The paper predicted the weather would be partly sunny so I am patiently waiting for it to burst through the clouds. It is currently 68°, today’s high. A slight breeze is ruffling leaves on the highest branches. It will be a pretty day in June if the sun decides to exert herself.

In summer, when I was growing up, life was casual and most days were unplanned. On weekends we often went to the beach or we just hung around the house. I never went bicycle riding on Sundays, only during the week. I figure that came from the Sunday was family day custom so we didn’t go far.

Mostly every summer day when I was a kid I wore my summer uniform of sorts, always shorts with a blouse, usually a sleeveless blouse. The shorts were neither to the knee nor high on the leg, not Bermudas or short shorts. They were in the middle. I wore sneakers, always white, and probably Converse. The only variation was on Sundays when I wore a dress or a skirt and blouse to church, the required dress code to which I unhappily complied. I never wore a hat but more of an un-hat like a mantilla or even Kleenex in an emergency. I never wore church clothes longer than necessary, to church, to mass and home again.

We never had a family dinner on summer Sundays. We might have hot dogs and hamburgers cooked on the grill or catch as catch can if we spent the day at the beach.

Nala is maneuvering better with her cone. Last night she managed to jump on the bed without my help. She had been hesitant. The worst of the cone is how sad she looks with her head down while standing at the dog door waiting for me to let her out. She also waits outside the door hoping I’ll notice her. All her wounds look great. I think 11 more days of the cone are too many as it was a random date based on availability.

Our first outside Monday concert on the Hyannis Green is tonight at 5:30. We’ll be playing Carole King music. Every week, we play a different book of music.

Right now I am watching Sharktopus vs. Whalewolf. A half-shark, half-octopus battles a hybrid of a killer whale and a wolf. I need to get a life.

This is my annual Father’s Day post. Many of you read it every year. It is about my amazing father, my funny and loving father. It brings back a rush of memories every time I read it. It makes me smile and long for my father. He was one of a kind in the best of all possible ways. This morning, as soon as I woke up, I wished him a Happy Father’s Day.

In my front garden are a couple of ground cover plants. They have been there for years. My father planted them for me. One weekend he and my mother came down to visit. My dad brought his lawn mower, a hand mower, garden tools and those few plants. While my mother and I shopped, my dad mowed the lawn in the front and the back. Both yards were fields no longer. He weeded the garden. I could see the flowers. The garden was lovely. I get to remember that weekend every time I go out the front gate and see my father’s plants. They touch my heart.

I have so many memories of growing up, of family trips and my dad trying to whack at us from the front seat and never succeeding, of playing whist in the kitchen, with the teams being my mom and me against my dad and brother, of Sunday rides, of going to the drive-in and the beach and of being loved by my dad. Memories of my dad are with me always, but today my memories are all of my dad, and my heart is filled to the brim with missing him. When I close my eyes, I see him so clearly.

On a warm day he’d be sitting on the front steps with his coffee cup beside him while reading the paper. He’d have on a white t-shirt and maybe his blue shorts. He’d wave at the neighbors going by in their cars. They all knew him and would honk back. He loved being retired, and we were glad he had a few years of just enjoying life.

He was the funniest guy, mostly on purpose but lots of times by happenstance. We used to have Dad stories, all those times when we roared and he had no idea why. He used to laugh along with us and ask, “What did I say? What did I say?” We were usually laughing too hard to tell him. He was a good sport about it.

I know you’ve heard this before, but it is one of my favorite Dad stories. He, my mom and I were in Portugal. I was driving. My dad was beside me. On the road, we had passed many piggyback tandem trucks, all hauling several truck loads behind them. On the back of the last truck was always the sign Vehiculo Longo. We came out of a gas station behind one of those. My father nonchalantly noted, “That guy Longo owns a lot of trucks.” I was laughing so hard I could barely drive and my mother, in the back seat, was doubled over in laughter.

My father wasn’t at all handy around the house. Putting up outside lights once, he gave himself a shock which knocked him off his step-ladder. He once sawed himself out of a tree by sitting on the wrong end of the limb. The bookcase he built in the cellar had two shelves, one on the floor and the other too high to use. He said it was lack of wood. When painting the house once, the ladder started to slide, but he stayed on his rung anyway with brush in hand. The stroke of the paint on the house followed the path of his fall. Lots of times he set his shoe or pant leg on fire when he was barbecuing. He was a big believer in lots of charcoal lighter fluid.

My father loved games, mostly cards. We played cribbage all the time, and I loved making fun of his loses, especially if I skunked him. When he won, it was superb playing. When I won, it was luck. I remember so many nights of all of us, including aunts and uncles, crowding around the kitchen table playing cards, especially hi-lo jack. He loved to win and we loved lording it over him when he lost.

