Last night my feet were cold. I found some socks then wrapped my feet in a blanket. I wore my sweatshirt to stay warm. This morning the house was only 63°. The sky is gray. The wind is blowing. It is an ugly day.

When I was a kid, June was a special month. The weather got warm, sometimes even hot. School wrapped up for the year. On the last day, a half day, we’d get our report cards. The nun would call us up to her desk one name at a time. I’d check my report card as I walked back to my desk to make sure I’d been promoted. I always was.

All the school year rules ended. No more waking up early. Bedtime was later. Meals, except for supper, were catch as catch can. I’d make my own lunch, usually a sandwich and some Oreos if there were any left. Oreos went fast in our house. Bologna was my sandwich meat of choice. The bread was always white. I’d slather the bread with mustard and add a few chopped hot peppers. The juice from the peppers sometimes leaked through the top of the bread. I didn’t care. Sandwiches didn’t have to be pretty.

I have favorite smells. I used to love walking uptown when the aroma of baking bread from Hank’s filled the air. Sometimes I could smell popcorn popping at the candy store. My mother’s kitchen was always filled with great smells. Cookies baking were the best. I used to hang around until a batch came out of the oven so I could snag one. Chocolate chip was the summer cookie. On Saturdays the air was redolent with the smell of mown grass. Every father was out with a mower. Back then they were all hand mowers so you could hear the click click as the grass was mown. I could always smell summer rain before it came. The sharp odor of ozone filled the air. After the rain, I could smell earth, dirt from the gardens.

In Ghana, my favorite smell was wood charcoal burning. It was a sweet smell. In the mornings the compounds behind my house had smoke curling into the air from the fires when breakfast was being cooked. Every meal was the same, three times a day. The market had different smells as you walked around to shop. The fruit and veggie markets, the butcher’s shop and the live chickens for sale areas had distinct smells. When I first got to Ghana, I found some smells unpleasant. I even threw up after my first visit to a market, but it didn’t take long for my nose to get used to the smells. I stopped noticing.

Summer mornings have the best smells.

It rained, but I missed it, and no more rain is predicted. The day is cloudy and cold, 51° cold. The leaves are being buffeted by a constant wind. It is a day to stay close to heath and home.

Yesterday I finished the move from here to there and back again. The chore went like this. I moved the photo albums, but I looked through them first. Two were my family, but the rest I had bought. My favorite album chronicles a trip through Italy in the late 1930’s with pictures, postcards and commentary. I wondered why families would give up such a treasure. Perhaps, I thought, the people in the photos passed away, and the albums had no emotional value to the rest of the family. Anyway, it took a while to figure out where to put the albums. Finally, I was left with an empty spot. Next, I removed almost everything from the kitchen shelf. The books, now dusted, went on the spot formerly held by the albums. Everything else from the shelf went on the counter. I cleaned the shelf then found the dishes stored in the Peterborough basket and moved them to the empty shelf. Finally, I washed the stuff originally from the shelf then found places to put them. Chore ended. I was hot and sweaty but triumphant.

This is the rainy season in Bolga. The fields are green. Millet is growing high. The dust has disappeared, but the bugs have reappeared. The light in my living room, a simple bulb, hung from the ceiling. I made a lamp shade for it out of a Bolga basket. Below the basket was a circle of light, the circumference of the basket. Every night the circle was black, filled in by the dead bugs attracted to the light.

Today I declare a sloth day. My larder is filled. The groceries were delivered yesterday. My fridge is overflowing. I have all my favorites. I’ve almost finished my book but have more waiting in the wings. I’ll stay in my cozies. Today is a good day.

We are still having the most delightful weather. It is already in the mid 70’s with lots of sun and a strong breeze keeping the heat at bay. It will go down to the 50’s tonight, perfect for sleeping. Tomorrow we will have welcomed rain.

I have projects for today. My small bureau needs painting, but I’m only doing the three drawer fronts in red. I’m in need of a little whimsey. I’m also going to tackle the conundrum, the domino effect, of where to move one thing to make room for another and then move another to make room for the last thing moved.

I sometimes wonder if I went back in time where would I go. Maybe I’d choose a random Saturday, jump on my bike and roam my town. I’d get to see as it was when I was young. It had a town horse barn, trains that rolled through to the factories along the tracks, a man who sharpened knives on his special bike with a whetstone and the ragman with his horse and wagon. I’d get to yell, “Johnny,” to announce the ice cream man.

