Today is cloudy and feels damp. It will be around 75°. My sister and brother in law just left. They came down in the early morning so my brother in law could fix my weird electrical problems. He did. All my house is lit.

I have never had expectations for Sundays. The rest of the week was mine, sort of, while Sundays revolved around family. When I was a kid, during the summer, it was often a beach day. During the rest of the year it was a visit my grandparents day or just a stay around the house day. The best thing about Sunday was dinner. It was my favorite meal of the week. The worst thing about Sunday was it was the day before Monday when everything sort of changed. My father left early for work and usually came home late, after dinner. We had school.

I always thought nuns were a bit mysterious. Because of their habits, I could only see their hands and faces. They wore black with a few white accents on their wimples. They wore clunky tie shoes, also black. They also wore giant rosary beads around their waists. I always thought of the rosary as a sort of early warning system. The beads clinked together when the nuns walked so we could hear them coming. Nuns moved in herds. None of them traveled alone. They had made up names like Sister Hildegard and Sister Redempta, actual nuns I had. I never thought of them as regular people. They were their own species.

When I was in Ghana, I’d fill up a Jerry can, attach it to the back of my motorcycle and then take a ride in the bush on tiny roads, more like pathways, some just dirt and others laterite. I was always a point of interest to any Ghanaians I saw. They stopped and stared a bit. I guess they seldom saw a white woman riding a motorcycle on a back road. I’d ride until my gas was low then I’d fill the tank and head home. I loved those rides. I was surrounded by savanna grass and fields of tall millet and corn. I saw singular compounds, no villages. Goats and sheep stuck together and were free range. Women were walking along the side of the roads carrying stuff on their heads. On market days some toted tomatoes or yams or corn. I always felt part of the world around me yet by myself.

The morning is cloudy and a bit chilly, summer chilly. From my den window I watched the birds at the feeders. More of them are taking advantage of a free lunch. I noticed a couple of nuthatches here for their first visit in a long time. I hadn’t filled the feeders in a while so I’m so glad the word is out!

I was born in the wee hours of the morning. My grandparents lived in the same town as the hospital so my father kept going to their house for coffee. My grandparents were up and my aunt, also still up, was perturbed. It was her wedding day, and my father was keeping her awake. She complained about getting bags under her eyes. My father went back to the hospital where he was the only person in the waiting room. He said the nurse came in and said, “Mr. Ryan? Mr. Ryan?” a couple of times. He jumped up and said, “I’m the only one here.” She told him I had been born and my mother and I were fine. He ran into the hall, and he saw me just moments after my birth when they were just moving my mother and me. My mother only remembers seeing his head and no face. She was still a bit woozy. She told me she sat in bed wearing her corsage, the one she was to wear at the wedding.

When I was a kid, I wondered about old people; of course, old back then was relative. My parents were old to me, even when they were young. The first time I thought I was getting old was when I turned 30. I remembered the mantra, “Don’t trust anybody over thirty,” and there I was. Fifty was difficult. I was half a century old. I am much older than that now, but I don’t mind anymore how old I am. I am thankful for getting old. I am thankful for every day.

My dance card has two entries, concerts. One is tonight. The other is tomorrow in a gazebo on the beach.