Keep the Coffee Comimg

The humidity is so thick you can see it in the air. The AC is already working its hardest to cool the house. Outside is mostly cloudy and 80°. The humidity is 79°. Both dogs are asleep on the couch. My dance card is empty, and I am thankful.

My muse is among the missing again today. I figured I’d tell a few stories about my time in Ghana. Some you know, but they are worth repeating.

At my friends’ house in Tafo, they didn’t have running water. They did have outhouses in the yard, but because they lived on the second floor, you sort of had to plan your outhouse trip ahead of time. On one visit, I had travelers’ bane, a woeful curse. I had to break land speed records to get to the outhouse. I sat there a while then I heard a noise below me. I jumped up. A head popped into the hole above which I had been sitting. A man saw me and said, “Hello, madam.” I said hello back. He grabbed the now filled bucket, emptied it, put it back then said good-bye. He was the night soil man.

I heard a knock at my door. I looked and saw a man I didn’t know standing in front of my screen door. I went over, and he greeted me. I returned the greeting. Greetings are a wonderful part of the Ghanaian culture and were our first lessons during language training, Hausa for me. He very politely told me he was looking for a white woman to be his friend which meant a whole lot more than friendship. I politely declined, and he asked me if I knew any Canadian women. I said no. He thanked me and left.

Students used to visit me at night as they had a bit of time at the end of the required study time and lights out. One night I remember my student, Mary Kanubula, talking about Mary and the birth of Jesus. I have no memory of how that became the topic of conversation, but she had a theory she wanted to share. She didn’t believe in the virgin birth. It made no sense to her. She told me an angel came to earth and had his way with Mary, though in her words he f’ed her. She got pregnant. That was it.

One of my favorite of all Ghanaian sayings was when a student explained she had gone to my house and met my absence. I wasn’t home.

The morning is dark. Sometime earlier it rained, and more rain is expected. The breeze is strong, maybe even a wind at times. The AC is on, my attempt to beat the humidity. I started my day cleaning up after Henry. He got spooked and knocked over a full water dish in the kitchen. My pant legs got wet as did some jars and cutting boards, but the floor does look good, as if I washed it. The paws prints are gone.

I have no plans for today. Outside does not look inviting. Besides, the roads will be filled with bored vacationers looking for amusement.

This is the rainy season in Ghana. It rains just about every day. Everything is green. The fields are filled with corn and millet plants so high you can’t see over them. Nothing stops in the rain. It is just a regular part of the day. The bugs return. In my living room, I had a naked light bulb hanging on a wire from the ceiling. It was ugly so I bought a basket in the market and made a sort of lampshade for the bulb, relying, of course, on my extensive interior decorating skills. On the floor below the basket was a circle of light, the circumference of the basket. At the end of every night, the circle was black, filled with bugs attracted to the light, to their own demise. I started taking my anti-malarial pills again. I had stopped taking them in the bug-less dry season, but I didn’t want to court malaria so I choked down the gross tasting Aralen, an antimalarial pill.

Most of the rainy season was during the school holiday, sort of Ghana’s version of summer vacation. l traveled. First I’d take the bus to Kumasi, visit friends then take the train to Accra. I always stayed at the Peace Corps hostel in Accra, a whole 50 pesewas (think cents) for bed and breakfast. I also got to catch up with friends, some I hadn’t seen since training. Usually I went to Togo where I binged on French pastry, sorbet, lobster and biftecks with frites, steak and potatoes in English. I shopped at the grand marché, the huge market in Lomé, the capital of Togo. I always thought that made me a world traveler.

Every time I have returned to Ghana it has been during the rainy season. The fields are filled. The rain is heavy at times with thunder and lightning adding a bit of drama. I’d sit outside at the hotel restaurant at a table under a thatched roof, have dinner and watch the rain. Nothing stops in the rain.