Perhaps I’d go back to high school. I’d head to Brigham’s for one of our celebrations, maybe for Mardi Gras. I’d order my usual sundae, the one with chopped almonds on the top. I’d spend a dime and head to Harvard Square where I’d roam the streets the way we used to, maybe I’d even take in a movie at the Orson Well’s Cinema. If I had the money, I’d have lunch at the Wursthouse, some bratwurst or schnitzel. I’d check out the newspapers and magazines at Out of Town News. Just looking at the headlines whetted my thirst for travel.

My college stop would be one morning in the canteen. My friends and I would be sitting at the table near the wall, sort of our table. I’d be smoking a cigarette and drinking cups of coffee. We’d all be reading The Globe then having a contest to see who could finish the crossword the fastest. After classes we’d always meet up again. We laughed a lot. I remember if one of my friends was talking on and on, we’d all turn our backs. We loved the harassment.

I’d be hard-pressed to choose which of my Peace Corps days I’d go back to. I have three in mind. The first would be arriving at staging in Philadelphia, the beginning of my adventure, of the best experience of my life. I remember being nervous and excited. While standing in line to check in, I met Ralph and later Bill and Peg. The second day would be my arrival in Ghana, stepping off the plane. I was in Africa, the most amazing place. I was awed. The third could be any day, a teaching day or a market day or a day in in Accra meeting friends and walking the city. They all were favorite days.

My last stop back in time would be on a Friday night at my parent’s house. We’d all be sitting around the kitchen table drinking and playing cards. I’d spend another evening with my parents. My Uncle Jack too would be there. We’d all be laughing and loving each other’s company.

I am happy. I love my life, my friends, my cozies, my sloth days, my uke and really bad science fiction movies, but I hold dear those other days. They are part of who I am. Actually, they helped me become the me I am.

Today is another glorious day. It is already 72°. The weather of late has been perfect with its warm days and cooler nights, down to the high 50’s, wonderful for sleeping. I’m toying with putting in the front door screen. I’ll wait on the back door as I leave the inside door open so the dogs can come and go.

I love my sloth days. I have no guilt about doing nothing. I can stay home in my cozies for weeks on end. I can read away the whole day and take naps from all the exertion, which make my frenzied activities of late distressing. Yesterday I polished this room, the den, and cleared more expired goods from the kitchen. My fridge is so clean I need sunglasses when I open the door. I keep hoping there will be some vaccine to stop this madness.

My dance card is empty for the next week. I have no plans, but I have a few possible chores in mind, more madness. I’m toying with moving a few books from the kitchen bookcase so I can put some bowls and dishes on the shelf. I just don’t yet know where to put the books. That’s the conundrum.

When I was a kid, keeping busy was far different than it is now. I would color at the kitchen table, read in my bedroom, ride my bike, or explore the woods and fields near my house. The days back then never seemed long enough.

I watch a 50’s movie yesterday, Target Earth from 1954. At the beginning, the female lead was primping in the mirror and only wearing her full slip. She got dressed and put on one of those skirts so tight she could take only small steps. Her waist was so tiny you could encircle it with your hands. I think my leg is bigger than her waist. She was wearing pearls and carried a purse as she ran through a deserted city.

Yesterday we had a uke concert at an assisted living spot, quite a nice spot. We usually play there once a month. The audience enjoys wine and tasty tidbits while they watch. Every time we are there, one man dances. He sort of shuffles back and forth. One of the women who works there dances with him but yesterday one quite elderly lady got up and joined him. They were a joy to watch.

This morning at 62° is a bit chillier than it has been, but it is still beautiful. The air is filled with the songs of birds. The dogs stay outside enjoying the sun. Nala sleeps by the back fence. They know how to enjoy a beautiful day.

My frenzied cleaning continues. Yesterday I cleaned the fridge, moved cans off the floor into cabinets and swept and washed the kitchen floor. I also vacuumed all the twigs and the pieces of bark Nala brought inside and chewed. She has changed tactics. I have thwarted her inside thefts so now she brings outside in. That, at least, is easier to clean.

When I was a kid, I loved spring. Gone were the winter clothes: the heavy coats, mittens, knee socks and the pink long underwear which went to my knees. I wore my spring jacket even on a chilly day. I would never admit to being cold and backtrack to winter. I walked under a canopy of leaves on my way to school. The sidewalk was in shadows. Most of my walk was a straightaway. I walked passed the tracks and the old high school. The houses were so close to the sidewalk I could see into some living rooms. They were always dark in the mornings. A few cars would pass but mostly it was foot traffic, kids, on their way to school.

