Posted tagged ‘mornings’

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“Summertime is always the best of what might be.”

June 28, 2012

There is something wonderful about summer mornings. The house still has a nighttime cool, the birds are singing to welcome the new day and the lawn’s grass blades glint in the sunlight their tips still dewy damp. I love to walk across that cool, wet grass with bare feet when I go to collect the papers. I leave footprints on the driveway.

This room is in the back of the house and is always cooler and darker in the mornings. The sun rises at the front of my house, stays on the backdoor side all afternoon then wends its way to shine on the deck before setting. My yard is natural with plenty of trees and weeds which get their comeuppance a couple of times a summer. I planted a dogwood over where Shauna is buried and two fir trees over my Siamese kitties. Poor Maggie still needs a tree which I’ll plant this fall. Those animals lives enriched mine so much that I want them commemorated and something growing seems perfect.

Gracie woke me up early this morning and I was not happy. She jumped from the bed to the floor, started scratching at the mattress and whining in my face so I’d wake up. I did and came downstairs and opened the backdoor so Gracie could go out her dog door. She didn’t. She followed me back upstairs, jumped on the bed and fell asleep after a giant sigh of comfort. I wanted to break at least one paw. She fell back to sleep. I didn’t. Right now she’s out napping on the lounge on the deck. Life is tough if you’re Gracie.

I went to my first Wednesday play last night, and it was wonderful. 1776 was the play, and I think the men’s voices were the best they’ve had in a long while. The crowd gave them a standing oration, something I don’t remember seeing at that playhouse before this. Tomorrow night is my second Friday play; it’s As Bees in Honey Drown which I knew nothing about until I read the review, an excellent one so I’m looking forward to the play. So far I’ve seen only two movies this summer: The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel and Moonrise Kingdom. Both were at the Cape Playhouse Cinema which presents movies not shown in the usual theaters. This time of year I only go to movie theaters on beautiful sunny days. On rainy days there are few parking spots and fewer seats. Even the Cape Cinema fills though its audience is older than those at the regular theaters. Sometimes when I go there I feel young in comparison.

Today is an agenda less day. They are my favorites of all no matter what time of year.

Categories: Musings
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“Titles are but nicknames, and every nickname is a title.”

April 30, 2012

It’s a typical Cape Cod spring day at 50°, and I doubt it will get much warmer. It’s a pretty day with lots of sun and only a slight breeze. I slept in this morning which always makes me wonder if my neighbors think I’m lying unconscious on the floor as the paper is still in the driveway at ten o’clock. Even Gracie and Fern didn’t stir until I did and both are having their morning naps right now.

When I worked, I was up at 5 or 5:15 at the latest. My paper was seldom in the drive-way that early so I used to drink my coffee, read or watch the morning news. I’d get dressed at 6 and leave by 6:20 for my ten minute ride to work. The paper was usually delivered by then, and I’d throw it in the car to read when I got home which was usually around 4 o’clock. After thirty-three years of that, I earned sleeping-in.

A rooster was my alarm clock in Ghana. I never needed a real alarm. I went to bed early and woke up early. I had no newspaper to read so I’d sit on my front porch, drink my coffee and watch the small boys and girls walk by my house to their primary school just outside the front gate of my school. They’d stop to greet me. I was always sir, “Good morning, sir. How are you, sir?” The smallest of them were just learning English, and I figured sir was part of their dialogues. Madam would come later as that was what I was called in Ghana, Madam Ryan.

My titles have morphed over time. In Ghana, I was madam even to the women working in the market though sometimes a seller called me miss to draw my attention to her wares. “Miss, Miss,” I’d hear shouted at me as I walked by the stalls. When I got home and started teaching here, it was Miss Ryan to my students. As times changed so did my title. I became Ms. Ryan, but the miss was still around and used mostly by salespeople who didn’t know my name, “Thank you, miss.” they’d say as they handed me my bag. Now I am ma’am which is the shortened version of madam. It seems I have come full circle.

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“Dusting is a good example of the futility of trying to put things right. As soon as you dust, the fact of your next dusting has already been established.”

February 9, 2012

On the ground this morning was a dusting of snow. I even hesitate to use dusting to describe that snow, but I don’t know a smaller word for the amount on the ground. When I went to get the papers, the air reminded me of early spring when the mornings are chilly but hint of a warmer day. It is only 39° now but it is supposed to be in the mid-40’s later. I know this is only February, and I know spring is a long way off, but I can’t help but think of spring on a day like today.

More and more shoots are above the ground in my front garden. A seed catalogue comes every day, and I look through it trying to decide what flowers to add to my garden this year. I have a side garden now which runs along the driveway and needs filling. I have a feeling the garden store staff will applaud every time they see me coming. There might even be balloons!

