Today, however, was a never-ending train of randomly humorous events, culminating in a frantically dramatic climax.

My day commenced at 7:00, when I departed from home base and pursued transport to work. I board the first tro-tro, alight at American house. Quickly, I glance at the sky – gray and dreary. A good sign – typically foreboding rain in Oyarifa and a generally cool afternoon with strong breezes. From American house,* I board a second tro-tro** directed toward Madina Market. Adorned in a vibrant green dress, I dash through the dreary mayhem of early morning vendors while dodging the incessant cries of “Obruni” hurled at me or small fingers reaching to grope my Obruni hide. Finally, boarding a third vehicle, I depart toward Adenta/Barrier. I maintain a phlegmatic air of apathy while aboard these particular vehicles as I plug my ears into my radiant pink earbuds for my iPod fix. Alighting at Barrier, I dance around mud puddles, gravel hurdles and ankle-breaking potholes to cross the avenue to my final transport – and off to Oyarifa. Yet, what’s this? Wind, that ominous portent of the storm to come. Maintaining some semblance of decency while gusty zephyrs attempt to tussle with my dress hem, I climb aboard the vehicle. And, we’re off, down toward Oyarifa.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Within a mile of my stop, the drops began to splatter and burst upon the windshield. A half of mile – the frequency of drops had tripled and men were beginning to dash about in order to find shelter. A quarter mile – I had no option but to relinquish my seat in the protected vehicle. My decision was perfectly clear: I had either alight at this particular stop (“Container”) and wait in a restaurant until the rain subsided, or disembark at my usual stop and then walk a half mile through the muddy, unpaved road (with sheets of rain tormenting me) to the Children’s Home. Thus, I hid in the Container.

I have learned that, during rainy season, I dare not leave home without my trusty umbrella. Simply put, I never know when it will rain. And, more often than not, it rains when I least expect it. Needless to say, the instant I’d alighted, my umbrella was popped and positioned. The woman who had disembarked with me began to cross the street. Quickly catching up to her, I linked arms with her*** and directed my umbrella above her as well. Overwhelmed by this act, particularly from a ‘self-centered Obruni’, she lingered with me, caring for my every step (literally). She helped me find a dry seat and we waited out the torrential tumult. I quickly called one of the Aunties to explain my locale and my tardiness, informing them that I was waiting out the rain.

As the rain began to subside, my new friend (Comfort was her name), invited me to wait out the remainder of the storm in her church, situated just behind our current locality. I accepted. Little did I know…

As it turns out, Comfort had actually invited me to a church service. A Twi church service. A four-hour long church service. I was drenched, I was cold, I was late for work, and I was sitting in the front row. I silenced my phone. I patiently waited for the rain to abate, yet it did not. An hour passed. I had hummed some Twi songs, rocked back and forth, clapped when others clapped, pretended to understand, said “Amen!” when others did…yet the rain had not subsided. Finally, 9:30, the storm had come to an end. I, however, was still drenched, cold, and sitting in the front row. And…the sermon, the TWI sermon, had begun. The only thing I understood was “I Samuel 23:1-23”, and some random Twi words (“Awurade, ko, bio, nyame”).

My phone was ringing. A lot. But I could not answer…I was in church. It was 10:30. I was late. So late. For an hour I had struggled with the discourteousness of departing mid-sermon versus arriving absurdly late to work. I’m never late to work. Finally, I leaned over to Comfort. “Uh…sorry, Comfort. I really need to go. I’m very late.” So, we rise, we walk, we leave. I reach for my phone….

FOURTEEN MISSED CALLS. Fourteen. 1-4. Fourteen. First, it was Klenam. No biggie, she and I work together, she probably just wanted to know what was up, why I was late. Next, Mrs. Newell. Hmm…that’s strange. Then, Rev. James. Oh, that’s serious. Next, Rev. Whitcomb. Crap, that’s really serious. Man, this is really serious. Immediately, I finger-sprinted across the numbers, dialing Rev. Whitcomb. “Rev. Whitcomb, oh, I’m so sorry! Yes, yes, I’m ok. Oh, my! You were all looking for me? Oh, but I called Auntie XXX! She didn’t tell you? Oh, my, I’m so sorry! Yeah, I’m fine…I was stuck in a church service…well, I was first stuck in the rain, but, then I got stuck in a church service…yeah, really, I’m ok. I’m going over now…I’ll be at the Home soon…yeah…thanks for calling…I’m so sorry…” Now, imagine another six calls like this.

Apparently…Agape staff was fretting for my “safety.” People have wild imaginations. While they could have imagined I had been in some wild tro-tro accident, or had been abducted, or had taken the wrong tro-tro and was lost in Aburi, or waiting roadside due to the rain…

…it seems they were mostly frantic because they thought I had arranged some secretive rendezvous. Right, I’m dishonest and shifty like that. I’m surprised I could hide my evil nature so well for so long.

(NOTE: this final assumption was not voiced by any authority members, but rather vividly alluded…and voiced by a minor member and peer.)

And all this before lunch.

*This particular bus-stop, located at a popular junction in a small neighborhood, was so named “American house” due to the first elaborately exquisite home built in the area, when East Legon was first developing. East Legon, much like Beverly Hills, is known for hosting the majority of Accra’s diplomats, ambassadors and like wealth. The first luxury mansion to be established in the area, built by Americans, is now a dilapidated concrete shell. The area is still called “American house,” an odd memoriam of the surge of wealth to Accra. Interesting how the initial image of wealth has deteriorated so dramatically in a matter of five years…

**Approximately six weeks ago, while Reamey was my permanent side-kick, we boarded a tro-tro to Oyarifa, only to witness the most hilarious transportation event since…well…ever. As a member of the vehicle alighted, the sliding door literally fell off. It wasn’t just jostled off the tracks. Oh no, that’s too simple for such a rickety automobile. The door, trailing alongside the vehicle, held nothing but a tattered length of rope, was sparking along the road. The mate quickly hopped from the vehicle, shouted to the driver (as the car was still in a kinetic state), and shoved the door back onto the track. Reamey and I seriously suffered to stifle our snickers.

***Ghanaians are absurdly affectionate…with their own gender. It is no surprise for a girl friend to come up behind me and embrace my waist while we saunter along the street. Such affection, however, is rarely witnessed between a man and woman, and when it is, it’s generally scandalous. Needless to say, it was not alarming for me to quickly embrace her…whereas, at home, it would be startling…

Such a reprieve will soon be curtailed – I have such a vast collection of novels as yet unread, and only five short weeks remaining to enjoy them. Yes, indeed, my time is soon to close – a mere thirty-six days until I board a flight to traverse the Atlantic.

