Bonnie's Blog

A Gift of Education

2008-11-11T10:03:00.000-08:00

Last summer, while I was in the throes of meeting untold demands from our U. S. Embassy in Accra, Ghana, West Africa, in order for them to honor a request for a visa for one of their best and brightest 16-year-old students, I preserved my sanity by working on a special quilt that I hoped might help other children in the village to have an opportunity to attend Heritage Academy. (You can read about my experience as a volunteer teacher of creative writing in the summer of 2007 elsewhere in my blog.)

The picture above shows the finished queen-size quilt top: it is entirely made of batik fabrics and contains 1,342 pieces. It was professionally quilted, and I have received many compliments on it. Actually, I would say it is my best effort.

There are two potential good things that will come out of this quilt: 1) you may win it if you buy a raffle ticket for $1, or six tickets for $5, and 2) even if you don't win, some child will come closer to being able to attend the Heritage Academy school which this year had 100% success among the students taking their national exams, which permit them to go to high school.

One year's tuition at Heritage costs $75, so your money goes a long way. If you would like to participate in this gift of education, please send a check made out to Schoerke Foundation, 400 W. School Lane, Westtown, PA 19395, along with your telephone number, and Melissa Koomson, Director of Schoerke Foundation, will put tickets in the drawing pot for you.

If you'd like to know more about my friends Kwesi and Melissa Koomson and the amazing educational difference they are making in Ghana, go to Schoerkefoundation@yahoo.com.

PS Doing battle with the Consulate ultimately had a happy ending, and we now have Sarah Nyame, 16, here with us in the States. She is living with my daughter-by-affection and attending McDevitt High School, and I am her grandmother. I pick her up after school each day and she does her homework at my kitchen table, and I have not had such joy in my life for a long, long time.

Quilt Show Inspiration

2007-09-12T12:08:00.001-07:00

When I go to a quilt show, if I come home with one good idea, I consider my outing a great success.

Last week, I attended what used to be affectionately known in these parts as the "Ft. Washington Quilt Show." The venue was moved to Harrisburg a year or two ago, making attendance more problematic.

But this year my friend Connie said there was space on the minibus at the retirement community where she lives, so I happily accepted her invitation. There were only 8 of us, which made the trip especially pleasant.

The picture above shows the essence of a quilt that knocked me out with its simplicity and its three-dimensional illusion. I made the sample with some solid pastels cut into 3-1/2" squares and bordered on the right and bottom with 1-1/4" wide tan, with a little square of white in the upper right and lower left corner. Each little block is connected by the same white fabric cut into a 2-1/4" sashing.

The quilt has endless possibilities. What grabs me is the "shadow" effect created by the tan standing out from the white background.

Try it. I think you'll like it!

2007-09-03T18:36:00.000-07:00

In 1925, the granddaughter of Queen Victoria, called Princess Marie Louise, said of Ghana, “What is its spell? I cannot tell you, nor wherein lies its unfathomable charm. It lays its hand upon you, and, having felt its compelling strength, you never can forget it or be wholly free of it…”

As this story comes to a close, I'd like to say a few words about "Miss Rosie," my granddaughter-by-affection.For the past few years, Rosemary and I have spent many happy hours together in my sewing room as she began to develop her creative talents as a quilter. We've listened to Harry Potter tapes together and we've shared many a congenial lunch at the table in my sunroom.

I was at once thrilled and flattered when this 16-year-old asked me to be her traveling companion in Ghana, and I scarcely blinked before I said yes to her invitation. Yet, as the day of our departure neared, I began to wonder whether we would be able to sustain our easy relationship with one another for 24 days and nights, halfway around the world from home.

I needn't have worried. Rosie rose to every occasion of unappetizing food and unpleasant cold showers, lumpy beds and ugly black spiders with an absence of complaint and a display of circumspect grace.

Last week, Rosie turned 17, and I gave her a scrapbook for her pictures and memories from Ghana. In two days' time, a thank-you letter arrived in my mailbox, addressed to Madam Bonnie Dalzell. The letter said, in part: "I'm glad to be home. I'm glad to have what I have. I'm glad to be 17. And I'm glad to have you."

There's simply no doubt: Rosemary Limburg is a young woman of unfathomable charm.

Checking Out: Creative Caskets

2007-09-02T09:25:00.000-07:00

Funerals are immensely important in Ghana, and they are held on Saturdays. It’s not unusual to see groups of people dressed in black or red walking down the rural dirt roads to a funeral.

In the city, a funeral of a wealthy person is another phenomenon altogether. The more important the deceased, the more elaborate the funeral.

In Teshie, just east of Accra, a family of coffin makers has developed its business to a high art form, in which special-order coffins match the occupation of the deceased. It seems a shame that they are seen only during the funeral procession; then they are buried. Pictured here are special-order caskets for an airline pilot, a Coca-Cola afficianado, a pineapple lover, a dairyman and, it seems, the ultimate poultry man. Frank Perdue, eat your heart out!

Looking Homeward

2007-08-31T07:22:00.000-07:00

We spent Saturday wandering the streets of Cape Coast, buying beads and other small gifts to take home. My old bones were hurting, and I began to long for a luxurious warm shower and a summer meal of chicken Caesar salad.

At the same time, I didn’t want this time to end. It seemed there was much more to learn. I thought about my friend Mitch who spent two years in East Africa in the Peace Corps about twenty years ago. Her view of the world, especially the enormous wastefulness in American society, has been profoundly changed by that experience. Now that I had had a tiny taste of third-world living, I hoped that I would not forget the life lessons that had come my way.

I had done some extensive reading about the famed slave-trade “castles” in Ghana, and many years ago I had visited Dachau, the concentration camp in Munich. But nothing could have prepared me for the guided tour of Elmina Castle that we took on Sunday afternoon. As we walked to the Female Slave Dungeon and ducked our heads in the passageway to the Door of No Return where untold numbers of Ghanaians boarded slave ships bound for Europe and America, the guide spoke of the barbarous behavior of the Portugese and, later, the Dutch naval officers who plundered the Gold Coast of its minerals and its populace. The stories of unspeakable atrocities, recounted so unemotionally, caused my stomach to wrench. When – in the same courtyard where women were chosen for rape by the governor – the guide pointed out “the first Catholic church in Africa” (now a museum), I turned away in revulsion.

Today, Elmina’s port teems with fishing boats, and the coastline’s beauty belies its terrible history of man's inhumanity to man.

Last Day at School

2007-08-30T17:02:00.000-07:00

Friday, 10 August

On the last day that we taught at Heritage, we asked the children to make a list of "20 Things I Want to Do Before I am Old". This was probably the most challenging task they faced in our class. We gave our own examples: Rosie would like to climb Mt. Everest; I would like to go up in a hot air balloon. Predictably, the kids took to the task with an attitude of seriousness. When I read their papers, some items on their lists made me laugh; others touched my heart:

-- Sophia: I will born a baby girl; I will sew a dress; I will plant trees
-- Frank: I will be a driver; I want to read; I want to go to South Africa
-- Emelia: I want to build a house for my mother; I want to go to the zoo
-- Francis: First, if God help me to grow up, the thing I want to do is be a pastor. If somebody is sick and his mother come and tell me, I will pray for him and that person will get well.
-- Gladys: Tell a story to my children about my school
-- Bridget: I want to be an inventor to help cure AIDS
-- Lydia: I want to be a holy woman in Ghana; and to be the president wife in USA (Now there’s a wild ambition!!)
-- Laud: I want to turn desert into grassland and be an angel of God.

