Posted tagged ‘Peace Corps’

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“When sunlight meets rain, rainbows are born in love with the world. Happy wet Sunday.” 

May 24, 2026

The rain began last night. A rain so quiet I didn’t realize it had started until the dogs came inside with wet fur. This morning is the same. I didn’t realize it was raining until I went to get the newspaper. Scattered showers are predicted. It is cold for the end of May, 55°. I have a dump run on my to do list. Sunday is a big day here for dump runs, but I suspect the rain will be a deterrent.

I miss the Sundays of my childhood. I think one day should continue to be set aside for families, for a real breakfast of eggs and bacon and toast eaten at the kitchen table, for rides to nowhere, for Sunday dinners, the special dinner of the week, for a lazy day at the beach and, especially, a day for families just to be together, maybe doing nothing but sitting around and watching a movie or even playing a board game the way we did when I was a kid. Six days are enough for a whirling world.

I put my shower curtain back up yesterday. I had to haul my stepladder up the stairs. It is quite heavy making it difficult to move, a one step at a time project. It has a hold bar at the top making it wonderfully safe. I easily managed to rehang the curtain at the exact right height then I started the arduous task of bringing the stepladder back to the cellar stairs where I keep it leaning against the wall so I can grab it easily. The ladder made it down the first couple of steps then I lost control. It slid down the rest of the steps. I wasn’t dismayed. I was glad I didn’t have to move it much further.

The first year I was in Ghana we were not allowed to drive a car or have a motorcycle except the guys who were track coaches were given motorcycles by Peace Corps as they had to travel from school to school. Why they were safe to drive and we weren’t always irked me a bit; however, during my second year that ban was lifted. I went to Tamale, the big city, to buy a moto as the Ghanaians called motorcycles. I bought a small bike, a Honda 90, for lots of reasons. It was one I could afford, it was easy to drive and it maintained my modesty as I always had to wear a dress. I had never even ridden on a bike let alone driven one. The guy at the store had to teach me how to use the gears and the brake. I rode around the store’s lot for a while until I felt I could probably ride home safely, a trip of 100 miles, but it was a straight road, an easy road. I delighted in the ride. It was wonderful to see everything so up close as I drove by. I ate a few bugs. I stopped a couple of times. I made it home safely. It was the best ride I ever had.

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“The Peace Corps is guilty of enthusiasm and a crusading spirit. But we’re not apologetic about it.”

March 5, 2026

Today is cloudy. Light rain is predicted. It is warmish at 39° with no wind. Most of the rest of the week will be the same. Much of the snow has melted. The leftover piles along the sides of the roads are pockmarked with holes from the rain. My yard has large fallen branches and small pieces of wood scattered about. Nala brings in twigs and pine cones. I pick up chewed twigs and stripped pine cones.

This morning I found one boot upstairs and a pair of mittens in the dining room. I found chewed pieces of paper on the living room floor. Not the disorder of a poltergeist I figured but rather the doings of one boxer named Nala.

I used to love bologna sandwiches. The meat came in rolls and had to be cut into pieces. I was never a good cutter. My pieces of bologna were thick on one end and thin on the other. That made for an odd sandwich, always a white bread sandwich. I used to slather mustard on the bread. I also added hot peppers from a jar cut into slices. The father of one of my friends introduced me to hot peppers. I don’t remember their names, but I do remember where they lived, on Main Street in a large white house, a duplex, across from The First National. The house is still there.

This is Peace Corps week. My memory drawers are open. I remember Peace Corps training and how awful it was and how wonderful it was. I can see in my mind’s eye people and places and all the friends I made, especially two, Bill and Peg, who are still the dearest of friends. I remember during week eight or so in Koforidua, I got to my dorm room and said I was leaving. Everyone in the room said they were leaving too. We all laughed. None of us left.

I have posted this before, but it is perfect for today. I remember it all.

It didn’t take long after training to realize the best part of Peace Corps isn’t Peace Corps. It is just living every day because that’s what Peace Corps comes down to, just living your best life in a place you couldn’t imagine. It is living on your own in a village or at a school. It is teaching every day. It is shopping in the market every three days. It is taking joy in speaking the language you learned in training. It is wearing Ghanaian cloth dresses and relegating the clothes you brought with you to the moldy suitcases. It is loving people and a country with all of your heart from breakfast to bed and forever after. Peace Corps doesn’t tell you that part, the loving part, but I expect they know it will be there.

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“Every snapshot is a reminder that the moment was real.”

November 2, 2025

Today is a perfect autumn day. It is 51° and sunny. The sky is blue everywhere. We have a breeze, but it mostly sways only the tallest branches. The dogs are in and out. They hate to waste a day like today.

The mouse count is now 7. Only one trap last night held a wee beastie.