I am contemplating where I ought begin with my narrative of the past weeks’ events. For instance, shall I expound upon the goat I witnessed struck down by the raving, lunatic taxi driver? Ought I share how the blasting “thud” of the massive goat’s body against the expeditious vehicle’s bumper startled me from my reveries, but the bleating bellows of the shaggy quadruped (after rolling several times down the road) forced nothing less than a feverish cry of anguished sympathy from my mouth? Would it be best to share how Reamey attempted to distract me from my piteous laments, urging me not to whimper so in the street? On the other hand, I conjecture, a story of a pleasanter tone should open this chronicle.

Indeed, I ought to share how I intend to radically increase my financial standing once I return to the States. In fact, I have devised a means to acquire millions and simultaneously secure my occupational inclinations. It seems that my geographical locale is opportune for the franchise I foresee – what West Coast woman doesn’t yearn for the lusciously plump puckers of Angelina Jolie? With the tactics I have discovered, such results are possible at low manufacturing cost with a positively profitable yield. Mangoes. Indeed, you’ve understood me correctly. Mangoes. I myself can testify to the effectiveness of this technique. A certain genus species of mango, indigenous to the environs of Accra, is commonly known for its picayune petiteness but potent taste. One such fruit was shared with me, along with the peculiar manner of consumption. The fruit must be bitten and then peeled orally, making good use of the ivory dentati. The exposed flesh of the fruit is then sucked to the seed. Despite the dribbling nectar and the stringy cords left in the teeth, this is truly a delicious treat. I can also attest to the botox-injection like effect it will later have. I speak in all sincerity – no fewer than two days from my ingestion of this fruit did I notice a strong tingling sensation in my lips. At first I was convinced that my smackeroos were merely chapped or, perhaps, burned from the scorching equatorial glares. Yet, the sensation progressed. A full week passed and my lips, now completely coated in Vaseline the day’s duration, had acquiesced to the influence of the mango nectar. My lips have grown plump. Collagen plump. Botox plump. Perhaps, if I dare say it, Jolie plump. All thanks to the sweet sap of the mango.

This experience can be testified by a great many, but one, however, will be unable to proclaim my veracity. That one is none other than my junior twin, Reamey. In fact, I have now managed to survive a full two weeks in her absence. She has returned homeward and has left me with her legacy. Certainly, there is a great deal to be said of her absence – of how, the second night she was gone, I was actually scared to sleep in my room alone. Or, perhaps, how I missed the bus within the first week of her vacancy because she was no longer ushering me out the door. Assuredly, she is most noticeably missed in my long walks after school’s close, when an increasing amount of strangers approach me as the “lone Obruni.” Saturdays have become an interesting experience, as I contemplate different means to pass the time without her company.

All is not lost, however, and I have fared well. Last week, I successfully organized an outing of several friends. I was, at the time, unaware of the unusual nature of my suggested excursion. It appears that many Ghanaians, due to the lack of pecuniary provisions and the press of time, do not often congregate casually, but rather meet with a purpose. Thus, my proposal to convene at a local bistro, “just to hang out,” was slightly anomalous. Yet, they all arrived, and we enjoyed our time. Both the Ghanaians and the ex-pats commented on the unusual nature of the gathering and their shock that I was able to “pull it together.”

One such member of our small congregation is my newest “family member,” the Obruni boy. (I believe I previously referred to him as “Dream Boat.”) He is as I formerly described him, 6’2’’, muscular, blond and blue eyed. We tease him, for his initials are B.B., he is Big, Blond, Blue eyed…he is, in his true essence, a giant B. The Ghanaians, in particular, find this highly amusing. His companionship his enjoyable, although we don’t spend much time together. We are often busy running in different directions, chasing opposing tasks. We have begun playing chess in the evenings, however, and I must say – I am truly horrible. He apparently played on chess teams and competed for years while still in junior high school. I, as it is vividly apparent, have never played chess in my life. The lessons are both humiliating and hilarious. He always wins.

My mom professes that I prefer the companionship of chaos, my best friend declares that I, likely enough, just act impulsively without regard for the consequence. My vote is for the latter.

This realization finally sunk into my awareness last weekend, during a camping trip with approximately thirty young adults from the church. The destination – Anamabo, a quaint, palm and coconut-laden haven. Having already retreated to this sanctuary the previous weekend with my mother, the initial allure had already worn away. To increase the tedious nature of this journey, I was informed that we would be sleeping in tents along the beach. Departing late into the evening, we arrived at midnight and began to disperse into our various domiciles. Unable to permit Slumber his proper appointment, Reamey and I delayed our customary repose and resolved to stretch ourselves until three hours past the days commencement, that being 3 a.m. While Reamey was tenacious in her struggle against sleep, Slumber finally conquered and she dozed off. I, however, remained victorious in my skirmish against Slumber, finding myself in a deer-like state of vigilance. Needless to say, I retreated to a cozy covered porch, accompanied by an equally cozy novel, and hoped that the act of reading would coax my mental faculties into a dozy condition. My plan was sufficiently spoilt, however, as the bottom of heaven descend upon our campsite – rain only as I’ve witnessed in Ghana. I felt certain that Reamey would wake up to the flash flood and hastily secure the windows of our tent, thus sealing our canvassed bubble from the fierce winds and monsoon showers. I supposed wrong. Truly, she could put Rip van Wrinkle to shame – he may have slept for twenty years, but she can sleep through a monsoon.

As a result, when I finally returned to the tent in hopes of submitting to the impulses of Slumber, I found a third – my third – of the tent thoroughly drenched. My pillow, my mattress – everything proudly demonstrated its excellent thespian ability, sufficiently playing the role of “sopping sponge.” At 4:30 a.m., I found this very ill-timed, to say the least.

As all snooze-inducing elements were officially ruined at this juncture in the evening and I was forced to utilize rudimentary instruments to cushion my drift into the unconscious realm. Squeezing onto a thin strip of bare canvas on the ground of the tent, I was barricaded by mattresses, backpacks, pillows and other unnecessary camping goods. In the closing duel with Slumber, I bunched my backpack near my head to serve as my pillow. I found consolation in this discomfort as I remembered the tale of Jacob’s eventide slumber spent upon a rock – if he survived, I was certainly capable of conquering this evening’s obstacles. As I nodded off, crouched like a cornered mouse, a second intrusion interrupted. Falling from the ceiling, penny-sized droplets were splattering upon my naked face and arms. Desperate for some peace, I quickly embraced my logical cognitive skills and unfolded a plastic poncho. Draping the sheet-plastic from my toes to my nose, I attempted to map out the dry territory without inflicting asphyxiation.

