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.

The sky hasn’t a cloud. The sun is bright and warm, but a breeze is helping to keep the air cool. The high will be 79° and the low will be 64° tonight. I am listening to the best of Gordon Lightfoot. The dogs are sleeping, each at one end of the couch. I am still lazing in my cozies. This morning is just about perfect.

When I was a kid during the summer, my days were mostly spent outside. I remember picking blueberries but eating more than I saved. My fingers and my tongue got blue. I loved to explore, sometimes walking, sometimes riding. My bike took me far and wide. I pedaled to the towns around my own. One of them had a train station so I used to sit on a bench and wait to see the train. I rode by the golf course and usually found golf balls, errant flyers on the opposite side of the street. I put them in my pockets to take home. In another town, I rode around the lake and wished I lived in one of the beautiful houses across the street from the lake. I’d sometimes stop and sit a while taking in everything around me. I’d watch the birds. Back then I didn’t know the names of the birds. I loved the smallest birds. They were the swiftest flyers. I’d ride from near the zoo around Spot Pond to where the pool was then I’d head up the big hill, usually walking my bike, but at the top I’d ride downhill with my feet off the pedals. I remember the feelings of speed and freedom as I rode down that hill. At the bottom, I’d pedal toward the square then head home.

If I were walking, I’d explore my town. I remember checking out the train cars on the track in front of the old town station. Across the street from the station was the end of the tracks where trains were once turned around to head back from where they came. If I were rich, with a nickel or a dime, I’d stop at the red store and sometimes buy candy. Other times I’d buy Hostess cupcakes, the one with three cupcakes, a deal I thought. I’d take my favorite route by the horse barn. I’d go by the rag and paper man’s house. I was always amazed at the towering stacks of paper and magazines everywhere. His porch was so full it sagged under the weight. I’d head home, tired from my travels.

Even now, if I go to my town, I take familiar routes. I go pass the train station no longer fronted by tracks and no longer a train station. The red store is long gone. The horse barn holds tractors and such owned by the town. The rag man’s house is gone. I always wonder if it collapsed. Probably not. As I drive, I remember what used to be where. I drive by the duplex, my home for over ten years. It looks the same except for the bushes. They are tall into the sky. I slow down as I pass the house. I give my memories time to jump out of the drawers. They always make me smile.