Keep the Coffee Comimg

The other night I was going home from the Dennis Playhouse when I had to jam on the brakes. Two deer, one of them looking young and still with spots, ran across the road. The young one stopped for a bit and looked at me before running off into the trees. I was delighted with the surprise.

The sun is with us again. The morning is already warm. It will get to 81°. I can hear a lawnmower off in the distance. Not even a small breeze is stirring. The backyard is quiet. The dogs are napping. It is that sort of a morning.|

Summer Sundays were always different than any other Sundays of the year. The early masses were so filled there was often an overflow to the stairs outside the door. People stood the whole time to watch the mass. We went, my brother and I, because we were heading to the beach for the day and didn’t want to waste any time. We’d sit on the steps. As long as we were close, I figured it counted as going to mass.

I marched with a drill team, St. Patrick’s Shamrocks, for years. Almost every Sunday during the summer we had a competition. We went to early mass in a group, and not long after mass, we’d board the bus. We always sang on the bus. Our uniforms were usually hung on the windows in garment bags so we didn’t see much of the trip. Every year, we’d compete against the same drill teams. I remember early on, probably my first summer with the drill team, we had a competition in Lawrence. We came in third, the first time we ever placed. There were only three drill teams. I remember the first time we won the championship. Once we got home, we marched from the fire station to the school yard. The fire station whistle blew. I swear we were so excited we soared over the ground. We had a party that night.

I still have friends from those days. We stay connected by our shared experiences even if we don’t see each other. Every now and then we have a reunion, and there are no distances between us.

Today is dump day. The bags of trash are already outside. I have nothing planned for the rest of the day. My dance card is almost empty. We have only one uke concert this week so the summer has begun winding down.

The morning is warmer than I expected. It is in the high 60’s. Rain is predicted for this afternoon. The sun was out a short while ago, but the clouds have returned. The dogs have been in and out most of the morning. I was watching a YouTube video earlier. It showed a mare and her foal in the pasture for the first time. The mare was eating grass, and the foal was running circles around her mother. Nala noticed and watched TV until the video was finished then she curled up and took a short nap.

Today is D-Day. My mother once had a D-Day party. In the living room was a large map showing all the landing beaches. The movie D-Day was playing on TV. There were WWII decorations in the living room and the dining room. The house was crowded, mostly in the kitchen. That happened every time my mother hosted a party. The bar was on the counter, the back door was open and the room was filled with smoke. The dining room table groaned under the weight of the dishes. Most of the guests were relatives though one of my mother’s school friends always attended. She used to sit at the same place around the kitchen table every time she visited. I can picture her with a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Singing was always a part of every party. At this one they sang songs popular during the war years. Even I knew the words.

When my muse is on hiatus, I like to fall back on some stories about Ghana and my travels in West Africa. Even writing that line, travels in West Africa, still amazes me. Anyway, what prompted today’s stories was something I read in the Cape Times about Burkina Faso, Upper Volta in my day. The country, once wonderfully peaceful, has had two coups in the last year. The government, Al-Quaida and the Islamic State control different areas. 2 Million people have been internally displaced. I mourn for the country I visited often.

Ougadougou, the capital, was where I’d often go for the weekend. I could sleep in a wonderfully air-conditioned hotel room for little money, eat at restaurants and shop the market. For breakfast I’d have a baguette and a Yukka soda, sold by small boys on bicycles with giant baskets. The Yukka was green or red. The taste was the same. I alternated. On one trip, over New Year’s, all Peace Corps volunteers visiting the city were invited to the ambassador’s house for New Year’s Eve. It was the most spectacular party I’d ever attended. I saw foods I hadn’t see in nearly two years. There was champagne served by stewards wearing white jackets and white gloves. The tables were filled and so was my plate. Most of the ladies wore long dresses and the men wore tuxedos. I was totally underdressed, but I didn’t care and neither did the ambassador. I stayed until midnight and sing Auld Lang Syne with gusto.

My dance card is heavy with uke: practice, a lesson and concerts at the farmer’s market and Chatham Airport. It’s a big week.