The air conditioner is cooling the house. Nala has stopped panting. Clouds cover the sky, but no rain is predicted. The high will be 80°. I do have to go out for two necessities of life, bread and cream, but I have nothing else I need to do.

This morning I was up early, early for me. I took my time. My first cup of coffee was paired with the paper. My usual opening for the day. Later I had my second cup and a bagel with cream cheese. I watched the last episode of season 2 of Star Trek Strange New Worlds as the new season starts this month. You can’t have a better morning.

My parents were always the youngest parents. My mother was twenty when I was born as was my father, but he turned twenty-one a few months later. My mother always claimed I was the smartest baby, but what mother doesn’t make that claim. What mother would ever say I gave birth to a stupid kid? My baby book is filled. I walked at nine months, said my first sentences before my second birthday and loved Golden Books. My favorite book was Chicken Little. Years ago my mother gave me my baby book. I put it away for safe keeping, but I don’t remember where, typical of me as I have many missing items in safe keeping.

I had a diary when I was a kid. It had been a Christmas present. The diary was faux red leather and had a lock. On the front was a picture of a girl, a teenager by the looks of her, writing in the diary. When I first got my diary, I wrote in it every day. I wrote about what was happening, where I went and what I did. I was young so there was no discussion of romantic entanglements. I never gave thought as to whether my days were worth chronicling. I just figured they were.

When I was in Ghana, I didn’t keep a journal, but I wrote long aerograms and filled every available space. I wrote about my every day. I described my town and going to the market. I wrote about my students. I even wrote about food and what I ate for meals. I knew everything would be interesting to my family and friends at home, but, to me, it was just every day living. I have a few of those letters. I read them every now and then. I don’t need them to help me remember as my memories of Ghana are so clear. I read them to keep in touch with the younger me and my life in Ghana filled with wonder and the joy of every day.

Coffee has become my diary, one I lovingly share.

Mother Nature continues to be kind. Right now it is 81° with a forecast of partly sunny and partly cloudy. I always wonder why the weatherman needs to say both. I figure if it is partly cloudy then it must also be partly sunny. What else could it be? The breeze is strong and cooling.

Today is a lazy day. I could do some chores, but I won’t. The dogs have set the tone, both are sleeping.

When I was a kid, we often went to the beach on Sundays. My mother packed the picnic basket, gathered the towels, pails and shovels and a blanket for sitting on the sand. My father made the bug juice. My favorite picnic dish was my mother’s peppers and eggs. It was a recipe from my aunt. She cooked them just before we left. She had a secret ingredient, a bit of tomato sauce. We ate the peppers and eggs in rolls. It was always the first thing I grabbed to eat. My mother also made sandwiches, packed potato chips and cookies for dessert, usually Oreos. My mother never swam. She only walked along the shore line or sat on the blanket keeping an eye on my sisters. She never learned how to swim. My dad, though, was a great swimmer. He taught us to swim.

In the late afternoon, we’d pack up to go home and trudge to the car over the hot sand and the hot parking lot. We helped carry stuff. At the car, we had to sit on the seat with our feet dangling outside so my father could wash off the sand. He had this thing about sand in the car.

Sunday night we were all tired from a day in the sun and swimming in the ocean. We usually fell asleep early. I have this weird memory of falling asleep with one side of my head on the pillow and feeling warm water drain from my ear. I figured I brought some of the ocean home with me.