Yesterday was downright cold, and when the wind whipped through, it made the day feel even colder. It was a fleece day, an acknowledgement to the coming winter. Today is a pretty day. It is in the mid-40’s with a bright, bright sun. The few red leaves and the pervasive brown leaves on the oak trees shine in the light. We still have a wind.

When I was a kid, I loved walking to school in the mornings. We lived on a hill. Across the street from the bottom of the hill was a huge field, a tended field with baseball diamonds. I always thought of the field as a shortcut so I’d cross it to get to the sidewalk on the street which led to school. The sidewalk was long, the whole length of the street, and was interrupted only by the railroad tracks.

When I was growing up, the living room was where we spent the most time. The TV was there in a corner. We’d sit on the rug close to the set and watch it. We never went blind. In the late afternoons, my mother would be in the kitchen making dinner. In my mind’s eye I can see her standing by the sink peeling potatoes. The stove was behind her. The fridge beside her. The kitchen was small. We always had potatoes. My father never had supper with us. He’d get home late from work. He was a salesman. I remember a photo of him coming in the front door. He is wearing a fedora and a top coat, the unofficial men’s winter wardrobe back then. Both were black.

I didn’t question much when I was a kid. I went to school every weekday, played outside if I could in the afternoons, watched TV, did my homework, ate dinner, watched more TV then went to bed. I was never bored. Kids seldom were.

The sun and the blue sky pushed away the earlier morning clouds, but I don’t know how long they’ll be around as cloudy is the forecast. It is windy. All the high branches are being blown. I can see the leaves falling. It is 54° but could get down to the high 30’s tonight. Right now it is a perfect fall day.

When I was little, my mother used to read to me. She told me I loved Golden Books. She said I could name all the animals in the circles on the back covers of the books. I was smart she told me, parental exaggeration I suspect. When I got a bit older, my mother switched to reading to us, to my brother and me, books, chapter books before we went to bed. I always hated it when she’d stop for the night, and we had to turn out the light. When I could read by myself, I’d read in bed until my mother told me to turn off my light, but I didn’t really turn it off. I’d hide the light under the covers so I could keep reading. Sometimes I got caught.

When I was growing up, I was never really girly. I grew out of dolls early except for that dancing doll I got for Christmas one year, the one whose feet you attached to your shoes with elastics so you dance together. I always wanted trains, but they were boy presents. I did like new clothes but nothing too fancy, usually sweaters and a skirt or a pair of ski pants. I always wanted books for my birthday and for Christmas, and my mother never disappointed me.

In Ghana, I wore a dress every day. At first I wore the dresses and skirts I had brought with me. I remember a purple dress, a white blouse and a wrap-around skirt with flowers. I’m sure I had more clothes, but I just remember those because I seem to be wearing them in so many of my pictures from Ghana. I also remember a zippered sort of house dress. It was black with white designs. I wore it every night after my shower. All the clothes were new. We had shopped in Hyannis for clothes and other items from the packing list sent by Peace Corps. We got most everything on the list and managed to reach the 80 pounds of luggage allowed for the flight.

Right now I’m watching the very first episode of The Lone Ranger. He has donned the mask made from the vest of his dead brother, a Texas ranger, killed in an ambush by the Cavendish gang. He and Tonto just rescued Silver from the buffalo ready to gore him.

On my dance card is mostly uke events. I have my usual practice and lesson and also three concerts. It will be a busy rest of the week.