We, the three of us, are back on the deck. The air is warmer than yesterday, and the breeze is slighter. The sky is partly cloudy. In the background, Alexa is playing folk music from the 60’s. I’m quite content.

Last night I went to the Playhouse for the second to last play, Murder on the Orient Express. It was excellent. When I got home and opened the door, I saw paper all over the floor then I saw the batteries, the AAA batteries I had bought last week. Nala had found the package in a basket I thought was out of her reach, but I am finding nowhere is out of her reach. She chewed open the package and the batteries scattered, rolled all around. I found them under furniture, down the hall and in the kitchen. I was on my hands and knees and collected what I hope is all of them. What Nala finds continue to amaze me.

Yesterday I watched a video of Bolga, my Ghanaian home. It made me sad that I wasn’t there and haven’t been in a long while. I miss it and my students.

In Bolga every third day was market day. From the back of my house, I could see women from nearby compounds carrying filled baskets on their heads as they walked to market. I loved to roam on market day. I’d carry my shepherd’s bag, a woven bag which stretched, on my shoulder and head to my favorite aunties. Most of the sellers were women. My first stop was the tomato lady. She stood behind her table on which were several bunches of tomatoes. I’d buy one bunch, and she often dashed me a second bunch. The onion lady was the same. Men sold eggs. I had my favorite as he never sold me a bad egg. What’s funny is my father used to describe people as good eggs. I understood the metaphor completely when I cracked a bad egg. Anyway, I’d get meat at the butcher shop where I ignored the flies and the dried blood and such. I always bought what we call a beef tenderloin. The butcher wrapped it in leaves. Into the bag it went. Sometimes I’d buy plantain, garden eggs, which are really small eggplants, and fruit. I ate a fruit salad every day for lunch. My bag would fill and stretch so far I could barely carry it. I’d head up the hill to my school, but I always got a ride. Most of the people in town knew me. I was the white lady who taught at the school. After I got my motorcycle, I always rode to town and to the market.

Today is a quiet day. Xfinity is coming to fix my phone line. My phone has no dial tone. I could do wash, but I won’t. I could go to the dump, but I’m saving that for tomorrow, something to look forward to.

This morning is one of those perfect moments when the heavens align. I am sitting on the deck being cooled by a breeze which ruffles all the oak leaves. I can hear them as they spin. The crows are raucous. Alexa is playing classic folk. My coffee is delicious, Honduran coffee. I just shared my cranberry-orange scone with the dogs. I bought some yesterday at the farmer’s market in Harwich where we gave a uke concert. The dogs have settled down for their morning naps. I’m wonderfully comfortable under the umbrella, the red umbrella, keeping the sun at bay. Times like this remind how wonderful it is to be alive and to live on Cape Cod.

I have little to do today, mostly deck stuff. I have to fill feeders and change the water in the hanging bird bath. The deck herbs and plants need watering. Two lanterns have to be hung, but I’m not sure where.

Today will be hot, in the low 80’s. Tonight will cool a bit and be in the high 60’s. Summer is getting its last licks.

When I was a kid, I never really worried about anything. I lived life day to day. During the school year, every day was the same. I wore a uniform so no hunting an outfit for the day. I walked to and from school. I sat through the same subjects every day. I had a sandwich for lunch and something for dessert. I ran around at recess releasing the demons, the restlessness from sitting at my desk most of the day. When I got home, I had to change from my school clothes to my play clothes. I was outside until the street lights went on. I always said we were cheated in the winter when darkness came so early. My mother didn’t buy it.

I never noticed those days were routine. I thought they were filled with surprises like the beautiful red leaves in the fall, the brown leaves in the gutters waiting to be kicked, the snow piled high on the sidewalks, the buds and then the tiny leaves still furled on the branches, spring rain, puddles for splashing, the days of finally shedding winter for spring, and, best of all, the warmer days heralding the coming of summer.

I have time again to notice my small part of the world, to see the every day changes and the miracles in the flower garden, to hear the insects and the birds, to watch the dogs chase each other in the yard and to sit quietly to take in the smells and sounds all around me. Life can’t get more interesting than this.