What a delightful morning it is. The sun is bright in the clear sky. The blue is deep and lovely. A strong breeze is keeping the heat a bay. It is 73 degrees, close to 75, the expected high for today.

My computer saga continues. Last night the charger quit charging. Its cord is frayed. I am using my iPad. I thought I had a second charger, but I’ve looked everywhere I would have put it, no luck. I’ll have to pick one up but not until tomorrow.

Nala and Henry both like to nap on my bed. If one of them is missing, that’s where I look. Last night it was Nala. When I went to bed, I noticed my sheet was sandy, obviously Nala wasn’t polite enough to wipe her feet before she settled on the bed. I vacuumed. When I woke up this morning, Nala had her head resting on my back. I’ll have to get her a pillow of her own.

When I was growing up, Duke, our boxer, was not allowed on furniture, but that didn’t stop him. He’d sleep on the couch at night and jump off before he got caught. He’d lie across the bed with only his back feet on the floor. The poor boy was deprived.

On Saturday mornings, we used to eat our cereal in the living room in front of the TV. I remember keeping my bowl close to my mouth so I wouldn’t spill. Those mornings are the only time we owned the TV. We got to watch what we wanted. Many, back then, were westerns. We got to watch Sky King fly the Songbird. Annie Oakley was a sheriff. I was always a bit amazed that a woman was a sheriff who could shoot and catch bad guys. Rin Tin Tin was a dog against whom all other dogs were judged. ‘Yo, Rinty.” It never seemed odd that his person was a kid in the army who always wore a uniform. We had horses too, Fury and Flicker. I remember Circus Boy, but I didn’t remember it was Mickey Dolenz, the Monkees Mikey Dolenz. I had favorites, The Lone Ranger and Sgt. Preston of the Yukon.

After breakfast and a morning of TV, it was time to hit road, metaphorically of course. I’d mount my trusty steed, my bicycle, and explore my world.

The air is thick with humidity. The breeze is getting stronger. It is getting darker. Thunderstorms are predicted.

It rained last night for a short while but long enough for the dogs to leave muddy paw prints all over the kitchen floor. The floor was washed on Monday so I should have expected rain.

Last night calamity struck. I spilled my coke and some landed on the keyboard of this Mac. First the audio disappeared, no internal speakers listed, only earphones. I tried the suggested remedies. None worked. I decided I could live with no sound. Next, the keyboard stopped working. I couldn’t type my password to open the computer. That, I couldn’t live with. I felt doomed. I didn’t sleep well, but this morning, despite the dire predictions, all is well.

When I graduated from high school, a typewriter was my graduation present. It was a perfect gift to take to college, but there was a problem. I didn’t know how to type. I had tried my senior year to take typing, but my guidance counselor told me it wasn’t a college track course. He scheduled me for Latin IV instead. Such a good trade-off! I use Latin IV everywhere I go.

I didn’t bake anything ever until my first Christmas in Ghana. I made sugar cookies. It was quite the process. First, I had to travel 200 miles round trip to fill my gas cylinder so I could use my oven. Next, I looked for a cookie recipe and was happy to find one that looked fairly easy in the cookbook called Ghana Chop, a Peace Corps Ghana cookbook. It gave measurements in cigarette tins. I had Christmas cookie cutters my mother had sent. I used a Star beer bottle as a rolling pin. I sifted my flour to remove as many bugs as I could. After all that, and with a few bugs still in the flour, I was surprised by how good the cookies tasted. They even looked good. They were a Christmas hit.

Since then a lot has changed but a lot is the same. I have become quite adept at baking cookies. I mostly bake them at Christmas time. I use the same old cookie cutters. I ditched the bottle rolling pin for a traditional one. The flour has no bugs. I use confectioners’ sugar to make frosting; however, despite the batches of cookies I have made since then, that first batch is still the most memorable. It is one of my proudest accomplishments.

Last night it rained. I woke up to a dark, damp day stilled by the humidity. The weather prediction for today keeps changing. The latest said more rain is coming.

Henry is a barker. He barks at whatever passes by my house. That includes everything from rabbits on the lawn to school busses rumbling down the street. Nala seldom barks. She leaves that to Henry, but when she does bark, I am often the target. She barks at me in indignation of something I did or didn’t do. I have to guess.

My father always told me not to stop the dog from barking because he is protecting me. It seems Henry protects me from the mailman in his truck, people walking their dogs, my neighbor’s car, the brown rabbit eating grass and the kids who play on the street.

