Keep the Coffee Comimg

The morning is warm. The air is still. It will be 80° for the high, but it will get down to the 60’s tonight. That’s perfect sleeping weather. I have a few chores: watering plants inside and out, filling the bird feeders and vacuuming the Henry fur which rises into the air when I walk down the hall. I also think I’ll manage some deck time.

When I was a kid, I had an orthodontist. Back then that was not so common as it is now. His name was Doctor Nice. His office was in Boston not so far from Kenmore Square. I remember his office. It was a converted house, an old house with high ceilings on Commonwealth Ave. In the huge waiting room was his nurse and her desk, a couple of couches and chairs. Where he worked on my teeth had windows looking out to Comm Ave. He was old, at least to me. He always wore a white jacket. It was a process when I had an appointment. Usually my appointments were in the mornings. My mother would find a babysitter for my sisters, usually a neighbor. We’d walk uptown and take a bus to Sullivan Square. From there we’d ride the subway to Kenmore then walk up the street. We reversed it on the way home. I remember waiting at Sullivan Square for the bus. We’d stop at the kiosk, and I’d get a snack. Once back in Stoneham, we’d stop at the restaurant where my mother would buy me a sandwich for lunch. I’d eat as we walked to school which was half over when I got there. I remember my school pictures that year. I didn’t even open my mouth. I have that picture somewhere.

Sundays were quiet when I was growing up. Everyone I knew had a Sunday dinner. It was the special meal of the week. I remember we always had mashed potatoes. The roast was sometimes beef and sometimes chicken. The vegetables changed. My favorites were baby peas and corn, not creamed corn, but corn nuggets. I always thought creamed corn was disgusting looking. The vegetables always came from a can.

Nala is bringing in acorns and pine cones. She chews them. I stepped on an acorn the other day, and it hurt. I cursed and yelled at Nala. I’m sure she had no idea why I was yelling.

The morning is rainy, a soft rain. Last night a branch blown by the strong wind hit the house a few times, but I was the only one who noticed. The birds are swooping in and out of the feeders. I watched them from the bathroom window. There were as many of them as I’ve since I filled the feeders. I guess the word is out. I saw Mrs. Cardinal at the open feeder. She dines al fresco. I am so happy my birds are back.

Yesterday I saw a hawk way above the house riding the thermals. It was such a graceful bird as it swooped up and down, round and round.

My father loved to go to the dump. When friends came down for the weekend, he always invited them to go along with him. They usually did. The dump had heaps of trash. Circling the dump were the ever present seagulls, the nosiest birds with their shrilly squawking. Some other gulls sat on the tops of the trash piles. They reminded me of the game king of the hill we played when we were kids.

In my memory drawers I can see scenes from the places where I’ve traveled. They are small memories. In Finland, I was in a restaurant with a huge menu board hung on the wall. The dishes were listed in Finnish and Swedish. I could see the food set as if for a buffet. I picked what looked good. In a small hole in the wall restaurant in Ecuador, Guinea pigs called cuy by the Ecuadorians ran all round on the floor. They were bigger than the Guinea pigs here. I found out they are raised for food. I remember sitting in the afternoons having coffee at a cafe in Marrakesh. The cafe faced the Djemaa El Fna, the main square. At night restaurants took over the square but during the day it had musicians, snake charmers and women drawing henna. I had one do my hands. I remember lying on a bench in the airport at Niamey. I had had a mild case of cholera. Though I was on the mend I was still feeling the effects. I remember the airport back then was a huge hanger. I can close my eyes and see Main Street Bolga as it was. It is enshrined in my memories.

I am often surprised by what pops into my head from my memory drawers. The memories are simple, just sort of day to day events, nothing spectacular like Machu Picchu or Christ of the Andes which I easily remember. The small things are remarkable in their own way. They sit waiting for me to remember, and when I do, I am a traveler once again on trains or busses or eating in small restaurants with only a couple of chairs or walking by myself through neighborhoods and seeing the small worlds of wherever I am.