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.