The morning is bright and already getting hot. I am in the den which is dark in the morning and feels cooler than the rest of the house. That always reminds me of my mother. She pulled down every shade in the house on hot days to make the house cooler. The living room was always dark.

Again, for another day, I have no plans. I have an empty, yellowing dance card. I don’t need anything, no groceries or animal food, though I wouldn’t mind a Snickers. A dump run is on my to do list, maybe tomorrow, maybe not tomorrow.

When I was a kid, bologna on white bread with yellow mustard was my usual lunch. The bologna came in a roll. I wasn’t great at slicing. One side of the bologna would be thin while the other side would often be thick. The bread seemed to curl around the bologna and sink in the middle. When I was a little older, I added hot peppers to the sandwiches. The peppers came in a jar. I used to cut them into two and add them to the bologna. The bread didn’t hold up well to the peppers. Dessert was whatever cookies were left in the cabinet, Oreos or chocolate chip if we were lucky.

I loved the library on hot days. It always felt cool. I used to sit at one of the wooden tables and read. Usually the library wasn’t very busy on summer days so the librarian didn’t care how long I sat there. I spent so much time in that library I can still close my eyes and see it as it was.

The Dairy Queen used to be across from what was the high school. If I had some change, I’d bike down and buy a cone with that hard chocolate cover. I remember you had to be careful or the chocolate cracked and came off in one piece. Sometimes the piece fell to the ground. That was so awful, so horrific. My father used to hate it if we called it ice cream. He’d always say it was ice milk. You added milk to a powder to make it. Back then, my father worked for Hood Ice Cream so he knew his ice cream or his not ice cream.

Everything is quiet. Even the dogs are napping. I’m going to do a bit of reading to while away the afternoon.

I have just returned from hell. I had a doctor’s appointment in Hyannis. It is cloudy so every tourist is on the road looking for entertainment. I sat through so many light cycles my car started growing weeds and assorted greenery. From today onward, my dance car is empty. Hallelujah!

When I was a kid, every summer day was a busy day. I always found something to do. My town was filled with places to visit. The most expensive spot was the pool at the cost of a dime. I remember the teenagers lying on their towels around the pool. They were couples. The lifeguard kept an eye on them. Many summer days the pool was so crowded you couldn’t really swim, but you could dive. I loved diving off the board. I used to stand on the end, aim at the water then dive. I was probably ten or eleven. Rainy days meant staying inside reading or playing in the cellar. I remember my cowgirl days when I’d pretend to be riding a horse better known as the bannister and the end of the railing going down the cellar stairs. It was a speedy horse.

When I was in my teens, we used to go out more at night. I remember when Carrol’s, the burger joint, opened on Main Street. Hamburgers and milkshakes were 15 cents each. French fries were a dime. It was the spot to be, to hang around, to drive through the lot. It was always crowded. Sometimes we went to the drive-in. The closest was in North Reading. You paid by the car load so my friends and I filled the car. Some nights, we’d go bowling. I was terrible at bowling. We’d miniature golf. I was pretty good at golfing, but sometimes the windmill stymied me.

Fast forward to now. I prefer to be a sloth, to stay home, to wear my cozies and to read or watch movies. I don’t get bored. I like naps. I hate traffic. I’m just fine staying home, my very happy place.

Today is yesterday with a different name. The clouds and the humidity make the morning air appear a bit hazy, but the sun should be around a bit later. I’ll be patient. It is quiet, Sunday quiet. I have an empty dance card today. Though I could do a few things round the house I chose to do nothing at all resembling work. Personal hygiene dictates taking a shower and brushing my teeth, but they are the extent of my activities for the day. I hope I don’t tire myself.

My muse has gone somewhere cooler. I don’t blame her. I just wish she had left some inspiration behind for me, a topic or two, maybe even a verb. I guess it is time for a trip back to Ghana.

I didn’t realize I was going to be posted in the driest, most remote part of the country. Before we left staging in Philadelphia, I knew I was going to Bolgatanga which meant nothing to me. I had run into one of the assistant directors in the elevator and introduced myself. He was the one who told me about Bolga. I was amazed he remembered my posting as there were so many of us, about 125 trainees. I realized later he remembered because of the remoteness, the climate and the few volunteers posted in the Upper Region where Bolga was. Regardless, I always thought I was lucky living in Bolga.

