Today is a scorcher. Already it is 85°. The air is thick, humid. A thunder storm is predicted for this afternoon, but the sun and blue sky seem to belie the prediction. Every now and then a breeze strong enough to flutter the leaves and sway small branches gives a bit of relief. The dogs are stretched out, sleeping on the kitchen floor, the coolest spot in the house. I am in the den, the coolest spot not on the floor.

I will do my dump run this afternoon. The trash bags are in front waiting to be loaded into the trunk. I also need to water my house plants. I figure those chores are enough for today.

I have strange pictures in my memory drawers. They are single moments which have stayed with me. I don’t know why those specific memories are still fresh, recallable, but there they are. I remember riding a bus into Boston. In the front seats facing each other were two old ladies. They were dressed like my grandmother. They chatted with each other from the moment they sat down. I watched one woman take out a cigarette, light it and hold it between her fingers. She wasn’t paying attention. She put the lit end into her mouth. She sputtered and spit. I remember watching a woman who worked at Hank’s Bakery putting a pastry box together, filling it with cupcakes and then tying it closed almost in one motion. The string was red and white. I remember walking home through the square by the fire station. The firemen, not fire fighters back then, sat in wooden chairs outside the bays in front of the trucks. They wore blue.

Some of my travel moments are etched into my memories. I remember standing on the equator straddling the line between the hemispheres. I remember in Caracas going to buy a ticket to Merida. The building was huge with kiosks lined up on the sides and in the middle. I can still see the sea of booths. I was amazed I found the right ticket booth and later the right bus. In Columbia I toured the factory where salt was extracted from salt stones. I was chewing gum which disintegrated in my mouth and tasted awful from the salt permeating the air. I spit the remnants into my hand. On my first visit to a market in Ghana, I remember the table right beside the entrance. Round black balls were in piles on that table. I asked, goat dung was the answer. I threw up.

When I was young, probably 8 or 9, we went to Vermont for vacation. The house was huge, painted white and had a wrap around porch. A lake was across the street from the house. It was shallow for a bit then there was huge drop and the water was deep. My father would have me hold on to his shoulders, and he’d dive. I remember seeing fish.

I have flown. I was on my bike on the hill by my house. I swear my bike tires left the ground, and I was airborne.

The weather is thick with humidity. It is hot, a scorcher at 89°. According to the weatherman it feels like 107°. My friend said she felt logy, a perfect description. I just sit. Moving around takes too much energy. I was going to the dump, but I don’t feel like hauling trash. The dogs have finally settled. They spent the morning panting, drooling a bit. Nala is asleep in front of the fan while Henry is by the door. They’ll perk up near dinner time.

I have friends I’ve known since the 1950’s. We were either in school together or on the drill team or both. I remember we’d have drill practice then we’d walk to O’Grady’s diner for a brownie with fudge sauce and ice cream if we had the money. We’d finish then separate and walk home in different directions. I always walked through the square, pass the fire station, the town hall and four churches. Three of those churches face each other on corners. I usually walked alone as no one else went in my direction. I loved those walks. The sidewalks had circles of light from lamps shining through windows. Street lights lit the sides of the road. It was quiet. I could hear my footsteps on the sidewalk. I could see flickering lights from TV’s through some windows. Very few cars passed by me. I sort of owned the night.

When I was in Accra, the capital of Ghana, I had the same sense. Some nights I’d walk to the hostel after a movie or dinner. I never worried about walking alone. Men talking low sat in small groups on chairs on the sidewalk. We greeted each other. I could see smoke from their pipes and cigarettes. It was mostly dark. Few stores were open. Some taxis were still on the road but very few cars. I loved that walk.

I am a night owl. I go to bed in the wee hours. When the dogs go out, I often join them and stand on the deck. All the houses are dark. It is always quiet, not even a car goes by my street. I often wonder on an especially beautiful night if people know they are missing one of the best parts of the day. I’d tell them, but I’m not so sure I want to share.