“Every parting gives a foretaste of death, every reunion a hint of the resurrection.”

Late yesterday afternoon, the thunder and lightning were spectacular. I stood at the front door and watched. The house shook a couple of times and I could hear the rumbling all around me. The rain came down hard but didn’t last as long I’d hoped. What it did do, however, was even better. It took all the humidity with it and left us with a much cooler evening. I turned off the AC and opened all the windows and the two doors. It was easy to fall asleep.

This morning dawned cool and cloudy. Gracie is loving having the back door open as she has access to her dog door and can come and go as she pleases. She’s been outside all morning. I even joined her for a while. From the open windows, I can hear the world for the first time in days. Gone is the solitude. Some kid is screaming, and the renters next door are having a conversation. Dogs are barking, and I can hear the click of Gracie’s collar as she runs around the yard. She joins the chorus of barkers every now and then to let them know she’s here.

Yesterday I got a call from Texas, from a Ghanaian living there now who attended Women’s Training College in Bolga. She started there the year after I had left so we were never acquainted. Assan got my number when she went back to Bolga and thought she’d connect. It was a wonderful conversation. She knows many of my former students who were her seniors. She explained the reason she called was to apologize about missing the big reunion late this summer. I didn’t even know there was going to be one. It seems the students I met last year have been rallying the troops to come this summer to Bolga while I’ll be there. They’re hoping to have a huge party. I think it’s wonderful.

Grace called me from Ghana yesterday, and she sang Leaving on a Jet Plane, Miss Ryan’s song. She told me she was counting the days until my arrival and can hardly wait. She’ll come north with me and we’ll do a bit of touring as I hope to make a few stops in the Volta Region, places I have wanted to see like the Volta Lake, the dam and the monkey sanctuary. She’ll also stay with Francisca and me in the village.

My passport came back yesterday with my Ghanaian visa. I got one for multiple re-entries which is good for two years so this time so it won’t expire before I leave the way it did last year. The trip is more than a month away, but I am really getting excited to go. This time I know I’ll see my students and I’ll get to live in the village. Even better, we’ll party!

“I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library.”

Right now the day is lovely, breezy and cool at 77°, but there is a thunder and lightning storm advisory for this afternoon and tonight with damaging winds expected. I’ll be lowering my umbrellas before the wind takes them, and they become extras for The Wizard of Oz. Summer storms are often mighty.

This is one of my what in the heck can I talk about days when my muses are taking care of their own business at my expense. Tonight I am meeting my nephew for dinner. We’re doing Mexican. I have a play on Wednesday, Sherlock Holmes, and that’s it for the week. I do need to go to the library as I am out of books, and that is dire.

When I was a kid, libraries were sanctuaries like churches. Whispering quietly was all that was allowed or is that aloud?  Shushing was what we often heard from the librarian who also believed that the gesture of a finger on her lips had to follow shushing. I never understood why the library had to be quiet. Reading a book so transfixed me that I never heard anything, even my mother yelling for me who swore I was ignoring her on purpose, and I certainly wouldn’t have heard anybody whispering in the library.

The quiet rule sometimes had the opposite effect. When one of us laughed, we all did, and we couldn’t stop despite the shushing and the warnings. We were actually asked to leave the library a couple of times when I was kid. We thought it was so hysterically funny to be tossed out we always left laughing, out loud. I’m sure it displeased the dour librarian wearing the flowered dress, sensible shoes and a bun in her hair. For years, I thought all librarians had to wear that uniform.

“He has Van Gogh’s ear for music.”

All that heat and humidity of the last two days gave way to an amazing thunder and lightning storm last night. It was fantastic. I sat by the window so I wouldn’t miss the lightning. The rain poured for the longest time, and it was still raining when I went to bed. Today is amazing. It’s the sort of day I’d invent if I were Mother Nature. It’s 66° and breezy, but the sun is hot. Tonight is predicted to be in the high 50′s. Now, where did I put that blanket?

When I was young, I used to sing out loud. I didn’t know you were supposed to be on key. After I found out how horribly I sang, I didn’t sing out loud in front of anyone again. I still sing in the car, and I remember the 100 mile trip from Tamale to Bolgatanga on my new motorcycle, a Honda 90, when I sang out loud for almost the whole trip. I even sang Christmas carols as I remember the words to them best of all.