When I was a kid, certain things were inevitable. The summer would end. August was the last bastion of freedom as I knew it. School would begin.

Life as I knew it changed once school started. We only had a little time after school to play and the amount of playtime was ruled by the street lights. Bedtime was earlier. My mother woke us up early. It was always a bit of a shock.

I admit the first day of school was exciting though not worth the famous countdowns we used for Christmas and vacations. I carried my new lunch box and new school bag. I wore my uniform but every part of it was new, from my blouse to my shoes. I got to see friends I hadn’t seen since school ended. I met my new teacher. We all knew who taught what grades so we hoped for the nicer one. There were two classes per grade so it was happenstance if my friends were in my class. I remember for that first day my mother packed a special lunch meant to brunt the horror of eating it at my desk in my classroom. The Hostess cupcakes helped.

The morning is dark. A now and again breeze ruffles the leaves. It looks like rain but no rain is predicted. Today will be hot, in the 80’s. The night will be cooler, in the 60’s, good for sleeping.

Mondays used to take more effort than any other day. When I worked, the alarm was always set for 5:15. I was up before the sun. I had two cups of coffee, watched the news and read the paper. It was a slow start to an always busy day.

In Ghana, I was early to bed and early to wake, but I didn’t have an alarm clock. I had a rooster who crowed at the sun. I was always amazed I lived where roosters crowed.

When I was growing up, the most exotic food I ate was Chinese. If I had known the word, I would have thought myself cosmopolitan.

My mother used to make a sort of Chinese food with hamburger, water chestnuts, bean sprouts and chow mein noodles. She used to cook it in her electric fry pan on the kitchen counter. She served it with rice. I remember how amazed I was my mother could cook Chinese food.

I have pictures, quick views of my life, saved in my memory drawers. Some are of our apartment in South Boston. Our building was part of a block of brick apartment buildings. Across the street was the kindergarten, also brick, from where I escaped twice and went back home. I never went back. My backyard had fenced in areas with clothes lines. I broke my wrist jumping backwards off the gate. That’s all I remember. I was five when we moved from there.

I remember exploring the new neighborhood with my brother just after we had moved. In my mind’s eye I can still see a stream behind some houses. We played there a while floating leaves in the water and trying to catch tadpoles. We didn’t realize we were lost. We just kept exploring. The police found us walking down a street. Our parents had called them. The other vibrant memory from that time happened not long after the first adventure. I dared my brother to eat some red berries. He did and had to have his stomach pumped. He couldn’t refuse a dare.

Last night the thunder was tremendous, dramatic. It lasted the longest time. The dogs started to shake, the first time they have reacted to the crack of thunder over the house. Nala was beside me so I put my arm around her hoping to comfort her fears. Henry jumped up and moved to inside the curl of my legs. He needed to touch me. I kept patting him. The thunder quieted then got loud again. The dogs got closer. Finally, the rumbles moved off into the distance. Nala sighed, put her head down and went to sleep. Henry stretch and went to sleep. So did I.

The rain started, but I don’t know when because the thunder drowned out every other sound. Finally, when the thunder quieted, I could hear the rain. It was still raining when I woke up. Scattered thunderstorms are predicted for today with a high in the low 80’s. The humidity is thick.

I do need dog food so I’ll be forced to get dressed and go to Agway. Beyond that I have nothing for the rest of the day. On my dance card for the week is the uke: practice Tuesday, lesson Wednesday and concerts on Monday, Wednesday and Thursday.

When I was in grammar school, I had nuns almost every other year. When I was in first grade, I thought Sister Redempta was scary. She’d whip her head around if she heard a noise. We’d stay quiet rather than incur her wrath. She used to have us fold our hands together and put them in the middle of our desks. We sat there without moving. I remember at Christmas we were having a small play. I was given a line to learn, something about the angels. I did. I was absent one day. She took my line away.

When I was older, I figured out that Sister Redempta whipped her head around because her wimple had sides so she had little peripheral vision. We could take chances knowing we could beat the speed of the wimple. That was such a revelation!

Today my mother would have celebrated her 96th birthday. She was my first thought when I woke up. I miss her every day. Sometimes I think I’ll call her then I remember. Happy Birthday!

Today will be hot and sunny. Already it is in the high 70’s, but I’m comfortable here in the cool, dark den. My plans for the day are simple: do nothing. Yesterday got away from me as I had a couple of appointments: my teeth are clean and my license has been renewed. I’m good to go.

