Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ category

“My childhood smells like a box of Crayola crayons.”

November 30, 2012

I won’t bore you with a description of today’s weather. Ditto ought to be enough.

We all slept in this morning: Gracie, Fern and I. It was really late or early morning depending on how you look at time before I finally went to bed. It was 10 o’clock when I woke up. Gracie and Fern are already back to napping. Maddie is also napping. She is beside me on the couch and right next to the dog. This is monumental. Gracie has been chasing Maddie since Gracie first walked in the door when she was a puppy. Lately, though, Gracie ignores Maddie more than she chases her. They have even sniffed noses, an intimate move in the animal world. I don’t know if its familiarity after 7 years or just boredom which has caused Gracie to give up the chase. Poor Maddie has finally stopped running.

In grammar school, when I was in the first or second grade, we sometimes colored pictures near Christmas. The pictures were always of the manger scene, no Santa and no reindeer. The nun would have us pull out our boxes of crayons and we’d get busy. I remember I always made the straw yellow, a bit bright, but that was as close I could get to the real color of straw as shading colors was way off in my future. The halo over the Baby Jesus was the same color as the straw; a box of Crayola crayons in those days had limitations. The scene also had Mary and Joseph, the manger, always colored brown, a donkey and a shepherd with a lamb across his shoulders. I colored Mary’s dress blue because every statue had Mary in blue, different shades but still always blue. Joseph wore brown. The shepherd wore green and brown. The lamb wore white.

I’d scrawl my name at the top. It usually went all the way across the paper as I hadn’t yet mastered sizing my letters. Most time only Kathleen R. fit, and it was never written in a straight line. It sloped on the right and started going down the page. It didn’t matter. I was always proud of my work. It was perfect for hanging on the refrigerator art gallery.

Shortchanged!!

October 14, 2012

I have to get myself in gear so I owe you two more songs when I get home!!

“Sunday is the golden clasp that binds together the volume of the week.”

October 7, 2012

It’s a dreary Sunday, a cloudy day with a chill in the air. I followed Gracie outside this morning and noticed red leaves on my oak tree. It was my foliage moment.

My childhood church had an upstairs and a downstairs. The upstairs was the church proper with a main altar and two side altars. The wooden pews were ornate with curly q’s and decorations on the end panels. There was a choir loft with an organ. Only once or twice do I remember a choir singing: at Christmas. Mostly one woman did the singing at weddings and funerals. The sound of the organ filled the church. Above the main altar and along the side walls were stained glass windows. When I’d get bored, I’d look around and read at the bottom of the windows the names of the families who donated them in memory of another member of the family. The only time I saw the side altar used was really early in the darkness of a Christmas morning when I was around ten. Some people used to sit at the ends of the pews. Anyone else looking to sit down in the same pew had to scrunch by them. When it was time to kneel, lots of people perched on the seat, more sitting than kneeling even though their knees were on the padded kneelers. I understood old people doing that but not young people. It just seemed lazy. In those days ushers passed the baskets which were actually woven and had long handles. All the ushers wore suits.

I preferred going downstairs for mass. There was one altar, plain wooden pews, no organ and regular windows. If there was an upstairs and a downstairs mass at the same time, the downstairs one always ended first. That was its draw. When the nuns brought us to church, they always brought us downstairs so it was a familiar place. In the back were racks filled with pamphlets, and I usually took a few. I figured reading them during the mass was okay. It wasn’t as if I’d brought Little Women. I’d do the stand up, sit down and kneel when I was supposed to, but, being a little kid, my mind was often elsewhere. Sometimes I’d go through the hymnal just to have something else to read. I always listened to the sermon though I sometimes didn’t understand all of it. Kids were not the intended audience. I always had a dime for the collection; my father made sure of that.

When the mass was over, I’d run up the stairs and out as fast as I could. My obligation was over, and the rest of the day was mine, except, of course, for Sunday dinner.

“A clever cook can make good meat of a whetstone.”