I am a terrible dancer. I have no rhythm. Even when I was young, I was a terrible dancer. It was only in the crush of the crowd on the dance floor that I would dance. It was my way of staying anonymous. But when I was young, I was an extraordinary skipper. I could even skip all the way to school if I wanted. I was also a wonderful hopper on either leg because I had a great sense of balance. We always walked on one railroad track to see who could go the longest without falling off. I usually won.

I could never get the hula hoop to stay on my hips. It would turn once or twice then fall to the floor. My friends could walk while still spinning that hoop. I was always a bit jealous. When I was  in Ghana, my mother sent me one of those wooden paddles with the red ball on an elastic. Many nights we went out back and had contests to see how long we could keep the ball going. I may not have had hip coordination, but I could that ball bouncing well into the three hundreds.

I was a good athlete and a darn good softball pitcher. I played basketball as well. That was in the days of half court girls’ games, and I played defense so I could never shoot the ball, and I was stuck in the backcourt. Back then you could only dribble a couple of times before you had to pass. I was the secret weapon strong enough to throw the ball down the whole court. I’d throw it to our lone, undefended offensive player waiting for the ball under the basket. She almost always scored.

I always think it a bit ironic that my blog posts music, but I still sing along quite loudly. It’s for the joy of  music.

“Grin like a dog and wander aimlessly.”

The thunder and lightning were tremendous last night. It was an amazing storm. My room lit up several times from the lightning, and the house was shaken by the thunder overhead. I loved every minute of it. Yesterday was ugly and hot. Today is cool and dry, a gift from the storm. The sunlight seems muted. It lacks the glare the heat brings. The next few days will be in the 70′s and the nights in the 50′s. I think that is perfect weather.

My passport came back yesterday with its Ghanaian visa. I’ve looked at that visa at least three times. The handwriting is typically Ghanaian: beautifully written with a flourish. I am now official!

When I was a kid, I dreamed of faraway places. My geography book was a wish book filled with pictures of where I dreamed I could be. I saw myself on Corcovado Mountain in Rio standing below the giant statue of Christ the Redeemer. I went up the Amazon, I wandered coffee plantations, and I saw the sphinx in Egypt, all in my imagination. No one I knew traveled just for the sake of traveling. Marty Barrett went to England to visit his grandmother, but that was the only place he went. Riding on an airplane was a part of my dream.

I once sneaked to Logan Airport with my uncle from my grandmother’s house. It was quite a long walk, miles, but I didn’t care. I stood on the observation deck of one of the old wooden Logan hangers and watched the planes coming and going. From displays I took brochures describing airlines and hotels. I wandered the airport watching people with their suitcases getting in lines to board planes. I was both wistful and jealous.

When I got back to my grandmother’s, my parents were livid, but I thought that a small price to pay for a great adventure. A few days later, I started reading the brochures, cut out pictures and began an album of my trip. I described the plane ride and flying in the clouds. Pictures of my hotel rooms had arrows pointing to my bed. All the wonderful sights we saw in the different cities were pasted on the pages and described by me in a first person account.

I filled the whole album with wishes and a dreams.

“Being frightened is an experience you can’t buy.”

The morning is cold, and the wind is brisk. The weatherman says the cold will be here for a couple of days. A blanket is permanently on my bed. The windows are kept closed. The deck is bleak, its furniture covered and everything else put away. I can see my neighbors’ houses again through bare branches. Around the house I wear my warm slippers and a sweatshirt. I’m quickly getting into winter mode.

Yesterday in the late afternoon we had a thunder shower. The rain came and went quickly. First it got really dark then came giant drops pelting the house and roof. Gracie raced inside and shook the rain off her fur. I sat in the dark for a while and listened to the thunder. It’s one of my favorite sounds. The storm was spent in about twenty minutes and the sun reappeared.

As a little kid, I loved feeling scared, surprised by the unexpected. It was different than being afraid because scared was fun. It was a haunted house display at Halloween when a creature jumped out waving its arms and screaming boo. We used to love to scare each other. We’d hide behind the house or a tree and jump out and yell. No one ever admitted to being scared, but we were. It always made us laugh afterwards, mostly in relief.

I remember being home when my parents went grocery shopping. If I heard strange noises, I’d stop and listen and sometimes get afraid. Once I even took to hiding under my bed. When I got older, after having seen too many horror movies, I found out it was the first place a murderous creature would look. The closet was a close second. Once I yelled at the noise. “Hello, anyone there?” I figured bravado would scare it away. My father answered. He was at the front door with the groceries, and I had heard him fumbling at the doorknob. He scared the heck out of me.