Keep the Coffee Comimg

The wind is blowing. The top branches of the oak trees are swaying. It is a lovely day, a sunny day. The temperature is 74°. My house, though, is cold. It holds the night chill. I had to put on a shirt with long sleeves.

When I was a kid, Saturday was my dad’s chore day. In the morning, he’d collect his cleaned and starched shirts at the Chinese laundry up town, and he’d leave his dirty shirts until the next Saturday. He’d get a trim at the small barber shop just a short way up the street from the laundry. He’d sometimes drop-in to visit a few friends at some stores uptown. In the summer, when he’d get home, he’d mow the lawn and rake the grass. My father loved his lawns. In the fall, he’d rake leaves across the lawn, down the grassy hill into the gutter below the lawn and the sidewalk and then rake them into piles for burning. The gutter was the safe place to burn them. I remember the smoke billowing into the air and the sweet aroma of the leaves burning. On another fall Saturday, once it started getting cold, my father would climb a ladder and remove the screens from the windows. He’d then carry one storm window at a time up the ladder and replace the screen. The screens were stored in the cellar.

My parents had moved off-cape when I was in the Peace Corps. I’d visit for weekends. In the summer, my father always showed off his lawn to me. It was cut in a pattern of rows. It was his pride and joy.

Saturday has always been my favorite day of the week, a play day. When I was a kid, it meant Saturday mornings in front of the TV and Saturday afternoons either at the matinee uptown or on my bike all over town and even into the next towns. When I was in Ghana, Saturday was a day to shop either at the market or to one of the kiosks lining the road. Some Saturday nights the Hotel d’Bull in town showed a movie in the courtyard though I always sat on the roof where there were tables and a few chairs. When I was teaching here, I never did school work on a Saturday. It was still my play day.

I retired nineteen years ago. Since then, I always say every day is a Saturday.

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.