Today is in-house chore day with washing to do, plants to water, my bed to change and a few places which need polishing. The book-case is so disgusting I could write a novel in all the dust. I’d need a clever title or I could just steal Butler’s title The Way of All Flesh.

Somehow or other all of my doctor’s appointments seem to come in the spring. I figure there is some weird connection between them and the rebirth of the Earth.

For years, I made special dinners and invited friends. I usually made something I hadn’t ever made before because I enjoyed hunting through cookbooks, imagining how the foods would fit together and then preparing the dishes. Lately I’ve been saving recipes and thinking about cooking again. I also just bought a new cupcake pan and want to give it a try. I’ve always been a cake person, but I’m willing to branch out to make a few of cake’s smaller relatives.

Well, the dust is calling me and I need to get the wash going. Today is just going to be one of those days. I’ll hate it, but at the end, even all that cleaning will give me a sense of accomplishment.

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“If adventure does not wait on the doorstep, climb out through the window”

September 21, 2011

The day is warmer than it’s been, the sun is shining and the air is quite still. I was on the deck just after I woke up and thought how much about how much I love the mornings almost anywhere I am. When I was in Europe, I was always up so early breakfast had yet to be served. I’d go outside and listen to and watch the stirrings of the day. I’d smell the air as the morning air smells different. It has a freshness full of possibilities. In Ghana, the mornings begin early, but they were always my favorite part of the day. On this trip, I loved getting up at 6 and watching as Bolga woke up and began its day. When I worked, I was up at 5 or 5:15, and I felt as if I were the only person alive. No other house had lights, and I never heard cars. On warm mornings I’d stand outside and watch the sky for the first rays of the sun. It was a glorious way to begin my day.

Today I have a few errands, and my friends and I are going out to dinner to celebrate both their birthdays. Nothing much is planned for the rest for the week. My dance card is fairly empty.

My trip has stirred the travel bug far more than I expected. I had hoped to silence it for a bit, but it seems the bug is spreading throughout my entire body. I find myself looking at different travel sites wondering about my next trip. I’ll have to fill the larder, my bank account, first, but now I have a reason to save more money.

I’m laughing thinking of all the new hobbies I should start to occupy my day so I can stay home and spend nothing. Maybe I’ll learn to crochet, and everyone will get doilies for Christmas, the kind that go over the chair backs. There’s always origami and making thousands of cranes. They can decorate Christmas gift boxes of doilies. Years ago I made my own wrapping paper with stamps and water-color trees.  That sounds like a wonderful project. It goes on the list. Colorful napkins are easy to make-it’s just keeping the hems straight which gives me trouble. Maybe I’ll make them all different sizes and shapes so they’ll look avant-garde, not messy. People will think me creative rather than untalented with a needle and thread.

Well, it’s time to make the bed, get dressed and get in gear. I miss having my bed made, and I miss calling Thomas to pick me up for the day’s adventure though I suppose, no matter where, every day can always be an adventure.

 

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“One way to get the most out of life is to look upon it as an adventure”

September 14, 2011

I know it is Wednesday, my day off from Coffee, but I thought I’d post a short entry today to keep up the suspense for tomorrow’s episode of Kat’s Travels to Africa.

This morning I woke up at six so my body is beginning to adjust to US time.  I went outside on the deck as I usually do just to get the feel of the morning. It seemed chilly to me, damp from the morning dew. It was and is still quiet with only the birds greeting the day. I saw a grey squirrel at one of the feeders, but I haven’t been home long enough to wish for a weapon.

Let me tell you about mornings in Ghana, especially in Bolga where I spent five days. The air is cool, and this time of year, the rainy season, there is a small breeze. I was awake by 6 and usually went outside to see the beginning of the day. Smoke rose from fires, and I could smell the wood charcoal.  I watched carts being pulled and pushed by small boys on their way to market. Women carried market goods on their heads as they walked along the sides of the streets. I could hear a mix of voices, conversations in FraFra, horns blowing as cars, mostly taxis, made their way up the street. The horn is an official symbol of Ghana or at least it seemed that way to me. Not moving for a nanosecond on a green light meant horns up and down the row were going to be beeped in impatience. I heard a few of those. I could see women sitting in front of the fires stirring huge pots with metal spoons. They were making soup for their morning T-Zed, tuo zaafi, a thick porridge made from millet flour which is eaten by tearing off a chunk, always with your right hand, and dipping it into a soup. In restaurants they bring a bowl of water and some soap so you can wash your hand before and after. I had some for dinner one night with a light soup and some chicken. It was in Ghana I learned to like okra, even with all that slime, but I never did become a morning T-Zed eater. I always had eggs, toast and instant coffee with evaporated milk. While I was in Bolga, I bought fruit so I could have a bowl of cut fruit instead of the eggs. I tried the eggs fried, scrambled and in an omelet, but the eggs tasted exactly the same no matter how they were cooked. The fruits were sweet and delicious.