My father always said he never snacked, and my mother would roll her eyes. He kept chocolate under the couch, hidden from everyone else, but, we, everyone else, knew. He loved Pilot Crackers covered with butter. Hydrox was his preferred cookie. His vanilla ice cream was always doused with Hershey’s syrup. That man did love his chocolate.

My father was a most successful businessman. He was hired to turn a company around and he did. He was personable and funny and remembered everyone’s names. Nobody turned him down.

My father always went out Sunday mornings for the paper and for donuts. He never remembered what kind of donut I like. His favorite was plain. He’d make Sunday breakfast when I visited: bacon, eggs and toast. I can still see him standing over the stove with a dish towel over his shoulders. He always put me in charge of the toast.

If I ever needed anything, I knew I could call my father. He was generous. When we went out to eat, he always wanted to pay and was indignant when we one upped him by setting it up ahead of time that one of us paid. One Christmas he gave us all $500.00, not as a gift but to buy gifts.

My father left us when he was far too young. It was sudden. He had a heart attack. I had spoken with him just the day before. It was pouring that day, and I told him how my dog Shauna was soaked. He loved that dog and told me to wipe his baby off. I still remember that whole conversation. I still miss my father every day. 

The rain started last night. I heard it on the roof. It was a steady rain sounding almost like a single drop. It stopped sometime in the very early morning, but it just started again. The dampness has made the day chilly, in the 60’s. It is also quite dark.

The draining tube was taken from Nala’s leg yesterday. The vet thought the injury was looking good. She wagged her tail at everyone and their dogs in the waiting room, including another boxer. He was older, already a bit grayed. Nala with her cone has knocked down all sorts of stuff from shelves. Of course, they everything breaks. I’m in the clean-up business. Henry is still a bit nervous about the cone.

When I was a kid, we used to go to the drive-in on summer Saturday nights. The drive-in was in Burlington. We used to ride on Route 128 to get there. I remember our exit was right after the place which sold tractors and other equipment. That’s how I knew we were close. We always brought the snacks with us. My father would pop corn and put it into individual bags. He’d stop at the store for candy, mostly Hershey Bars. He made Zarex and put it in the tartan jug. He called it bug juice. He was in charge of filling the glasses. My mother always packed the aluminum glasses. They were different colors so we all knew which glass was ours. We wore our pajamas. Back then every kid did. At intermission kids would be at the playground, and every kid was in pajamas, robes and sneakers. I know I’ve mentioned before about my father and traffic, but it bears repeating. We always left before the end of the movie. My father dreads getting caught in traffic. We used to watch the movie out the back window as we left. We were the only car leaving.

When I was an adult and visiting my parents for the weekend, we went to the drive-in. My father popped corn and brought candy from the house. Old habits die hard. There were two movies. The first was Jeremiah Johnson, the mountain man. It starred Robert Redford. It was a good movie. The second movie, always the best movie at any drive-in, was A New Leaf with Elaine May and Walter Matthau. It was a wonderful, funny, warm movie.

I don’t know why I remember that night at the drive-in, maybe because it was my past brought into the present and just maybe because it was also the last time we went together to the drive-in. I think that made it memorable.

The morning is partly cloudy, which means partly sunny as well, and warm, a sort of dress rehearsal for tomorrow when it is supposed to rain. It is 76°, the high for the day. The air is perfectly still. Everything is quiet. I’m having my coffee and toast which I slathered with mission fig jam. It is a pleasant morning.

The Ryan household is getting back to normal. This morning Miss Nala greeted me when she figured I was awake. That was the first time since the vet’s and the cone. She also drank water from her dish, the first time I didn’t have to hold the dish. We go back to the vet’s today to have the drain removed.

I had a couple of years of French in high school and two years of Spanish in college. I also had four years of Latin. The first time I used my French was in Africa, in Togo. I was able to tell taxi drivers left or right and order food. I ate a lot of boeuf and pommes frites. I could haggle in the market. I could buy cigarettes and matches. In some stores, like the boulangerie, I just pointed at pastries which looked good. I used my Spanish traveling from Caracas to Rio. I remembered enough to get us from one place to another, order food and shop. I got better as we traveled. In Ghana I mostly used English, Ghanaian English.

When I was eleven, I made my vow to travel. I never once wavered. I traveled all over. I don’t think my eleven year old self would be surprised at that, but I do think my eleven year old self would be surprised I’d live in Africa. I’m still a little in awe of that.

I have never wanted life to be predictable. I wanted surprises. I wanted Frost’s less traveled by road. I don’t know where that came from. It has been part of me for most of my life. It made me different, not weird different, just different, though some may contest the not weird part.