My firsts in Ghana weren’t always my bests. I remember my first meal. I didn’t eat it. I also remember my first trip to the market. Right inside on a table, goat poop was sold for burning. I went outside the market and got sick. I didn’t eat the meal with the bug sort of skimming on the top. At my live-in, I was served a meal with a lump of something in sauce and no utensils. I ate alone so I couldn’t ask. I used my hand to pull off a piece from the lump and tried it. I wasn’t impressed. The lump had no taste of its own. The soup had some bony meat and a bit of heat. I left most of the meal. My first hole in the ground bathroom stop was not my finest hour. It took a bit of practice.

Fast forward a few weeks, maybe a month. I was buying Ghanaian food, mostly fufu and soup, in chop bars, hole in the wall eateries. I’d pick the bugs out and keep eating. If any were left, they were added protein. I liked goat, that unknown bony meat. I became adept at hitting the holes in the floors. Eating with my hand was all of us sharing the same bowl of fufu, all of us in our own little community. I never missed market day where they still sold goat poop. I thought of market day as a festival of sorts. I loved wandering and shopping.

It took only a little time for me to find myself at home in Ghana.

The air is thick with moisture. The clouds hang low. Nothing is moving, not a single leaf or the smallest branch. My room is dark. It may not be, but it feels cooler that way. The dogs had their tongues hanging after an outside jaunt. It is 79°, close to the predicted high of 80°. Tonight it will fall to 68°, sleeping weather.

Saturdays were the best days of the week when I was a kid. The mornings were for watching TV, all the kid’s shows and cartoons. I’d risk blindness and eat my Rice Krispies while sitting on the floor close to the front of the TV. Back then, in the 50’s, our TV was in a piece of furniture. It sat in a cabinet with doors hiding the screen, the small screen. The TV was in the corner of the living room where it could be seen no matter where you sat.

After breakfast I’d either walk or ride my bike around town. I never had a destination in mind. I didn’t need to be anywhere. I loved my town. I loved the horse barn, the rag man’s house with the leaning porch and the barn beside it filled with newspapers. I loved to sit on the benches in the green next to the town hall and greet the firemen sitting in front of the station just up the street. The square was filled with stores. On Saturdays cars filled all the parking spaces while people shopped the stores. In the cooler months the movie theater, right in the middle of the square, had matinees, a movie and cartoons, so my afternoons were filled.

At night, we’d have the usual New England Saturday supper of beans, hot dogs and brown bread. We’d have our baths then watch TV before bed. Westerns were big back then. Our bedtime hour was always a little bit later on Saturday nights. I used to read until I was forced to turn out the light.

Sunday was my least favorite day. I had to go to mass. I couldn’t wander after church, but I didn’t mind so much as we always had a big Sunday dinner, the best part of the day. I loved the mashed potatoes with gravy filling the space I’d made in the middle on the top of the mound of mashed. I still eat mashed potatoes that way. Roast beef was my favorite, but a roast chicken was a close second. Corn or peas were my favorite vegetables. Carrots were my least favorite. Dessert was usually cookies if any were left.

My dance card is empty for a couple of days. I’m glad for that. I am totally in sloth mode.

The Wicked Witch of the West would be melting if she lived here. Humidity hangs in the air. The temperature is already 78°. It is not a day fit for man nor beast or, in my case, woman nor cat nor dogs.

My dance card has one item, the play tonight, Jersey Boys. For the rest of the weekend, I’ll be home hoping to stay cool despite the humidity.

When I was a kid, jumping over the sprinkler was a great way to feel cool. Back then, my father had a metal sprinkler which circled. It was in the side yard. I’d run then jump. The water always felt cold at first but after a few jumps it felt warmer. My father was not a fan of sprinkler jumping because of the lawn. It got waterlogged and flattened. If the grass was even a bit tall, our feet left a path from the edge of the grass, over the sprinkler and onto the other side. My father always noticed.

The weather makes for lazy days, sloth days. If I didn’t have to go out, I wouldn’t even get dressed. The dogs lie on the floor, cooler than the couch. Dogs are quick to adapt to lazy days. As for the cat, every day is a sloth day whether summer or winter.

I don’t use my oven much regardless of the season. Right now it is an extra cabinet holding boxes of crackers and a few frying pans, none of which fit in the cabinets.

I wore my red high top Converse sneakers for July 4th. Underneath were white socks with blue stars. They complimented my white blouse covered in blue and red stars. On my head was a fascinator, also with stars, my fashion theme of the day.