I was usually dressed and finished with my breakfast by 8. I’d figure out my day and call Thomas, my driver, to come so we could begin our day’s adventure.

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“You never know when you’re making a memory.”

September 12, 2011

Yesterday I touched down at Dulles, flew to Boston, took a bus to the Cape and was in my house by 5. By 8 I was asleep-on Ghana time that was late for me, midnight. This morning I was up at 4:30 and went out to the deck. The morning had a chill and a dampness. It was quiet. The whole street was still asleep. I decided to do a bit of laundry, out of necessity, brew real honest to goodness coffee and read the paper, my usual morning.

In Ghana the mornings are busy and loud. Roosters crow and women, bent over, clean the ground using brooms which are merely pieces of straw held together by a string, and you can hear the scrapes as they sweep.  My students used to sweep the dirt in front of my house around 6 until I told time that messy dirt was fine with me. In Bolga, the m0rnings are cool this time of year, the only cool part of the day. I could hear women talking as they walked to market and lorries on the road moving with unhealthy sounding engines. In the air is the smell of charcoal fires and smoke rises to the sky. I was in bed early and up early every morning.

Today I ‘d like to tell you a bit about my trip to Bolga. I’ll save the rest for tomorrow.

We arrived in Bolga from Tamale, a trip I made often. I found my hotel, dropped off my bags and the driver and I went wandering. I had decided to hire a car and driver for an enormous amount, but the choices were limited: a 16 hour bus ride was the best of the other options but then I would have no way to get from place to place. Remembering how I was told by so many that this was the trip of a life time, I went with the car and driver. Thomas was my driver. Right away I had him drive around Bolga. It is enormous and I did not recognize the streets we drove through until we rode down the main street. There was the Hotel d’ Bull now called The Black Star. My post office looks the same and from there to the end of the street was my Bolga, looking old and in need of paint, but I knew every building. The Super Service Inn was still there but the roof  was hanging on one side. The entry to the market now led only to the old market, my market; a new one was on the other side of the lorry park. We drove up the hill I walked so many times to Girls’ Secondary School which is where my school once was. The school compound was filled with many buildings, but I directed Thomas exactly to my house. Behind it are now many staff houses, but I knew my house right away. I knew the road by heart. We also found the classroom block where I taught and the dormitory of which I was house mistress.

That first night, I ate at the hotel. Jollop rice and Guinea fowl were dinner, two favorites of mine. As I walked to the outside  dining area, I passed a table with four people, two men and two women. I said good evening in Hausa as I do not know FraFra, the local tribe’s language. I sat down and started reading. I heard fragments of English in their conversation, and they mentioned teaching. I leaned over, excused my interruption and asked if they were teachers. Yes. I asked the younger of the two women if she knew of any students from Women’s Training College. She pointed to the other woman. I asked her what year. She said she finished in 1971. I told her I taught there from 1969-1971. She leaned closer, looked at me and yelled, “Miss Ryan?” I said yes and she rushed over and gave me a giant hug. I had found the first of my students.

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“After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music.”

July 16, 2011

I could smell the ocean this morning so I stood on the deck by the rail just soaking it in. The water is a long way off, but many a morning the ocean makes its way here, and I love those mornings the best. The breeze is slight, and the sun is hot. It is already 80°. When I came inside after my coffee and papers, the den felt cool, still shaded as it is. The sun is working its way around the house, and, by afternoon, the den too will be hot. Tonight is movie night. We’re seeing one recommended by a friend: Next Stop Wonderland.

The renters from next door have already left. I watched them tote boxes and roll their suitcases to the car. I don’t know who will arrive this afternoon, but I hope they are as quiet as the last tenants.

I’m busy with plays and dinners and such, but I still take the time to do nothing but put my feet up and read. Gracie and I sit outside for the longest time. Well, actually, only I sit. Gracie spreads out and sleeps in the shade. I stop to watch the birds, and my friend the giant crow comes back almost every day. I’m thinking of naming him, but I suspect he already has one of his own. The feeders need filling so that’s a chore for later. The kitchen needs sweeping so I’ll add that to the list. I need to do a bit of shopping and that will be the last chore of the day.

The paper this morning had an article about music returning to Afghanistan. It had been banned for so long many of the master musicians have died, and some traditional instruments have no one who knows how to play them. I thought how awful a world without music must have been. I think how music soothes me or enervates me or even makes me smile. I think of songs like Happy Birthday which we sing no matter how old the celebrant is. I can’t imagine a Christmas without carols. I think the first song I ever learned was Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. The words to that song and so many others stay in my head, and I can still sing along years after first hearing them. I wish I remembered yesterday as strongly as I remember, “Up above the world so high like a diamond in the sky.”