At the end of the last class, two students – Leticia and Louiza – handed Rosie and me thank you notes (see below).

May the Almighty God bless you people for teaching us so many things, Miss Rosie and Madam Bonnie. Thank you for your good advice you have given to us. Amen. By Leticia Koomson

Miss Rosie and Madam Bonnie, May the Almighty God blessed you for teaching us a good story and making us be happy in your class every day. Amen. By Louiza Bediako

These penciled words on lined paper will remain my fondest teaching memory.

Sheep and Goats of Ghana

2007-08-30T05:37:00.000-07:00

It’s not as easy as one might think to tell the goats from the sheep that roam the roads in Ghana. Sheep look nothing like the curly-haired creatures we know in the U.S. And when I told our students that I had trouble identifying the animals, they laughed.

They enjoyed explaining all the by-products of a butchered goat (commonly slaughtered only at Christmas, Easter and special occasions). Besides the meat, which is incorporated into stews and soups, there is the leather which, when dried, is transformed into shoes, drums, bags and other practical items. Glue is made from the hooves, medicine from the stomach, and goat horns become spoon handles resembling ivory. Goats are also used for sacrifice, the children told us, when the gods need to be appeased. Tribal beliefs die hard.

Here are a couple of stories about the goats of Ghana. The first is factual; the second is true creative writing, and was undeniably my “Hi” that day!

Doris Amppial Botwey
Goats
A goat is a calm animal that lives in the house by its owner. A goat can give birth to the young and also breastfeed its kids. In Ghana a lot of people like rearing up goat because of the money they gain for them.
Because, when a goat is pregnant and it is time for it to deliver it gives birth to more than three. When the young one grew up the owner sold some of them. This help them to earn money. A goat is very important for Christmas because their skin is used for leather, hooves for glue, dropping for manure, horns for handle spoons.
Some people too slaughter goat for sacrifice when someone breaks the law of the society or the gods for apology.
Goat is use for many activities such as Christmas, and parent slaughter goat for the children’s gift and this makes us happy and we sometimes exchange rice with mutton for Christmas gift.

Precious Gyan
A Story About Goats
Once upon a time there lived a man call Budu. He has a goat that can talk, sing and dance. So Budu went to the king of the town that he has a goat that can talk and dance. The chief agree with him and said, All the people will meet at the market and if your goat did not talk, what should I do to you. Mr. Budu said let your soldiers cane me till I die.
One day all the people in the town met at the market waiting for Mr. Budu to bring his goat. Mr. Budu brought his goat and the goat couldn’t talk. Mr. Budu gave the coat cassava pills but still the goat did not talk. Because the goat couldn’t talk, the chief solders started beating him up with canes.
As they were beating him the goat started saying Hey people! Why are you beating my owner like that? After the goat said that the soldiers stopped beating him.
After that the chief gave Mr. Budu match money two cows and five sheep. Because no one have a goat that can talk.
When Mr. Budu was going home he ask his goat, why did you let the people beat me? The goat replied to him, That is how to get match money, two cows and five sheep.

Batik-Dyeing Amid the Goats

2007-08-29T05:45:00.000-07:00

On Sunday afternoon, we went to Mankessim to the home of Sister Juliana, an artist who designed the Heritage Academy cloth from which dress uniforms are made. Her home would be considered middle class by Ghanaian standards. Not only did it have a TV antenna, but there was actually a TV (many antennae mounted on roofs are simply status symbols). We learned that Juliiana also owns a computer which she uses to create images for her wax designs. For four hours, we sat in the courtyard and watched the laborious process of batik-wax dyeing, taking part in creating the design when invited, and taking enjoyment from the children peering over the fence, the goats trampling on the cloth spread out to dry, the skittish kitten that seemed to be a pet, and the plodding sounds off sheep passing by.

Learning the Ropes at Kakum Park

2007-08-28T04:31:00.000-07:00

Saturday, 4 August

The weekend and the prospects of a field trip to Kakum National Park with a group of students who had never been outside of their village found us all in high spirits. John and his Dad, Rick, rode with the 16 students in The Magic Bus, while the rest of us crammed ourselves into a taxi driven by Secum, one of the regular drivers on whom Kwesi depends for transportation. Enroute, Carol and I asked Secum to stop just outside of Cape Coast, where craftsmen were carving great tree logs into boats. We crossed the road and asked if we could “snap” them, but they responded in a hostile way. It was our first experience of that sort of response, and I began to make a hasty retreat, offering apologies as I went. But in a minute, Secum called us back. Somehow, he had persuaded the men that we had great admiration for their work, and they allowed us to take pictures of a finished boat called “Genesis.”

Then we were back on the deeply rutted road leading to Kakum, the most extensive rainforest habitat in Ghana. We visited a small museum of natural history and took pride in the undivided attention paid to the guide by our Heritage Academy students. Next was the highlight of the trip: the canopy walk, consisting of a 350 meter-long 40-meter high wood-and-rope walkway suspended between seven trees and broken up by a number of viewing platforms. Once you have crossed the first bridge, you have the option of returning; if you don’t go back, you must complete the one-way hair-raising experience. Despite my profound fear of heights I chose to go the distance. The applause of the children waiting for me as I stepped off the last bridge was akin to the feeling I had when I finished the Philadelphia Half Marathon some 25 years ago. “Amen! Alleluia!” I said in reply to their Ghanaian clap.

Rick took my arm as we descended the steep steps leading from the canopy to the ground level and as we walked, he described his experience with the children in The Magic Bus. “They sang the whole time,” he marveled. “One hymn after another; mostly I didn’t recognize the music, but it all ended with ‘amen.’ And then, right in the middle of this songfest they sang “Row, row row your boat” and I wondered, “Where the heck did that come from?”

Thinking about it now, I love to imagine Ebenezer and Isaac and Gifty and Precious some day in the distant future, teaching their grandchildren the song they learned at Heritage Academy the year that Madame Bonnie and Miss Rosie came to teach.

"Hello" Answers a Prayer

2007-08-27T07:33:00.001-07:00

Friday, 3 August

Yesterday had been a hard day at school for Rosie and me. No matter how simple a lesson we devised, the children seemed unable to find their creative voices. So we began the day with heavy hearts and walked directly into the headmaster’s office before school, instead of stopping to talk with the waiting students.

In a matter of minutes, Perpetual (a student teacher who was among the graduates) knocked on the door and walked in holding her left shoe in her hand. The leather thong had pulled out of the sole. “Do you have a pin?” she asked desperately. Rosie had two safety pins, fastened to her backpack. (I shall never know why, but she had mentioned the existence of those pins just that morning as we were gathering our things for school). The three of us took turns forcing the pin into the torn leather, then through the upper part of the sole of the shoe. When Rosie locked the safety pin, and I saw the smile on Perpetual’s face, I had to turn away to hide my tears. It was another lesson in “sustainability.”

At lunchtime, I had a meltdown, and sat alone under a tree in the school yard, wiping away tears, trying to figure out what I was really crying about. I just didn’t know.

I talked about my overwhelming emotions to Carol on the walk home. She said, “Don’t expect to have the answers for awhile; from my experience, it takes about a year to finish your transformation.” Now, having been home for only two weeks, I'm certain she's right.

Tomorrow: Learning the Ropes at Kakum Park

Hi's and Low's and Prayers at School

2007-08-25T16:26:00.000-07:00

Since many of the volunteers in our group are Quakers, Kwesi has instituted a kind of spiritual practice for all of us each evening, in which we begin with a moment of silence and then in turn we tell about our "highs" and "lows" of the day. I have begun to look forward to times when the electricity is off; somehow, this quiet sharing seems even more meaningful by candlelight.