The next morning, having caught no more than two hours of sleep, I called my father to report the evening’s events. “Dad,” I began, “wait ‘till you hear about the night I had. It was eventful, to say the least.” “Audrey,” he chuckled as he responded, “the fact that you managed to have an eventful night on a quiet outing with a church group speaks volumes…”

So there it is. I, well, I have a tendency toward the vivacious, the sensational, and possibly even the histrionic. God help us…

And so it goes, that I have been three weeks delayed in recording any type of narrative to my experiences abroad. A great deal has transpired but, as it happens, in such a rapid succession that little has left any significant imprint upon my memory. I struggle to recollect those experiences which have had the greatest impact for, it seems, I have simply assimilated these experiences into my general perception of this culture and day-to-day proceedings.

I suppose I ought commence where I previously closed – three weeks ago. As the Ghanaian school semester has concluded for the spring, students nation-wide are enjoying the academic respite. The Agape Academy, however, is truly a self-governed institution and, as such, has elected to remain in session. While I am content with this arrangement, a single nuisance has presented itself – transportation. When all academic institutions function simultaneously, Agape funds a [rather large] bus, known as the “Ta-Ta,” to deliver all students to their final destinations. This is an immense convenience as it provides free transport to and from work each morning. As school has closed for the spring holiday and shall not resume until mid-May, Reamey and I have been forced to seek our own method of transport. Originally, we were quite content to call a taxi each morning and afternoon. Two days and $24 later, we resolved that this option would be an unfortunate expense. An alternate option was available – tro-tros. My gift for expression falls embarrassingly short and, I fear, any attempt to depict this mode of movement will scarce do the experience any justice. Diplomatic decorum demands that I feature the positive aspects of this experience before pursuing my candid assessment. As I previously noted, transport a la taxi was daily robbing my wallet a hefty sum of $12 while, with this cost-efficient mode, I barely notice the absence of $1.80. I am able to trek the expanse of greater Accra with less than a single Ghana Cedi. Assuredly, this is the only reason I have resorted to such an unfavorable means of convoy.

The journey begins on the street corner, at approximately thirty minutes past the sun’s nascent journey across the sky, that being 6:30. The tro-tro parade, at this hour, has long been in operation. We tarry there until we find a vehicle pooling passengers toward our destination – generally we request to alight at Madina market. Our first week of tro-tros was rather experimental and we found ourselves aboard cars going in such a conundrum of locations that we oft exited only to find ourselves amidst shanties and garbage-strewn gutters. We resolved that the best method was to ride direct to market and, from there, to navigate our journey aboard a secondary vehicle.

Having alighted in Madina, we scurry about the bustling morning market streets – dodging the coconut carts, the hanky hawkers (among other petty goods), honking taxis and zoo of tro-tros heading in every direction imaginable. The keen feline-nature of my ears certainly aids this portion of the journey, for along the streets in Madina we must wait until we hear the cry of “Adenta, ‘denta, ‘denta” from the “mate” – the backseat manager of the tro-tro. Once the vehicle is located, we scamper aboard and squeeze into the narrow, torn pleather seats. As stuffing struggles to emerge from our bench, the door is shuffled across its dry hinges by the mate. The daunting appearance of the door strikes all aspirations of a smooth voyage – having rusted out from both the interior and exterior, it demonstrates its obdurate will in its refusal to meet the opposing catch-lock. The hinge would delightfully sigh were it able, but assuredly those days have long passed. Now, the hinge and the sliding track scream offensively each time the door receives a shoulder-blow to usher its release. Perhaps the most daunting feature is the tarried strands of rope tying the door to its point of residence.

The ride bumps and jogs along the pot-hole ridden road. Packed like sardines into the mini-bus wanna-be, I often struggle to inform the mate that I wish to alight. I finally realized the best method – merely yards before my stop, a quick shout decrying, “bus stop!” achieves my goal.

Three tro-tros and .90 GHC ($.90) later and I have arrived at my final destination, albeit a little worse for the wear. I fear whether I have absorbed any of my neighbor’s scent (as he hadn’t yet bathed that morning or, perhaps, was without the proper funds for a decent stick of deodorant), whether my skirt has attracted any of the dusty grime from the bench, and whether my hair has been completely blown out by the fierce wind tunnel that rushes through the interior of the AC-less vehicle. I quickly discover that all three are more or less true yet, with my quick “fix-me-up” purse kit, I am able to ameliorate the situation to some degree.

While tro-tros have become an attendant upon my vernacular, I have undergone an experience which challenged all I had grown comfortable with in Accra. I have gone to the “Post.” The Post – a simple abbreviation for the “Post Office,” yet a treacherous experience, far from any simple abbreviation the nomenclature may indicate. As I had two packages to retrieve, I finally descended into the depths of downtown Accra. I could certainly spend an enormitude of verbose speech in describing the nature of downtown but I find it unnecessary. Simply imagine the run-down outskirts of any large city – the environs of the Greyhound station in Rochester, the old Short North in Columbus, the dusty streets of Harlem, the Hispanic-dominated communities of L.A. – add about 70% more humidity, open-gutters, rubbish-strewn sidewalks and un-inspected vehicles coughing up frightening amounts of black exhaust and this parallel should suffice.

Having waited an hour for my first package, I returned to trace a secondary package. Both packages, sent USPS on March 9 and February 29, respectively, were sent with the assurance that I would see them in 5-10 days. Having neither received a notification or phone call, I was required to take the tracking numbers and retrieve them myself. The Feb. 29 package was a breeze and, within thirty minutes, it was safely tucked under my escort’s arm. The second package, however, was not such an easy endeavor. I was required to track the package in one location, was then sent to a series of four different offices, through a security check-point, demanded to provide necessary paperwork, meet with an enquiries officiate, return to office #2 of the previous four offices, provide license of authorization and documentation, wait a further twenty minutes, and finally collect the contents of my high-priority, five day shipping, USPS package. The contents? Well, certainly nothing to require the level of security it aroused – two magazines, face wash, and some Eclipse chewing gum.