Last night’s activities were ugly. Nala, of course, was at the heart of them. It was late, around 12:30. The dogs were out for a jaunt. Suddenly, I could smell skunk, and the odor was close enough that my eyes burned. Fearing the worst, I called the dogs. Henry came back inside. Nala didn’t. Right away I was suspicious. I yelled and offered a treat. Usually the word treat has her running at breakneck speed into the house, but no Nala. I went outside to check. She was playing with something white. I could smell skunk even worse. I came inside and hunted down my Nature’s Miracle Skunk Smell Remover. Nala came in, and I checked her, the old sniff method. I wasn’t sure if I was smelling the dog or the house, but I doused her in Nature’s Miracle anyway. She ran out the door before I could grab her. When she came back inside, I doused her again. This morning I checked the yard before I let out the dogs. I saw nothing skunk-like. The dogs went out. Nala appeared a bit later through the dog door with fur in her mouth, white fur with black tips. It smelled of skunk. I shooed her outside. She came back in without the fur. I doused her again. She is now napping. There is a faint odor of skunk coming from outside so I shut the windows and turned on the AC. Later I will dispose of the fur. I do wonder where the rest of the skunk is.

I am hunkered down in the house and am cool and comfortable. The larder is filled. I shopped a bit yesterday for the cat and me. I bought groceries and a Snickers. The Snickers is gone.

When I was a kid, I loved penny candy. Granted the price was right, but even better was the variety. I had favorites. The fireball was among them. It was a challenge to eat the whole ball without taking it out of your mouth when it got really hot. Root beer barrels tasted great and lasted a while if you didn’t crunch. Mary Jane’s were chewy. They tasted of peanut butter and molasses. Bonomo Turkish Taffy came in several flavors. Chocolate and banana were my favorites. We used to buy candy cigarettes and pretend to smoke them. I liked spearmint and orange jelly candies. That they were coated in sugar was a plus. You could buy straws with flavored powder inside, wax bottles with colored liquid, Banana Splits, a yellow hard candy, colored buttons on paper and not eating the paper was key and Squirrel Nut Zippers, another favorite of mine. I remember jars and jars filled with penny candy. There were so many more choices it took a while to spend a penny let alone the wealth of a nickel.

The morning is bright and already getting hot. I am in the den which is dark in the morning and feels cooler than the rest of the house. That always reminds me of my mother. She pulled down every shade in the house on hot days to make the house cooler. The living room was always dark.

Again, for another day, I have no plans. I have an empty, yellowing dance card. I don’t need anything, no groceries or animal food, though I wouldn’t mind a Snickers. A dump run is on my to do list, maybe tomorrow, maybe not tomorrow.

When I was a kid, bologna on white bread with yellow mustard was my usual lunch. The bologna came in a roll. I wasn’t great at slicing. One side of the bologna would be thin while the other side would often be thick. The bread seemed to curl around the bologna and sink in the middle. When I was a little older, I added hot peppers to the sandwiches. The peppers came in a jar. I used to cut them into two and add them to the bologna. The bread didn’t hold up well to the peppers. Dessert was whatever cookies were left in the cabinet, Oreos or chocolate chip if we were lucky.

I loved the library on hot days. It always felt cool. I used to sit at one of the wooden tables and read. Usually the library wasn’t very busy on summer days so the librarian didn’t care how long I sat there. I spent so much time in that library I can still close my eyes and see it as it was.

The Dairy Queen used to be across from what was the high school. If I had some change, I’d bike down and buy a cone with that hard chocolate cover. I remember you had to be careful or the chocolate cracked and came off in one piece. Sometimes the piece fell to the ground. That was so awful, so horrific. My father used to hate it if we called it ice cream. He’d always say it was ice milk. You added milk to a powder to make it. Back then, my father worked for Hood Ice Cream so he knew his ice cream or his not ice cream.

Everything is quiet. Even the dogs are napping. I’m going to do a bit of reading to while away the afternoon.

I have just returned from hell. I had a doctor’s appointment in Hyannis. It is cloudy so every tourist is on the road looking for entertainment. I sat through so many light cycles my car started growing weeds and assorted greenery. From today onward, my dance car is empty. Hallelujah!

When I was a kid, every summer day was a busy day. I always found something to do. My town was filled with places to visit. The most expensive spot was the pool at the cost of a dime. I remember the teenagers lying on their towels around the pool. They were couples. The lifeguard kept an eye on them. Many summer days the pool was so crowded you couldn’t really swim, but you could dive. I loved diving off the board. I used to stand on the end, aim at the water then dive. I was probably ten or eleven. Rainy days meant staying inside reading or playing in the cellar. I remember my cowgirl days when I’d pretend to be riding a horse better known as the bannister and the end of the railing going down the cellar stairs. It was a speedy horse.

