Yesterday I did not post, an unusual day. I had an early concert and had to leave before eleven. I just ran out of time.

Today is the perfect weather day. It is 70° with mostly sun. The air is still. The window behind me is open, and I can feel cooler air so different from yesterday’s heat. The dogs have been out so much they even skipped their morning nap.

School was usually out for the summer by this time in June. We always got out earlier than the public schools even though we had more days off during the year, holy days and such. I remember we always called them public schools, not the East School or the South School. I don’t know why. My school was St. Pat’s.

The first days of summer were exciting, no early mornings, no uniforms, no schedule and no looking out the classroom windows longing to be free. I always did think of it as freedom.

Other than supper, summer meals were whatever. I always had cereal in the mornings, my Rice Krispies, usually in front of the TV. Lunch was a sandwich, almost always bologna with yellow mustard and sometimes hot peppers, the ones with a stem. I never cut the slices well from the roll of bologna. One side was usually thicker than the other. The soft bread, the Wonder Bread, didn’t handle the odd sliced bologna well. It got holes. I had to hold the sandwich with two hands so it wouldn’t fall completely apart. Dessert was on the run, cookies, Oreos if we had any. Chocolate chips were a close second. Supper sometimes was a bit more casual but generally was much the same as the rest of the year with meat, potatoes and a vegetable. The only fresh vegetable we ever had was corn on the cob if it was ripe. We’d slather the ears with butter and salt. If we had a barbecue, it was usually hot dogs with yellow mustard and piccalilli, French’s mustard and Howard’s piccalilli.

Yesterday, I switched over to my summer clothes, vacuumed upstairs and even made supper instead of grabbing something easy. My poor sloth is distraught. Today I have a to do list, but it is intentionally short.

The morning is cold, sweatshirt weather. It has been, as my mother would say, spitting rain. I’ve lost track of the number of ugly days in a row. The sun is a fading memory. I am becoming the little girl in Bradbury’s All Summer In a Day.

If my 77 almost 78 year old self surprised my ten year old self, I wondered what questions I’d ask the so much older me. I decided that was a neat idea so I gave it some thought and came up with a few questions.

Has my life been happy? Has it been fun? Have my dreams come true? I think those are the most important questions of all. My answers would delight the young me. Have I ever traveled? Oh, the stories I would tell about the places I’ve been, the most amazing things I’ve seen and the people I’ve met. I’d let it slip that I actually lived in Africa and rode a camel in the Sahara. The young me would be in awe and listen with the widest grin on my face. What did I grow up to do? I’d talk about the job I was lucky enough to choose, the job I loved. It was seldom work. What did I like to do? They’d be no surprise that I love to read and watch old black and white science fiction movies probably still current back then. I love to cook, and that is a surprise. I do needlework, and that’s even a bigger surprise. The young me never gave thought I’d love what are sort of, to me, old womanly activities, tasks. I’d talk about playing the ukulele. Back then I didn’t believe I had a musical bone in my body. I sang so badly off tune it even hurt my ears.

After the questions were asked and answered, I’d use a sort of Neuralyzer to wipe away the memories of my visit. I wouldn’t want to influence the young me. I’d want my life to follow its natural course.