Having survived these experiences, I was prepared for the week to come, particularly because its arrival ushered the advent of a very special visitor – my mother! She arrived on Thursday morning and, basically, we didn’t slow down an instance. Over the weekend, we retreated to a quaint beach resort in a small fishing village. Our experiences there were interesting and simultaneously repulsive. Allow me to elaborate…

After we dropped our belongings at our lodging, we decided to stroll along the white sandy beach, dip our toes in the salty waves and patrol the rocky jags at the shore line. It became quite apparent, as we left the compound of our resort, that the fishing village did not care for the natural beauty of the scenery, for they had opted to utilize the space as dumping grounds. As we retraced our footfalls, we found ourselves among a different sort of dumping grounds…and were subsequently repulsed. Originally, the odor sent my mother into a tizzy, but I assured her that such scents were common in Ghana due to the open gutters. Yet, as we ambled further, we began finding remnants of waste strewn across the shore line and, looking up, I found all the confirmation needed. An elderly woman, garments gathered around her ankles, squatting along the beach. Barefoot and shocked, we quickly retreated. It was as though we were suddenly walking among land mines – no area was safe and I was dodging brown bullets at every step. Quickly, we surrendered and submitted to the confines of sandaled-feet. The alternative was repulsive – I’d much rather wear sandals on the beach than human doo-doo.

The remainder of the week passed as sanitarily as possible – full of rainy Sunday afternoon football matches, art nights at the Children’s Home, days spent in the classroom and a grand finale, shopping extravaganza at the Arts Center. It was here that my mother proved her practicality by spending no more than $6 GHC.

At this juncture, I must be entirely transparent. I suppose I am expected to show some remorse at her departure, some depression or mood alteration at her absence, but it just cannot be. Don’t doubt my sorrow. Truly, I have just failed to convince myself that she was here at all. It was the strangest amalgamation of worlds I’ve yet experienced – a world where I have carved a niche for myself, prided myself on my independence, against a world in which my mother cares for me, watching my needs and curbing my desires. These two worlds seemed to collide and dissipate in such rapidity that I am close to doubting that it occurred at all.

But, yes, I miss her all the same. See you in ten weeks, Mom!

And the truth? Well, I must offer nothing less. The truth is, no. No, habit and repetition has neither masked our ever-observant eyes nor dulled our ever-keen ears. Frequently, it is as if I’ve stirred from a reverie and am suddenly struck with the reality of my situation. While riding on the bus from Westernized East Legon to the crude shanties of Oyarifa, I am introduced to the developing world, a realm to which I’ve grown so accustomed. The women hawking sachets of water roadside, the men bearing 20lb. bags of cassava atop their heads, the children bathing before the open gutters, the crudely paved roads, the tro-tros packed with thirty people (that being ten people over maximum capacity), that same tro-tro maintaining its sliding door with a tattered strand of twine…all these seeping into my memory, striking hackneyed cords yet singing the bright tones of a new song. The trite sites seem to refuse careless perception, but rather insist that I constantly marvel at my situation. I am in Ghana.

This realization does not dawn alone, but is instantly coupled with another. My world, my paradigm, my concept of reality does not apply here. How dare I inflict my worldview into this “obebini” territory – my obruni thoughts must be saved for my world. The only thing I can do here is yield my “knowledge” and my “wisdom” as chaff to the wind. These insights have not been acquired through an unfortunate circumstances or “principal office” type situations. I have not been called to trial, I have not been scolded. I’ve merely undergone a “light bulb” moment. While ruminating upon my situation during an iPod stupor, Joni Mitchell seemed to strum along, shedding her brilliance.

“By now old friends are acting strange, they shake their heads, they say I’ve changed. Well, something’s lost but something’s gained. We meet them every day. I‘ve looked at life from both sides now, from win and lose. And still somehow, it’s life’s illusions. I recall, I really don’t know life at all.”

Aside from ruminations and cogitations and meditations, the past two weeks have been placidly eventful. Almost exactly two weeks ago, I had the hair-brained idea to turn myself from a brilliant, rich brunette to a sun-kissed blonde. Following the sage advice of my dear roommate, I chose a very light shade and allowed the solution to perform its magic. I can assure you, the results completely disenchanted me from ever again pursuing such a dramatic alteration. I turned orange. Not a mere “fake blonde orange,” but a literal, “Wow! You have orange hair!” orange. I had two options before me – I could either turn away from my folly and return to my original coloring, or try again. Considering my carelessness in the first place, it should be no shock that I chose the latter. As I pondered my current station, I resolved I should be permitted to commit at least one of my signature radical decisions. Thus, I proceeded to turn my orange into an even lighter shade of orange – some have dared to call it yellow. Consequently, I am not blonde – I am some odd amalgamation of bleached yellow, orange, and a beautiful auburn near the tail end of my mane. This drastic alteration has led to one discovery – my hair grows at a fantastically expeditious rate. Within two weeks, I’ve turned from a polite, humanitarian brunette to a rough-and-ready, trashy bleached blonde(ish)-with-dark-brown-roots. Undoubtedly, my hair grows nearly one centimeter every two weeks. I insist, this color would not have featured more than one hour upon my crown were I at home. My flippancy toward my current audience is the only reason that such a sad state has been permitted to remain. In fact, this very day I shall be transforming myself yet again, however, this time it shall be an affirmative alteration. I am returning to my roots – that deep, rich brown.

As more time has passed in the Villa Nuova, several quirks have begun to bare their irritating little heads. One such quirk is the home’s relationship with the rain. Should any windows in the upper rooms be opened, the rain is certain to enter. We had the good fortune to discover this first hand – returning from work one day, Reamey and I found a flood in our domicile. The Newells informed us that they had tidied up the majority of the downpour – it had entered from our windows, filled our room, and then proceeded to shimmy down the steps and consume the lower lever of the house. Needless to say, we have commenced fastening our windows before leaving the house each day. Noah’s Ark is best observed from outside the house.

Such precautions have already proven their worth – it appears as though the rainy season is approaching much in full force. Reamey and I both thrill over the rain, for here, when it rains, it truly pours. While babysitting for the Ebersole’s last Saturday, we were caught in the midst of a torrential downpour. The four of us – two kids, two “adults” – hastily rushed outside to dance and play in the waterfall. This continued for nearly an hour, or at least, until we were drenched and catching a chill. The eldest child, a girl of 14, kept us outside while she prepared a surprise for us. As we entered the house, she had set up little mats on the floor, each with a towel, and had a tea tray full of sumptuous sustenance for the nearly hypothermic adults. It was truly delightful. We gathered around a candle (as the electricity had fled our locale) and played card games for a few hours.

An additional surprise and blessing has promised to enter my home. My mom!! After a great deal of waiting and discussion, my mother will be arriving in Ghana. I can not even begin to express my excitement. I’m still holding out that my dad will find a ticket and jump aboard to come at the same time. His absence, indeed, will be dearly felt. …anyway, YAY, MOM IS COMING!!

