Late last night it poured. The wind screamed. Windows shook. I heard a branch fall. Both dogs sat up and listened, their ears cocked to the sound, but hearing nothing else, they settled in and went back to sleep. The dogs are my barometer for things that go bump in the night. If they go back to sleep, all is well.

Today is a delight. It is 54° with a bright sun. The breeze is strong enough to sway the pine branches but not enough to cool the day. The oak trees still have brown dead leaves waiting to fall. The dogs love this weather. They are outside for so long I check the yard just to make sure they haven’t escaped. In my head, I know they are still in the yard as they are not escape artists like Gracie was, but I still need a bit of reassurance so I check.

When I was a kid, the time between Thanksgiving and Christmas seemed interminable. We’d lie on the rug and pour through the Sears catalog circling and uncircling our Christmas wishes. Once the turkey was history, we’d beg for our tree, but my father always said it was too soon after Thanksgiving, but we’d badger him relentlessly, and, under the pressure, he’d finally give in. My father always picked out the tree. I remember him hauling it from the car into the house, putting it in the stand, moving the tree back and forth in the stand until it was straight and then tightening the screws with one hand while holding the tree with the other. The tree always went in the same corner between two windows. To me every tree was beautiful though my father was more interested in price, not so much in full branches. There were always holes, but we didn’t notice. We had our tree.

The tree would stand for a while to let the branches fall. The house smelled of pine. It smelled of Christmas.

Last night was winter, down to the 20’s. Today we are back to fall. It is in the 40’s. There is a strong every now and then wind which blows all the leaves and pine needles across the deck and yard. I can’t even see the driveway. When the dogs run around the backyard, I can hear the leaves crackling.

Today I’m taking you back to Ghana for a bit.

When I first met the principal of my school, Georgina Intsiful, it was during training, after our live-ins, when we were to spend a week at each of our schools meeting our principals, seeing our houses and opening checking accounts. Mrs. Insitful drove a small blue car. She was a bit of an imposing woman, tall and broad. She sat up straight in that little car. When I was sitting outside one morning, she stopped at my house. She asked me if I had brought my Bible. When I was packing, a Bible had never come to mind. I was thinking more of sheets and towels. I told her that I hadn’t, but I had parts of it memorized. She didn’t say a word.

Sundays at my school started with a service in the cafeteria with lines of chairs and the tables removed. My students wore their formal clothes, three piece dresses with a top, bottom and a cloth around their waists. Each class wore a unique pattern made from Ghanaian cloth. The sermons were given by clerics from the different churches in town. I didn’t usually attend. One day, Georgina came and asked me to give the sermon the next Sunday. I said yes which I immediately regretted.

That week before my sermon I couldn’t figure out what to say. I dismissed sin, heaven and hell and everything in between. I figured those belonged to the churches. First, I chose the hymns then finally I figured out a sermon. It was based on an Aesop fable, The Boy Who Cried Wolf. I talked about lying and liars who aren’t believed. I thought I was eloquent, but I suspect my principal wished I had brought a Bible.