When I was in my teens, we used to go out more at night. I remember when Carrol’s, the burger joint, opened on Main Street. Hamburgers and milkshakes were 15 cents each. French fries were a dime. It was the spot to be, to hang around, to drive through the lot. It was always crowded. Sometimes we went to the drive-in. The closest was in North Reading. You paid by the car load so my friends and I filled the car. Some nights, we’d go bowling. I was terrible at bowling. We’d miniature golf. I was pretty good at golfing, but sometimes the windmill stymied me.

Fast forward to now. I prefer to be a sloth, to stay home, to wear my cozies and to read or watch movies. I don’t get bored. I like naps. I hate traffic. I’m just fine staying home, my very happy place.

Today is yesterday with a different name. The clouds and the humidity make the morning air appear a bit hazy, but the sun should be around a bit later. I’ll be patient. It is quiet, Sunday quiet. I have an empty dance card today. Though I could do a few things round the house I chose to do nothing at all resembling work. Personal hygiene dictates taking a shower and brushing my teeth, but they are the extent of my activities for the day. I hope I don’t tire myself.

My muse has gone somewhere cooler. I don’t blame her. I just wish she had left some inspiration behind for me, a topic or two, maybe even a verb. I guess it is time for a trip back to Ghana.

I didn’t realize I was going to be posted in the driest, most remote part of the country. Before we left staging in Philadelphia, I knew I was going to Bolgatanga which meant nothing to me. I had run into one of the assistant directors in the elevator and introduced myself. He was the one who told me about Bolga. I was amazed he remembered my posting as there were so many of us, about 125 trainees. I realized later he remembered because of the remoteness, the climate and the few volunteers posted in the Upper Region where Bolga was. Regardless, I always thought I was lucky living in Bolga.

My firsts in Ghana weren’t always my bests. I remember my first meal. I didn’t eat it. I also remember my first trip to the market. Right inside on a table, goat poop was sold for burning. I went outside the market and got sick. I didn’t eat the meal with the bug sort of skimming on the top. At my live-in, I was served a meal with a lump of something in sauce and no utensils. I ate alone so I couldn’t ask. I used my hand to pull off a piece from the lump and tried it. I wasn’t impressed. The lump had no taste of its own. The soup had some bony meat and a bit of heat. I left most of the meal. My first hole in the ground bathroom stop was not my finest hour. It took a bit of practice.

Fast forward a few weeks, maybe a month. I was buying Ghanaian food, mostly fufu and soup, in chop bars, hole in the wall eateries. I’d pick the bugs out and keep eating. If any were left, they were added protein. I liked goat, that unknown bony meat. I became adept at hitting the holes in the floors. Eating with my hand was all of us sharing the same bowl of fufu, all of us in our own little community. I never missed market day where they still sold goat poop. I thought of market day as a festival of sorts. I loved wandering and shopping.

It took only a little time for me to find myself at home in Ghana.

The air is thick with moisture. The clouds hang low. Nothing is moving, not a single leaf or the smallest branch. My room is dark. It may not be, but it feels cooler that way. The dogs had their tongues hanging after an outside jaunt. It is 79°, close to the predicted high of 80°. Tonight it will fall to 68°, sleeping weather.

Saturdays were the best days of the week when I was a kid. The mornings were for watching TV, all the kid’s shows and cartoons. I’d risk blindness and eat my Rice Krispies while sitting on the floor close to the front of the TV. Back then, in the 50’s, our TV was in a piece of furniture. It sat in a cabinet with doors hiding the screen, the small screen. The TV was in the corner of the living room where it could be seen no matter where you sat.

After breakfast I’d either walk or ride my bike around town. I never had a destination in mind. I didn’t need to be anywhere. I loved my town. I loved the horse barn, the rag man’s house with the leaning porch and the barn beside it filled with newspapers. I loved to sit on the benches in the green next to the town hall and greet the firemen sitting in front of the station just up the street. The square was filled with stores. On Saturdays cars filled all the parking spaces while people shopped the stores. In the cooler months the movie theater, right in the middle of the square, had matinees, a movie and cartoons, so my afternoons were filled.

At night, we’d have the usual New England Saturday supper of beans, hot dogs and brown bread. We’d have our baths then watch TV before bed. Westerns were big back then. Our bedtime hour was always a little bit later on Saturday nights. I used to read until I was forced to turn out the light.