            Perhaps, with the rising mercury, tensions and trials previously struggling for the opportune moment to arise have suddenly found the right niche into which they may wedge themselves.   Needless to say, the heat has begun to sear in a truly multitudinous manner – both literally and allegorically. 

            Yet, despite these suddenly burdensome experiences, life has persevered on her constant course, unswerving at the helm.  Each day provides a new opportunity to test the quality of my vessel.  I’m discovering the nature of my character – learning when to yield and when to persevere undaunted by fierce waves and creatures of the deep.  Fortunately, I’m docked in the ideal harbor – dwelling in an environment of grace and understanding.

            As March closes, however, I am hoping for a fresh, new April.  As the flowers blossom at home, I’m hoping for a burgeoning of blessings in Accra.  March is but a season – as all things are – and thus must close.  I’m ready for the advent of a new season.

            As for life in La Villa Nuova, it is proving to a dynamically different experience from that in the Palace.  It never ceases to amaze me how naturally I had adjusted to the sacrifice of modern amenities.  Life in which running water was unreliable (at best), electricity was sporadic, cleaning was an eight hour chore, and clothes were only hand-washed now seems a mere phantom.  While it is true that the electricity vacates more frequently now than ever before, this premises is fortunate to have a generator.  Thus, even when the city is relieved of all B. Franklin’s discovery, the generator ceaselessly supports our home.  As for any tribulations inflicted by the shortage of water, we have, thus far, been privileged, successfully evading them. 

            The most conspicuous difference is undoubtedly found in our daily raiment.  As we previously hand-washed and subsequently line-dried all garments, an excellent imposition of modesty was established.  The most fantastic example – to date – is illustrated by my pink and green Lily Pulitzer t-shirt dress with capped sleeves.  On the day of its purchase, the dress had a waist line perfectly aligned with my pelvic bones, while the hem of the garment daintily drifted a mere four inches beneath my knobby knees.  Having washed and dried it once (in the African manner, of course), I noticed a subtle elongation and, subsequently, a shift in the waist’s alignment and increase in the hem’s length.  While the alteration was noticeable, I found the dress still appropriate for classroom attire.  Upon the second washing, however, the fabric had significantly stretched beyond reparation.  It appeared as though the hem was fleeing from my knees, which, despite being knobby, had caused no offense.  The waist line, however, bore the gravest ill, having stretched from its original residency at my waist to its final abode at my thighs.  I could not be more honest – the dress must have stretched a full six inches!  In this state, I found the garment entirely unsuitable and could only fold it and hope that the situation would supernaturally ameliorate itself.  Needless to say, my entire wardrobe experienced this “shift.”  By the end of my three months in the cottage, I was startled by both how much weight I had seemingly lost and how severely my stature had decreased – my clothes were racing, thread opposing thread and seam rivaling seam, toward the floor.

            Within the first week in La Villa, I became greatly disparaged.  The source?  None other than my wardrobe.  With the modern amenities so readily accessible in my new abode, I seized the opportunity to wash my clothes in a machine and similarly dry them.  While my olfactory glands delighted in the discreet scent of Dreft wafting from my garments, my ego received the gravest blow.  With waist lines returning to their indigenous state and prodigal hems returning home, I discovered that, indeed, I had not dropped the twenty pounds my clothes seemingly reflected.  And that green and pink Lily Pulitzer dress with the capped sleeves?  Well, Reamey nearly doubled over in merry mirth, finding the dress a full six inches shorter than it had been before its encounter with the saintly washing machine.

            While my wardrobe appears to have resurrected from fashion suicide, I am also feeling a new rejuvenation.  A smart little city, Osu, is a mere $4 GHC cab ride from my current establishment.  As it is in our vicinity, Reamey and I have strengthened our affinity for Saturday jaunts to a refreshing little smoothy shop.  While this negozio pales in comparison to any Jamba Juice, it is truly a fantastic reprieve from the daily tedium of shanties and street-side market-stands made of plywood and scrap metal.

            We recently employed an afternoon in exploring the outskirts of our favorite juice joint and discovered several more boutiques of interest.  Most notably, we found a used bookshop with an overawing plethora of novels.  Reamey and I were simultaneously delighted and overwhelmed at the gargantuan sum of novels.  Needless to say, we capitulated to our inner-bookworms and not only browsed for hours but emptied our purses as well.  I endured the loss of $14 GHC in order to obtain six “new” novels.

            As life in La Villa Nuova has expanded our stomping grounds, it has also permitted us the opportunity to nourish new relationships.  Two weeks ago, a mature woman – a retired English teacher – invited us to her home for a true Ghanaian meal.  Auntie Genevieve insisted on serving us fu-fu, a true Ghanaian delicacy.  While I’ve eaten fu-fu before, and concluded that my appetite was unfit for such a “fine dish,” I eagerly accepted the opportunity to dine with her.  In order that you may understand a bit more about the situation, it is crucial to understand that her family is one of the wealthiest I’ve encountered in Ghana.  Her husband is a genius and an engineer, having graduated from an institution in Germany and traveling with an earnest frequency.  Their senior son is a graduate of Princeton, while each of their two daughters attended prestigious universities in the States as well.  Needless to say, I was thrilled to not only dine with them but also engage in stimulating conversation.  Truly, it was an experience I hope to see replicated in the future.

            I am unduly tempted to transcribe in meter and rhyme for the duration of this narrative, certainly the effect of reading too much Chaucer and Tales of Canterbury.  I promise to fend off this impulse for as long as possible, however, for you have already tasted my bitter attempts at poetry.  Despite Reamey’s efforts to dissuade such an informal elegy, I insisted upon proceeding.  I apologize for any scars remaining upon your neurological capacities as a result.

            On to better topics – the accumulation of events that have transpired since I last ranted and raved.  A sincere apology must accompany this post for the immaturity and youthful haste that resulted in my previous narrative.  As this is a public forum, I must resign myself to a code of strictest courtesy, one which I vehemently violated in my frustration of yore.  I plead your forgiveness for my brash impudence.  Enough said.

