noisy neighborhood. It was filled with kids. Most families had multiple kids. Summer was the loudest season. Doors slammed, kids played outside all day, dogs barked and mothers yelled out back doors. I was five when we moved to that neighborhood. Back then, our playgrounds were the field, the swamp and the woods on two sides of the field. The grass in the field was high, green in the spring, but it turned brown quickly under the summer sun. We hunted grasshoppers. We played tag and ran through the field chasing each other. We walked to the swamp. In the spring there were water lilies and tadpoles. In the summer dragon flies skimmed the top of the green water. Frogs jumped from half submerged tree branches into the water. We tried to catch the ones closest to the edge of the water, but they were too quick. We just got wet. A water tower was up a small hill close to the swamp. We always wished we could climb it so we could see the world from the top. It was probably a good thing we couldn’t. On the street behind the water tower was a field with a red barn and two grazing horses. We tried to catch them so we could ride. It was probably a good thing we couldn’t. Growing up, I never realized I lived in paradise.

After the last couple of days of rain, today is a welcomed change. The sun has decided to reappear and brought with it a blue sky, but it is only 55°. I’m wearing my hoodie.

This is not one of my better days. I feel logy despite my sloth days. I envision another day of reading, doing my puzzle and filling in my crossword book except I really need to water plants and vacuum the hall. This morning I bent over to pick up a dust ball with my coffee cup in hand. When I bent over, I tipped the cup and spilled the little coffee which was left. That is how the morning started.

My dance card is empty except for uke practice and my lesson. We are starting a new book, Across America, for the first two weeks of the month then we move on to John Denver. We are getting ready for our weekly concerts on the green starting the end of the month when we do a new book every week.

There is a picture of me from when I was about three years old. It was taken in my grandparents’ back yard. I am sitting in a fire engine which belonged to my brother. It seems to be still but my hands are on the steering wheel. What I like best about this picture is I am wearing a frilly dress, The frilliest parts are hanging outside the wagon. Those were my girly days.

When I was in college, my friends and I met every morning at the same table in the canteen. We had coffee together. We also did the crossword puzzle in the newspapers we had bought from the kiosk. It was a race. We’d go to classes but return to that table all day. We were merciless to each other in a fun way. If somebody talked on, we’d turn our backs or we’d pretend to fall asleep. We were close. When I was in Ghana, we wrote at first, but the letters got fewer and fewer. They were moving on while I was living a different life. We lost track of each other. I saw them only a couple of times after I got home and not again. It has been over 50 years since those canteen days. I wonder about them now. Where are they? How were their lives? Are they happy? I still drink my coffee and do the crossword puzzle every day. I have found that pieces of my life through time stay with me. They are a part of who I have become.

Mother Nature has done a 180° from the weather which had started Friday night and lasted all day yesterday. The rain is gone. The clouds have disappeared. The sun is bright, but it is still a bit chilly at 61°. According to the weather report, light rain is predicted for later with a low of 49° tonight.

I was going to the dump today, but I decided I don’t want to haul trash bags from the deck to the car. I did enough hauling the other day. Today might just be a repeat of yesterday’s sloth day when I read and worked on my puzzle, a fruit platter. I got some of the middle done. Once I start a jigsaw puzzle I get obsessed.

In Bolgatanga, my Ghanaian home, the rainy season has started. The millet is already planted. Maize, groundnuts and yams are probably already planted as well. During the dry season, the fields are empty, and it seems as if you can see for miles. During the rainy season everything is hidden behind the tall millet. Only the dirt road between the fields is visible ahead and behind. It rains pretty much every day once the season is in full swing, usually by July. I learned to appreciate rain.

Peace Corps gave us a monthly living allowance to cover all our needs. We got American dollars for traveling. When I went to Accra, the capital, I stayed at the Peace Corps hostel for 50 pesewas a night, about 50 cents, including breakfast. I usually saw a movie or two. I ate cheaply at mostly Lebanese restaurants, but on every trip, I ate at the only Chinese restaurant in the city. It was a treat. We always ate outside.

I had one experience still bright in my memory drawers. I have mentioned this before, but today it is close again. In my Ghanaian days, old hotels still existed, the sort of places where rich expats stayed. A few friends and I decided to say goodbye to a friend leaving early. We went to one of those hotels, to the bar. I remember the room where we sat and drank, real drinks, not hot Coke. Fans turned overhead. The room was filled with tall windows. The chairs and couch cushions were soft and covered with cloth of bright flowered patterns. Palm plants were strewn about the room, mostly in corners. I had the oddest sense as if I had gone back in time to the 50’s or even the 40’s. I could see white couples sitting and drinking, the women wearing light, short sleeve dresses and wide brim hats, the men in white suits. It was easy to imagine.

Around 2:30 this morning the thunder started. It surprised all of us. Nala looked up at the ceiling and Henry just looked around. The rumbles lasted on and off for a while. The dogs lost interest and fell back to sleep. Next, the rain started, heavy drops. It was loud. In a bit, the rain softened but lasted for quite a time. It was still raining when I finally went to bed.

We are back to sweatshirt weather. The house is chilly. Earlier, the air was still, but the wind has since started. It will rain all day, a perfect stay at home day. Yesterday I cleaned. Today my sloth reigns supreme. I have a book and a new jigsaw puzzle.