September 30, 2012

The rain continues. It stopped yesterday for most of the day, but the sky never cleared and the dampness never went away. I don’t know when the rain started up again last night, but it was steady when I woke up. I could hear it falling on the roof. I thought my bed perfectly cozy, but I reluctantly got up, dragged myself downstairs, made coffee and went outside to get the papers.

Yesterday I went to pick up a few things at the store, and that was my singular accomplishment for the entire day. I didn’t even make my bed. The animals got fed, and I had hummus for lunch and an egg sandwich for dinner so none of us starved.

When I was growing up, Sunday dinner was always the highlight of the week as it was the one meal when roast beef might just be the main course. The rest of the week was chicken or hamburger and the hot dogs I mentioned yesterday. My mother was a whiz at hamburger. She cooked it so many different ways. Her American chop suey was a favorite as was her hamburger with bean sprouts and soy sauce served over chow mein noodles. I don’t think that dish has a name. We always thought it was Chinese food. My mother made the best meat loaf, and we loved it frosted with mashed potatoes which were then browned in the oven. Other times she’d put ketchup and then bacon on the top. She had to make sure there was enough bacon for all of us or a fight would ensue, one of yelling not punching. We ate a lot of hamburger, a cheap way to feed 4 kids, but we never realized how often. All the meals seemed different and they were our favorites.

No meal, according to my father, was complete without potatoes, usually mashed potatoes, though once in a while my mother would bake them, but because we didn’t like the skins, we only dug a little so most times we left a lot of potato behind. My favorite was the mashed potatoes with peas as the vegetable. I tolerated wax and yellow beans, French green beans and carrots.

When I was leaving for Peace Corps training, my mother asked me what I’d like for our last meal together for a long while. I asked for roast beef, gravy, mashed potatoes and peas, a Sunday dinner, a family dinner.

What About All Those Bananas?

September 15, 2012

Sorry, but this will have to be quick as my time is running down. I am back in Accra as I will be leaving tomorrow. I won’t be able to fill you in on all that has happened since I left the monkeys, but I figured just the monkeys will do for today!

The Monkey Sanctuary is off of a long, dusty dirt road filled with ruts. We’d see nothing then a village would appear then we’d leave it quickly behind us.  The village nearest the monkeys was large, bigger than the others we had passed. We were driving to park the car when I saw one of the monkeys running behind the house. It was a Mona monkey, and they seem to come and go into the village at will. The monkeys come usually in the morning and early evening to eat but are more than happy when new bunches of gawkers appear with bananas in hand. The monkeys are not at all shy, and they stand up and spread out their arms to beg. We bought bananas and one of the critters grabbed it out of my hand. Grace, my student, offered to show me how to do it and the monkey grabbed her banana as well even before she was ready. With the second banana I held on and the monkey had to be satisfied with half and then half again. There were several around us by the time we started into the forest.

The woods were thick and so humid every pore in my body sweated. The guide stopped several times to show us trees and plants which were historically significant. including one called the giraffe tree. We kept going deeper into the forest to see the Colobus monkey, a larger shyer monkey than the Mona. We walk a long way until the guide noticed the long white tail of a Colobus.The monkey was sitting on a limb watching us. We kept walking but saw only four of these amazingly beautiful animals.

From there we walked to the monkey graveyard  where there are several graves marked with the sexes of the monkeys and their death dates. Two humans are buried there also, both fetish priests to the monkeys.

According to the guide, the Colobus monkeys will make a huge racket late at night if there is something going to happen. He said the fetish priests could understand what the monkeys meant and would interpret. The monkeys still make the racket but no one can understand anymore.

When we left, I was soaked as if it had been raining. The air conditioning in the car was wonderful.

I have so many more things to tell you about the last few days but it will have to wait until I am home. I leave tomorrow night at 10:10 on the Delta flight.

I’ll see you on Tuesday!

Greetings from Accra

September 12, 2012

Sunday morning I was awakened at 4 when the air-conditioner went back on  with all its rumbles. I hadn’t heard it go off, but the sound of its return was loud enough to roust me. During the night, the electricity in Bolga and the surrounding villages was turned off at different times for two hours. I suppose it was to conserve electricity but no one knew for certain. “It is what they do,” was the answer to why. Later, around 11, the electricity for the whole country went off. It came back slowly with Bolga being the last around 8 that night.