I had a friend tell me when she heard I was going to Africa she wondered who does that. I always thought the answer was easy.

This morning was one of those mirror under the nose mornings. The last few days caught up with me. I woke up a few times during the night trying to find a spot for comfort in bed, but both dogs were deep asleep and had all the room. They didn’t budge. I did.

Last night we had thunder and lightning followed by heavy rain. The thunder was right over the house. The dogs sat up quickly and looked nervously around especially toward the ceiling. I put one arm around each of them, and they were fine.

I swear there was sun when I woke up, but it is cloudy and dark now though no rain is predicted. It is warm at 70°. I’ll be at home again today.

The dogs are okay. Nala is better at navigating. She has figured out how to go through tight spaces. Henry is just Henry.

When I was a kid, school around now was close to ending. We could barely contain ourselves. Time passed slowly. We didn’t do much in class, just took a few end of the year exams. I remember the music exam with a part of it about Gregorian chant. Yup, Gregorian chant!

The library and the post office were the coolest places in town during the summer. They were also the quietest. In the post office, people almost whispered as if afraid to break the silence. The clerk was behind an arched window. The floor was tiled and heels made noise. The library was usually quiet. The whirr of a fan was the only constant sound. The librarians whispered and spoke only at checkout. I used to like to sit at one of the wooden tables and read a bit before I rode home on my bike.

Summer was always filled with possibilities. I could walk to the pool and spend the day swimming just for the cost of a dime. At the end of my street was the field with the playground in one corner. I could take early morning tennis lessons, play softball and horseshoes. I could do crafts for the cost of materials. Everything else was free. I’d spend the morning, go home for lunch just up the hill then go back for the afternoon. I loved those days.

Yesterday was not the best of days. I was in the yard trying to retrieve something Nala stole. I heard her take it but didn’t see her booty. In the yard, she was doing her zoomies with an unknown object in her mouth. I tried to take it from her. She was playfully growling. Henry thought she was growling at me and attacked Nala. He was vicious. I tried to break them apart but not with my hand or fingers close to mouths. I learned that last fall. Henry had Nala’s ear. I whacked him but he didn’t care. The neighbor behind me called the dog officer, but by the time she came, I had separated them. I knew Nala needed the vets, but Henry too needed to be checked. The dog officer took Henry. I took Nala. The vets kept them all afternoon. Both were sedated, shaved and checked. Henry had only abrasions. Nala had both ears stitched, one inside, the other outside. She had a drain put on a puncture on her leg. She had abrasions on her chest. She walked out with a cone. Henry walked out just with abrasions. I walked out with three medications for each dog and a nearly $2000.00 bill, money I don’t have. They’ll let me pay in two installments, a grand gesture.

Last night was awful. Poor Nala couldn’t get comfortable. Every time she moved, I watched her. She’d sleep a bit then move. My body was contorted around her. When I woke up, my back was so bad I had to grab on to stuff to move.

Nala is not enjoying her cone, I have to hold her dishes so she can eat and drink. We both fell asleep this morning on the couch. I was sitting up. Nala was stretched across my lap. She is back asleep with her head resting on her cone. This will be a trying week to come.

Back to the mundane! Last night it rained, a heavy rain at times. Today is cloudy and damp but warmer than I expected.

As for my dance card, I am staying close to hearth and home to keep an eye on the dogs. Both of them are discombobulated and need some lovin’.

When I was a kid, our dog Duke got into a horrific fight with a dog from down the street. His neck was bitten open. My father said he’d be fine. Nature would take care of it. Just after that my father had to leave for a few days for work. My mother took Duke to the vets. He was stitched and given an antibiotic. When my father got home, he checked on Duke and saw the healing. He said to my mother, “See, I told you nature would take care of it.” My mother agreed.

The house is cooler than outside. It is already 73°. The air is calm without even the whiff of a breeze. Earlier, I was in the yard looking for something Nala stole last night, but I had no idea what I was trying to find so I just did a spot clean-up of a bit of trash. Nala did zoomies over and over until she started panting and her tongue hung out. She is now inside with me getting cool. I took the cover off the table and chairs and left it spread to dry. I want to open the deck this week. It is time.

This morning I enjoyed my coffee from Uganda with Bob’s bread toast slathered with black fig mission jam. It was the perfect way to start the day. I’m thinking I need another cup of coffee.

Our house in South Yarmouth didn’t have a deck. It did have a big backyard. My father used to barbecue near a back window. He’d get what he needed for cooking through the open window. He’d also have a few drinks. We’d hear, “Pop me,” his request for more so one of us would pop him through the window. He was the happiest of cooks.

