It was around 3 am. I was reading in bed when the rumble started. I could hear it far off at first, but it started getting closer and closer. Soon enough the thunder was overhead. That was when the rain started. It was torrential for a while. I listened. I wished I had a tin roof.

The humidity is so thick this morning you can cut it with a knife. The breeze is almost wasted in the thickness. The sky is a light grey. Rain is likely again tonight.

I couldn’t open my front door last night. The wood was swollen. This morning I went out the backdoor then through the gate, got my paper then pushed the door with all my strength. I almost fell into house but caught myself.

When I was a kid, we never went to the cape. We mostly went to Maine where we had free accommodations in the tiniest of cottages. It belonged to a friend of my father’s. It was in Ogunquit. I remember how cold the water was and how high the dunes were. I remember seeing naked sunbathers hiding themselves in the dunes. When the tide was low, I used to watch the darting fish in the pools. My parents used to sit outside the cottage or in the small kitchen. My father swam, body surfed. We mostly ate sandwiches or hot dogs and burgers on the grill, sort of grab an go meals. We went there the summer I turned 16. I was thoroughly bored. I remember one night I went into town to see a movie. That was it for entertainment. I used to hide in my father’s car to read and have a bit of quiet, a little privacy. I think that was the last time we went to Maine.

My favorite vacations were what is now called a staycation. We did something different every day. We went to museums in Boston and in Cambridge. We went to the beach and once to the lake. We even went to the drive-in a couple of times. Weekdays at the beach and the drive-in were so different than on the weekends. A couple of days we just stayed home.

I have my Monday concert in Hyannis starting at 5:30. Getting there will be a struggle because tourists fill the main roads on ugly days gawking and rubbernecking as they drive slowly looking for something to do. I curse.

The morning is cloudy, damp and windy. It’s an ugly morning. Rain is predicted. It is a good day to lounge around the house, to be a sloth. I’ll stay in my cozies.

Every July 4th, I used to march in a parade in Wakefield, the next town over from mine, as a member of St. Patrick’s Shamrocks drill team. The rest of my family spent the day at a friend’s house right on the parade route. I hated passing that house. Everyone was on the porch watching the parade and waiting for me to pass by so they could totally embarrass me. They’d yell out my name over and over. I’d try to ignore them, but I couldn’t. I’d give a little wave, and they’d clap. I was glad to move on.

Later, when I was much older, my mother, sister and I would mark our spots before the parade by putting down our chairs on the side of the road. We’d go home for a while then return to watch the parade together. It was far nicer to watch than march. I’d even sometimes buy a balloon I’d tie to my chair, a necessary step to ensure the balloon wouldn’t fly off. When I was little, I had many balloons escape. I’d watch them fly higher and higher until I could watch no more. When I was really little, I cried.

My mother always had a barbecue on July 4th. Hot dogs and hamburgers were on the menu when we were kids. They’d be potato chips, pepper and eggs and potato salad. Usually we’d have Hoodsies for dessert. Those were the days when Hoodsies came with a wooden spoon.

When we were older, the menu got fancier. They’d be teriyaki steak tips, chicken and sometimes kebobs. My father was always the cook. He’d sit outside with a drink and something to read while he watched the meat cook. He always cooked the meat perfectly. The sides didn’t change much. They’d be my mother’s potato salad, pepper and eggs, chips, maybe cole slaw or even pasta salad, bought, not made.

The fireworks started last night. I could hear them going off though not all that close to my house. Luckily, though, for my dogs, neither one minds the blasts. They sleep through them.

The morning is ugly even though the sun tried to pop out of the clouds. The humidity is 79%. Today will follow the latest weather pattern: 70’s during the day and 60’s at night. The clouds will hang around the whole day. I’m fine with that as I’m going nowhere. I saw the traffic yesterday and saw the line of cars waiting through light cycles. The line went from one light to another.

Yesterday I actually got my dump sticker and emptied the trunk of all those bags of trash. I evicted a few flies. A very nice man helped me with the trash. Next, I had my car inspected. It was a 45 minute wait, my punishment for going on the last day of the month. A few cars failed ahead of me, but mine was fine. I had been getting a low tire pressure notice so I asked them to check, all four tires needed air. I guess that’s why I was squealing around corners.