Well, after I was up so early, I finally stopped reading and got dressed around 6, made my disgusting coffee and went to the roof which is begging to be a patio. All it needs is a table, chairs, an umbrella and mosquito netting. From my perch on high, I watched the morning. I could see and smell the smoke from morning fires. From the compound beside the house I heard a baby cry. Roosters were greeting the day, one to each side of the house, but I couldn’t see them.  On the road I could see a man carrying a table on his head. I wondered about that table. A woman came out of the house, walked into the tall grass and returned in a bit with some eggs. Small girls carried empty then full buckets to and from the bore hole. The air was clear and there was a morning breeze. It was too early yet for the sun to grab the day. Mornings in the village are a joy to watch.

Part II  Meet the Mother of Chiefs

Sunday afternoon I was told to be at the chief’s house at 1:30. As I had met him before, I didn’t know why. When I arrived, four of my students were there. The chief was waiting and explained to me that I would be thanked for teaching these women and for returning to Ghana by a traditional ceremony. I was to become the mother of chiefs and I would be given a new Ghanaian name. I sat in a chair in the middle of the room then was told to stand up and raise my hands over my head. Lillian, a student and one of the wives of the chief, then took a fan on which was cloth, sandals and jewelery.  She passed it around me 4 times then took it and moved it back and forth in front of me 4 times as well. Then she and one of the elders started dressing me in Ghanaian cloth, 3 pieces. First came the skirt, then the top and finally a headpiece of cloth. All of my clothes were now covered by the Ghanaian cloth, the same cloth from which fugus or smocks are made. The chief announced my new name was (phonetically) an a Mah, mother of chiefs.  During all of this, a  photographer had been taking his own pictures and some with my camera. My students were going to order copies. After all of the festivities were finished, the elders accompanied me to my house (substitute car here as the village is too far). They took pictures of me walking to the car and getting in with the help of the elders. The ceremony was finished.

It was amazing. My students had planned it with Lillian and the chief. They had bought the cloth and all the accessories.  I was told that I would always be called by my new name by any FraFras. I couldn’t have been more honored.

On Monday we left late and made it only to Tamale (tam, as in rhymes with arm, a lay). On Tuesday we made it to all the way Accra with only one stop- to see the monkeys. Today we are traveling to Cape Coast and Elimina.

Next journal entry: the monkeys!

Bolgatanga

August 31, 2012

The other morning I woke, went outside where there was a cool morning breeze, I could hear the roosters and smell  charcoal fires from the two compounds right near to my house. I went outside and sat under a baobab tree. Within ten minutes there were about 8 or 9 children all around talking to me. The 3 year old leaned between my legs resting his elbows on the tops of my legs. They laughed and smiled the whole time. Next came the women from the house next door, the house where Franciska’s father lived. They came one at a time and wished me welcome. When I couldn’t answer in FraFra, they taught me. When the next woman came, I answered in FraFra, and she smiled and clapped. Ghanaians love hearing people try to speak their languages.

Yesterday was market day, every third day here. I loaded up on vegetables and fruits. I bought cloth. As I was walking, a white woman walked by, stopped and told me she knew me. She did: we had met last summer. She directed me to the spot a few feet away where the local volunteers were meeting, which they try to do every market day. Nine volunteers are around Bolga in a variety of villages. When I was here, there were only 9 of us in the whole Upper Region: now West and East Upper Regions. I had met a few of them last year, and we chatted quite a while. They wanted to know about Bolga and Peace Corps in the old days. The difference in Bolga is size; the difference in PC is immense as this is a far different world. All of them had been taught FraFra in training and were amazed I had learned Hausa until I explained we were all going to different towns with different languages so Hausa was best for us.

Yesterday I was standing at the gate to the market when the cutest little girl was walking by me her her mother. She looked about 3. I saw her look at me, and I saw the horror on her face. She screamed in fear and hid behind her mother. The girl screamed so much the mother couldn’t walk by me into the market and went the other way. I do have a wonderful way with small girls!

Today I am going with my students but we haven’t decided where yet. I’ll keep you updated!