On this particular evening, we had fufu and light soup for dinner, and our housekeeper and cook, Theresa, brought a birthday cake she had baked for Kwesi at home (the guesthouse doesn't have an oven). Our planned Koomson Festival didn’t happen because the lights were off once again. Electricity is rationed throughout Ghana, and no one knows when it will be our turn to lose power, nor for how many hours it will be off.

My Hi was that a boy named Gabriel asked me for my phone number – first time anyone hit on me in 50 years! Everyone had a good laugh. Melissa’s Low was having a mouse run into her classroom. One of the children chased it, stepped on it, and carried it out. Rick made the comment that when he was reading The Magic Locket with a group of boys, he asked if anyone had ever given them a gift, and the only thing they could name were gifts (of school supplies) given to them at Heritage Academy.

In the middle of the night I woke and began to think about John’s expressed Low on Tuesday – how hopeless it all seems. I began to understand what he means; there is so much privation that it is impossible for most of the children ever to realize their dreams. I remembered having asked Kwesi what he thought about Oprah Winfrey’s school, and his measured reply that, while it was a wonderful thing, he didn’t believe it was sustainable. Now I was beginning to understand what he meant. Heritage Academy takes small steps forward, but when problems arise (such as the school bus breaking down), the people can fix them on their own, with intuitive knowledge and local resources. With a dedicated man like deGraft Tawiah as headmaster, as well as a faculty of locally trained teachers, Heritage Academy is a grassroots school capable of profound influence over other private schools in the Central Region of Ghana.

Thursday, 2 August

Today, we began our class by asking the children to write for 10 minutes about anything they wanted. Here are two excerpts:

Charity Hammond
My Teachers
Madam Bonnie and Miss Rosie they have round eyes and round cheeks. They are white women with good mind and have no bad ideas with any one. They talk about themselves. That is why I love them. They are Madam Malisa’s friend.

Also they both teach one subject which is writing. They have spectacles. I think both have saving eye.

Samuel Arthur
I Like Learning and Attend Church
I like studies in class room. I dislike gossiping because it is not good. What I like best is learning books like libray books, mats, English and science. This are the things that I like.
I want to be like a respectful boy at USA so that everyone will take care of me. I like studies very hard and I dislike playing too much.

I want to be like how you studies hard so that me too I will be like you and have chance to teach writing.

I like church very much because if you go to church God too will open your mind to studies very hard and as for that every book that they will give it to you, you can easy read it and every work that they will give to you, you can easy do it. And I attend church of Pentecost in Ghana. So me too I want know your church that you attend at USA.

The clock seemed to stop at the end of the class period on this day. Desperate to fill the last 10 minutes, we asked the children if there was anything they would like to know about us. One of them asked us to teach them a song. Rosie and I looked at each other, at a complete loss. We settled on “Row, row, row your boat,” and we sang it together. The children asked us to write the words on the board. Then they sang it with us. When the bell rang at last, we left the classroom, headed toward our lunch of peanut butter sandwiches. The children remained behind, copying the song into their notebooks.

Speaking of clocks, one of the greatest oddities I've ever seen is the "Jesus Clock" in the headmaster's office (see picture). It runs on batteries and on the hour it plays different songs with the tonal quality of the worst musical greeting card you've ever heard. I was dumbstruck to hear it play "Oh, Susannah!" at noon one day.

And while I'm writing about spiritual matters (!!), let me mention the closing exercises each day at school, which never fail to bring a lump to my throat.

The children line up in forms; they close their eyes and put their hands together and recite the Lord's Prayer. Then they sing a hymn, and sometimes - at the direction of Kwesi - they recite a psalm before them are dismissed.

One of the elements of the written test at the end of each year is to write the Lord's Prayer. Kwesi showed me one student's version: Our foder who art in heaven, hello be thy name. Die king don't come Die will be done... Give us this day our jelly bread...

I think I'll never recite that prayer again without thinking what a great name "Hello" is for God!

Tomorrow: "Hello" Hears a Prayer

First Day of School, and The MagicBus

2007-08-24T12:42:00.000-07:00

Monday, 30 July
First Day of School

I think we all were feeling a little anxious as we walked single file along the dusty road for about a mile until we reached the school. The children from five surrounding villages are transported each day in a battered tro-tro turned into a blue school bus with “Heritage Academy” emblazoned on its sides. (One reader of my blog asked what a a tro-tro is. According to travel writer Philip Briggs, “tro-tros cover the length and breadth of Ghana’s roads”; they are usually customized minibuses “with densely packed seating, a pervasive aura of sweat, and no view”. When you travel between small towns, they are the vehicle of choice, and we had many a thrilling ride on tro-tros during our stay in Ghana.
The children were packed in so tightly that the bus seemed to wobble with the weight. We later began to think of it as The Magic School Bus. A Mercedes “as luxurious as can possibly be” as Katie describes it, the vehicle had 313,439 km on it when Kwesi bought it in 2004, and the odometer hasn’t changed, so who knows how many miles it has traveled? It routinely breaks down and gets overnight repair by Alaska, the bus driver, whom Kwesi says is the most important person at Heritage Academy. He holds that position because if the bus doesn’t run, the children can’t come to school, and then the teachers have nothing to do.

On this first day of summer school, all of the children lined up in forms, and Kwesi called the names one by one, then sent the classes off with their appointed teachers. Rosie and I will be teaching three classes each morning: two who are at a level equivalent to 7th grade and one 8th grade.

We spent the morning introducing ourselves and learned about the children. Then we explained the purpose of our class, Creative Writing. Creativity is a foreign idea to these children. They are taught in the British style of education: the teacher lectures, the students take notes and then, in their testing, they regurgitate what they have learned. Nearly all of the information communicated is factual; there is no room for expressing one’s own opinion. Hence, it was difficult to get across the idea that in our class there would be no “wrong answers.”

We asked them to choose between three topics: If I were a Superhero, My Happiest Day, or My Dream. One boy’s Happiest Day had been the graduation exercises on Saturday. A girl wrote about being a Superhero: here is her composition:

If I were a superhero I will do magic things people cannot do. I will make bad people like army robbers and merders die instantly when they kill people and also when they take their good money and so many things away. And those who do any other bad things they know what they are doing is not good.

And I will protect my village from death when a war happen.
And also make them win any war they had. This is what I will do if I were a superhero.

One bright-eyed child named Sophia came up to me in between the second and third period of the morning and handed me something she had written on her own. It was called The Man Who Didn’t Wash His Dishes, and it was a real story, with a beginning, a middle, and even a happy ending! At that moment I saw a future Ghanaian writer in the making.

We rested during the lunch hour from 12:30 – 1:30 pm and ate bread spread with avocado and soft cheese. We drank the leftover Fanti (orange soda) from the graduation treats. Then we sat with groups of two or three children and practiced reading. We began with Level 1 stories which had been photocopied on colored paper. There were not enough copies for each child to take them home, and I was enormously sad when I had to say no to one child who asked if he could have the “book.”

The children are starved for learning. Their eyes are locked onto the pages, and their attention never wavers. Our job is to help them with vocabulary that is foreign to them and to insure that they are comprehending the story, not just sounding out the words.

I got a little touch of the enormity of the challenge they have accepted when (in free time after the reading class) two of the children tried to teach me the words for “one, two, three” in Fante. To this moment, I don’t remember those words.