I started hating the dentist when I was in the 7th grade. That was when my father decided the dentist in town, with his gas and painless dentistry, was too expensive; instead, he drove to me East Boston on Saturdays to take me to his childhood dentist. I swear that dentist used pedal drills. He didn’t use novocaine. I was in pain. I gripped the chair arms with such force I left finger indentations. Much later, when I saw the Little Shop of Horrors, I recognized the sadistic dentist. He was the very same one from my childhood.

I had to have perfect teeth before I left for Ghana. The dentist I found was near school in Lawrence. I was braced for torture. It didn’t happen. It was painless. I didn’t grip the arms even once. My father didn’t balk. He paid the bill. I stopped hating dentists.

I have a list of favorite smells. The Christmas tree probably tops the list. Its aroma fills the house the whole season. I have pine incense I burn to bring back the tree. Wood charcoal burning is another. That brings me back to Ghana, especially back to the mornings. The compounds around my house cooked every morning on small charcoal burners. I could see the white smoke rising above the compounds, and I could smell the sweet wood burning. I have wood charcoal I burn in my chiminea. If I close my eyes, I’d swear I was in Ghana. Bread baking is another of my favorites. I salivate at the thought of butter melting on hot bread. I remember ditto machines. I’d pass out the papers to my students, and the first thing they’d do was smell the paper. The sweet, pungent smell before a rain storm is another. I know it is ozone, but I prefer a more earthy description. After a rainstorm, the smell of the grass and flowers fills my senses.

I think summer has the most aromas with the whiffs of newly cut grass, the hints before rain storms and the sweet redolence of everything in bloom, but I love the scents of winter wafting through the cold air and sweetening the starkest of all the seasons.

Today is cloudy and humid. The air is still. Scattered thunder storms are predicted. I have an errand which I may skip as the roads will probably be filled with vacationers looking for diversions, reasons to leave their small hotel rooms and cottages. I, however, don’t need a diversion. I have books to read. I also have weird chores I can do, the sort tackled in times of boredom, chores like hunting down expired can goods. That’s always exciting, think tongue in cheek here, a whimsical exaggeration.

When I was a kid, the floor of my closet was piled high with shoes, boots and whatever else needed a home. I’d have to pull out what was there to find what I needed. After I did, I’d just put the pile back. It never occurred to me to sort the pile. Seriously, why would I? It didn’t pain my sensibilities. My bureau drawers were neatish, not the bovine neat but neat meaning close to organized and tidy. My mother did that as she put the laundry away.

In my bedroom in Ghana, I had a chifforobe, an armoire, as I had no closet. It was against one wall. One side of it was for hanging my clothes while the other side had shelves. It was my only storage. It was always neat. In my shower room outside, I used the windowsill as a shelf for my soap, shampoo and a sort of loofah. The window had a permanent shutter so you couldn’t see out, but even better, no one could see in. The shutter was green. The shower room was concrete.

In Accra, I always stayed at the Peace Corp hostel. It was only 50 pesewas a night with breakfast. The women slept downstairs. Breakfast was coffee, cereal, eggs and toast. I remember the plates were colored plastic and many had scratches and were faded. I can still picture the bedroom and the common room where we ate breakfast and socialized. It is odd what our memory drawers hold.

When I traveled, it was on the cheap. Every Peace Corps volunteer travels on the cheap. Some countries had hostels. I remember the one in Niamey. It was comfortable and decorated with Nigerian blankets and baskets. Niger just had a coup. I watched the news and films of the uprising in Niamey. I remember a quiet Niamey with camels on the roads, women washing clothes at the river and French shops with silver services in the window. It is no longer the Niamey my memory drawers keep safe.

When I went back to Ghana, everything physical had changed. Accra was huge. I saw only a few places exactly as I remembered them, but that is what happens in time. Bolga had spread, gotten bigger, but it didn’t matter. I felt the warmth of the Ghanaians in Bolga and heard all their greetings. I felt at home, the same sorts of feelings I had felt so many years ago. Sometimes time does stand still.

Hunker down and stay safe is the advice. We have had an extended thunder storm and a tornado warning. Already nearly 2 inches of rain have fallen. The wind is blowing over 40 mph. On the local news channels, the cape’s weather is usually an after thought. Today it is the news. I’m thinking because we haven’t had rain in a while, this storm is the Rain God having his way.