When I was a kid, summer weekends were mostly spent with my family. We went to the beach, usually to Gloucester, to Wingaersheek Beach. I loved that beach. I could find neat shells, crabs and even clams. At low tide I could swim in tidal pools. They were deep and warm. I remember the houses which overlooked the beach. I wanted to live in one. My mother never swam but sat on the blanket and kept an eye on my two sisters. A famous mom story happened on this beach. She was yelling at us, my brother and me, for throwing stones. We stopped. She yelled again and said we had hit her on the head, perplexing to us as we hadn’t thrown a stone. My father checked for any injury. She screamed. A passing seagull had dropped his poop and had hit her, no aiming involved, just circumstance. She ran gagging to the water, and my father washed out the offending fecal matter. We laughed but not where she could see us.

My mother packed great beach lunches. We had a variety of sandwiches, chips, fruit, cookies and peppers and eggs. That last dish came from my aunt who had given my mother the recipe. It has stayed with me. I’ve made it to bring to band concerts and for deck dinners. I remember that by the end of the afternoon everything left was sandy. Even the cookies tasted gritty.

My father didn’t let us in the car until he had washed the sand from our feet. We waited in line, the four of us. He’d have us sit one at a time on the end of the seat with our feet hanging out so he could wash them. Once they were clean, we’d swing our feet around into the car.

When I was in bed after a day of swimming, I’d rest my head on the pillow when I was falling asleep. Sometimes a bit of water would run from my ears. It always felt warm.

Some mornings just seem to be perfect. Today’s is one of them. The sun is bright. A breeze is coming in through the back door, from the south. My den is cool and dark, a pleasant place to be. My neighborhood is quiet. I can hear only birds greeting the day. The coffee was delicious. I lingered while I read both papers.

I have no plans for today. I’ll just wait and see what unfolds.

When I was a kid, I had a bit of a boring palate. My mother served us what she knew we’d eat. She went heavy on the potatoes and ground beef, and for dinner, we always had a vegetable. Corn was the hands down favorite, niblets, not creamed corn. I loved peas. I found them versatile. Sometimes I’d mix them into the potatoes. It wasn’t a pretty sight, but it was tasty. They were perfect in pasta salads. Even now, peas are among my favorites. Chinese food was the most exotic we ate. When I was little, my parents told us Chinese food was only for adults. I believed them. Who would have thought parents lied?

I remember my first introduction to Ghanaian food. It was at dinner. I didn’t eat it. It was a glob of mushy green something or other. I asked and found out it was kontomire stew, a stew made from cocoyam leaves. I did try it and didn’t like it, but over time, I ate and enjoyed many Ghanaian foods, just not kontomire.

My palate expanded wider and wider. In every country where I traveled, I tried the food. I ate reindeer in Finnish Lapland. I remember sitting in the hotel dining room watching Thomas Eagleton withdraw as McGovern’s vice presidential nominee 18 days after he had been named.

Ordering food in Europe was easy, but in Africa and South American, my language skills being limited, I just pointed at what I wanted to eat. I seldom asked what the food was. I didn’t want to know. I let my eyes and my taste buds. I was seldom disappointed.

As for now, I don’t cook for myself too much. I am into easy, but now and again I make a meal. If I make a meal like a meatloaf, I eat it a few days in a row. It becomes dinner and sandwiches for lunch. Last night it was spaghetti and meatballs. It will be the same tonight and maybe tomorrow night.

Around four this morning the dogs and I were awakened by the loudest clap of thunder I have ever heard. It was right over our heads, and the house shook. I could almost feel the power of that thunder clap. Lesser claps followed than rolling thunder. The dogs and I were on alert. Finally, the thunder rolled away, and all of us were able to relax.

Last night’s rain was torrential, and the sounds of the drops on the roof and against the windows surrounded us. That was the last sound I heard before I fell asleep.

It was still raining but gently when we woke up. Now I hear only drops from the trees in the back yard. The sky lightens then darkens. It is warm and, as you’d expect, quite humid. More rain is predicted.