Harvest Festival

2007-08-23T13:44:00.000-07:00

Then we went to the harvest festival in Breman Esiam, where Kwesi lived as a child. The narrow street was crammed with people of every age, from infants on their mothers’ backs to old men in traditional dress. There was drumming, and celebration filled the air. We “obronfu” likely caused more excitement than the procession of the Queen Mother. People clamored to touch us, to shake our hands, to ask “what is your name?” and to have their pictures taken.

Anna, a teacher from the school, and Perpetual, one of the graduating students, hovered over us like two mother hens. We listened to the drumming, and then walked toward a tight crowd of people who had gathered around the fetish dancer. Before long, we all had been drawn into the circle and were dancing under the full harvest moon.Then Melissa took us down a side road of the village to the house where Kwesi grew up. That a little boy from such humble beginnings has grown up to create such lasting change in the educational system in Ghana is no less than a miracle. As a young teen, Kwesi was offered a scholarship to high school in Wales. From there he emigrated to the US where he eventually earned an MBA at the University of Pennsylvania. He hopes to pursue a Ph.D. at Harvard in the near future.

Sunday, 29 July

Everyone except Carol and I went to Coconut Grove Beach Resort for the day; we stayed home and worked at our computers (Carol, a writer, had a deadline for a Rotary magazine, and I wanted to work on my journal). At lunchtime, over bread and peanut butter and fresh pineapple, we told each other our stories and became good friends. Rosie and Carol’s daughter Katie apparently did the same; they seemed very much at ease with one another when they returned from their daylong outing.

All of us -- Melissa and Greta, Carol and I, Rosie and Katie, John and his Dad Rick (who will be the "Reading Specialist" at Heritage for one week) -- have formed an easy relationship with one another that seems to come from living in close contact and making a silent agreement not to complain about hardships.

Tomorrow: First Day at Heritage Summer School
draft

Heritage Academy Graduation

2007-08-22T11:35:00.001-07:00

Melissa wore her custom-made traditional Ghanaian dress, made from cloth specially designed for the Heritage Academy students' dress uniforms, and the guesthouse was filled with excitement as the day began.

The first graduating class of Heritage Academy (equivalent to our 9th graders) was 32 girls and boys, and there were about 700 people in attendance. (Word had gotten around that there would be refreshments, and there were: a bottle of cold orange soda and some small crackers for each guest.) This was the biggest thing that has happened in Ajumako in recent history. All the school students were there, in uniform, and proud parents and local dignitaries were dressed in their finest clothes. Some of the honored guests on stage wore traditional garb, and the program was elaborately planned. It lasted for 5 hours.

Kwesi did his best to make it for and about the students. There was both a boy and a girl prefect who delivered remarkable speeches; there were special awards; there were poetry recitations and dancing and drumming, and a drama given by the students which had the parents in rollicking laughter.

There were also lots of long-winded speeches and long-winded prayers; mercifully, they were broken up by the dancing. At one point, a Heritage teacher brought a little girl to me and said that she “wanted to dance with me” so I got up and danced. She looked a bit bewildered. I think the teacher wanted me to dance with her.

When it was time to present the diplomas, Kwesi called me to the podium to give out the “presents” (the calculators I had brought for each child, given in memory of my dear friend George Hindley, CPA). It was an unexpected honor for me to be able to congratulate each student individually.

The program ended with an impassioned speech delivered by the village chief (pictured here).

Collisions, Conscience and Christianity

2007-08-21T12:01:00.000-07:00

Friday, 27 July

We did some further shopping at the Hand in Hand sheltered workshop, and I bought a copy of Ineke’s book, To Be a Man is Not Easy. It is a collection of 13 essays by Ghanaian emigrants which recounts the hardships these men faced in order to make better lives for their families.We set off for “home” (Ajumako) shortly after 10 am. Again, we grazed on bananas and biscuits and avocado. On another deeply rutted dirt road, a tro-tro coming from the opposite direction came far onto our “side of the road” and brushed against Sam’s rear view mirror. Immediately, he stopped and got out of the car, ready for a confrontation. He got it! Our mirror was okay, but the tro-tro’s was broken. Young men poured out of the tro-tro like clowns in a circus car, and there was wild gesticulating that grew more alarming when one of the men shoved a large log under the front wheel. Melissa grew scared; Rosie and Greta locked their doors. Sam was nowhere to be seen, behind us in the crush of tro-tro passengers, all out to defend their driver. After what seemed like a long while, Sam came back to the car terribly agitated, he told Melissa the driver had demanded 150,000 cedis ($15) as the cost of repairing the mirror. Melissa did her best to hide the wad of money she was carrying and peeled off the right number of bills. After another long wait during which Sam insisted that everyone get back in the tro-tro before he would give the money to the driver, he finally returned to the car and passed 100,000 cedis ($10) to Melissa – the driver apparently had a change of heart and offered him “change”!! We were all quiet for a long time.

As we neared Cape Coast, I became increasingly fascinated by the signs along the road (e.g., “stones for sale, or if you need a ride, call…” and the omnipresent religious aphorisms adopted by local merchants for their business monikers. I began to realize how deeply rooted is Christianity in the lives of these people. There are few earthly avenues to hope, so hope is given to Christ, who does not disappoint.

Later in the week, I began to make a list of business names which, while they amused me enormously, reinforced my belief that God comes first in the lives of Ghanaians, and we in America could take a lesson.

Here are some names on my list:

God is one Fast Food
Manna Heights Hotel
Naked I Came Tasty Meals
The Holy Innocents Refrigerator and AC Parts
With God All Things Are Possible Supermarket
The Blood of Jesus Bicycle Workshop
Humble Beginnings Architecture Shop
God Will Provide Refrigeration Svcs.
Hope Makes You Strong Hair Cuttery
Jesus My Redeemer Eggs and Plastic (an incongruous combination of products, to be sure)
No Time Left Jesus is Coming Beauty Shop
Jeremian 33:3 Enterprises (I looked it up; it's "Call to me and I will answer you, and will tell you great and hidden things that you have not known)

Tomorrow: Heritage Academy Graduation

Elephants, Monkeys and Home Cats

2007-08-20T17:40:00.000-07:00

On our way to Mole National Park, the road was paved at first, but we soon were on a deeply rutted dirt road and bumped along for 5-1/2 hours. At one desolate spot, a group of kids (some of them naked) threw a big stick into the road right in front of Sam’s car. Furious, he stopped, got out and hollered at them -- “Awi!” (animals!) -- and they beat it into the bush.

When we got to Mole, it was too late for a safari tour and we learned there were no rooms available at Mole Motel (the park’s only accommodation), except a dormitory-style room where we could sleep on the floor – for $8. We opted out of that and decided to stay at the Salia Brothers’ guesthouse in nearby Larabanga.

We got close up and personal with the warthog who roamed the grounds, and we snapped pictures of the baboons cavorting near the lodges. Weary from our long ride, we fell into an absurd mood of silliness. Greta pointed toward the disappearing tail of a small animal and asked, “Is that a monkey?” “No, Madam,” came the grave response from one of the park rangers, “that is a cat. A home cat,” he added, in an effort to be perfectly clear. We all fell into gales of laughter. Melissa composed a t-shirt slogan on the spot: “I went all the way to Mole, and all I saw was a home cat!”

We ordered our dinner at the restaurant at about 5pm. It was served to us at 7pm. Meanwhile, we sat in the dark and watched a violent storm and marveled at a man who took his life in his hands by jumping into the pool as lightning flashed all around.

