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“Souvenirs are perishable; fortunately, memories are not”
October 6, 2011The house was really chilly this morning. I was nestled under the covers, and Fern and Gracie were right beside me sharing their warmth. When I came downstairs, I decided to turn on the heat for just a while to warm up the house. The heat didn’t go on. I cursed. Nothing riles me more than stuff not working, stuff I have to call an expert to come and fix. I wish my family was more diverse. I think every family should have an electrician, a plumber and a generalist who can fix most anything else. It should be a rule. I know this will cost me big just for the guy to walk through the front door. I suppose finding out before it got really cold was a lucky break, but then people break arms and legs so that word has its downside.
Summer is making a return engagement this weekend. Each day will be in the 70’s. I’m thinking it’s a farewell present.
My house is filled with stuff which has meaning only for me. The living room is mostly Ghana. A green basket I brought back home with me forty years ago sits under a table. Gold weights are on another table. Next to them is the top of a linguist staff and an old oware board leans against the same table. Finger bells are on the hearth. You put a round piece on each thumb and a bell on one finger of each hand to play it. I bought it in the market. I have paintings from Ghana. A couple were done by the art teacher at my school, Yao Blisah (though I don’t guarantee the spelling of his name).
In here are bags made from Bolga leather, a distinctive red and black leather still used. You can see boys working with the leather in some of my recent pictures. On the wall I have an old Bolga hat made of straw with a tie of that red and black leather. It’s a funky looking hat with straw straight up all over the woven part. I have an adrinka cloth my school gave me when I left. It is my prize Ghanaian possession.
Lately I’ve been thinking about putting together an album of pictures of all of these mementos. I’ll write stories about why each piece of Ghana is dear to me. I figure maybe they’ll become dear to someone else too.
“I’m easily distracted by other things in the world around me”.
October 3, 2011We have another day which can’t quite make up its mind. For a while it’s sunny then the clouds take over then comes the sun for another turn. Right now we have sun. Today is remove the screen from the back storm door day, always a painful chore. It means I have thrown in the towel and recognized that cold nights are here and won’t be going away. I do the back door first because it’s always open so Gracie can come and go as she pleases through her dog door. During the day it’s not too chilly, but at night, I can feel the cold air making its way down the hall to me. It’s time.
After a trip, I have a sense of wanderlust which takes a while to disappear; well, actually it never disappears: it just gets bearable. Sometimes, of late, I find myself on-line looking for cheap flights anywhere. I don’t ever remember getting there. It’s as if something took hold of me, a possession of sorts needing an exorcism.
My neighbor is mowing his lawn. He’s wearing a sweatshirt, jeans and a baseball cap. I think he’s a barometer of sorts.
I remember staring out the classroom windows even though it was frowned upon as an indicator of a lack of attention. There was never much to see out those windows, but they represented a sort of freedom I no longer had. On the lower floor, I could see the street in front of the school. I’d watch for cars to drive by. If I had a room in the back, I’d only see the empty playground and ached to be there. On the top floor, it was the sky I’d see, and I’d watch the clouds drifting and swirling and sometimes forming animals as they moved. When it rained, I’d see the drops hitting the windows, and I’d follow one as it slid down and disappeared.
When it rained, the class seemed quiet, subdued, and the room was always a bit dark even with the lights on. Sometimes the rain and pencils writing on paper were the only sounds. A rainy day was my favorite school day.
“Look! Up in the sky! It’s a bird. It’s a plane. It’s Superman!”
September 30, 2011The day is lovely, and I’m glad I have a slew of errands to do to get me out and about. Last night it poured for a while and then it thundered adding a bit of drama to the evening.
I saw a picture of Superman the other day, my Superman, my faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive and able to leap tall buildings in a single bound Superman. I was reminded of the living room at 37 Washington Ave. It was there, every afternoon, I watched Superman while my mother made dinner. The house was small; it was one side of a duplex. The kitchen table was against the window. The rest of the kitchen was longer than it was wide. Not far off the back door was a fence, and a big white house used to sit way back on the other side of that fence. The driveway to the house wasn’t paved but was rather two ruts worn in the grass by use. Pear trees were there, and we used to eat those pears, and all I remember is how hard they always were. The fence had a gate near the house and on the other side of the gate was the parking lot no one ever used except us kids to roller skate, ride bikes and play wild games like crack the whip. I used to climb the gate from Green Street where the house was. It was a short cut to my own house.
I remember lying on the floor in front of the small TV while I watched the flickering black and white screen as Superman saved the day. I knew that Clark and Superman were the same, and I wondered why Lois, Jimmy and Mr. White never figured it out. The glasses weren’t a great disguise.
Lois was a favorite of mine. She wasn’t afraid to investigate all sorts of nefarious schemes and people. Maybe it was because she knew Superman would always come or maybe it was because she was gutsy and getting the scoop was more important than anything else. I wanted to be Lois, curious and brave, but I never wanted to wear one of those hats, and the first thing I’d have done was ditch the suit.
“Breakfast is a notoriously difficult meal to serve with a flourish.”
September 25, 2011The sun is peeking a bit out of the clouds so the day is getting brighter. It’s warm, already 75°, and a bit humid. I may have a deck day today.
My usual Sunday breakfast was a bit humdrum. The choices never change, but I still look at the menu expecting a culinary miracle. Today I went with an omelet with Swiss cheese and linguica. I found it boring, further proof that breakfast lacks excitement. It is the only meal of the day with a minimum selection of food. You can eat anything you want for lunch and dinner, but for breakfast, tradition necessitates a narrow variety. I have sometimes strayed from the straight and narrow and eaten pizza, the square slices the Italian bakeries sell. Once I remember finishing left-over fried rice and ribs but I had a sense of guilt. I have eaten eggs in every configuration, but there is only so much you can do with an egg. When I was in England, they added a grilled tomato which did nothing for me, and I won’t even mention English bacon or sausages. One time I was served baked beans, and I’m still not over that this many years later. The filled plate hangs in my mind like a nightmare that still haunts me when I start to fall asleep.
In Ghana, after a few mornings of tasteless eggs with a strange look about them, I bought fruit and had the kitchen make me a fruit salad each morning. It came with toast and margarine, Nescafe instant coffee and evaporated mik. Butter is rare. It has to be imported. The best breakfast I remember was in Morocco with strong, dark coffee, fresh croissants and rolls, amlou, yogurt, assorted jams and a view of the Atlas Mountains with their tips covered in snow.
My father hated breakfast in Europe. He wanted his eggs and his bacon. Instead he found cheese, cold cuts and assorted breads. My mother and I loved those breakfasts, but we were far more like sea gulls, content with anything, than my father. I do remember one morning in Holland. There, on the table, sitting proudly in a rooster cup was an egg. My father was delighted at the thought of a soft boiled egg. He took his knife and carefully tapped the top. Nothing happened. He tapped again. Same thing-nothing happened. The third time he tapped the shell cracked all over. The egg was hard boiled. I’ll never forget the disappointment on my father’s face.
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