Last night I went through all the pictures of my two years in Ghana. It is a journey I love taking. My memory drawers are filled with the stories behind those pictures. I can close my eyes and still see it all. The first picture was taken on the bus from the hotel to the airport. I am wearing a white top. What you can’t see is the skirt I’m wearing. I remember it was pink and filled with flowers, and I always wore it with that top. I didn’t know the names of most of the people on that bus, but I came to know them all. The next picture was of Kotoka Airport in Accra. As we got ready to land, we all crowded together to look out at Ghana below us. I remember standing in the airport and being welcomed by Peace Corps and by Ghanaian officials. I remember we stood, on the second floor with a bank of windows behind us overlooking the tarmac. We were toasted with Fanta, which meant only the orange drink. I remember seeing the plane’s crew buying souvenirs at a kiosk in the airport. One of them bought a spear. We boarded busses.

I took pictures from the bus windows. A couple are of the kiosks lining the sides of the road and of women standing waiting to cross the road. Each woman is wearing clothes made from colorful cloth and some had babies on their backs. That first look had me in awe, had me realize I was in a place I didn’t recognize in any way. I remember gawking out the window until I fell asleep. Later that view became commonplace, and sometimes I too would be waiting with the women on the side of the road.

I know why I remember so much. Though I came to feel at home and had daily routines, I never took living there for granted. My memory drawers worked overtime capturing every experience, every trip to the market, every walk across the school compound, every lesson in a classroom filled with students I remember, every rainy season and every greeting.

Those pictures are really a newsreel holding on to visuals vibrant and alive, the sights and sounds of my life in Ghana.

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“While the rest of the world has been improving technology, Ghana has been improving the quality of man’s humanity to man.”

August 7, 2025

This was one of those put a mirror under her nose to see if she is alive mornings. My mother would have said I must have needed it. The dogs slept in with me then they waited on the stairs to make sure I was up and moving. I was, barely.

The weather has been amazing, but today starts a bit of a heatwave, a Cape Cod heatwave. It was be in the high 70’s and low 80’s through the weekend. The nights have been in the 50’s, but that too is disappearing. Nights in the mid to high 60’s will make a comeback. I know those of you living in states with 3 digit temperatures are probably thinking how silly it is that I am complaining, but weather is relative. If we hit 3 digits here, it would mean the end of the world.

In two years, I will be 80. I hope. My plan is to visit Ghana that year for what I figure is the last time. Starting in a few months, I have to live frugally to save my money. I was asked why I go back to Ghana. It isn’t as if I lived there long, only two years. I tried to explain. I talked about how Ghana became home, how Ghanaians became my friends. It was there I found my love of teaching. I was as comfortable in Ghana as I had been anywhere. I woke up happy every day. I found life-long friends among the volunteers. We shared the same feelings and experiences in Ghana. They get it. I wrote the following a long while back. Maybe I should have read it to her.

It didn’t take long after training to realize the best part of Peace Corps isn’t Peace Corps. It is just living every day because that’s what Peace Corps comes down to, just living your best life in a place you couldn’t imagine. It is living on your own in a village or at a school. It is teaching every day. It is shopping in the market every three days. It is taking joy in speaking the language you learned in training. It is wearing Ghanaian cloth dresses and relegating the clothes you brought with you to the moldy suitcases. It is loving people and a country with all of your heart from breakfast to bed and forever after. Peace Corps doesn’t tell you that part, the loving part, but I expect they know it will be there.

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“Let the rain kiss you, Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops, Let the rain sing you a lullaby.”

July 25, 2025

The wonderfully cool days and nights are done, kaput, over. We now have that heat wave which has been working its way across the country. It is already 84° and will get hotter. The only saving grace is the possibility of thunder showers in the late afternoon. It has been a long while since rain.

I love dramatic rain with its thunder and lightning. I love the sound of the pouring rain hitting the doors and windows. It’s raining cats and dogs comes to mind. There seems no connection between the rain and the cats and dogs, but we all know what it means. I even have a night light of cats and dogs falling in the rain. I am hoping to see those idiomatic falling animals late this afternoon.

I loved the rainy season in Ghana. It rained almost every day. Some storms were heavy, but most were light, the sort which don’t interfere with going to town to the market. In the market, women sat in the rain under umbrellas to sell their wares, but I never saw Ghanaians walking under an umbrella. I didn’t either. Getting wet was cooling.

My classrooms and my house had tin roofs. I wish my house now did. When it rained and hit the tin roof, the sound seemed to have a beat. It was soothing, relaxing, Mother Nature’s white noise, but it did make teaching a bit complicated. The rain was louder than I was.

When I was a kid, summer rain was fun. If the storm was heavy, the rain quickly flowed into the gutters beside the sidewalks. There was white water close to the drains. We used to walk in the gutters kicking up the rainwater and getting soaked. Now, when that happens, I always think of It and keep an eye out for Pennywise and that red balloon.

