Keep the Coffee Comimg

The morning is hot already at 80°, but it is tempered by a strong breeze. I can hear the swishing of the oak tree leaves. I can also hear the morning songs of birds. We may have a thunderstorm or two later in the day. I’d like that.

When I was a kid, I went to mass every Sunday. I brought my missal. I still have that missal. Inside, in huge letters spread down the page I wrote my name. I used the missal to follow along. The mass was in Latin. The priest had his back to us. I got easily distracted. I’d bring a book and read it pretending if anyone noticed it was a holy book. I’d close my eyes as if I were praying. I liked standing in the back of the downstairs part of the church. I read the pamphlets. If I went upstairs to church on an early summer Sunday, the crowd was usually overflowing. I’d stand in the vestibule or even sit on the outsides stairs. I figured proximity counted.

I don’t remember being afraid of natural things when I was a kid. It was the man with the hook and his ilk who scared me. Noises in the night scared me. I’d look out the window hoping to see nothing. Sometimes I’d yell pretending to be brave. I never saw anybody, but that didn’t mean nobody was there. My sister was afraid of dragonflies, darning needles. She thought they could sew up her eyes and mouth. Bugs never bothered me.

My mother always loved to listen to music. She had a hi-fi before anyone else we knew had one. My father bought it using his bonus money. Her collection of records was heavy on the Frank Sinatra’s and the Tony Bennett’s. She also had all sorts of Christmas albums, some collections from Firestone and Grant’s. She would dance a bit around the kitchen when she was making dinner. I learned all the old songs by listening to her records.

Today is a bit cooler than yesterday but still as humid. The clouds will come and go. I have an empty dance card today. I could do some chores, like the kitchen floor, but my sloth side is screaming for attention. I’m thinking a cold drink, a good book and deck time.

In the life of every kid, there are special events, one time only events. The first one in my life was when I started school. All of a sudden, everything had changed. I didn’t know the word carefree back then, but if I had, I would have lamented its loss. Every weekday became a routine. I even had to wear the same outfit, my uniform, every day. I had a white blouse, a blue tie and a blue skirt with straps because the first grade girls had to wear skirts with straps. I have my first grade picture. My hair is long, my two front teeth look new and in dire need of braces. I do remember it didn’t take long for me to get used to my new world. I loved learning. I love reading.

In the second grade was my first communion. We shopped at Jordan Marsh in Malden for my dress. We all wore white including the boys in their white suits. Somewhere is a picture of me on that day. I had my hands together as if praying. I wasn’t. My strongest memory is not the first communion itself, but the Cinderella watch my aunt gave me.

The eighth grade was monumental. It was almost a free for all. I had Sister Hildegard who had no idea what was happening. I left school early, came back from lunch late and read books tucked inside my textbooks. It was the most fun I ever had in school. I also took entrance exams for high schools, chose one, got a new dress for graduation, and went to Nantasket for our class day. I wore a new blouse and new clam diggers. Graduation is almost an afterthought.

More firsts would come starting with the ninth grade and moving on and on until now. My memory drawers are overflowing, but I’ll stop here and save chapter two for another day.