The Salia Brothers’ guest house in Larabanga was primitive sleeping at its best. Melissa and Greta shared a double bed; Rosie and I each had a twin in the same room, lit by a kerosene lamp. The “toilets” were about 200 yards away, across a deeply rutted yard. Behind a crude mud privacy wall were two holes in the ground. Perched on the wall were three chickens, looking down on Melissa as she “freed herself.” I wasn’t keen on crossing that ground alone, nor was I sure I could get up from a squat, so I used a hand-crafted chamber pot that Greta made out of a two-litre water bottle. It worked just great.

Thursday, 26 July

I awoke before dawn to a cacophony of rainfall on the tin roof. There was distant drumming and animal calls, music and car motors and horns – such a bizarre mix of sounds that I said to myself – this time with conviction – I am really in Africa! Then I went back to sleep until I heard the soft sound of sweeping outside the door of our hut. Sweeping the dirt is as routine a task for Africans as making morning coffee is for us. Dawn had broken. Travelers’ diarrhea had struck. There was nothing to do but to hurry across the compound, brave a squat, complete my business and take an Immodium.

At Mole, we had a long wait for our safari guide; many other groups were ahead of us, though it was only 7am. Finally, the ranger and his rifle got into the passenger seat, the three girls got into the bed of the truck and I sat like the Queen Mother on my backseat stool. About half an hour into the forest we came upon a group of elephants. At two other places, we were able to get quite close to them on foot – a thrill beyond words, despite the unrelenting rumblings of my “dire rear.”

Following the safari tour, we went back to Larabanga where one of the enterprising Salia Brothers described a crocodile pond he is building at the guest house. He asked Sam about the plastic tarp he had in the flatbed, with which he was carefully protecting our luggage. A lining like that would be a great asset for the project, he said. I privately wondered whether having live crocodiles on the premises of his guesthouse would be a draw or a detraction when it came to tourism.

We picked up another Salia brother at the intersection down the road and went to see the West Sudanese-style mud and stick mosque reputed to be the oldest extant building in Ghana. First stop was the Mystic Stone, which local lore says mysteriously reappeared three times when it was removed by roadbuilders. Apparently, the roadbuilders gave in, for the road bends sharply at the bottom of the steep hill on which the Mystic Stone rests.

Nobody seems to agree on the actual date of the mosque or who built it, but the favored theory holds that it was built over the period 1643-75 by Imam Bramah, and it is claimed that his original Koran is inside (but of course no visitors are allowed inside). Our guide said that the entire town is Muslim and everyone prays in the mosque five times a day. There is a front entrance for men, a door for women, and a separate narrow door for the Imam. The people in the village around the mosque light up at the sight of visitors, and children followed us like we were the Pied Piper.

Once we dropped off our guide, “Shortcut Sam” took another dirt road that brought us to the Zgao Beng Siema Monkey Sanctuary, not far from Nkoranza. Monkeys are sacred, so cannot be killed (and possibly even touched, because our guide hollered at Greta for reaching to touch one who apparently befriended her). When they are found dead, they are put in little coffins and buried in a cemetery (with markers) within the confines of the sanctuary.

The forest where the monkeys live is full of botanically-marked unusual trees. Some are huge, and fishing vessels are carved in a single piece from their trunks. Others are parasites, and offer an eerie, latticed place to step inside for closer viewing.

When we finished our tour, a group of backpackers hailed us and asked if they could have a lift in our truck bed, as they had waited for two hours for a taxi, to no avail. They clambered in, and protected themselves with tarps when the rains poured down on them midway to their drop-off point.

Then we went on to Hand in Hand; enjoyed a pasta and chicken dinner made by Charity. Rosie and I played Scrabble with a Dutch game board; it was disconcerting because the Z was valued at only 4. We showered and washed our hair in “luxury” albeit cold water, and then we went to sleep.

2007-08-20T06:55:00.000-07:00

First stop on our sightseeing trek was Cape Coast Hospital, about a 30-minute drive from Ajumako. Melissa and I waited in an outer office for about half an hour, then hospital administrator Dr. B. K. Sabeng and Charlotte Biney, the head nurse, received the MAP pack and medical journals on the steps outside the front door.

Then we were off on a trek that would take us north, straight through the center of Ghana. Sam, our driver, steered our brand-new Toyoto four-wheel truck over a paved road that quickly narrowed to dirt. At about midday, a tro-tro just ahead of us, lurched backwards and brushed our right front fender. Sam got out in a flash and the two drivers had an agitated conversation. They agreed to make a report at the police station in the next village, but when we got there, the tro-tro kept on going. Melissa had memorized the license number; livid, Sam went into the police station to make a report. We took the opportunity to use toilets.

Then we bought bread from a merchant called Mathilda and chatted with another woman called Patience, who said she used to be a police officer in the village. Soon Sam went off to the “district police department” and returned with four officers. There was a lot more conversation and paperwork before we left. Not far out of town, we saw the tro-tro coming from the opposite direction and Sam cheered: the driver had been caught for his “hit and run.” Justice would be served.

At intervals we came to police stops where we were generally waved through; since we were riding in a private car occupied by four obroni women, no attempt was made to ask for bribes, a common practice throughout Ghana.

Later, when we stopped for petrol, we saw another tro-tro carrying live goats on the roof, lashed with netting.

Then we came to a road under construction. We waited for about an hour and a half for our turn to go, during which time a fan club of street merchants offered us their wares. We bought bananas, avocados (which Sam calls pears), and ground nuts, which taste like roasted peanuts. We made friends with the children and they all scrambled when we offered them our empty water bottles. One mother held her baby close to Melissa, and she took its picture. The longer we sat there, the more the mother kept returning to our car, holding out the baby, as though she wanted us to take it with us! She even held up some tiny baby pants as an incentive.

We became “grazers,” eating what and when we wanted from our supply of food in the car. We had brought along the leftover jolof rice from Monday’s dinner, and Greta ate that skillfully with a knife (our only utensil).

In late afternoon, we arrived in Kumasi, the largest and most important city in the interior of Ghana, population exceeding one million. It has served for 300 years as royal capital of the Ashanti state, and (according to travel writer Philip Briggs) was the inland terminus of most of the major 18th-century slave-trading routes to the coast. We visited the Prempreh II Jubilee Museum, commonly known as the palace, and heard the story of the Golden Stool, which is supposed to have descended from heaven. No photographs of the building are permitted, even out of doors. Inside we saw many life-size figures of Nana Osei Agyeman Prempreh II who ascended to the Golden Stool in May 1931 and reigned for nearly 40 years. His figure is accompanied by one of his sister, who reigned as the Queen Mother. There were many royal stools on display, as well as a pair of porcelain vases given by Pope John Paul II.

It was dark when we arrived at Nkoranza. Inside the gates of Hand in Hand, a beautiful young woman named Charity welcomed us and showed us to our guest house, which had a sitting room and two bedrooms.

On the door lintels were the words “VIP No 1” and “VIP No 2.” Rosie and I took the room with the bathroom “down the hall.” There was mosquito netting over each twin bed and a ceiling fan. Since the restaurant was closed, Charity heated up our leftover jolof rice for our dinner, which we enjoyed with toast, smothered in peanut butter and jam. We slept soundly until the rooster awoke us about 5:45am.

Wednesday, 25 July

Hand in Hand is a home for abandoned and mentally handicapped children who have been “picked” from trash heaps. It is common belief in tribal Africa that children born with physical or mental handicaps are a curse on the family, so they are abandoned or killed. Ineke Bosman, a physician and counselor from Denmark, rescues these children and offers them a safe, secure home. Volunteers from all over the world come to work with the children.

Ineke is married to Bob Maran, a Jew from Chicago, who must have been a star in vaudeville. He crooned his way into my heart; like my own Bob, he “has a song for everything.” He gave us a tour of their house, where the walls display honors to Ineke from all over the world, including one from the current Pope Benedict.