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“Make the world a better place. Leave the country.”

February 27, 2025

The morning is damp and chilly. It must have rained during the night. The clouds are dark. More rain is coming. It is in the 40’s. When I went out to watch the dogs, I wasn’t so cold this time.

This morning I sat on the couch to drink my coffee. The paper was on the table in front of me. I wasn’t ready to read it. I just sat there remembering. This is Peace Corps week. Peace Corps day is Saturday which commemorates the day President Kennedy established the Peace Corps, March 1, 1961. My Peace Corps years were a life time ago, but all of it, from training to close of service, sits bright in my memory drawers. I can close my eyes and see it all. 

Training was long. It was difficult. It was wonderful. On my very first morning in Ghana, in Winneba, I stood on the balcony outside my room seeing the rusted metal roofs of the compounds where people lived. I saw palm trees, my very first palm trees. I could smell the aroma of the lush greenery. I was amazed. I was actually in Africa.

Training was in variety of places. We had more language and student teaching. I remember in Koforidua there were days when I hated training, my why am I here days. Other days I couldn’t imagine being somewhere else.  

I learned Hausa. My name is Lahadi, one born on Sunday. I used my Hausa all the time and remembered enough forty years later to greet people in Bolgatanga, my Ghanaian home.

The last week of training was at Legon, at the University of Ghana. We were all there, all of us who had completed training. We stayed in dorm rooms. We had real coffee every morning. We took language tests, saw kente weavers and watched traditional dancing. Our last day of training was our swearing in ceremony. It was just us in a large room with the ambassador who gave us our oath. We were official, no longer trainees. We were Peace Corps volunteers. 

I wrote and posted this long ago on Coffee. It is time to post it again. “It didn’t take long after training to realize the best part of Peace Corps isn’t Peace Corps. It is just living every day because that’s what Peace Corps comes down to, just living your best life in a place you couldn’t imagine. It is living on your own in a village or at a school. It is teaching every day. It is shopping in the market every three days. It is taking joy in speaking the language you learned in training. It is wearing Ghanaian cloth dresses and relegating the clothes you brought with you to the moldy suitcases. It is loving people and a country with all of your heart from breakfast to bed and forever after. Peace Corps doesn’t tell you that part, the loving part, but I expect they know it will be there.”


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”The dry grasses are not dead for me. A beautiful form has as much life at one season as another.”

February 8, 2025

Snow is predicted starting tonight, our first real snow of the winter. Five inches are possible. I have pre-snow chores and errands before I hunker down. Mostly I need animal stuff, things like bird seed, ice melt safe for the dogs and a few of cans of dog food. As for this human, I only need cream for my coffee, but I’m also thinking a bit of chocolate, maybe a whoopie pie. 

I wouldn’t have thought snow is predicted. Today is pretty with a light blue sky and muted sun. It is cold, but it is February, our coldest, snowiest month. 

Where I lived in Ghana was the hottest part of the country. We had two seasons, the rainy and the dry. This time of year, the harmattan, had the worst weather. The days were the hottest, the nights the coldest. The air was dry and dusty from sand blown down from the Sahara. It looked like brown fog and made for poor visibility so even driving was difficult. I remember getting a deep cough from all that dust. My students called it a catarrh. My lips and feet cracked. I’d line my shower room walls with filled buckets of water for bucket baths as the water was often turned off. The nights were cold. I loved feeling cold and snuggling under a wool blanket on my bed. That same blanket is folded on the back part of my couch. I never realized back then how really scratchy it is.

The harmattan had some advantages. The mosquitos disappeared. Laundry dried quickly. There was less humidity and less sweat. I remember passing compounds and seeing corn and onions spread out so they could dry and last longer. 

The disadvantages outweighed the advantages. It never rained. Everything was dried and brown. The surfaces in my house were covered in dust, always, even after being cleaned. The market had fewer fruits and vegetables. I had my fill of tomatoes and onions. I’d have to take bucket baths as there was often no water for my shower. I did get quite adept at using only half a bucket. 

There were family compounds in the field behind my house. During the dry season, with no farming, they worked on the compounds fixing the clay walls and the thatched roofs. During the night, we could hear drums and sometimes the stamping of feet as they danced the traditional FraFra dance. I always felt lucky to live in the Upper Region where tradition was always respected. Once in a while I’d even dance.

I always felt lucky to live in the Upper Region where tradition was always respected. Once in a while I’d even dance.

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”January brings the snow, Makes our feet and fingers glow…”

January 2, 2025

The morning sun is deceptive. When I opened the door for Henry, I was surprised by the wind and the chill it brought. Branches and dead leaves are swaying. I just didn’t notice.

The only event left on my dance card for the week is a dentist appointment today. It is just for a cleaning, but I still am a bit reluctant. I think it is the sound of the drill coupled with childhood memories which bring the reluctance, maybe even fear.

