It was around 3 am. I was reading in bed when the rumble started. I could hear it far off at first, but it started getting closer and closer. Soon enough the thunder was overhead. That was when the rain started. It was torrential for a while. I listened. I wished I had a tin roof.

The humidity is so thick this morning you can cut it with a knife. The breeze is almost wasted in the thickness. The sky is a light grey. Rain is likely again tonight.

I couldn’t open my front door last night. The wood was swollen. This morning I went out the backdoor then through the gate, got my paper then pushed the door with all my strength. I almost fell into house but caught myself.

When I was a kid, we never went to the cape. We mostly went to Maine where we had free accommodations in the tiniest of cottages. It belonged to a friend of my father’s. It was in Ogunquit. I remember how cold the water was and how high the dunes were. I remember seeing naked sunbathers hiding themselves in the dunes. When the tide was low, I used to watch the darting fish in the pools. My parents used to sit outside the cottage or in the small kitchen. My father swam, body surfed. We mostly ate sandwiches or hot dogs and burgers on the grill, sort of grab an go meals. We went there the summer I turned 16. I was thoroughly bored. I remember one night I went into town to see a movie. That was it for entertainment. I used to hide in my father’s car to read and have a bit of quiet, a little privacy. I think that was the last time we went to Maine.

My favorite vacations were what is now called a staycation. We did something different every day. We went to museums in Boston and in Cambridge. We went to the beach and once to the lake. We even went to the drive-in a couple of times. Weekdays at the beach and the drive-in were so different than on the weekends. A couple of days we just stayed home.

I have my Monday concert in Hyannis starting at 5:30. Getting there will be a struggle because tourists fill the main roads on ugly days gawking and rubbernecking as they drive slowly looking for something to do. I curse.

The morning is cloudy, damp and windy. It’s an ugly morning. Rain is predicted. It is a good day to lounge around the house, to be a sloth. I’ll stay in my cozies.

Every July 4th, I used to march in a parade in Wakefield, the next town over from mine, as a member of St. Patrick’s Shamrocks drill team. The rest of my family spent the day at a friend’s house right on the parade route. I hated passing that house. Everyone was on the porch watching the parade and waiting for me to pass by so they could totally embarrass me. They’d yell out my name over and over. I’d try to ignore them, but I couldn’t. I’d give a little wave, and they’d clap. I was glad to move on.

Later, when I was much older, my mother, sister and I would mark our spots before the parade by putting down our chairs on the side of the road. We’d go home for a while then return to watch the parade together. It was far nicer to watch than march. I’d even sometimes buy a balloon I’d tie to my chair, a necessary step to ensure the balloon wouldn’t fly off. When I was little, I had many balloons escape. I’d watch them fly higher and higher until I could watch no more. When I was really little, I cried.

My mother always had a barbecue on July 4th. Hot dogs and hamburgers were on the menu when we were kids. They’d be potato chips, pepper and eggs and potato salad. Usually we’d have Hoodsies for dessert. Those were the days when Hoodsies came with a wooden spoon.

When we were older, the menu got fancier. They’d be teriyaki steak tips, chicken and sometimes kebobs. My father was always the cook. He’d sit outside with a drink and something to read while he watched the meat cook. He always cooked the meat perfectly. The sides didn’t change much. They’d be my mother’s potato salad, pepper and eggs, chips, maybe cole slaw or even pasta salad, bought, not made.

The fireworks started last night. I could hear them going off though not all that close to my house. Luckily, though, for my dogs, neither one minds the blasts. They sleep through them.