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“Morning is the fresh page of nature.”

October 21, 2010

The day is beautiful, but the cold settles in tonight, down in the 30’s, and the next few days will be chilly.

There is something about mornings. Sunlight angles into my house from the front, and a beam of light shines on the floor below the door where the cats settle into the warmth. The air smells clean. Mornings are cooler. The sun has yet to have its way with the day. Dew makes the grass glisten and frost makes it crunch underfoot. When I get the papers on a cold morning, the first steps outside take my breath away. I used to be a night person, up all hours, but now I savor the mornings. I read my papers and drink my coffee and leisurely start the day.

Crisp fall mornings are my favorites. I remember walking to school. The sidewalk near the baseball fields had no trees to protect it, and a cold wind always blew across and made us run from there to the sidewalk beyond the railroad tracks, the part sheltered by tree branches and the houses along one side. I remember leaves strewn across the sidewalk. They were wet from the dew and clung to the walk. Yellow is the color I remember the most.

No matter where I travel, I love the early mornings. It’s when the tourists are all asleep and the world goes about its business. Store owners unfurl awnings or unlock gates and market women set up their wares. Trucks rumble on the streets and make deliveries. Nobody ever notices me. They’re too busy. I get to be a part of all I see.

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“And even the sun in dawn chorus sings, a celestial melody to the earth below.”

August 13, 2010

The morning is a delight. When I walked onto the deck, I could smell salt air, borne this far inland from the cool, morning breeze. The air hasn’t a hint of humidity. It’s even a bit chilly in the shade. Gracie came out with me, and the two of us got comfortable in our usual morning places. She lies on the deck in the sun, and I sit so I can watch the birds as I read the papers. Today I was loathe to come inside so I had a third cup of coffee and just sat doing nothing but enjoying the freshly brewed coffee, the warmth of the cup between my hands and the goings of the birds.

I watched the morning stirrings from the house beside me. It is a summer rental, vacant all winter. Every Saturday packed cars leave and their places are taken by other packed cars. If there are kids, they are the first to run out of the cars. They are the explorers. I can sometimes hear them yelling about their discoveries, like the outside shower and the barbecue. Their excitement brings back memories of vacation mornings when I was young. Every day seemed bright, filled with sun. I always woke with the expectation of something different  from the usual. The ocean was just a short walk away on what passed for a road between the cottages, just two dirt ruts with grass growing between them. The grass was always tall and usually browned by the sun. Mornings were the coolest times of the day. At the first step out the door, I could smell the salt water and could always tell if the tide was in or out. It was quiet in the early hours. That was always my favorite part of the day on our vacations. I had the beauty of the morning and a whole new day ahead of me different than all my other days.

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“Through the blackest night, morning gently tiptoes, feeling its way to dawn.”

August 10, 2010

The many cold cokes I drank last night were cause for me to get up at 3:30, just in time to hear and see the start of the thunderstorm. I remembered my car windows were open and raced outside to close them. By then, of course, the rain had begun in earnest, and I got quite wet. Once inside I had to stay up a while so I wouldn’t miss the thunder and lightning. I so love a good storm.

The day is humid, no different than the previous days, but a cold front is coming later in the week. One night is predicted to be in the high 50’s. I can hardly wait to be cold.

I love the early mornings, especially when I’m away. I remember the trip my mother and I took to Pennsylvania. I woke up about dawn and, while my mother was still sleeping, I made my way to Gettysburg National Park. We had toured the park the day before, but I got to be there all by myself  just as the gates opened. Ground fog drifted slowly across the battlefields giving them a surreal look. I drove ever so slowly through the park imagining the sounds of the battles and the groaning of the wounded. It felt like a holy place, a shrine. That quiet ride is my favorite memory from that trip.

In Santa Fe, on a trip with my sisters, I woke up early, quietly left the room and made my way to the square. I bought coffee and a roll and sat and watched the Indians set up their wares for the day on the porch of the Governor’s Palace. They spread out colorful blankets and carefully placed their jewelry, art and handmade goods. The rest of the square was quiet. I was the only spectator to the start of that day in Santa Fe.

In Ghana, the mornings started early as the air was coolest just before the sun rose. Market ladies walked on the dirt path between the rows of millet on their way to town and carried their wares on their heads. I could hear them talking and laughing. Smoke rose in the air from morning fires in the family compounds, and I could smell the wood burning. I’d sit on my porch with my cup of coffee and watch the day unfold a piece at a time.

I always think the early mornings are a gift whether I’m in another place or on the deck with the papers and coffee.

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