Each day, the traffic on Coffee is analyzed on the home page by number and location. As you would expect, the highest traffic comes from the United States. What I find unexpected is that the next highest number is from Hong Kong then in order Singapore and Belgium.

When I was a kid, a rainy Saturday meant hanging around the house. I’d sometimes stay in my room, my quiet place, and read. Other times, I’d sit in front of the TV and watch all the Saturday morning programs. I always watched Creature Double Feature in the afternoon. I got to see all the classics, both American and Japanese. That’s where my love for those movies began. Last night I watched Atomic Age Vampire and The Day Mars Invaded Earth. I even ate some popcorn generously buttered.

We had an operator who connected phone calls. The upgrade was a dial phone. Our TV was black and white, but everyones’ were black and white. Most of the movies I watched on Saturdays were made in black and white anyway. The milk man delivered each week. I remember the rattle of the bottles in his wire container as he walked to the back steps. The trash track had men who rode on the back. They jumped off to empty the barrels lined up on the street and the garbage in the below ground container with a pedal on the top to open it. Clothes dried on the backyard lines. My sheets always had the best smell. The ice cream man, Johnny, came most late afternoons. The truck bell announced his arrival. His truck was white with a small door halfway up the back of the truck. The ragman came on his horse and wagon. The knife sharpener man rode his bike with the grinding tool attached.

Life when I was a kid was more colorful, filled with characters. It was simple. It was a great life.

I slept late and had a leisurely morning so I’m behind my time. I even stood on the deck for a bit to watch the dogs and take in the beauty of the day. It is sunny but light rain is predicted for later. It is in the low 60’s but feels warmer.

Pine pollen is covering every bit of my little corner of the world. My blue car is now a yellow green. The deck and even the flowers are covered in pollen. My allergy is making a mess of me. I cough whenever I do anything requiring breathing. My nose needs constant blowing. This is my least favorite time of year.

The town where I grew up had every sort of tree. I remember up the hill from where I lived was a chestnut tree. Sometimes we pelted the chestnuts at each other. They really hurt. An old elm tree with a giant trunk was across the street from my house. It came down in a hurricane, split at the trunk. My father took us outside during the eye of the storm to check out the tree. The rest of the trunk and all the branches were across the road. I climbed through the smaller branches. The other trees I remember were the red maples and the amazing color of their leaves. Those were the leaves we ironed in wax paper to save them at their brightest. We did have a few pine. The white pines were tall and had fluffy needles. I don’t remember their pollen covering surfaces. Maybe, unlike here on the cape, they were few. The oak trees were many, maybe the most of all. The lilac is a bush but grows so tall and full it might just qualify as a baby tree. The houses around my street had tall lilac bushes. The purple flowers smiled divine. My house had a few trees in the side yard, some sort of a fir tree. They were young trees, not every tall. When I drove pass my old house many years later, I was amazed. The trees are now taller than the house.

I have an empty dance card until Tuesday, unless you count a dump run on Sunday. To keep busy, I may have to do a few chores. I swept the downstairs a couple of days ago and ended up with a dust ball bigger than a soccer ball. Today I noticed the dust clumps are back. I feel a bit like Sisyphus but with a broom instead of a rock.

The morning is perfect. The sky is that deep blue which almost defies description, the sun is bright, and there is a slight breeze. When I asked Alexa the weather for today, she said light showers. I didn’t believe her given the beauty of the morning so I asked Google the same question. Google said cloudy with light rain. He got the cloudy part wrong, but he did agree with Miss Alexa about the showers. It is 63°.

I took Henry to the vet’s on Tuesday to have his leg checked. He has been limping on his right front leg. The vet checked his paw and felt all round his leg then she took him out back so she would watch him walk. When she came back, she did he did not limp at all. I was a bit flabbergasted. She gave him pain pills and told me to use them at my discretion. When we got home, Henry limped to the house. He is still limping.

When I was a kid, every day was just about the same. I had breakfast, hot cereal or eggs in winter and cold cereal in the warmer months. Breakfast was always ready on school days when I got down stairs to the kitchen. I didn’t have to choose school clothes. I wore the same uniform, a blue skirt, white blouse and a blue cowboy tie, for eight years. My only fashion flairs were shoes and socks. Mostly my shoes were sturdy and meant to last all year unless I grew out of them or something catastrophic happened. It never did. On cold days I wore knee socks, on warm days, ankle socks. I never complained about having to wear a uniform. That was just the way it was, the norm when I was a kid, just because.

My plate was expanded when I went to Ghana. It wasn’t just Ghanaian food. It was also Lebanese food and Indian food. I remember thinking how exotic the Maharaja restaurant was to me, whose only foray into exotic food was spaghetti and meatballs and fried rice, Chinese spare ribs and pork strips. The restaurant was on the second floor of a building near the post office. It was decorated exactly how I had imagined an Indian restaurant should look like. We sat on floor pillows. I don’t even remember what I ate. I do know I developed a taste for Indian food. Small corner Lebanese restaurants were common in Ghana. I used to eat at a place called Talahl’s, right near the Peace Corps office. That was the first time I ever had hummus. I never asked what was in it. I just tried it. The hummus was served in a circle on a flat plate. It had a small amount of sesame oil in the middle and was ringed with red pepper. The pita bread was large and freshly made. I remember being told to take a piece of bread and scoop it through the hummus after running it through the oil and making sure it got some pepper. I still love hummus. I’m not so sure if I would have eaten it if I knew about the chickpeas and tahini.