Keep the Coffee Comimg

The weather has stayed amazing. The days are warm and the nights cool for sleeping. Last night I closed windows. I wore long sleeves. Fall is impatiently waiting in the wings.

This time of the year the house, in the morning, keeps the evening chill. I am always surprised when I walk outside and it’s warm. It is already 75°, but I’m wearing long sleeves as here, in the den, the sun doesn’t hit until the afternoon.

I remember the weather changing when I was a kid. The mornings were brisk. It was time to wear a fall jacket. On the walk to school, the trees hanging over the sidewalk began to change color, a few leaves at a time. My walk was short: down the hill, take a left, take a right then walk the straightaway. The straightaway had a sidewalk and was lined with houses. I remember on the corner was a two family, a double decker. It was a faded brown. Across the street from that house was one side of the convent. The school and the other parish buildings, the rectory and the church, were across from the front of the convent. The convent is gone now. The nuns left first. I remember every part of that walk. For eight years coming and going it was my walk to school.

As soon as I walked into the house after school, I’d change out of my school clothes. I’d throw my shoes on the closet floor then hang up the skirt and blouse. I preferred my play clothes anyway. They were a sort of uniform too: pants or shorts, a blouse and sneakers.

When I was in the fourth grade, we went to double sessions. I preferred the morning as that gave me all afternoon to play. The afternoon session was difficult. We hung around the house all morning sometimes playing outside but usually watching some TV. Getting dressed for school late in the morning seemed wrong somehow. In the winter, it was just about dark walking home from school. We never ate lunch at school.

This is a slow week for me. The uke concert was Monday, practice Tuesday and my lesson yesterday. Nothing else is scheduled. I’m doing odd cleaning again. The other day it was the cabinet under the upstairs bathroom sink. It was a jumbled mess. After I was finished, I had two bags of trash. Now I have plenty of room for storage. I really don’t like this mood. It offends my inner sloth.

What a day! The breeze is cool. The leaves on the backyard trees are swaying, almost musically. The sun is glinting through the branches of the trees. It is 72° and won’t get much higher.

I don’t eat beans except maybe string beans which I don’t really think are beans at all. Kidney and Lima beans are the grossest. My chili never has beans.

When I was a kid, Italian and Chinese foods were considered exotic, especially Chinese. Every now and then my father would get take out from the China Moon. Jumbo shrimp and scallion pancakes were my favorites. We ate spaghetti with meatballs. Everybody did.

Even on the coldest winter days, when I had to wear layers on my walk to school, I never wore tights. I wore knee socks and pink long underwear under my skirt.

When I was growing up, we ate far more ground beef than any other meat because it was so versatile and it wasn’t expensive. My mother had a repertoire of ground beef recipes so we never tired of eating it. I loved her American chop suey and her Chinese food which had water chestnuts and bamboo shoots so it was exotic and Chinese to us. We also had chicken but not as often. The best was Sunday dinner, always a roast with mashed potatoes and some sort of canned vegetable. Baby peas and corn were my favorites.

Christmas was amazing. My mother always had a Christmas club at the bank so she could afford the gifts we wanted. I don’t remember ever being disappointed. I do remember being surprised in the best ways.

It never occurred to me we didn’t have a whole lot of money. Much later, when my father had a different job, things changed. We went out to eat often. Ground beef became only hamburgers for weekend barbecues. My parents took some cruises and even went to Egypt. Christmas was still a delight. My gifts were wonderful surprises. My parents were generous.

I am thankful for all the wonderful memories my parents gave me. I consider myself extremely lucky.

Today is already in the 80’s. The sun is in and out. Rain is likely tonight but after my concert. Nothing is moving in the stillness of the day. It is quiet.

When I was growing up, summer seemed to last forever. Every day was filled with fun, especially the rainy days. I loved playing outside in the rain. I’d walk in the gutters and kick up the water, the deeper the water the better. I’d ride my bike through the puddles and watch the water spray to each side, like a parting of the Red Sea moment. I’d get soak, but I didn’t care. The sun, after the rain, would dry my clothes.

In Ghana, the rainy season meant rain, if not every day then every couple of days. I had brought an umbrella, a travel umbrella, with me when I packed. I never used it. I loved watching the rain, and sometimes I’d sit outside under the metal awning covering my tiny concrete sort of porch outside my door. It was amazing, sitting in the rain without being in the rain. Where my fridge and kitchen table were was in a room with a screen, not a glass window. When it poured, the floor got soaked, but it was concrete so it didn’t matter. If I was in the market and the rain started, I’d just find a place to wait out the heaviest of the rain. When I went back to Ghana, I was in the market when the rain started. I stood under a sort of eave but was still getting wet. A woman in a shop near where I was standing invited me inside and gave me a chair. She was a seamstress. There was another women with her, and they spoke FraFra. I didn’t. I just kept smiling. On another visit, I sat outside under a thatch roof and watched the rain. I was surrounded by the rain but I didn’t get wet.

I still love the rain. Sometimes I sit under the umbrella on the deck and watch it rain.

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.