Last night I just couldn’t fall asleep. It was light out before I lost consciousness. When I woke up, it was after 11. I chose a leisurely morning to welcome a pretty day. I read the papers and enjoyed a couple of cups of delicious coffee. It is already 72°, close to today’s high. The sky is blue, but clouds are expected though not rain.

I was looking at the class picture for my eighth grade graduation. The original was left rolled so it cracked. I had a copy made and mounted. We are sitting in rows in front of the convent, which is no longer there. Father Sexton, the pastor, also no longer there, is sitting in the middle. The boys are wearing jackets and ties. Except for one girl, we girls are wearing pouffy dresses. I think that might have been the last time I wore a pouffy dress. I had my hands posed in front of me, obviously a directive from the photographer. One boy has his head turned. Most of the boys aren’t smiling. Some girls are smiling but more look solemn. I have sort of a half smile. I don’t remember that day so I am glad for the picture. I remember most of the eighth grade just not that day.

I always wonder why certain days and even certain moments stay bright in my memory drawers. Some seem consequential while others seem to be just regular days or simple moments.

I don’t remember the ride to Logan on the day I left for Philadelphia to go to Peace Corps staging, but I clearly remember looking back at my parents as I walked into the jetway. My mother waved, a small wave. My father also waved but his was a bigger wave. I waved back and turned to walk onto the plane.

I remember one night in Philadelphia. I took my book and went to the top most floor of the hotel, sat with my back against the wall and read. I even remember the book, The Naked Ape.

I don’t remember how old I was, but I remember walking home after an afternoon of ice skating at Recreation Park. My skates were slung over my shoulder. My feet felt funny in shoes.

After Halloween hauls, I use to put my candy in one of the tulip bowls, a nesting set my mother owned. I kept the bowl under my bed for easy access. Years later, I saw a similar set, all four bowls, for sale and bought it. It came with memories of one night a year.

Today’s weather is neither one nor the other. The sun is shining, but rain is predicted. We have a wind then we have a breeze. It is a bit chilly.

I went out on the deck to watch the dogs. Nala did her business than did a zoomie, cone and all. I watched her maneuver at top speed between tree trunks. She was amazing.

When I was in the first grade, I was in the rhythm band. I played the sticks first then a triangle. My talent went unrecognized. That was the end of my early musical career. I always thought it a pity.

Fast forward. I have reenergized my musical career with my uke. I’m an okay player. I can play most of the chords without looking at my fingers the way I used to when I first started. Sometimes, though, the chord switch is quick, and the second chord is difficult so my fingers sort of slide from one chord to the other. I keep practicing the switches, but my fingers don’t cooperate. Though I love playing the uke, I sometimes long for the ease of banging the sticks.

Of late, I have been a sloth. Most days I sort of hang around the house in my cozies. I make plans then don’t follow through. I have no guilt about it.

My first plane ride was when I was a freshman in college. I flew in a small commuter plane from Hyannis to Boston, a gift from my parents. It was a glorious ride skirting the shoreline. It fed my longing to travel. I flew to New York during college for a weekend with friends. I flew stand by. It was cheaper. My next flight was in my uncle’s plane. This was just a few weeks before Peace Corps. I had babysat my aunt and uncle’s brood for longer than expected so my uncle offered to fly me to Hyannis. We flew over Boston. It was amazing. I could identify landmarks. My head flew from side to side. I didn’t want to miss anything. The next flight was monumental, from Philadelphia to Accra. I remember watching The love Bug, the in-flight movie. I remember the drink cart making unending trips up and down the aisle. I remember the pilot telling us we were flying over the Sahara, and we all crowded to look out the windows.

I have flown many, many times now, trips to Europe, South America, North Africa and back to Ghana three times. What is amazing is I still look out the windows so I don’t miss anything. I have learned to ignore everything but the flight. Flying is still magical to me.