            The final days of Palace life were indeed enjoyable, however far from leisurely.  On Sunday eve (of two weeks past), Brite and Bismark supped a farewell feast with us.  Expecting them at 6, we found their arrival would be delayed to 8:30.  Whittling the hours away, Reamey and I quickly submitted to the giddy elation that seems to resume possession at dusk (certainly induced by our perpetually sleep-deprived state).  As the girls began their devotions (consisting of worship choruses, clapping and resonant African drum beats), Reamey and I concluded it would be best to practice dancing like African women.  This is an especially difficult task.  As the beat is decidedly unique (unlike anything I’ve jived to before), and the dance includes a great deal of shuffling in conjunction with strong hip side-thrusts (unlike the Mtv grinding, this is the stuff hip-dislocations are made of…) and something of a chicken walk.  My coordination is greatly challenged in this practice, producing a rather comical effect.  And by “rather,” I mean to say that I look entirely awkward and down-right hilarious.  Well, as Reamey and I had finally started to groove – entirely alone and hidden from all peeping eyes – who should walk around the corner but Brother Brite.  The look on his face – dear me!  I responded in the only fashion I could immediately conclude upon – I screamed.  Oh, the embarrassment of that moment can be championed by few others in my life.  In good taste, he was exceedingly gracious and sensitive – to this day he pretends to have forgotten.  Although, I’m sure he wishes he truly could experience dementia – it is not a memory worth retaining.

            The day of doom finally arrived and we packed our possession.  The funerary events are comparable only to those of Troy’s Hector.  The farewell was a dismal display of sorrow.  The girls swarmed the Palace in order to offer their protestations and final words of grief.  The procession was initiated by the preliminary parade of luggage exiting our haunting grounds, followed by the bestowal of goods from our home to theirs.  The youngest girls could have competed with Athenian funerary mourners in their grief and declarations of sorrow.  Alas, the dreaded moment arrived and we submitted to our encroaching fate, boarding two taxis for the remainder of the funerary parade.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 “Dance, dance my soul.  There’s no reason for you to weep.  Take my sorrow, turn it to joy.  Turn my weeping into a dance.”  And so we danced.  We christened our new domicile with a “left, right, rock-step.”

            Having moved the entirety of our luggage to our conjoined quarters, we stripped our shoes and swung, jived and twirled on the coral colored tile of the front patio. 

            And thus, with poise and grace, we inscribed our names onto the naked pages of this new chapter.  We embraced the increasing challenges of a new home, new domina, and new limitations.  Arriving with soot-smeared smock, oily tresses and dust-adorned feet, I was anxious for the first bath of two days.  As the girls’ home had been without water for ten days, I eagerly awaited the moment in which I would scrub the epidural film I had acquired.  Certainly, Steadfast Subscriber, you can appreciate the irony of moving from our Palace to this new Mansion (in an exceedingly wealthy neighborhood, complete with modern amenities) only to discover that here, too, had experienced a drought of seven days.  Thus, my smutty self was resigned to remain in such a state a day longer.  Yet again, Reamey and I elected to traverse the high road and, rather than mourning our frustratingly unfortunate situation, we mocked the irony.  And we danced. 

            The following day water was delivered, but the day did not pass incomplete of a few inconveniences.  An unfortunate mêlée with the porcelain god resulted in a lengthy nuisance for both the Newells and the Agape Twins (as we are now designated).  The employment of a plunger proved entirely ineffective and the plumber, after several hours, found himself entirely stupefied.  The only solution – drill through the pipes of the lavatory.  By the close of the day, the culprit of our obstinately bolshie loo was discovered.  It was none other than an empty perfume bottle, about three inches in length and just narrow enough to have concealed itself while presenting g a furious fight to all passerbies.  Reamey and I are still mesmerized at the incessant irony of moving from a relative shack to a mansion and yet encountering all the inconveniences which should have rightly been tackled at the former residence.

            It is only right that I mention in this narrative the “one-two” combo of blows struck this week.  While the move was the first blow (as you well know, Devotee, had you read my former emoted chronicle), the second was the anticipated arrival of college guppies coming to save the starving children in Africa over a six day crusade.  Let’s be honest here, did short-term missions ever really produce any favorable dramatic outcome? 

            Well, as it turns out, my skepticism was ill-placed.  The team was a delightful congregation of youngsters.  And, yes, I am fully permitted to dub them “youngsters.”  Although a recent university graduate myself, the span of maturity and growth (and age, dare I say) could not be more striking.  They seem….so young.

March 12, 2008

            Continuing, they eagerly attempted to merge into the culture.  They found, as I have, a solid companion in Bismark and, to my utmost delight, were all excited to joke about smuggling him home (State-ward bound).  If only.  He is truly one of those individuals that the world should befriend – upon meeting him, you instantly want those closest to you to befriend him as well. 

            Anyway, I realize it has been at least two weeks since I afforded myself the time to record a posting and, it appears, this post is already a week old.  Little new has arrived to challenge me.  I am adjusting well to Mansion life…although I have resolved to dub it, “The Eye of the Storm.”  My reasoning is such: the eye of the hurricane is a generally peaceful place, but deceivingly so.  All around the eye is hectic and destructive (although destruction does not exist in my environment.)  So, as I am now residing in a permanent guest house, monitoring the movement of guests as they come and go, my only sanctuary from change, motion, and activity of all sorts, is in my very own domicile – a room for two, sized 10’x14’. 

            The classroom dynamic is truly an ever-changing impetus of thought and frustration.  Most recently, I have discovered that my students are infamous for their impetuousness and disrespect.  This was an unbelievable relief – I was truly beginning to fear that I was the problem.  As it turns out, they secretly love me.  They certainly don’t act upon it (for assuredly, I wish they did!), but I have been reassured by Klenam that they all chat about me.  So, my class likes me….life is good J  I requested Mrs. Whitcomb’s presence in my class on Monday, hoping she would bestow the best reminder in the form of a mini-monologue on classroom decorum.  Well, it worked for the day, but before the sun could leave and return once more, my students were back to their old wily ways.  Starting tomorrow, I’m cracking down.  Right…tomorrow…..            

A chapter is “finished.”

This book is closed,

One experience is over,

And our freedom’s been hosed.

While we’ve lost count of the roaches,

One thing’s been maintained,

The generations of fowl

And the culture they sustain.

To date, we’ve recorded five

Of these fancy filthy fowl,

Generation upon generation,

They are constantly on the prowl.

Yet this isn’t a commemoration of chicks,

Unless those chicks be we,

Because this was our home,

The Palace of “Sister-Audrey-Reamey.”

A palace of plenty,

Cottage of copious consumption,

The sanctuary of laughter and music,

Assuredly, serving its function.

The melody that flooded our domicile,

Flowing from the girls’ home,

And with similar song we responded,

A harmony on permanent loan.

