My view of life has changed a bit in the last year. The immediacy is gone. My life mostly meanders. I do have appointments and some events, but they are either short or far apart in time, on purpose, but this past week has been an anomaly. I was out Tuesday early evening, Wednesday morning and Thursday afternoon. It was (I know this is bad grammar, but I like it) me and my uke. I’m really not very good, but I can play all the songs. I do not play a few chords, ones which use all four fingers, but I know most chords. Playing with the group in public is making me a better player. As for now: I am idle today. I was idle yesterday, and I will be idle tomorrow. I do have one errand today: the dogs need treats. That’s it. I might buy myself some ice cream. I haven’t had any in a long while.

Ice cream and summer naturally occur together. Ice cream and its offshoots, especially popsicles, are cooling to eat or lick under the hot sun. My favorite popsicle has always been root beer. If no root beer, I’ll languish a minute or two and then get wild cherry. I have too many favorite ice creams to list. I go on a kick where for the longest time I get the same flavor. Once it was mint chocolate chip. I also like coffee chip, my recent favorite. It seems all of my favorites have chips. Anyway, I want ice cream.

I have noticed when my frustration at summer traffic changes. When I am in a line of traffic, I wish I weren’t, but I know I’m stuck at the light or construction or whatever, but I am only impatient. When I am behind a car slowly driving and sightseeing, I go crazy. My language changes. Much of it would be bleeped. I go way passed impatient. The only solution is often to change my route. I know my way around the side roads. The tourist car seemingly does not. I feel a sense of triumph when I leave the tourist behind.

The lights in my house sometimes trigger memories for me. That probably sounds a bit odd, but I notice it in summer. The lights in the den, on the table in the living room and over the kitchen sink are lit. There are shadows. Both doors are open. Outside, beyond my front door, everything is dark. Once in a while a car goes by on the street next to mine. I always can hear it at night.

You know my most vivid memories of another home, another place where I lived, are of Ghana. Most of my nights during those two years were spent in my house on the school grounds. It was the last house next to the back gate, a new house. It had four inside rooms. Most nights I stayed in my living room reading, listening to music, maybe writing letters or preparing lessons until bedtime always an early bedtime. I remember the light in my living room. The naked light bulb hung from the center of the ceiling. I made a lamp shade out of a Bolga basket by cutting out the bottom of it and adding pieces of metal hangers to go around the bulb. That worked. The harsh light was diffused. There were shadows.

The morning is a short one. I slept in again. I did wake up around ten when the dogs chased each other on my bed. I brought some really heavy litter bags downstairs, let the dogs out, cleaned up a bit of gross stuff on the dining room floor, fed the cats, combed Jack, let Henry inside then went back to bed for another hour. The dogs joined me. When I woke up, I made coffee, got the newspapers, put the litter bags in the trunk and finally sat down to have a cup of coffee and read the Boston Globe, saving the Cape times for later.

I already feel as If I have had a full day, and I’m not even dressed. I’m not even sure I’ll get dressed. Mostly my chores are inside the house. You know the usual: pick up the huge clumps of hair and vacuum downstairs. I do have a growing basket of laundry. I might have to pay it some attention.

Last night was quite comfortable for sleeping, no need for the AC. Today is hotter than yesterday. Henry is resting on the cool kitchen tiles. It is 77˚ which is the predicted high for the day. There is a now and then breeze from the north, from the window behind me. It is pleasant.

I have a ripe plantain. It will be part of my dinner tonight and will join the rest of my meal, the pork chop and the fresh tomato. I first tasted plantain in Ghana. It looked just like a banana to me, maybe a bit bigger, thicker and green, sort of a banana cousin, but plantain is also called the cooking banana so cook it you must. I’ve mentioned several times that kelewele is my favorite Ghanaian dish. It is street food and is still sold along the sides of the main street in Bolga where I first tasted it. I always have kelewele when I go back to Ghana. I also have jollof rice, my other favorite Ghanaian dish; in fact, I think on my last trip to Bolga I had jollof rice just about every night.

When I was a kid, I don’t think I ate any rice except for Chinese fried rice. My mother made potatoes, mostly mashed but baked for Sunday dinner. On Fridays, we sometimes ate French fries, the frozen sort. They went perfectly with the fish sticks, also the frozen sort. We didn’t eat fresh veggies much. I think beside the ever present potato we only ate summer corn.

My street is so very quiet. The dogs are milling. Henry is hoping for someone or something to bark at incessantly. He’s in luck. I’m expecting groceries, just a few things, mostly produce. The order is actually late, unusual for them, but Henry will let me know when the car has arrived. He is my early warning system.