Sunday was my least favorite day. I had to go to mass. I couldn’t wander after church, but I didn’t mind so much as we always had a big Sunday dinner, the best part of the day. I loved the mashed potatoes with gravy filling the space I’d made in the middle on the top of the mound of mashed. I still eat mashed potatoes that way. Roast beef was my favorite, but a roast chicken was a close second. Corn or peas were my favorite vegetables. Carrots were my least favorite. Dessert was usually cookies if any were left.

My dance card is empty for a couple of days. I’m glad for that. I am totally in sloth mode.

The Wicked Witch of the West would be melting if she lived here. Humidity hangs in the air. The temperature is already 78°. It is not a day fit for man nor beast or, in my case, woman nor cat nor dogs.

My dance card has one item, the play tonight, Jersey Boys. For the rest of the weekend, I’ll be home hoping to stay cool despite the humidity.

When I was a kid, jumping over the sprinkler was a great way to feel cool. Back then, my father had a metal sprinkler which circled. It was in the side yard. I’d run then jump. The water always felt cold at first but after a few jumps it felt warmer. My father was not a fan of sprinkler jumping because of the lawn. It got waterlogged and flattened. If the grass was even a bit tall, our feet left a path from the edge of the grass, over the sprinkler and onto the other side. My father always noticed.

The weather makes for lazy days, sloth days. If I didn’t have to go out, I wouldn’t even get dressed. The dogs lie on the floor, cooler than the couch. Dogs are quick to adapt to lazy days. As for the cat, every day is a sloth day whether summer or winter.

I don’t use my oven much regardless of the season. Right now it is an extra cabinet holding boxes of crackers and a few frying pans, none of which fit in the cabinets.

I wore my red high top Converse sneakers for July 4th. Underneath were white socks with blue stars. They complimented my white blouse covered in blue and red stars. On my head was a fascinator, also with stars, my fashion theme of the day.

My front garden has the tallest of flowers. They look like small sunflowers. The hollyhocks have buds. The clematis has spread across the front fence and now the gate. Small ground level purple flowers have bloomed. A huge bush, name unknown, is getting ready to flower. Along the edge of the grass, my day lilies are blooming. Another flower, name unknown to me, is blooming in the small center bed near the little library. I love to stand in front and take in the beauty of my garden. I feel lucky.

We will be hot today. It will reach 82°. Partly cloudy is also predicted, but right now it is totally cloudy. Earlier, the sun was here for a bit, and I figure it will be back. A breeze is blowing from the south. I can feel it all the way down the hall from the back door. I hope it stays around.

When I was a kid, my father was a mighty hunter. Armed with only a magazine, he hunted and attacked mosquitos. I remember him standing on my bed trying to kill the mosquitos on the ceiling. The mattress was rocked as he move up and down the bed. That I was trying to sleep was no nevermind. His prey directed his movements. The ceiling in my room gave evidence of his successes. Blotches of his victims dotted the ceiling, even spots of blood, evidence of mosquitos having found their targets and of my father having found them.

My mother kept a fly swatter around. It was one of those with a thin metal handle and a square of flexible plastic at the end of it. Flies were tricky. Because they sensed that swatter and flew off, technique was important. You had to slowly lift the swatter and flick the end at the fly, sort of as if you had a whip. We preferred to stun the flies, not out of any sense of guilt at their demise by our hands but because we had a turtle, a Woolworth’s turtle which lived for years in a plastic home with a palm tree on our kitchen counter. It loved the stunned flies which sort of hopped across the water in his bowl. We’d watch the turtle chase, catch the fly and dine.

Behind and below the houses on my street was a field. In the summer it had tall brown grass. We used to take a jar, bang air holes in the cover and run across the field catching grasshoppers in the air as they jumped in front of us. We’d try to catch as many as we could in the jar. They were brown grasshoppers. We never kept them. We let them go after the hunt.

Spiders have never scared me. I don’t get why some people, seemingly mostly women, are afraid of them. Maybe Little Miss Muffet is the cause. Only two, the black widow and the brown recluse, out of 614 species in the United States, are harmful to humans (I had to look that up). The rest eat insects which would otherwise consume our crops. In August my house is an incubator of sorts. Baby spiders emerge and weave the tiniest webs usually on window panes. They remind me of Wilbur saved by Charlotte and of the generations of Charlotte’s offspring who kept him company over the years.