The day is dark. Rain is coming and will stay around until tomorrow. I sat out on the deck for a bit, but the breeze was damp and even a bit chilly so I came back inside the house. Today is a slow day, no dates, appointments or obligations. My to do list is small: a few plants to pot and a trip to the hardware store. It’s not a click your heels in the air sort of day!

The town where I grew up was mostly Irish and Italian. Marconi Hall was and still is a social hub. I remember going to a square dance there when I was in the ninth grade, and all the family celebrations are still held there. The town has several churches all in the same area, all on different corners. The first synagogue wasn’t built until the 1960’s. All my friends went with me to St. Pat’s Grammar School. I only knew a few kids who went to public school. The town seemed small back then, but it had everything. Most stores were up-town, but corner variety stores were common and we had a few sub and pizza places. The miniature golf course and the Chinese restaurant shared the same parking lot. Bowling was popular for date night. We only had candlepin, the small balls. I love my town.

My town in those days had no Blacks or Hispanics. It was as homogeneous as they come. Most towns in the area were. None of us noticed.

I saw my first Black person when I was three. My mother and I were in Boston in the elevator at Sears, and a Black woman got on. My mother told me I pointed and asked why the woman looked like chocolate, probably my sole frame of reference. The woman got angry, yelled, called us white trash and got off the elevator. I don’t remember any of it, but my mother said she was totally embarrassed by the woman’s screaming. I wouldn’t meet another person of color until I was in College.

I always think it a bit humorous I ended up in Africa where I was the anomaly.

If you read yesterday’s opening paragraph, ditto for today, except for the third cup of coffee.

It’s getting to be that time. The mass exodus will soon begin. Cars laden with suitcases, canoes or kayaks, fishing rods and bicycles will wait in line for hours on the mid-cape highway for their turns to cross the bridge to go home. I will be applauding their departure. My street will be quiet again, the roads empty and the store aisles clear. Out of state drivers will no longer doddle on the roads at about twenty as they take in the sites or checkout the restaurants. My cursing will be a thing of the past. I’ll stop wishing for a cow catcher on the front of my car.

I let cars out of side roads all the time. It’s a simple courtesy. Many people never acknowledge the gesture. A wave would have been nice and a box of chocolates even better. People who don’t use their blinkers, their turn signals, drive me crazy. I’m sitting and waiting for the car to pass so I get on the road, and it turns into the street where I’ve been waiting. My car is not invisible. Letting me know would have been nice. Then there are the constantly blinking turn signals. It is amazing the drivers never hear the clicking. I figure they’re old and hard of hearing which makes me wonder what they’re doing on the road in the first place. Lately the papers have been filled with pictures of cars driven into store windows. Usually the driver is old and always says he was confused and hit the gas pedal instead of the brake. I figure after 50+ years of driving he should have it down pat.

Yup, I’m griping. The Cape has been loaded this year with car after car after car. Even my street looks like a used car lot. I have no patience left. The air in my car is often blue. Enough is enough.