I woke up to the sound of rain. The house was chilly. I put on socks and a sweatshirt, major pieces of my winter ensemble. It will stay rainy and chilly all day. I have no plans to go out. I do have a book to read and a Snicker’s bar to enjoy. That seems like paradise to me.

When I was a kid, a day like today would have kept me home, my usual Saturday adventures on hold; instead, I’d have spend the morning in front of the TV and the afternoon with a book. I might have even napped. It always seems as if a rainy day is a great nap day.

When I was young, the only time I ever gave thought to the future was when someone asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I had a stock answer, a teacher. I didn’t know if that was really what I wanted, but it was as good an answer as any.

The other night I had peppers and eggs for dinner. My mother used to make it all the time. It was my favorite beach food. She always packed it in Tupperware by itself and brought rolls so we could make a sandwich of it. The first time I made it myself it didn’t taste right. My mother told me her secret: she added a touch of tomato sauce so I did. It tasted exactly as I remembered.

Even though my life was sort of regimented when I was a kid, I was seldom bored. Something new happened every day or something old was still fun.

In my house, in every room, are memories of where I’ve traveled. I have a few small wooden animals I lugged from Venezuela to Rio. I have a green woven cloth with a stitched nativity on it. That came from a market in Peru. One oval basket came from Columbia. I have tassels hanging on my fireplace screen. They are from Morocco as is the earthenware tagine in the dining room. I had a cooking lesson in Marrakech using one exactly like it. In every room is something from Ghana. In the dining room is a basket from Bolga I brought back in 1971. Another one, holding my metal chess set from Ouagadougou, is in the living room. Newer baskets from my three trips back to Ghana are everywhere. Painted pictures from Sirigu Women Organization for Poetry and Art (SWOPA), a village close to Bolga, are framed and hung in the living room. One is a lizard, the other a small girl. There are wooden figures on shelves, carved pieces on tables and painted pictures on the walls. A wool blanket I used on my bed mostly in December on chilly nights during the harmattan is on my couch. A pile of fabric is folded and on a table shelf. All of these souvenirs remind me of where I’ve been while the ones from Ghana remind me of where a piece of my heart lies.