I am fine but a sweaty mess, not a pretty picture|!

 

 

 

Hello from Amsterdam

August 26, 2012

Yup,I said Amsterdam. My poor body thinks it is 3:30 in the morning. Here it is 9:30. I board at 2:15. I am charging my iPad and charging myself, with coffee instead of electricity. I am in the lounge about ready for a nap. This is really it until Bolga!

“I have learned that to be with those I like is enough”

August 13, 2012

We have sun, that bright orb in the sky which sheds light on the world. It has brought warmth and dispelled the damp so tonight will finally be the oft postponed movie on the deck night. It is supposed to pleasant and cool.

It was a mirror under her nose to see if she’s alive type morning. The dog wanted out. I don’t know when. I heard her bells, went downstairs, opened the door and turned off the AC so I could leave the door opened and she could come in which she wanted. I went back to bed. The phone woke me at 10:30, that’s right, 10:30, but I didn’t let the late morning change my ritual: two papers and two cups of coffee later, here I am.

Now I’m stuck with nothing to day; my mind is a tabula rasa. I write six days a week (it used to be every day) and have been writing this blog for at least six years maybe even seven I’m not sure. I have discussed every aspect of my childhood, my teen years, college years, Peace Corps service and the day-to-day stuff which keeps me busy or idle depending upon my mood. I have excoriated tourists, supermarkets, slow drivers who can’t see over the steering wheel and the weather, can’t forget the weather. I have taken you with me to Morocco, Ghana and South America, though that last one wasn’t live. Soon enough you’ll be going back to Ghana with me. You have been made privy to the number of underwear I’m bringing on my journey, and I’ll be posting my flight times and numbers so you can make sure I arrived safely. I have told countless dad stories. You even know some of my failings as I’ve lamented them a few times, a tin ear being one and impatience being prime. You have essentially become family but don’t expect post cards!

“Seeing a murder on television can help work off one’s antagonisms. And if you haven’t any antagonisms, the commercials will give you some.”

August 12, 2012

The rain continues and another movie night is postponed. Today, at least, is a bit cooler than it’s been so the air is off and the door and windows are opened. Gracie is enjoying the freedom of having access to her dog door without ringing her poochie bells.

I think I watch too much HGTV. Right now a movie is on, and when the victim’s house was shown from the street, I thought craftsman.

I love mac and cheese but I can never replicate the recipe because I use whatever cheese is left in the house. One mac and cheese I remember as the best I ever tasted, but I have no idea what was in it. It’s the same with my meatloaf. Added to the meat is salsa, leftover vegetables and anything else I find in the fridge. Seldom am I disappointed by the taste.

I have a hierarchy of commercials I hate. Topping the list are commercials with talking things, personified things. I just watched a wart taunt, and it wasn’t pretty. Tires brag, Pam and non-Pam muffins harass each other and bugs party. Second on the commercials I detest list are those filled with product icons. Some not only talk but also sing and dance. I remember the Kool-Aid Man with the red Kool-Aid. He was everywhere: racing on the beach, rolling logs and saving the day. The Pillsbury Dough Boy stopped being cute pretty quickly. I could put a tiger in my tank or in my cereal bowl, but luckily, now I won’t have to pick as Tony the Tiger won his court case. I did like the way Mr. Peanut looked. He was the perfect gentleman with his top hat, monocle, white gloves, spats and a cane. One of the first I remember is Speedy. Do you remember the capital of North Dakota? Maybe not, but I bet you can sing, “Plop Plop Fizz Fizz OH What a Relief It Is.”

I hate to admit it but some commercials are clever and funny. I’m not talking getting whipped by your spaghetti or by the tag in your underwear. Nope, I’m talking many Bud Lite commercials. I give kudos to those ad-men. The clothing drive ad and the skinny dipping couple are two of my favorite commercials. They are both funny and clever.

I am not a true football fan, but I am a Patriots fan. I watch every game. If they are in the Super Bowl, I’m thrilled to watch it. If they aren’t, I’ll watch the Super Bowl anyway, not for the football but for the commercials. They are usually well worth the wait.