The morning is beautiful. The trees are still. The air smells sweet. The only sounds are the birds and the bugs. Today is starting to be a perfect day.

I have been busy whittling my list. Yesterday was an award winning day. I was able to cross off three chores. I planted the perennials I bought the other day in the buy one, get one sale. They are purple and red and are in the front garden. I hung the Ghanaian flag next to the Peace Corps flag. That sounds simple, but it wasn’t. I was screwing the holder into the tree, but my new tool got away from me and the screw went flying. I used my hand drill. The flag was already on a pole, but the pole was bent and wouldn’t go into the holder. Two poles later, the flag was in the holder and being blown by the wind. I figure anyone who notices the flag will probably wonder why I am flying the Black Star. I put down the contact paper in the medicine chest and threw away expired gels and such. Some were ancient. I did one chore not on the list and put new books into my little library.

This morning I have already been busy. The laundry is in the washing machine.

When I was a kid, Saturday was all mine. I could do whatever I wanted. Sometimes, mostly in the winters, I went uptown with my father while he got a haircut, brought his shirts to the laundry and stopped at a few stores to greet friends, townies. Mostly, though, I was a Saturday wanderer. Usually I was by myself.

My town was a remarkable place. It was small, but it had everything I ever needed. The library was my favorite spot. I browsed Woolworth’s even when I had no money. I watched at the side window of the Chinese laundry where shirts were being ironed on a big, flat machine. The barber shop had two chairs. I remember the hair on the floor. A bank was at end of the square as was the post office. Two funeral homes were across the street. One was always Catholic and the other was not. A little bit down Main Street were a few more stores just out of the square. My favorite was Santoro’s sub shop, a tuna sub with pickles and hot peppers please.

I pull out memories every now and then from my memory drawers. Most drawers, especially from my childhood, are overflowing, filled beyond the brim. I can close my eyes and see it all as it was. I find comfort in those memories. I get to see my mother and father again. I see my childhood hopes and dreams. I see my becoming.