My dance card is filled this week with uke. Last night we had our usual Monday concert in Hyannis. The crowd was small as rain was a possibility. Tonight I have practice with a new book, Across America. Tomorrow is a lesson and another concert.

When I was a kid, I entertained myself all summer by finding something to do every day. The playground was my favorite spot. I’d spend whole days there. That was where I learned to weave gimp and make potholders. I played softball in the afternoons. I pitched and played first base. I loved those summer days.

On rainy days, I’d often ride my bike, that is if the rain was gentle. My favorite spots included the field near my house with the two horses. They’d come to the fence to greet us. I’d search around the golf course for golf balls which had missed their targets. Some were even across the street from the course on lawns. I’d ride to the farm and watch the cows. I’d pedal to the next town over and circle the lake. That was my long ride.

I always had books to read, mostly from the library. On Fridays, though, I’d get my fifty cents allowance and rush uptown to buy one of the Whitman books from the series I loved like Trixie Belden, Donna Parker and Ginny Gordon. They were 49¢ so that left a penny for candy.

The grocery store is on my list again. I forgot bread the last time. It is also an excuse to get another Snickers though I really don’t need an excuse. I just need chocolate.

Today is cloudy and humid, but a breeze gives a little relief. Rain is predicted for the late afternoon.

When I was a kid, I always wondered how it felt to grow old. I’d see old ladies shopping in the square. They wore flowered dresses like my grandmothers did. They wore clunky shoes with thick heels, usually black shoes with ties. In the rain they covered their heads with those see through rain hats tied under the chin, wore matching see through rain coats and shoe covers, each closed with a button. Their purses were square with a single strap. I never felt any connection between the old ladies and me.

In years I am old, but old is relative, not always age but sometimes disposition. I’ll be 76 on my next birthday. My face is lined. I used to lift 50 pounds of cat litter from the car to the house. Now I drag 15 pound bags. I still think I can do what I can’t do. Jars are a challenge. I forget stuff. It comes back but only after I needed it. I find that totally frustrating.

Growing old is physical. I have a cadre of doctors tending to my ills. I see them often because bodies have only a certain length of life. I get that.

Amazingly there is a miracle in all of this growing old business. It doesn’t dull the spirit unless you let it. Life is still fun and interesting and joyful, the best part of it all. I am awed by beautiful sunsets. I watch the snow fall under the back light. I love the colors of fall. I watch the worst old science fiction movies and enjoy every one of them. I like to laugh a lot. My friends and I still play the games we played as kids. The only difference is our language is much saltier.

I find life layered. The older we are, the more the layers. When I was young, my life was a single layer, but now, I think of my life as a giant chocolate cake with layer after layer filled with ganache. How wonderful!

The morning is a bit ugly. It is cloudy and humid. It is also warm, at 74°. A here and there breeze stirs the air and the oak leaves on the tallest branches. I’m thinking it is a good day for reading and relaxing, but I do need to buy some cat food and some human food, especially bread, the staff of life, and Snickers, my life sustaining food.

I’m watching The Incredible Petrified World released in 1959. It is quite awful so I am enjoying it. The only actors I know are John Carradine and Phyllis Coates though another, Robert Clarke, looks familiar.

Nala is a happy dog. She can come in and go out the dog door. She can eat comfortably from her dish. She can sleep on my lap. Yesterday the dog officer came to release Henry from house arrest. He didn’t make a great impression. He constantly barked at her.

When I was a kid, I was never into clothes or shoes. For school, I had no choice of what to wear. I wore a uniform, but that never really bothered me. It was a relief of sorts. I didn’t need to pick out clothes for the day or buy the latest styles. My play clothes were simple, pants, maybe dungarees, and blouses. In the summer it was shorts and blouses. Comfort was key.

In Ghana I wore dresses almost exclusively. In the beginning I wore the clothes I’d brought. I most remember a lilac colored dress. I’m wearing it in several pictures. I remember wearing a skirt and blouse when I left for Ghana. After training I bought Ghanaian cloth and had a seamstress make dresses for me. I never wore my brought clothes again. I don’t remember what happened to my lilac dress. I probably gave it away. I’d like to think it had a long life. It served me well.