The best lunches my mother packed were always just after she went grocery shopping. That was when we had desserts like something from Hostess. I used to like the pack with the three cupcakes. It always seemed a bargain of sorts. I remember a commercial on TV advertising those cupcakes. A guy said if you were lucky you’d find some cupcake behind your teeth, and he’d then put his finger in his mouth and pull out some cupcake. Even I, a kid, thought that commercial a bit gross.

My dance card for this week has its usual entries. My car is filled with trash and recyclables so I’ll get my dump sticker tomorrow and empty the car. Tonight and on Wednesday morning I am busy with my uke practice and lesson. The only new event is a uke concert on Wednesday afternoon. On Thursday I can rest.

For special days, I have traditional postings. This is one of them.

Memorial Day is a day for reflection and a day to give thanks. It is a day for honoring the men and women who died while serving in the U.S. military, those who gave, as President Lincoln once said, their “last full measure of devotion.” This is my annual tribute. 

Memorial Day, originally called Decoration Day, is a day of remembrance for those who have died in our nation’s service. It originated during the American Civi War when citizens placed flowers on the graves of those who had been killed in battle. There are many stories as to its actual beginnings, with over two dozen cities and towns laying claim to being the birthplace of Memorial Day. There is also evidence that organized women’s groups in the South were decorating graves before the end of the Civil War: a hymn published in 1867, “Kneel Where Our Loves are Sleeping” by Nella L. Sweet carried the dedication “To The Ladies of the South who are Decorating the Graves of the Confederate Dead.” While Waterloo N.Y. was officially declared the birthplace of Memorial Day by President Lyndon Johnson in May 1966, it’s difficult to prove conclusively the origins of the day. It is more likely that it had many separate beginnings; each of those towns and every planned or spontaneous gathering of people to honor the war dead in the 1860′s tapped into the general human need to honor our dead, each contributed honorably to the growing movement that culminated in General Logan, Commander in Chief of the Grand Army of the Republic, giving his official proclamation in 1868 designating May 30 as a memorial day “for the purpose of strewing with flowers or otherwise decorating the graves of comrades who died in defense of their country during the late rebellion, and whose bodies now lie in almost every city, village, and hamlet churchyard in the land.”. It is not important who was the very first, what is important is that Memorial Day was established. Memorial Day is not about division. It is about reconciliation; it is about coming together to honor those who gave their all.

It is warm at 68° and will get even warmer, into the 70’s. The breeze is so slight the leaves dance. Everything shines in the bright light of the sun. The blue sky almost defies description. This is the perfect morning.

Today’s will be a short posting. I almost took a hiatus but, out of habit, my fingers hit the keyboard.

On my counter are the jars and cans from one cabinet shelf. In the sink are the expired cans and jars from the same shelf. I started this monumental task when I was waiting for my coffee to brew. I am sorry I started this whole mess as now I’ll have to finish. I guess the consolation is I’ll have room in the cabinet for more cans.

My den is filled with furniture, my TV, pictures, posters, my hat collection, my ukes and 12 music books, Bolga baskets, my record player and a pile of records, shelves filled with cookbooks and wooden boxes also with cookbooks but a couple of boxes are filled with my collections like snow globes, old bottles, tin toys and even clickers shaped like animals. I love this room though I suspect others would probably find it claustrophobic, but it is my space, the place where I relax, where I even take naps. I read the cookbooks some nights taking note of what I might make. I watch old movies, mostly in black and white. The dogs sleep beside me on the couch, one on each side of me. I’m leaving this room just the way it is.

This morning is following the same weather pattern as the last few days. It is only in the high 50’s. The sun, pretty but not so warm, is shining high in a sky of deep blue. It will only get to the low 60’s today, but starting tomorrow it will get warmer for the long weekend. The deluge of cars will begin tonight.

When I was a kid, I was thrilled to march in the Memorial Day parade in my town. It was a small time celebration, a parade of boy and girl scouts, brownies, cub scouts, the high school band, little league players and a dramatic finale, fire trucks blowing their alarms. I was a brownie and matched with my troop and several others. I was agog with excitement and pride. My parents were always there, watching from the sidewalk, and I remember waving at them when they yelled my name. We marched through town to one of the cemeteries where there was a service of sorts honoring the military who had given their lives for their country. After the parade, we went home to a barbecue of burgers and hot dogs with a few sides. I think peppers and eggs, my favorite, was one of the sides.

I probably won’t be around and about this weekend. It is time to hibernate, to avoid the traffic of sightseers, beach goers and rubberneckers. I have a few chores I might finish or might not depending on my mood.

