The early morning was sunny with a blue sky. Since then, the clouds have taken over, darkening clouds. Snow is predicted starting this afternoon. The paper says three inches while Alexa and Google both say an inch. I figure the paper’s prediction is an older one so I’m hoping for an inch.

Today is my only uke-less day so I’m doing errands. The dump tops the list, then gas, a few groceries and a blood test. I figure to beat the snow. 

Yesterday I saw another robin on a branch near the feeders. The goldfinches too were back as were my usual birds. I’ll fill the feeders this afternoon. I wouldn’t want to disappoint the birds.

My favorite grammar school teacher was Miss Quilter, my sixth grade teacher. She wore mostly suits. She had thick glasses. Unlike some of the nuns, she didn’t have favorites. On the bulletin board in the back of the room, she’d place names on lists like best speller and highest grades in history. I wanted to be on every list. She encouraged learning in all of us. She made me want to do my best. My name was on every list because of her. 

In Ghana, during training, we were divided into language groups based on where our posts would be. The Twi group was the largest as that was the most common language other than English. My group was learning Hausa, and we were the smallest language group. Our posts would be in what was then Upper Region. There were nine of us. First came learning the greetings, and there many greetings. Our language instructor was Lawal, from Bawku. He was gentle and sweet. He was patient. 

We had language almost every day we were together, but I stopped going after a while. A couple in our language group still had trouble with greetings so language lessons were a waste of my time. In Koforidua, where we started our 7th week of training, I found out Lawal was no longer my language instructor. Three of us, more advanced in Hausa, were assigned to Bosco Alhassan. He was brutal. Lawal could be distracted by questions, but not Bosco. He was a task master, but I do admit I learned so much more.

When I went back to Ghana after 40 years, I stayed in Bolga, my town. On the first night, I went to the hotel restaurant for dinner. As I passed a table I greeted them, ina wuni, good evening in Hausa. It was the first time I used Hausa since I had lived there. They looked shocked at this random white lady who had greeted them in Hausa. I was both thrilled and surprised I had remembered. While I was there, I remembered and used so much more of Hausa and was able to greet people, introduce myself and ask questions. Lawal and Bosco had trained me well. 

The morning is cold. Outside even looks cold. Right now it is 22°. Tonight it will go down to 17°. We currently have a wind advisory. All the trees and branches are swaying. When I went to get the paper, I gasped at the cold. It is a day to stay close to hearth and home. 

The house where we lived when I was a kid was close to the top of a hill. Across the street from the bottom of that hill was a field. Sometimes I’d walk to school across that field. I don’t know if it really was a shortcut, but I thought it was. The alternative was to take the sidewalk, turn the corner then walk the straightaway to school. I remember when the wind used to whip across that field. It was so strong and cold I’d turn my body away from it and walk backwards. My jacket would billow. The cold would blow up my sleeves. It made me shiver. I stopped taking the shortcut on cold, windy winter days.

I remember listening on snowy mornings for the fire alarm to blow the signal for a snow day. I remember cheering when it did. What I don’t ever remember having was a day too cold for school. There were no school buses so we all walked. Some kids even walked as far as a mile. 

We were the bundled generation. I lost track of the layers my mother made me wear. The only part of my body exposed to the cold was my face. My cheeks and nose turned red as if chaffed. My eyes teared from the wind. My nose ran. I had no tissues. I just had my mittens. 

Chicken noodle was my favorite soup, Campbell’s chicken noodle. I’d eat the chicken and the noodles then I’d add crushed Saltines to sop up the soup. The top of my bowl was all soaked Saltines. I’d have to wield the spoon carefully or the Saltines would slip back into the bowl with a plop and a spray. 

My mother always made pea soup after she’d serve bone in ham for Sunday dinner. My father and I loved her pea soup. She would always freeze some for me. I remember with the last batch she ever made she froze my soup in a Tupperware container with a blue top. I kept the container in my freezer. After my mother passed away, I still didn’t eat it. I wanted to save that soup. I wanted to save the taste, the memory. Finally I defrosted the soup and had enough for a few dinners. Every spoonful was a gift from my mother.