My father was a big believer in using a lot of charcoal starter fluid. He’d squirt it at the fire if it wasn’t burning fast enough for him. A huge flame usually whooshed into the air. He did set his shoes and the bottoms of his pants on fire a couple of times. We’d keep the hose handy.

When I was young, we had hot dogs and hamburgers or cheeseburgers. My mother made her potato salad and peppers and onions. The rolls for the dogs were top-loaded New England rolls. I always had mustard and piccalilli on my dogs. On my burgers I put mayo. I am not a big ketchup fan except I sometimes dip my fries in ketchup. When we got older, my father cooked chicken, ribs and steak tips. My mother still made her potato salad. We were not a green salad family.

I have a few chores for today, uncommon chores like cleaning a couple of cabinets. I may even paint the small chest of drawers, but I’d hate to go too far, get too, too busy. The sloth in me complains loudly.

Yesterday there was thunder and heavy rain, but the rain didn’t last long though its remnants did. The morning was cloudy and damp, but the sun will make an appearance. It will be warm at 61°. We had no concert today due to illness, someone else’s, not mine. I have another day of leisure.

This is the rainy season in Ghana. It was my favorite season. The millet filling the fields was tall. When I rode on back dirt roads, I couldn’t see compounds, only millet and the road ahead. The traditional food in Northern Ghana is t-zed, short for tuo zaafi, a sticky ball of millet you eat with soup. It was not one of my favorites. The soup was. I ate okra soup, my first okra. I didn’t even know okra existed before Ghana. I loved groundnut stew, made with peanut butter, groundnut paste. It was best with chicken. Light soup too was a favorite.

Peace Corps started in 1961. I began serving in 1969, still the early days. I always think of them as the wild, wooly days. Africa back then was mostly peaceful, Ghana especially. Peace Corps never kept tabs on us. We were on our own but nobody minded. We got mail from Peace Corps, the Week in Review from the New York Times and medical, Peace Corps and in-country up-dates. I remember the medical updates. Come on down to Accra. There has been a yellow fever outbreak and a bit later a cholera outbreak, and you need shots. The cholera was especially bad. Medical also reminded us of the usual shots we needed, especially gamma globulin every six months. We needed Aralen refills, the nasty tasting anti-malaria pills we took every week. Peace Corps never knew but we didn’t take it in the dry season, no mosquitos.

We left our schools to travel to Accra, Togo and other countries in West Africa. Peace Corps had no idea where we were. We didn’t care and they didn’t mind. I stayed in Bolga my first year from September to April. Peace Corps sent a nice letter saying I needed to check in with the office as it had been a long while. I guess they wanted to make sure I was healthy and they hoped happy. I went to Accra during Easter holiday as I was going to travel to Togo and needed my dollars from Peace Corps, a re-entry permit from Ghana and a visa to Togo. Peace Corps was relieved I was alive and well.

The world is different now. Peace Corps is cautious, and the safety and wellness of volunteers are prime. I understand the necessity, but I am glad I served in the wild and wooly days. They were perfect for me and my friends.

I am insanely busy, horrific for someone with the soul and spirit of a sloth. Between now and Wednesday, my only free day is Sunday, the Biblical day of rest and, now, coincidentally, my day of rest. Tonight is the first play of the season. Tomorrow is a concert at Chatham Airport. Sunday is coffee and the newspapers and my weekly call to my sister in Colorado. I’ll stop chronicling my week here so as not to bore you with the rest of the events on my yellow, weathered dance card.

The cape is hazy from the smoke. The sky is grey. Scattered showers are predicted. The temperature will be in the mid 60’s. It is an ugly day, but it is a good day. The trash is gone and my laundry is done, good news which comes with a sigh of contentment.

During the harmattan in Ghana, the air is filled with dust and sand from the Sahara. It blocks the sun and covers every surface. My lips and the heels of my feet cracked from the dryness. The only relief was at night when the air cooled. I’d open my windows despite the sand. Feeling cool was rare in Ghana.

This morning I started my day with a wonderful cup of coffee and a scone. I bought the scones at the farmer’s market yesterday. I buy the scones right away as the lady always sells out. Last night I had a blueberry scone as part of my supper. This morning it was coconut with a bit of butter.

My garden is more alive with color every day. I always take a walk around in the mornings when I get my papers. The day lilies on the borders of the grass have buds, but they won’t bloom for a while. I like to check their progress. Small purple flowers have spread to both sides of the garden. My hyacinths are tall but have no buds yet. They are the crowing glory of my garden.

Some of the lights along the fence and gate have died so I have to turn on the back light for the dogs to go into the yard though I suspect they don’t really care, but it makes me feel better.

Right now both dogs are having their morning naps. Henry sleeps on one corner of the couch. Nala sleeps behind me leaning against my back. She keeps me warm.