I used to like to color. Every Christmas I’d get a new coloring book and crayons. I’d sit at the kitchen table with my crayons strewn in front of me. I never threw crayons away, even stubs. I used to tear off the paper as the crayons got shorter so the nuances of color disappeared. Sunset and vermillion were just red. Cerulean and indigo were just blue. I was fine with that. I started with a small box of crayons, but every Christmas the box got bigger, filled with all sort of colors. One year my box had 64 crayons and a built in sharpener. It was my favorite box. I loved sharpening my crayons when the tips got blunter with use.

This last Christmas my sister gave me a coloring book called My Coloring Book about Ghana. I chuckled as it was described on the back cover as, “For kids under 8 years old.” It was made in Connecticut. She also gave me the box of 64 Crayola crayons, and it still has a built in sharpener. I can hardly wait to use it.

The day is already lovely. The sky is the deepest blue with nary a cloud. The sun is gleaming. The breeze, though, is a bit strong so the morning is a mite chilly, at 53°, but it will warm to the low 60’s. Welcome to a day in June on Cape Cod.

Sometimes I stare at the screen hoping for inspiration for the day’s Coffee. I sort through my memory drawers. I go way back in time and place.

Today will be a mishmash.

I don’t remember when I first spent some time thinking about life in general. That was a skimpy drawer until I was older. Life, when I was a kid, was school, my bike, the library and playing in the woods, the field or the swamp. I had Girl Scout meetings and drill practice, but nothing else was planned. Life just happened.

I am sort of back to that place. I have my uke twice a week, practice and a lesson, and I have concerts. In June there are about twelve of them. The rest of my time is unplanned. Life just happens.

The spring cleaning infection I’ve had is getting more intense, weirder. Yesterday I cleaned the cabinet at the bottom of the hutch. I found a few neat surprises. I also cleaned my silver. I don’t have a whole lot of silver, but I do have what were tarnished serving pieces. They now shine. I can see my face in the tines of the fork. What an accomplishment!

My favorite European country is Portugal. I visited there with my parents. We traveled north into the Douro Valley, to Miranda do Douro. We stayed a night or two in Nazare at a hotel on the water. It was off-season. We ate seafood at a restaurant across from the beach. We could see the ocean crashing against rocks, and we watched the sunset. My other yummed his way through a platter of shellfish. In Lisbon, on our last two nights, we stayed at a hotel, a grand hotel, in the middle of the city. That was our custom, to splurge at least once, during every trip.

When I lived in Ghana, I used to go to Togo, mostly Lomé , the capital, during school vacations. My high school French got a workout there as French is the national language. I stayed at the Peace Corps hostel. Usually I met friends there from Ghana. We roamed the city. I remember eating lobster off the grill on a patio of a huge hotel. I visited bakeries, pâtisseries, every day. I ate crème glacée. I shopped at the Grand Marché, on the third floor, for cloth. One time I rented a mobilette, a moped, well before I bought my own motorcycle. I rode all over the city in heavy traffic. It was frightening and amazing.

Okay, I managed to find something to write about today. Talk to you tomorrow.

The house was colder than outside this morning. I was surprised how warm it felt when I went out to the yard to get the papers. There are a few clouds, but the sun is wonderfully bright as becomes a spring morning.

When I was little, I had easy decisions to make like what I wanted for breakfast, what I wanted packed for lunch or where I wanted to go on a Saturday. None of my choices were life affirming. I didn’t even know what life affirming was. On school mornings, I had to decide whether I wanted cereal or eggs. I figured that was a big decision, a seriously big decision. How did I want my eggs?

The first real decision I had to make was where I’d go to high school. The town’s high school was not in the mix, only Catholic schools were. I had to take entry tests for every one to which I was applying. Some schools were co-ed while others were all-girl. My friend Jimmy and I made a pact to fail the single sex school tests so we could go to school together. We did and nobody was the wiser. Nobody wondered why we got into all the co-ed schools and only the co-ed schools. After we were accepted, we talked it over and made our choice. That was my the first hurdle out of childhood, the first one that counted.

My college choice was all mine. I stayed with co-ed. I stayed in Massachusetts. I stay with Catholic, but that was not really part of my decision. It was just happenstance. I always thought my college decision was sort of my first adult decision, one with impact moving me closer to adulthood.

The most life affirming decision I ever made was to accept the invitation to join the Peace Corps and to go to Africa. The rest of my life has flowed from there. I found my life’s passion in Ghana. I became a teacher.

As for now, I’m back to whether or not I want cereal or eggs for breakfast. Should I go out or stay home and be warm and cozy? What’s on my dance card? The most difficult decision I have to make is what I’m having for dinner or do I just order a pizza.