Keep the Coffee Comimg

The air conditioner is blasting. It is already 81°. Poor Nala was out for only a short time and came back inside panting. Boxers don’t do well in the heat. Come to think of it, neither do I. Today is a lolling in the cool house day. There is no concert, a scheduling issue, the dump can wait another day, and my larder is full enough. The only thing missing is those Snickers!

When I was a kid, my house was always a cave on hot summer days. Because we had no fans, no way to cool the house, all the shades were down to keep the sun at bay. Once in a while we went to the pool, but it was all the way across town so any benefits from swimming were lost on the walk home. I remember shimmering sidewalks.

When I was young, every summer day was a busy day. I spent almost every day at the playground below my street. I played tennis in the morning and played softball against other playgrounds in the afternoon. I pitched and played first base. There was a horseshoe pit. I was prone to leaners. The activity table, a picnic table, was under the only shady area on the field, off to the side. We played checkers there. I also did crafts. I remember painting a wooden tray with a bird standing on a tree branch beside one white flower. I gave the tray to my mother. I did gimp.

When I was older, I stopped going to the playground. I often went to the library so I could spend my afternoons reading in the darkened, cooler house. At night I had drill practice, mostly on Tuesdays but also some Thursdays. We had competitions every weekend, many times even two competitions. On the off drill nights, my high school friends and I would bowl or even go the drive-in. My life was busy.

In Ghana, school holidays were during our summer months, Ghana’s rainy season. Most holidays I traveled. I’d take a bus to Accra unless I was flush with money and could take a plane from Tamale, 100 miles south of my town, to Accra. I’d stay in the big city a few days, eat at restaurants and see a few movies. I’d catch up with friends at the Peace Corps hostel where we all stayed. Usually I’d get a visa and head to Togo, to Lomé, its capital, for ice cream, French food, shopping at the Grand Marché and at stores filled with imports like Mexico food. I was always amazed at what I could buy. I’d bring home a haul of goodies.

I am a sloth now, a proud sloth, superb at my ability to spend an entire day doing almost nothing except turning the pages of a book. How lovely to while away the hours in a book.

Why on Labor Day does no one work? I didn’t understand that when I was a kid. But when I was older, I understood the day is a celebration, a day, “…to honor and recognize the American labor movement and the works and contributions of laborers to the development and achievements of the United States.” A single day, however, seems a trifle, a jot. Every day should be Labor Day.

Today was the end of summer, not by the calendar but by the start of school. All those days of freedom came crashing down. My life became regimented. Every morning my mother would wake us up, give us breakfast, make sure we were neatly dressed in our uniforms, hand us our lunches and send us on the way. The walk was the same every day. I sat at the same desk. I had lessons in the same order every day. The lunch bell time never varied. We’d run home at the end of the school day not wanting to miss any daylight before the streets lamps sent us all home. Bedtime was the same. The only saving grace was the weekend, especially Saturday. That was, like the Ray Bradbury short story, All Summer in a Day.

Today is back to summer. It is 80°, just about the high for the day. Tonight, though, will be in the 60’s, great for sleeping. My dance card for the week has plenty of empty days. Tuesday and Wednesday are my uke days, practice and a lesson, and that’s it for the week, no concerts. I may have to wash that kitchen floor as busy is no longer an excuse. Perhaps my being a sloth will have to suffice.

Don’t forget: no white after Labor Day!! As if…