On the spacious grounds of Hand in Hand, we toured the Game Room, the Classroom and the room where the children take their naps each afternoon. Then we were taken to the Sheltered Workshop where many of the mentally-challenged children string beads. Beads are made at Hand-in-Hand, as well; there are molds, and a storeroom of glass bottles, and an open fire in which the glass is melted in molds.

Ghana Journal - First Impressions

2007-08-19T08:15:00.000-07:00

After such a long time away from my blog and such a plenitude of thoughts and feelings about my visit to Ghana, I've decided to describe my experiences by publishing my journal in small doses,hoping that you'll read what interests you and quit when you feel bored and perhaps return to my blog whenever you like.

What follows is an abbreviated description of our non-stop flight from JFK to Accra, which turned out not to be non-stop after all.

Sunday/Monday, July 22 and 23

Our trip at JFK began with the dismaying discovery that Rosie did not have the proper stamp in her passport; the check-in manager said we might have to purchase a second visa upon our arrival in Ghana.

Travelers to North American airlines are permitted two pieces of checked luggage each. I had agreed to take a 65-pound box of medical supplies and Rosie carried medical journals in one of her suitcases. The MAP packs, as they are called, were the result of some serious fund-raising by a student group at Mount St. Joseph Academy, which has an affiliation with students in a high school in Cape Coast, not far from where we’ll be living. Sarah Collier, who is currently leading this group, is a quilting friend of mine, and her enthusiasm for Ghana rivals my own.

We had little trouble getting the MAP International Package through check-in, and we bid farewell to Mary and Richard and got in the security line. Departure time was set for 3pm, but boarding was delayed because of a passenger on our flight who had a medical emergency. Once we boarded, we sat idle for 3 hours, until the medical team determined that the passenger wasn’t fit to fly and loaded him into an ambulance. We left the ground at 5:30pm.

The passengers were elegantly dressed in such colorful Ghanaian clothing that it was like being treated to a fashion show. Some of the men wore white shirts, suits and ties; others were clad in batik shirts. A young mother sitting to the right of us had three children; the oldest was about 4, and she was traveling alone.
The planeload might have been called the Day Care Express; there were so many infants and toddlers

In the middle of the night, the captain announced that, due to unusual weather conditions and contrary winds, we needed to make a landing at Cape Verde Islands for refueling. We set down on Sal, a tiny island near the westernmost tip of Africa. The detour added another hour to our flight time, 16 hours in all.

We arrived in Accra at 10:30am. The immigration officer saw that Rose’s passport lacked a proper stamp, so we were taken to a supervisory office and questioned. After what seemed like a long time, the official wrote down the visa application receipt number and stamped her passport – good for 24 days.

Melissa and her lifelong friend Greta were waiting for us, and we loaded all our luggage into a taxi and set off for Ajumako, the village where the guesthouse is located. The taxi’s windshield was cracked in three places, a tattered American flag air freshener dangled from the rear-view mirror, and a small Bible lay on the dashboard. It was immediately apparent that emissions controls are non-existent in Ghana; diesel smells were overwhelming.

I can’t begin to describe the sights along the highway that runs along the coast. Women and men carrying enormous bundles on their heads – one man had two auto tires on his head, arms swinging free – and the merchants offered an assortment of merchandise that would boggle the mind: crates of apples; sunglasses, unskinned animals that we later learned are rodents weighing 8 to 10 pounds, commonly known as “grasscutters”, plastic lawn chairs, great iron gates, carved wooden doors, all manner of foodstuffs, clothing, kitchenware and pottery -- and elaborately-designed caskets.

Most of the rough-hewn shops bore religious names: above a Mercedes logo were the words “God First Auto Repair.”

Billboards and signs advertised various sorts of private schools, and we saw many children walking along the highway in their school uniforms – brightly colored and beautiful to see. It was apparent that education is a priority in Ghanaian culture.

Closer to our destination, we caused a sensation; as we drove through the small villages, children waved and shouted: “obroni, obroni!” The word means “white person,” and we were to hear it so often in the weeks ahead that we soon became oblivious to it.

The architecture of our guest house reminds me of a Spanish hacienda, with a small indoor courtyard where laundry is hung, and rambling hallways, all on one floor. Our room is furnished with two queen-size beds and one night stand. Incredibly, there is a television set, sitting atop an unopened apartment-sized refrigerator. No closets or hooks; we will be living out of our suitcases. Down the hall is a small room with a toilet and trash can, where all toilet paper is deposited. The adjacent room contains a shower (cold water only); there is no sink, so teeth are brushed in the shower room.

We took a walk to the house next door, where Melissa’s mother-in-law lives with Kwesi’s sister Dora and her toddler twin sisters. Dora was sickly as a child, so she never went to school. Greta remarked that Melissa has the best of all possible family relationships: a mother in law who loves her even though neither can understand a word the other says!

In the front yard, a mother goat had given birth to two kids – the placenta was fresh in the pen, yet the little black babies were frisking all about.

Rose and I took a walk down the road toward the village of Ajumako, waving to passing cars; nearly everyone tooted their horns. Children tagged along with us; one little girl gave Rose a “high five.”

We turned back at the church, where boys were practicing their hymns under their music master’s direction. He invited us in and I took their pictures. Everyone smiled.

Now it is nearly 6:30pm; I have been awake for more than 24 hours, but I don’t feel one bit tired. What a magical day!

Words

2007-01-21T10:16:00.000-08:00

"Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me."

My pastor began his sermon with those words this morning, then he went on to say that the childhood chant is a crock: words impact our lives deeply.
Consider the words, "I will love you and honor you all the days of my life," he said. And another three-word sentence: "I divorce you."

Words cut to the core of our emotions. They ground us in hope, and smother us in despair. They form our identity. They are the glue of all relationships.

Some other words -- those in a hymn called "The Summons" -- spoke to me this morning, as well. "Will you come and follow Me if I but call your name? Will you go where you don't know and never be the same?" The summons in those two sentences seemed written especially for me and the young woman sitting next to me -- my granddaughter-by-affection, Rosemary, who will be team-teaching Creative Writing with me in Ghana this summer.

Words. What will we say to those 7th, 8th and 9th-grade children who are the best and the brightest of 11 villages surrounding Bremen Esiam, where Kwesi Koomson grew up? What will those kids who are attending summer school at Heritage Academy say to us, and will we ever be the same?

Kwesi says that writing is not a skill these children have honed, nor even been taught; yet the ability to write a cogent essay is a necessary part of the examinations they must pass if they are to go on to higher learning.

So words will be taking shape like a Scrabble board in our imaginations during the coming months, as Rose's youthful inspirations criss-cross my weathered ideas. Together, we'll create lesson plans designed to inspire our students toward confident self-expression.

Needless to say, this is not The Last Word on this subject. I'm feeling obsessed -- and ebullient!

2007-01-21T10:13:00.000-08:00

Into Africa

2006-12-10T12:22:00.000-08:00

Last time I posted, I wasn't yet a septuagenarian, but now I am. And some of you will think I've gone a bit daft when I tell you what's happening in my life of late.