I have to go out later. The dogs expect to eat today. They need both wet and dry food and even biscuits. I have uke practice tonight. We practice outside so I hope the sun comes out of hiding. Our music this week is from the color book. This is our only practice, but we have played this book before. My uke calendar is short this week: last night’s concert, practice today and a lesson tomorrow.

When I was a kid, the kitchen always had a junk drawer. In it was a strange assortment. Some things, like buttons, just landed there having no other place to go. Small tools, like a screw driver, were there in case of a kitchen emergency. Elastics, pencil stubs, glue bottles, mostly dry, band-aids and loose paper clips also called the junk drawer home.

I have a junk drawer, but it is in the living room, in an old table, one of the first pieces of furniture I ever bought. Sometimes the drawer is difficult to open. That is the main characteristics of a really good junk drawer.

I keep all the orphan socks. The law of socks dictates you never throw an orphan away because, after you do, the other sock magically appears. Besides, I figure if I wear my high tops, no one will notice two different socks. I might even start a fashion trend.

I love my house when it is raining, especially during the fiercest of storms. It seems to hug me. When the rain is beating the roof and sides of the house, I am safe and dry inside. The lights cast a comforting glow. The rain is the only sound.

The rain has stopped. The sky is lighter. The day is looking promising.

The morning was the afternoon. It was one of those nights. I just wasn’t tired. I read for a while, turned off the light then turned it back on when I couldn’t fall asleep. It was close to six when I finally turned off the light and fell asleep. It was noon when we woke up, the dogs and I. Despite the time, I chose to approach the day leisurely. Two newspapers, an onion bagel and two cups of coffee later, here I am.

On my dance card is my usual Monday concert. We’re doing the color book. I also need gas and dog food.

The day is dark, cloudy and damp. I think it might have rained as the plastic on the papers was wet. It is 75° right now and showers are predicted.

I remember two strange finds when I was a kid. The first was in the woods beside the field below my house. It was a tiny shack made from odd sized boards. The entrance was a hole. There was one window cut out of the wall. The floor of the shack was dirt. Inside was a small stack of magazines. They were girly magazines.

The next find was in a green, large wooden box beside the tracks and on the corner of the road. Across the street was the red store. Inside the box was a couple of stacks of comic books with string tied around each. The comic books included Little Lulu, Henry, Superboy and some other 50’s comics. We sat on the ground and read a few. We took them, employing the kids’ philosophy of finders keepers.

I always jumped over the rail ties which had a double 00 on them. We thought the double OO’s were as dangerous as step on a crack, break your mother’s back so, because I did not want to be responsible for my mother’s injury, I jumped.

Name calling hurts. When I was a kid, they were the weapons of bullies. I used to retaliate and say over and over, “Sticks and Stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me,” even though they did. I remember being in the fifth grade and defending my friend who was in tears because she was being bullied. I asked the kid to stop, and when he didn’t, I punched him in the face. He stopped. We were sent to the principal’s office. I explained, and the principal said the next time I should tell someone. He got punished.

The morning is warm at 78°. It will only get as high as 80°. Today will be a sunny day. Tomorrow is supposed to be rainy.

The concert on the beach was perfect. We were under a canopy close to the shore. There were eight of us. We played Beach Boys’ music. I parked across the street and trudged through sand to get to my seat. I had to go back to my car as I had forgotten something. Today, my back remembers the trudging. I look like a question mark.

Sunday is different than any other day. It lends itself to quiet. Nothing was open when I was kid. I wish now it was the same. We all need a day of rest, a day to enjoy just for the sake of it. That is my plan for today.

Saturday has always been chore day. That dates back to when I was a kid. My father went up town to the Chinese laundry to pick up and leave his white shirts. I remember those white shirts with starched collars and Windsor knotted ties. My father would get his hair trimmed and visit his buddies, especially Pullo at his pharmacy. At home, he’d mow and rake the lawn. He always used a hand mower and a rake with wooden teeth. I still remember the sounds, the clicking of the mower and the scraping of the rake.

My mornings are spent with cups of coffee and two newspapers. Today I added a bagel. It got a little too brown as I watered my plants while it was toasting. The dogs got the brownest part. They do not have discerning taste.

When I worked, Sunday was laundry and dump day, but those chores no longer have a designated day. I’m thinking Monday for both if I am in the mood. My dance card has three events for the week: our usual uke concert in Hyannis tomorrow, practice Tuesday and my lesson on Wednesday. I doubt I’d leave the house if I didn’t have my uke. Last week I had 5 events in six days. My inner sloth was exhausted.