Right now I am wearing my uniform of sorts, a tee shirt and casual pants not fit for outside. My life has come full circle. I am back to comfort being the key.

Last night I just couldn’t fall asleep. It was light out before I lost consciousness. When I woke up, it was after 11. I chose a leisurely morning to welcome a pretty day. I read the papers and enjoyed a couple of cups of delicious coffee. It is already 72°, close to today’s high. The sky is blue, but clouds are expected though not rain.

I was looking at the class picture for my eighth grade graduation. The original was left rolled so it cracked. I had a copy made and mounted. We are sitting in rows in front of the convent, which is no longer there. Father Sexton, the pastor, also no longer there, is sitting in the middle. The boys are wearing jackets and ties. Except for one girl, we girls are wearing pouffy dresses. I think that might have been the last time I wore a pouffy dress. I had my hands posed in front of me, obviously a directive from the photographer. One boy has his head turned. Most of the boys aren’t smiling. Some girls are smiling but more look solemn. I have sort of a half smile. I don’t remember that day so I am glad for the picture. I remember most of the eighth grade just not that day.

I always wonder why certain days and even certain moments stay bright in my memory drawers. Some seem consequential while others seem to be just regular days or simple moments.

I don’t remember the ride to Logan on the day I left for Philadelphia to go to Peace Corps staging, but I clearly remember looking back at my parents as I walked into the jetway. My mother waved, a small wave. My father also waved but his was a bigger wave. I waved back and turned to walk onto the plane.

I remember one night in Philadelphia. I took my book and went to the top most floor of the hotel, sat with my back against the wall and read. I even remember the book, The Naked Ape.

I don’t remember how old I was, but I remember walking home after an afternoon of ice skating at Recreation Park. My skates were slung over my shoulder. My feet felt funny in shoes.

After Halloween hauls, I use to put my candy in one of the tulip bowls, a nesting set my mother owned. I kept the bowl under my bed for easy access. Years later, I saw a similar set, all four bowls, for sale and bought it. It came with memories of one night a year.

Today’s weather is neither one nor the other. The sun is shining, but rain is predicted. We have a wind then we have a breeze. It is a bit chilly.

I went out on the deck to watch the dogs. Nala did her business than did a zoomie, cone and all. I watched her maneuver at top speed between tree trunks. She was amazing.

When I was in the first grade, I was in the rhythm band. I played the sticks first then a triangle. My talent went unrecognized. That was the end of my early musical career. I always thought it a pity.

Fast forward. I have reenergized my musical career with my uke. I’m an okay player. I can play most of the chords without looking at my fingers the way I used to when I first started. Sometimes, though, the chord switch is quick, and the second chord is difficult so my fingers sort of slide from one chord to the other. I keep practicing the switches, but my fingers don’t cooperate. Though I love playing the uke, I sometimes long for the ease of banging the sticks.

Of late, I have been a sloth. Most days I sort of hang around the house in my cozies. I make plans then don’t follow through. I have no guilt about it.

My first plane ride was when I was a freshman in college. I flew in a small commuter plane from Hyannis to Boston, a gift from my parents. It was a glorious ride skirting the shoreline. It fed my longing to travel. I flew to New York during college for a weekend with friends. I flew stand by. It was cheaper. My next flight was in my uncle’s plane. This was just a few weeks before Peace Corps. I had babysat my aunt and uncle’s brood for longer than expected so my uncle offered to fly me to Hyannis. We flew over Boston. It was amazing. I could identify landmarks. My head flew from side to side. I didn’t want to miss anything. The next flight was monumental, from Philadelphia to Accra. I remember watching The love Bug, the in-flight movie. I remember the drink cart making unending trips up and down the aisle. I remember the pilot telling us we were flying over the Sahara, and we all crowded to look out the windows.

I have flown many, many times now, trips to Europe, South America, North Africa and back to Ghana three times. What is amazing is I still look out the windows so I don’t miss anything. I have learned to ignore everything but the flight. Flying is still magical to me.