First of all, I've decided to hang up my crown. For the past 3-1/2 years, I've been known in some limited circles as Queen of the Church Bulletin. But in early November, as the Big 7-0 loomed, I noticed I wasn't leaping out of bed at the crack of dawn, eager to go to work. St. John's Church Bulletin, which had begun as a pre-printed one-sided 8-1/2 x 11 page into which I plugged the lectionary readings and hymns, had evolved into a 12-page double-sided legal size document with imported text and pictures. Getting it perfect each week seemed nigh impossible, and I didn't like my mutterings as I tried to master the ponderous paths of Publisher. All the warning signs were there, and on the week that I made the Freudian typo "Helleluia" I knew it was time to retire. Stress is verboten for those on the threshold of dotage. So just before my birthday I submitted my letter of resignation, effective December 31.

The following Sunday I attended a benefit brunch for a school in Ghana that St. John's has supported for several years. My guests were Mary and Richard and their three children, aka my "grandchildren by affection." The founders of Heritage Academy were present at the brunch and Kwesi presented a slide talk about his village and the way the school is changing the lives of the gifted students who attend -- all on full scholarships of $15 per year.

I noticed that Rosemary was sitting on the edge of her folding chair throughout Kwesi's presentation, so it wasn't a surprise when she expressed a wish to go to Ghana as a volunteer next summer. Mary and Richard said they wouldpay for her plane ticket if, after a week of thinking about it, she still wanted to go.

She did. So I dashed off an e-mail to Melissa and Kwesi, praising the maturity and talent of this 16-year-old young woman who has spent many an hour with me in my quilting room.

And then, something remarkable happened. Rosemary said she wished I would go with her to Africa. I could just see the smile on God's face as this invitation fell like a feather into my hands and heart.

Some of you know I have long been of the view that there are no coincidences in life. I was at that very time participating in an online group discussing the topic of the Spirituality of Grandparenting, and was posting about not only the five great kids my children have given me but also about these three "surrogates."

So -- Rosemary and I are going to Ghana this July. We are going to team-teach creative writing to middle-school-age kids, and I'm hoping we'll meet some of their grandparents. I don't know much more right now, but I do know this will be a life-changing experience for us. And I just can't keep from smiling!

Clocks

2006-10-29T11:04:00.000-08:00

Each autumn, when I go around the house setting all the timepieces to Eastern Standard Time, I find myself humming a song I used to sing in school called “My Grandfather’s Clock.” It went like this:

My grandfather's clock was too large for the shelf

So it stood ninety years on the floor.

It was taller by half than the old man himself,

But it weighed not a penny-weight more.

It was bought on the morn

Of the day that he was born

And was always his joy and his pride

But it stopped -- short -- never to go again

When the old man died.

Ninety years without slumbering,

Tick-tock, tick-tock

His life's seconds numbering,

Tick-tock, tick-tock

It stopped -- short -- never to go again

When the old man died.

It wasn’t only the onomatopoetic rhythm of the lyrics that fascinated me ( I liked to tilt my head sideways on the “tick tocks”), nor was it simply the neck-stretching vision of a tall clock that captured my imagination. No, it was the tantalizing story the song had to tell. Imagine -- a clock that stopped ticking at exactly the same time its owner stopped breathing!

Were the mutual demise of man and machinery mere coincidence, or is there a deeper story here? Is it possible that after many, many years, an inanimate object – a mere piece of furniture that houses a warren of cogs and wheels marking the passage of time – could become linked in simpatico to its owner? Could the swaying pendulum and the sword and scissors hands that sweep around the face of a clock each day and night develop an intelligence that informs them when their movements no longer have meaning?

In the same way that an athlete’s numbered uniform is “retired” when he no longer can play, so also does a father’s favorite chair stand empty in a grieving home.

For the Native American, according to Louise Erdrich in her novel The Last Report on the Miracles at Little No Horse, the quality of animation from within – the harboring spirit – is not limited to animals and plants. Stones are animate, and kettles alive as well. And when their owners no longer have physical contact with them, their very substance is changed.

Admittedly, it’s a “tock-tick” idea that material things might be spirit surrounded by a shell of substance. But I like it – because I believe that’s what we are, too.

Signs and Wonders

2006-10-15T08:56:00.000-07:00

My father-in-law was a Christmas Christian who never gave voice to his faith, though he did a lot of loving others through his quiet work in the Masonic Order. Occasionally, I would tell him about an extraordinary occurrence in my life; he would grow quiet, murmer "signs and wonders," and turn away. That would be the end of our spiritual conversation. But those three words gave me an enduring glimpse into his soul.

Yesterday would have been my husband's 74th birthday. Each year since his death nearly six years ago, I've felt a deep sadness when the leaves begin to turn their beautiful colors. The warm colors were all around me when I stopped by Bob's grave yesterday to give him a verbal love letter. I fought back tears much of the way on my drive to Karen's for dinner.

This morning when I walked into my sewing room to look at the fabrics on my design wall, I could scarcely believe what I saw on the carpet at the threshold -- the white feather pictured above. This isn't a "crafts" feather. It has a quill, and its softness and beauty is certainly not man-made. I don't ask the question, "where did it come from?" because I know. This feather is one of several signs and wonders that have graced my life. I believe it is somehow connected to the last such extraordinary occurrence during a particular lonely time of my widowhood.

A little more than two years ago, I wrote the following:

White Bird

I first saw the bird about June 6, 2004. He was feeding with a group of sparrows, he was shaped just like them, but his feathers were nearly pure white.

At first, I thought he might be an albino. But when I had a chance to look at him closely, I saw that his eyes were brown, just like his feathered friends.

All week long, I thought of him as “a little bit of heaven” in my back yard; a sign of peace and hope in a world gone crazy with hostage-takings and beheadings in the Middle East.

On Sunday, June 13, as my niece Sherry and her husband Chris were visiting with me on the porch, the white bird criss-crossed the yard numerous times and we all marveled at the sight.

After that, I didn’t see him again.

I wrote to my friend Judi Kirk in Canterbury, whose husband is a birder. He talked to friends Annie and Chris, who travel the world to see birds. They were puzzled at first, but then Chris said that it could be an elderly sparrow; they lose their coloring with age, just as we do, he said.

My dear friend Mimi, who is a Wise Woman, was very thoughtful when I told her about the bird later that week. “Was anything special happening in your life while the bird was here?” she asked gently.

Oh, yes, I realized. June 6 was my mother-in-law’s birthdate and deathdate, and she was very present to my thoughts. And June 13 was my 45th wedding anniversary.

Could it be that God sent the white bird to me because He knew my thoughts were turned heavenward that week? I like to think so, and I always will.

The feather in my sewing room and how it got there is, of course, a faith story. Yet, it is truer than anything my heart has ever known. I can't say anything more about it except to echo my father-in-law: "signs and wonders."

As I head toward the garage to try to start the leaf-blower -- my prayer on this beautiful autumn day is that you may believe that God still sends love letters to each of us.

The Meaning of Life

2006-09-27T18:01:00.000-07:00

When I was a young mother and my sister was living far away (my brother-in-law was in the Navy for 4 long years), we wrote letters to one another. And it was through those letters that I got to know Nancy as someone other than simply my "kid sister."

Mostly, we wrote about the quotidian events of our lives. But every once in awhile we'd wax philosophical.

There wasn't such an expression as thread then (other than that with which you sewed on a button), but for a long while we had a thread on what became known to us as "POL" -- the Purpose of Life. We had our suppositions and theories, but we never came to a firm conclusion.

Many years later, I came across a brief story called "The Meaning of Life," and I was so moved by it that I copied it and saved it in a folder on my computer labeled Stories. Here it is, exactly as I found it:

The Meaning of Life
by Frank Davenport

"Are there any questions?" An offer that comes at the end of college lectures and long meetings. Said when an audience is not only overdosed with information, but when there is no time left anyhow. At times like that you sure do have questions. Like, "Can we leave now?" and "What the hell was this meeting for anyhow?" and "Where can I get a drink?" The gesture is supposed to indicate openness on the part of the speaker, I suppose, but if in fact you do ask a question, both the speaker and the audience will give you drop-dead looks. And some fool--some earnest idiot--always asks. And the speaker always answers. By repeating most of what he has already said.

