From somewhere far off I can hear a duck quacking. I like the sound. I also like the sound of roosters crowing to greet the day and the first songs of the birds just before sunrise. I can’t think of a more wonderful way to start the day.

The morning is lovely, cool and bright. The air is clear. Every now and then a small breeze stirs the leaves. The high today will be 75°. Tonight will be in the 60’s. If I could invent a day, it would be a day like today.

When I was a kid, I made promises to myself. I didn’t want to be ordinary. I never thought of it as an ego thing. I just figured I wouldn’t choose the usual. I would travel and see the world. There was never a doubt. I didn’t know anyone who had traveled nor did I know anyone who aspired to travel so I’d be the first. In the eighth grade I decided I’d join the Peace Corps as soon as I was able. I never shared that with anyone. It was my secret hope. Back then, when I was young, I didn’t know about destiny, fate or kismet, but I knew I’d keep my promises.

I remember events in my life which were small in the scheme of things. As to why I tucked these particular events into my memory drawers I have no idea.

I remember being in the principal’s office when I was in the eighth grade and being chosen to crown at the May procession. The only things I remember about the procession are I was at the end and stopped when people wanted pictures, and I had trouble climbing the ladder to the statue as my dress was so long. The priest grabbed my arm so I wouldn’t fall. I remember in late summer my mother and I took the bus to where I would be going to high school. We went to buy my uniform. The room had all sorts of racks of uniform pieces in different sizes. We bought the skirt, the blazer and two blouses. I remember a Sunday in January, 1969 when there was a knocking at the door. I looked down the stairs at the front door and saw the postman and wondered why he was there on a Sunday. He handed me a special delivery letter congratulating me on being accepted into the Peace Corps. I don’t remember the wording of the letter. I just remember the mailman.

My memory drawers are stuffed. They go as far back as I do. Random unbidden memories sometimes jump out and take me by surprise. I’ll close my eyes and see the time, the place and the people who gave me those memories. I love those moments of remembering.

The forecast was for light rain. I’m still waiting, but it is getting darker so maybe I just need to be more patient. The air is thick. It is in the mid-70’s. Everything is Sunday quiet.

When I was a kid, Sunday didn’t have much to redeem it. It was my least favorite day of the week. No matter the weather, I usually had to walk to church. I suffered through mass. The only good thing every Sunday was dinner. It always seemed special. My favorite was roast beef. My mother made the best gravy. I’d make a pile of my mashed potatoes and poured gravy on the top of the pile. As the gravy dripped down, the potato pile always looked like a volcano erupting. When I saw Close Encounters of the Third Kind, I watched Roy Neary sculpt Devil’s Tower with his mashed potatoes. It was more sophisticated than my volcano, but it still made us kin of a sort.

I flew to Philadelphia on a Sunday for what Peace Corps calls staging, the time just before you leave for in country. I checked in, received a packet of information including a time table for the next four days, was given a stipend of money and a hotel room key. I was both nervous and excited. I’ve never forgotten that Sunday. I can close my eyes and see the line in front of and behind me. I remember checking in at the table, at the end of the line. I remember dragging my heavy bags across the small hotel lobby to the elevator. I remember finding my room. On that Sunday, common events became uncommon. My least favorite day of the week bumped every other day of the week to become my favorite.