Last night was shut the windows and doors cold. I even pulled out a sweatshirt. Today though, is lovely, sunny and in the low 70’s. The weekend is predicted to have perfect weather, just what the last weekend of summer deserves before the season fades away.

When I was growing up, I didn’t realize the memories I was making. Even now I can close my eyes and see so much of what fills the the dustiest of my memory drawers. When we lived in a duplex in the project, there was a small rotary in front of my house because the road ended, and it made it easier to sort of turn around. Four duplexes circled the rotary. Behind and below the four houses was the field. It was filled with tall grass in the summer. A path led across the field to the old fallen tree then to a glade and finally to the swamp. Beyond the field on the right beside the path to the water tower were blueberry bushes. They were a snack on the go. I still lived near the field when it was plowed under to make room for elderly apartments. That broke our hearts.

I remember every inch of my walk to school. I walked back and forth for 1440 days from first grade through eighth. During that time, the train still ran, not a passenger train but a freight train. It was usually only the engine and a couple of cars. I loved the sound of the train whistle when it warned cars the train was crossing the road. I still count it among my favorite sounds.

I remember my mother and I going to Arlington to buy my school uniform before I started the ninth grade. The room was large and around the room were tall boxes where all the parts of the uniform were hanging: the pleated skirts, the grey vests, the short-sleeve white blouses and the grey blazers. I used to wonder why this memory was in the front of those memory drawers. but I finally came to realize it was a giant step for me. I was officially ending childhood. I was going to high school where my future was becoming my present.

My parents drove me to Logan where I boarded a plane to Philadelphia, to Peace Corps staging. I remember the beginning of the flight when my seat mate, seeing all my carry-on bags, asked me if I was running away from home. I told him I was going to Peace Corps and West Africa. He bought me some drinks, out of embarrassment I figured. Next, I remember standing outside the airport with all my bags while waiting for a taxi. I noticed a guy wearing khaki pants and a button-down collar shirt who was surrounded by bags. I asked. He and I were both going to staging. We shared a cab. The other prominent memory of that day was standing in line at the hotel to check in with Peace Corps. After that I went to my room and dropped my bags. The adventure had begun.

These memories were insignificant, I thought, until I spent some time with them. Now, so many years later, I see them as stepping stones, as important moments in my life.

The breeze is strong, even windy, the sun bright and the temperature a bit chilly at 67°. August is leaving. Fall is impatient, chomping at the bit.

This has been a week of lasts. We had our last uke concert on the Hyannis green. My last play is tomorrow night. This weekend, Labor Day weekend, is the last gasp of summer. Next week school starts. The traffic will be heavy only on the weekends, and I won’t curse as much. The tour buses have already started to arrive. The nights are chilly, light blanket chilly. It is almost time for long sleeves and fall jackets, but I welcome fall. It is my favorite season.

When I was a kid, once school started, we had little time to play. I only roamed on weekends, usually on my trusty steed, my bike. I remember finding golf balls across the street from the Bear Hill golf course. My mother told me she had had her senior prom at the Bear Hill Golf Club. She had graduated from St. Patrick’s High School. The building still exists but the school closed long ago. For a while the outside still looked the same. It was a bit gaudy with bright yellow paint. It was where the Knights of Columbus met. On the second floor was a large room for events like bridal showers. I remember going to one and having my mother point out where the classrooms used to be. The building now doesn’t resemble at all what I remember. It is white with a decorative door and is the Boston Korean SDA Church. It seems the building has come to a sort of full circle.

I have put some things in safe places. The places are so safe I can’t find the things I put there. I know I have a box with more checks and a check register, but I don’t know where it is. My first hunt for anything is always where I think I would have put it. Nope. I’ve checked drawers where I was surprised by a few things I did find, but checks weren’t among them. I’m going to order more today, and we all know that once that is done, the checks will surface. I have a lazy Susan from the Peterborough Basket Company. I have two cloth inserts. The current one was for July 4th. It is red, white and blue. I can’t change it. I don’t remember where I put the other one. I checked the obvious places. Nope. My mother used to say pray to St. Anthony, the saint of lost things. Sometimes that actually worked. I’m going to give it a try.