The forecast was for light rain. I’m still waiting, but it is getting darker so maybe I just need to be more patient. The air is thick. It is in the mid-70’s. Everything is Sunday quiet.

When I was a kid, Sunday didn’t have much to redeem it. It was my least favorite day of the week. No matter the weather, I usually had to walk to church. I suffered through mass. The only good thing every Sunday was dinner. It always seemed special. My favorite was roast beef. My mother made the best gravy. I’d make a pile of my mashed potatoes and poured gravy on the top of the pile. As the gravy dripped down, the potato pile always looked like a volcano erupting. When I saw Close Encounters of the Third Kind, I watched Roy Neary sculpt Devil’s Tower with his mashed potatoes. It was more sophisticated than my volcano, but it still made us kin of a sort.

I flew to Philadelphia on a Sunday for what Peace Corps calls staging, the time just before you leave for in country. I checked in, received a packet of information including a time table for the next four days, was given a stipend of money and a hotel room key. I was both nervous and excited. I’ve never forgotten that Sunday. I can close my eyes and see the line in front of and behind me. I remember checking in at the table, at the end of the line. I remember dragging my heavy bags across the small hotel lobby to the elevator. I remember finding my room. On that Sunday, common events became uncommon. My least favorite day of the week bumped every other day of the week to become my favorite.

The morning is just perfect. The sun is shining. A small breeze is blowing. It is only 77°. It is quiet. I hear only insects and birds. My den is dark as the sun doesn’t hit it until afternoon. The house is cool. The coffee is hot. The dogs are asleep in their usual spots, Henry on my left and Nala on my right. I can hear them breathing, the deep breathing which comes in sleep.

My street is small. There are eight houses. Only two of them have the original owners, mine and the house down the street. In three of the houses, the original owners have passed away. The other houses were sold and the owners moved. Some have been sold twice, but each time, good neighbors moved into those houses.

I have a pin hat. It is a baseball cap covered in pins, so many pins there is no room left on the hat. Most of the pins I bought on my travels. Others were given to me, and I haven’t been to every place. Many of the pins carry memories. I have some from Santa Fe, where we, my mother and sisters and I, went for a short holiday. Two of those are Fiesta 2003 pins, one is a Texas pin and another is from the Alamo. I have a First Night 1989 pin. My mother and I did first night in Reading, the next town over from where she lived. One says I saw Sue at the Field Museum. That is from my trip to Chicago when I was Massachusetts assistant principal of the year. At the museum, a man was chipping Sue’s bones to clean them. Sue is the largest, best preserved T-Rex. From that same trip, I have several McDonald’s pins from McDonald University, where McDonald’s hosted and feted us.

I have favorite pins, the ones with so many memories: Costa Rica from a family trip, the Football Hall of fame and the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame from a trip with friends in Cleveland of all places, a Boston Marathon pin, San Diego Zoo, Colorado and New Hampshire where family and friends live, a PanAm pin, a World Series pin from when the Sox played Colorado, Iceland, Columbia and so many more. Two of the pins I love more than others. One says Dia de los Muertos and on it are two skeletons wearing sombreros and smiling at each other. The other one is Killer Klowns from Outer Space with some of the scariest of the clowns on it.

I have had no occasion to wear my hat. Maybe I just need to make one.