My front garden has the tallest of flowers. They look like small sunflowers. The hollyhocks have buds. The clematis has spread across the front fence and now the gate. Small ground level purple flowers have bloomed. A huge bush, name unknown, is getting ready to flower. Along the edge of the grass, my day lilies are blooming. Another flower, name unknown to me, is blooming in the small center bed near the little library. I love to stand in front and take in the beauty of my garden. I feel lucky.

We will be hot today. It will reach 82°. Partly cloudy is also predicted, but right now it is totally cloudy. Earlier, the sun was here for a bit, and I figure it will be back. A breeze is blowing from the south. I can feel it all the way down the hall from the back door. I hope it stays around.

When I was a kid, my father was a mighty hunter. Armed with only a magazine, he hunted and attacked mosquitos. I remember him standing on my bed trying to kill the mosquitos on the ceiling. The mattress was rocked as he move up and down the bed. That I was trying to sleep was no nevermind. His prey directed his movements. The ceiling in my room gave evidence of his successes. Blotches of his victims dotted the ceiling, even spots of blood, evidence of mosquitos having found their targets and of my father having found them.

My mother kept a fly swatter around. It was one of those with a thin metal handle and a square of flexible plastic at the end of it. Flies were tricky. Because they sensed that swatter and flew off, technique was important. You had to slowly lift the swatter and flick the end at the fly, sort of as if you had a whip. We preferred to stun the flies, not out of any sense of guilt at their demise by our hands but because we had a turtle, a Woolworth’s turtle which lived for years in a plastic home with a palm tree on our kitchen counter. It loved the stunned flies which sort of hopped across the water in his bowl. We’d watch the turtle chase, catch the fly and dine.

Behind and below the houses on my street was a field. In the summer it had tall brown grass. We used to take a jar, bang air holes in the cover and run across the field catching grasshoppers in the air as they jumped in front of us. We’d try to catch as many as we could in the jar. They were brown grasshoppers. We never kept them. We let them go after the hunt.

Spiders have never scared me. I don’t get why some people, seemingly mostly women, are afraid of them. Maybe Little Miss Muffet is the cause. Only two, the black widow and the brown recluse, out of 614 species in the United States, are harmful to humans (I had to look that up). The rest eat insects which would otherwise consume our crops. In August my house is an incubator of sorts. Baby spiders emerge and weave the tiniest webs usually on window panes. They remind me of Wilbur saved by Charlotte and of the generations of Charlotte’s offspring who kept him company over the years.

Happy July 4th!!

I do have an annual musing for today, but I thought I’d just give you my usual update first. It is raining. It is 74˚ and thundershowers are predicted for later. I’m hoping the weather changes in time for our uke concert tonight on the Hyannis Green. We’re playing from the Across America book then we’ll end with a few patriotic tunes in honor of the day. I’m going to wear my shirt with blue and red stars and one of my fascinators.

I just love birthdays and today is the grandest of them all. 

On July 3rd 1776, John Adams wrote a letter to his wife Abigail. In it, he predicted the celebrations for American Independence Day, including the parties:

“It ought to be solemnized with Pomp and Parade, with Shews, Games, Sports, Guns, Bells, Bonfires and Illuminations from one End of this Continent to the other.”

John Adams expected July 2nd to be Independence Day as that was the day the Second Continental Congress voted for independence, but the signing ceremony for the Declaration of Independence didn’t happen until two days later so because July 4th appears on the Declaration, it became the date we celebrate Independence.

I know some people complain that the meaning of the day is lost in the barbecues and the fireworks, but they have forgotten John Adams’ hope. We are honoring the day exactly as he wished. Flags are waving everywhere. Families get together to celebrate and to break bread, albeit hot dog rolls. Fireworks illuminate the sky. Baseball is played on small town fields and in huge stadiums. Drums beat the cadence in parades. We sing rousing songs celebrating America and our freedom. We also sing heartfelt songs about what America means to us. We are many sorts of people, we Americans. We don’t all look the same, practice the same religion, eat the same foods or dress in the same way, but we all celebrate today.

“You have to love a nation that celebrates its independence every July 4th, not with a parade of guns, tanks, and soldiers who file by the White House in a show of strength and muscle, but with family picnics where kids throw Frisbees, the potato salad gets iffy, and the flies die from happiness. You may think you have overeaten, but it is patriotism.” Happy Birthday, America, from all of us Americans.

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.