For, you see, these children are devout,

Consistent in prayers and worship,

Each morning at five and evening at eight,

Praising and honoring His Lordship.

But please, listen well, we are not done.

This dismal dirge must yet proceed.

You still may hear of our aqueous supply,

And the days of such great need.

The water truck seemed to frequently forget

The Empress and The Queen.

And thus we quickly acquired

Mannerisms so crude and mean.

“If it’s yellow, let it mellow.”

“If it’s brown, flush it down.”

Uncouth motto, adorning our “lou”

A vulgar title, and shame upon our crown.

Gone are the days of water shortage,

Of nights with scarce a light,

of candles mounted atop Dixie cups,

and a battery-less flashlight.

[shake, shake, shake]

Of nights too hot to remain indoors,

Upon the ground we dozed,

Due to a tediously poached chicken,

Three-hours atop a gas stove.

How I’ve avoided Malaria,

To this day, I still don’t know.

That night I lay uncovered,

As bites atop my skin show.

And don’t get us started on our “clothes,”

Or towels, shall we say.

But that’s a different story,

Saved for a rainy day.

And how often did we disturb the girls

With our uncontrolled guffaws,

Rolling all across the floor,

Without a moment’s pause.

Running during early dawn,

When it was dark along these roads,

Was likely far from smart,

But we conform to no code.

Good-bye to the ditches,

Potholes, trenches and stubborn stones.

How many times they taunted our health,

And tried to break our bones.

Adieu to Saturday Soap Parties,

To wash-worn wrists and knuckles,

To Malt and Milks with Little Ones

And afternoons filled with chuckles.

Where once we danced a Rumba

And a few steps of Swing,

As Reamey attempted to instruct

And I just wanted to sing.

That same place we took a “jump”

With skipping rope brand new,

We hopped like Muhammad Ali

(if he were ninety-two).

This platform is convenient,

Yet often to close for comfort,

Like when they have “all-nighters,”

With music so loud, it hurts.

The Adenta Church meets there,

And trust us, we know well.

They sing and dance and preach so loud

Our attitude is far from swell.

Two holidays we’ve hosted here,

Christmas and New Year’s.

But due to the liquor agreement,

The celebration excluded beers.

We made due with out such influence,

We stuffed our face with food.

Pineapple, pancakes, shortcakes, pears,

And plenty sweets – so good!

Too many memories to mention,

Of days dancing in the rain,

Of week-worn oily tresses,

And the ground upon which we’d lain.

Of “traditional” Ghanaian dresses,

Of dinners cooked for four,

Of fu-fu and liesoo,

It’s certain, we could not have eaten more.

We learned how to pound

Cassava into paste

And mix it with plantain

Which, trust us, you don’t want to taste.

Salut, our dear Auntie Lizzie

(she sells the sweetest produce)

Of “go and come, Dahlings”

And the response it induced.

We could tell you of the time

A man jumped our behind the corner

And inquired of our race

And we responded like an ancient mourner.

“Guess…” I hesitantly returned,

For in truth, I feared he would hug me.

With arms outstretched and plastered grin,

I only wanted to run free.

This elegy, I’m certain,

Scarcely does our time due justice,

For too much has transpired,

Making memories so numerous.

So, adieu, adios, au revoir,

Arrivederci, ciao, salut.

This chapter is over, the book’s been signed.

Now, on to something new.

Seldom Stagnant

~*~*~*~*~

The Harmatan has lifted and, with its departure, ushered in a new season of climactic changes.  The first of such weathered alterations was the thunderstorm that broke overhead last Saturday.  It began as a light drizzle, pinging along the tin roof of the Palace and creating an altogether cozy environment.  Have such a strong affinity for the rain, Reamey and I quickly dashed outside to “shake our tail feathers” in the cool precipitation.  The drizzle was not destined to last long for, within a matter of minutes, it was replaced by a torrential downpour.  While I retreated to the Palace, in order to finish watching my episode of “Boston Legal,” Reamey collected a small band of “Scottish Step Dancers” (six of the smaller girls in the Home) and trotted all around the compound.  When she returned to the cottage, she was drenched from head to toe.  Not a single dry spot remained.  She informed me that a thick stream of water was showering forth from the rooftop.  In my cunningness, I immediately sprang forth a brilliant notion that would alleviate future hygienic concerns.  “Let’s wash our hair!!” I proclaimed with the excitement of a JAP on her sixteenth birthday when “daddy” has just given her a new Benz.  Reamey conceded and, gathering my shampoo and conditioner, we rushed outside to douse our oily tresses in the aqueous shower.  This was, in fact, the first upright shower either of us had received in Accra.  [Author’s note: please do not confuse this with the two upright showers from Cape Coast.  Those were exclusive to the guest houses we resided within during our stay along the coast.  While in Accra, we’ve not received such luxury.)  Needless to say, the Scottish Step Dancers I previously referred to found our activity curiously spontaneous and, delighted at our eccentricity, wanted to help.  Undoubtedly, it certainly provided for an interesting afternoon.

            The remainder of the day dwindled in idle activity until that evening, when Brother Brite retrieved Reamey and I for the College and Career Fellowship (CCF) meeting at the church.  The meeting was uneventful – Pastor Ntiamoh (“N-T”) gave a little spiel on temptation and what it is and isn’t…blah blah blah.  The exciting part of the evening occurred at the close of the assembly – “Light off.”  As Brite, Bismark, Reamey and I were all driving home, Brite remarked at his hesitance to return to his domicile.  As he hates light off, particularly so early in the evening (for it was only 8pm), he suggested that we all find an activity to expend the remainder of the eve.  As we racked our brains, we found it difficult to discover any feasible plan – no matter where we ventured, the electricity would be out.  We concluded that it would be best to remain at the Palace.  We quickly hurried to the local gas station in order to purchase a few snacks (namely some Cokes).  Returning to the Palace, we pulled the kitchen table outside, lit a few candles and then let the boys lounge around while we prepared a late dinner for them.  When we were finally all seated, we exchanged stories and dreams, opinions on various topics and emotions toward those opinions until midnight.  I continually find the cultural contrasts in relationships fascinating – while I commonly enjoy open dialogue with my friends of either gender, this culture typically prevents men and women from such familiar companionship.  This realization set in the next day when, after church, both boys individually approached me and expressed their delight at the previous eve’s camaraderie.

