The morning is damp and overcast. It is in the high 50’s and could get warmer. Scattered showers are predicted. I’m just fine sitting home and looking at the world through my den window. My dance card is brittle and yellowed. It has one fading entry, my trip to Hyannis yesterday when I sat with my uke band and sang along.

My housecleaner is here. The dogs love her. They greet her with wagging tails. I’d do the same if I were a dog. She is generous with pats and treats. Last time she was here, Nala stole a box of baking soda from her cleaning supplies. I found it in the yard. Nala also follows her around the house and tries to eat the vacuum. My housecleaner is quite patient.

In Ghana, I had a housecleaner named Thomas. He lived in a room in the courtyard of my house. That courtyard had four sort of rooms: Thomas’ room, the kitchen, the toilet room and the shower room beside it. Thomas washed the floors every day. He dusted the furniture and made my bed. He did my washing. I was spoiled. When I went back to Ghana the first time, my former students tried to find Thomas. They told me he had passed.

I always wonder why people are afraid of spiders. I don’t get it. Even when I was a kid I liked spiders even though they do have a couple of drawbacks. They make webs all around the house. Think Mrs. Haversham. Some spiders bite, but generally house spiders seldom do, but if they happen to, the bite is more akin to a mosquito bite. Because spiders are valuable and devour insects, I don’t kill them. I don’t scream when I see them. If they are in the way, I just move them.

When I was a kid, my mother seldom cooked foods she knew we hated except for carrots. We ate them because we didn’t know we were eating them. We never had broccoli or cauliflower. Corn was big in our house. We all liked it in its varied forms: kernels, creamed and on the cob.

My finger hurts so it is time to stop.

Today is a lovely day with fall warmth and such a bright sun the leaves on the oak tree in the backyard seem to glow. It will be in the high 60’s. I’m going out. My uke club will be playing in Hyannis, and I will be there, in the audience as it will be a while before I’m back playing. I still have those pretty yellow pins and my finger is so swollen it is misshapen. I’m supposed to see the surgeon next week.

When I was a kid, my favorite Sunday dinner was roast beef with gravy, mashed potatoes and peas. I always made a well in my potatoes for the gravy. The challenge was not to let the gravy drip beyond the well. I used to scoop up the peas with the potatoes. Before I was leaving for the Peace Corps, my mother asked what I wanted for my dinner. That was easy.

My mother made great brownies. She never used a box mix but made her own. They were always frosted with chocolate icing, and she sprinkled jimmies on the top. I always liked the corners, the crispy part.

I remember Sunday afternoons when we stayed home and didn’t visit my grandparents. We’d hang around the house and sometimes watch TV. I remember seeing Lassie Come Home on the afternoon movie matinee. The TV was angled in the corner, the same corner where we put our Christmas tree. We used to lie on the rug to watch it. My father would read the Sunday paper in the chair by the picture window. He always brought the paper home after church. I’d read the comics.

The Sunday dinner ritual went with me to Ghana. I’d sometimes cook one of the dinners my mother had sent in a package. They were as valuable as gold and used sparingly so they’d last a while. Other Sundays, I’d ride my “moto” to town. On the perimeter of the lorry park were chop bars, places which sold Ghanaian food. They were basically sheds with a table or two and some chairs. The pounding of the fufu and the cooking of the soups took place outside in the back. I was there for takeout. My friend Bill and I would buy a light soup to eat with fufu. We’d attach the bowls we’d brought to the backs of our bikes and hope for the best. They never fell off the back.