When I was a kid, the new year never really meant much. Nothing changed except the date. I still walked to school, spent my days there, walked home, played, did homework, watched TV, ate dinner, watched more TV then went to bed. The strange thing about this daily routine was I actually never noticed it was a routine, and I was never bored. That boredom didn’t arrive until I was a bit older, a teenager with expectations. That was when I’d whine about having nothing to do. I’d wander the house and throw myself on the couch with such huge sighs you could almost see them in the air. Once I drove my mother crazy because I wanted to go horseback riding for the second time in my life. I didn’t go, a money issue, my mother’s money issue.

I remember one New Year’s Day in Ghana. I visited my Ghanaian family in Bawku. My sister took me to church with her. It was the most glorious, joyful service with singing and dancing. Drums played. The women wore their best three piece dresses made with colorful Ghanaian cloth. The men wore fugus, smocks, dansikas in FraFra, traditional men’s attire only in the north back then. I wore my Ghanaian cloth dress. I danced, probably badly, and clapped during the music. I loved that service, the most wonderful and amazing welcome for any new year.

This morning I took down the old year’s calendar and put up the new year’s, a sloth calendar, a present from Bill and Peg. I threw away the old one day at a time calendar, always a Christmas present from my sister, and opened the new one. I already had appointments to add to it. This is the earliest I’ve caught up with the new year. I hope it bodes well.

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“Don’t Tell Lies.”

July 7, 2024

It’s a late start to my morning. I was awake until 5. I heard the birds and saw the stirrings of the day before I fell asleep. After I woke up, I made my usual call to my sister in Colorado, brewed my coffee, toasted some bread and got comfy. That’s where I am now.

It rained a bit yesterday. The clouds stayed around a while but many are now gone. The sun is out in spots. It is ugly humid. It is hot, 83°. I have no ambition. Even a sloth would envy me. Logy describes me best.

On Sundays in Ghana, the school had a service in the dining hall. The tables were removed and the chairs put into rows. Clerics from town took turns to give the sermon. Sometimes I went. One week my principal asked me to give the sermon. I said yes because she really never asked much from me. I had to think my approach. Hellfire and brimstones weren’t for me. The Jonathan Edwards’ sermon Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God wasn’t either. I was a bit flummoxed. Finally I decided on one of Aesop’s fables. I went with The Boy Who Cried Wolf. I dramatically told the story and feigned horror at the fate of his sheep. My audience stayed attentive the whole time even when I got into the moral of the fable. It was an unusual sermon. I never found out what my principal thought, but she never asked again so I sort of knew.

On the main road at night between Bolga and Tamale, all the goats lie down in middle of the road with traffic on both sides. They never move. They don’t seem to get hit either. I was always amazed.

Goats and sheep and chickens are free range. On the hottest days, the goats would often lie under big lorries, trucks, in the shade. Chickens are everywhere. After a while, I didn’t notice. They were just part of the landscape.

This week four days have uke events. Besides my practice and lesson, we have two concerts. We’re playing The Beatles tomorrow and love songs of the 60’s on Friday. It will be a fun week.

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“Celebrate endings—for they precede new beginnings.”

December 29, 2023

The rain is still here, but it is a warm day, a day without any wind. I was in the backyard earlier picking up trash and hoping Nala would drop my sandal, one of a pair I bought in 2011 when I went back to Ghana for the first time. I thought it was well hidden. Wrong! She dropped it at the word treat, and the pair has been reunited and hidden in a new spot.

New Year’s Eve never meant much to me when I was a kid. I was usually in bed early. When I woke up the next morning, it was to a new year, but nothing had really changed, just the date on my school papers. As I got older, I really wanted to stay up to midnight. It seemed like the magic hour. When I finally did, it was a bit of a disappointment, blow a few horns, yell Happy New Year and end with a kiss. That was it, a noisy celebration.

When I was a kid, the week after Christmas was quiet. All the anticipation was gone. I mostly either read my new book, I always got new books, or played a new game, we always got a new game or watched TV. The year of my bike I was out the whole week riding. We had no snow that year. I rode all over town proud of my new bike. I went to the movie matinee. I went to Woolworth’s. The week passed slowly.

The first new year I was in Ghana, I visited my Ghanaian family in Bawku. My sister took me to church on New Year’s Eve. It was an amazing service with drums and dancing and singing. The women were all dressed in their finest, their three piece formal dresses made with Ghanaian cloth. The men wore fugus, smocks, the traditional men’s garb in the Upper Region back then. I wore a dress of bright, colorful Ghanaian cloth. That church service was a celebration filled with riots of color and sound. I danced in the aisle. I wished everyone a Happy New Year. We all hugged. That still is the most memorable New Year’s Eve of my life.

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