            As far as my academic responsibilities, I’m finding Enoch (my 16 year old trouble child) and increasing frustration.  I am quite certain I should be handling the situation with more delicacy or sensitivity but, due to my immaturity, I’m missing all the cues.  I learned this past week that this will be his third go around in third grade.  My goal for the year is to have ready for fifth grade by the next academic year.  His emotional, psychological and social well-being is seriously handicapped by restraining him in such young company.  I’ve resolved to treat him with more sensitivity and to sentientiously bestow him with the respect and authority in the classroom environment.  I could spend pages discussing this particular adolescent but I fear I could not even then express the situation accurately.

            Valentine’s Day breezed by without much ado.  I refused to ignore this little diddy of a holiday, despite my singular status, and created Valentine’s for all the Aunties (and dorm-dads) at the children’s homes while also throwing a little festive celebration in my classroom.  Personally, I love V-Day.  It doesn’t need to be a day for lovers, but it does need to be a day for lovin’.  It’s a day to celebrate the small, thoughtful things done without motive of expected recognition or thanks.  I’ve always found that when those things are recognized, it means the world.  It is saying, “Thank you for caring enough to not just toast my bread, but to butter it, also.”  Or, “Thank you for loving me enough to not just slice my apples, but to peel them, also.”  In any event, the Aunties were all delightfully shocked at my little cards. 

            In my classroom, I had each child write an anonymous compliment to each of their classmates and then, after lunch, I delivered all the small slivers of paper and some candy.  The kids were thrilled.  They loved reading what their classmates thought of them.   One of my favorites was, “I like Abraham because he is smart and Sister Audrey is always praising him.  He must be very obedient.”  I could not resist a chuckle. 

            As far as my own Valentine’s celebration – thank you all for your loving text messages and notes.  It was nice to hear from everyone at home!  Reamey and I spent the evening as “babysitters” for the Ebersole’s.  We watched “Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory” (with Johnny Depp) which, sadly, I was too exhausted to enjoy.  I practically fell out of my chair as I fought off my approaching doom (slumber).

            “In other places of the world” (thanks to John Irving…for that special little anecdote), George W. Bush is arriving in Ghana on Tuesday and will be staying in Accra for four days.  You will never believe what our tax dollars are paying for….

*A Five Star hotel (as a President deserves)

*A staff of no less than 600 tucked away in his hem (also assumed to be staying at afore mentioned Five Star hotel)

*Physican(S) and full caravan of supplies (aside: it was determined, after scouting all the medical facilities in Accra, that none of them would be properly capable of handling a medical emergency of his caliber.  Accordingly, he travels with his own medical facility.)

*Several (enormous) planes flying over determined ground routes every day for a week prior to his arrival in order to survey the area.

*Several (enormous) planes to transport such precious cargo as his armored vehicle(S).

….as of this moment, this is all the information I have successfully acquired.  He is spending an afternoon watching a T-ball game full of little tikes from ex-pats, ambassadors and native Ghanaians.  Sounds like an expedition worthy burrowing a deeper hole into that of the increasing debt of the national treasury….

            On to other issues…

            It is certain that we are considered slightly loopy due to our preference for this manner of activity.  For, when we walk, we do not simply stroll along the unpaved alleyway leading to our home.  We briskly traverse the four miles from the boy’s Children’s Home (and subsequently, the Agape Academy) to our front gate.  This jaunt consequently absorbs an hour (or hour and a quarter, on our sluggish afternoons).  We have successfully established the best route – which alleys are supreme in their stability (despite the sinking sandy-gravel pathway), which sectors of the pot-hole ridden pavement is safe to approach (despite the vehicles whizzing past), and subsequently, which neighborhoods have the kindest population (despite the incessant beckons of children crying “Abruni!”).

            I share these seemingly mundane details with a sole intent – to preface the manner in which I strolled home on Thursday.

            Leaving Oyarifa after a typical day in the shoes of “Sister Audrey – Teacher of Class Three and Confused Disciplinarian,” I sauntered along the nearly deserted (paved) road toward Adenta, while simultaneously floating on Cloud Nine.  For, while it was a characteristic day in the shoes of Sister Audrey, once those slippers were removed, nothing about the conclusion of the day resembled that former archetype. 

            What, you may inquire, could have tickled my fancy so as to thrust me into such a blissful state? Ah, that is the delight of my day and, in all likeliness, the climax of my week.

            Having fetched Reamey from her classroom, my favorite Ghanaian sauntered into the parlor.  As we began to talk, Bismark captivated our attentions, and our time, for three quarters of an hour.  In departing, he bestowed the highest compliment I’ve yet received since my arrival in Ghana.  Being a truly sincere, humble, gentle man (and phenomenal musician, I must add), I was (and still am) deeply flattered by his excessive accolades. 

            I do not wish to leave you in suspense – I must share!  He began by confessing his comfortability with Reamey and me, stating that we are unusually approachable and friendly in comparison with the others that have been employed by the Mission.  It was as if he had opened a pressurized confetti container, for as soon as his flattery commenced, he excitedly continued.  I was helpless against the Cheshire grin taking possession of my face.  He began speaking on behalf of the Ghanaian staff, namely the Pastors.  Essentially, he expressed how affable, genial and altogether sociable we are.  It seems that volunteers from the States are generally reserved and less forthcoming than we have proven to be.  He shared some information that I had been entirely unaware of concerning one of the senior pastors.  Apparently, “Pastor Eben,” as they call him, is directly opposed to accepting gifts from the volunteers who come through.  Well, last Wednesday, I had received a package which contained, among other items, some caramel calcium chews.  In my excitement, I began generously imposing my “candy” upon all in my presence.  Bismark confessed his shock when he observed Pastor Eben not only accept my token gift but also immediately ingest it.  He added that he was not alone in his surprise – all those present understood that something was different and appreciated the gesture of his acceptance. 

            Yet, all his accolades were mole hills in comparison to comment he lastly ushered forth.  In this final Everest of praise, he confessed his great sadness at our eventual departure.  I assured him we would not be leaving for quite a few months more, but this did not console him.  “Well, I can only speak on my own behalf,” he began, stuttering.  “I would really wish for you to live here and call this your home.  And have your families move here. And, well, you would still visit home, but you would prefer your second home here to your first home there.”  I was stunned by the sincerity with which he delivered his reverie.

            Reamey and I, tickled as we were by such a compassionate articulation, continued to muse upon it for the entirety of our homeward ambulation.  There is little ambiguity in assuming that such a reverie shows premeditation, Reamey observed.  Assuredly, he must have pondered a great while in order to have hewn such an aspiration.

            Thusly, I shed the typical slippers worn by “Sister Audrey” and adorned myself with a brand new pair of zappatos, fit for the climb to Cloud Nine.