Fall is giving us a preview. Last night got down to 57°. I wore socks and a fleece wrap. I shut windows and doors. Right now it is 70° and cloudy. It will stay that way all day. Tonight will be in the 50’s again. I’m thinking we will have leaves changing early this year.

I still have a cold, mostly coughing. I seldom get a cold in the winter so this summer cold throws me a bit. It is just wrong.

My first grade teacher was Sister Redempta. She scared me. She scared most of us. Our class was huge, almost 50 of us, baby boomers. None of us dared even to whisper. We didn’t want the wrath of her look. My classroom was on the first floor, to the right of a set of stairs. We had a cloakroom and two doors into the classroom, one from the cloakroom. Banks of tall windows were on the side and the back of the room. You needed a long stick with a hook at the top to open and shut the windows. The bathrooms were down two sets of stairs from my classroom, boys to the right, girls to the left. We’d walk two by two and stand in line waiting for our turns. We ate lunch at our desks then went out for recess, weather permitting. Our comings and goings were ruled by a bell, a hand rung bell. An eight grader would ring the bell over the bannister from the top floor so we all could hear. I still have my report card from the first grade. Every subject was satisfactory.

I have scattered memories of the different grades I traveled through in elementary school, but my first grade memories are still the brightest in my memories drawers. My life had irrevocably changed. My days were now regimented. My time was no longer mine from Monday to Friday. I had to wear a uniform. I had to raise my hand to speak and to have permission to go to the bathroom. I was good at following rules, but I also was good at breaking the rules without being caught. I had learned the system.

What a delightful morning! It is 67° with a strong breeze. I can hear the leaves brushing against each other as their branches sway. The sky is a Crayola blue, cornflower. The sun is warm. It is a day to enjoy, to embrace.

Today is a day for the senses, for sounds and smells and sights. That’s a bit of alliteration to start your morning.

A crowing rooster is a favorite sound of mine. The first time I heard one in real life was in Ghana. He crowed from my backyard. I listened then fell back to sleep. After that, I listened for him every early morning. When I returned to Ghana forty years later, a rooster crowed outside my hotel window. I smiled at the familiar sound. He made me feel at home.

During my live-in with a Ghanaian family, a part of my Peace Corps training, my room was off the balcony. Below the balcony was a small mosque. Just before sunrise, the muezzin sang the Fajr, the call to prayer. It was beautiful. I didn’t know what it was so I asked. My sister explained. After that, I sort of woke up when the prayer was sung. I listened then went back to sleep. Where I lived in Ghana had no mosque close. I missed the sound. The next time I heard a call to prayer was in Marrakech. I was sitting on the roof of my riad when I heard the call. I could see the minaret from my roof. All the memories came back.

The sunsets and the sunrises are often riots of color of reds and purples, oranges and pink. The colors are reflected on the trees, and the branches are silhouettes against the sky. The colors of fall here in New England are vibrant. The leaves turn red and yellow and orange. The maple trees turn such a vibrant blaze of red that I always stop to look. I am amazed, every year, every autumn.

The smells of evergreen and of cookies baking are Christmas to me. The smell of turkey roasting is Thanksgiving and Christmas, fancy dinners to celebrate the days. The smell of wood charcoal burning is Ghana. Every morning fires were lit to cook breakfast, mine included. I could smell the sweetness of the burning wood. When I bought a charcoal grill, I always used wood charcoal, never briquettes.

I have the beginnings of a summer cold. I skipped today’s afternoon concert and am waiting before I decide whether or not to go the 5:30 concert. Tomorrow we have a barbecue before practice, and I’d like to feel good to go.

I started with alliteration and am ending with an oxymoron, summer cold.