But if there is a little time left and there is a little silence in response to the invitation, I usually ask the most important question of all: "What is the meaning of life?"

You never know - somebody may have the answer, and I'd really hate to miss it because I was too socially inhibited to ask. But when I ask, it's usually taken as a kind of absurdist move - people laugh and nod and gather up their stuff and the meeting is dismissed on that ridiculous
note.

Once, and only once, I asked the question and got a serious answer. One that is with me still.

I went to an institute dedicated to human understanding and peace on the isle of Crete. At the last session on the last morning of a two-week seminar on Greek culture, led by intellectuals and experts in their fields, Alexander Papaderos rose from his chair at the back of the room and walked to the front, where he stood in the bright Greek sunlight of an open window and looked out. We followed his gaze across the bay to the iron cross marking a German cemetery from WWII. He turned and made the ritual gesture: "Are there any questions?"

Quiet quilted the room. These two weeks had generated enough questions for a lifetime, but for now there was only silence. "No questions?" Papaderos swept the room with his eyes. So, I asked. "Dr. Papaderos, what is the meaning of life?" The usual laughter followed, and people stirred to go. Papaderos held up his hand and stilled the room and looked at me for a long time, asking with his eyes if I was serious, and seeing from my eyes that I was.

"I will answer your question." Taking his wallet out of his hip pocket, he fished into his leather billfold and brought out a very small round mirror, about the size of a quarter. And what he said went like this:

"When I was a small child, during the war, we were very poor and we lived in a remote village. One day, on the road, I found the broken pieces of a mirror. A German motorcycle had been wrecked in that place. I tried to find all the pieces and put them together, but it was not possible, so I kept only the largest piece. This one. And by scratching it on a stone, I made it round.

I began to play with it as a toy and became fascinated by the fact that I could reflect light into dark places where the sun would never shine - in deep holes and crevices and dark closets. It became a game for me to get light into the most inaccessible places I could find. I kept the little mirror, and as I went about my growing up, I would take it out in idle moments and continue the challenge of the game. As I became a man, I grew to understand that this was not just a child's game, but a metaphor for what I might do with my life.

I came to understand that I am not the light or the source of the light. But light - truth, understanding, knowledge - is there, and it will only shine in many dark places if I reflect it. I am a fragment of a mirror whose whole design and shape I do not know. Nevertheless, with what I have, I can reflect light into the dark places of this world - into the black places in the hearts of men - and change some things in some people.

Perhaps others may see and do likewise. This is what I am about. This is the meaning of my life."

And then he took his small mirror and, holding it carefully, caught the bright rays of daylight streaming through the window and reflected them onto my face and onto my hands folded on the desk.

Much of what I experienced in the way of information about Greek culture and history that summer is gone from memory. But in the wallet of my mind I carry a small round mirror still.
Are there any questions??

It seems to me that there is a desperate need for human understanding and peace in these dangerous days, and that we all might do well to pose the question of The Meaning of Life to someone, and then to listen carefully to the answer.

So I ask you, what is the Meaning of Life?

Betsy, Meet Teddy

2006-09-19T15:28:00.000-07:00

Christmas is coming (after all, the first day of autumn is only hours away), so I wasn't surprised to hear there's a new teddy bear on the market. But I was surprised to learn that there's more to this guy than just a winsome face. He comes with a remote control. When you push it, he farts.

For those who are wary of remote-action toys, there's a stripped-down model with a belly button which, when pushed, achieves the same bodily emission. In fact, a cursory internet search turned up no less than 30-some farting teddies.

My first reaction was disdain: why can't toy manufacturers be content to produce bears made just for cuddling? But then I remembered the doll I received for Christmas when I was about four years old. She came with her own plastic baby bottle. With Mother's permission, the bottle could be filled with water and fed to baby via a small opening in her round pink lips. And, in the blink of an eye, her diaper was wet. I still remember the wicked thrill of discovering the (anatomically incorrect) exit hole in Betsy Wetsy's bottom.

So I guess there's nothing much to scoff at, after all. Water. Gas. This, too, shall pass.

Filial Affection

2006-09-05T17:21:00.000-07:00

This past weekend, a phone call brought me news of the death of a man who had been our next-door neighbor in Glenside for more than a quarter century. Lester E. Sherry was in his nineties when he went at last "to the Lord," as he would have put it, for he was a deeply religious man.

A reluctant resident of the nursing home in Cape May, NJ in which his wife had died of Alzheimer's some years before, Les grieved the loss of his independence to the end. Just a few weeks ago, he told me with abject sorrow about the recent sale of his automobile and how diminished he felt, having to surrender that classic male symbol of freedom.

I believe that Les was more than ready to go to be reunited with his beloved Virginia. But I am surprised by my unreadiness to lose him as an earthly friend. That is because he was more than a friend to me -- I regard him with filial affection.

Because my own father died abruptly of a heart attack when I was 23, I welcomed Les' presence in our family life as my girls were growing up -- he took an interest in their school activities; he watched them mastering the mysteries of keeping a two-wheeler straight and steady; he conversed with them in a way that showed genuine interest in what they had to say.

He was a father-figure to my husband as well -- sharing the wisdom he'd gained from a lifetime career with Prudential Insurance Company and putting ultimate trust in Bob's knowledge of cars -- he once allowed him to cut a hole in the console of his brand-new Mercury to install some sort of radio component!

Les took me to the tennis courts at Abington High School and did his best to make a Billie Jean King out of me (alas, he couldn't). He loved the sport (and he especially delighted in besting our friend Father Mulligan at the net).

In recent years, he was able to console me in my new widowhood in a way no other man could. We had many a long-distance phone conversation, and I never tired of listening to his crisp diction, his measured thoughts, his fond memories of Bob and all the good times we'd had when we were neighbors. Each time I said goodbye, I always added, "I love you."

There was such a lot to love about Les Sherry.

Quilting Passion

2006-08-27T05:47:00.000-07:00

A Field of Poppies:

Four Friends, Fellowship and Fantastic Fun

My elder daughter Susan is responsible for my abiding passion for quilting. When she moved to Lancaster County almost 20 years ago, she quickly accepted a part-time job in a fabric shop. Pretty soon, her natural talent and training as an educator led her to conducting quilt classes. We used to say she was teaching the Amish how to quilt!

Gregarious and eager to share her skills, Susan offered to teach our female family members how to make a Quilt in a Day. So one day my mother, sister and three cousins gathered at my house to learn how to strip-piece a Log Cabin.

That day marks the inception of my quilting passion, which has grown to include the forming of Hearts and Hands, a charity quilt group in our community, during the Kosovo crisis, membership in a hand-quilting group with the unlikely name of "Uvulas" (don't ask) and teaching a bi-annual quilt day class at St. John's Episcopal Church where I now work as a part-time secretary.

Internet swaps widened my circle of quilting friends, including Judi Kirk from Canterbury (next to me in the group picture above). Judi has been my guest during the Lancaster Quilt Show and we've gone to Paducah together with two other friends, Connie and Diane , also pictured above.

On August 11, the day after the terror alert in London, Connie, Diane and I boarded a British Airlines flight, bearing Ziploc bags as our carry-on luggage. We quelled our anxiety by reminding one another it was likely the safest day in aeronautical history, and it turned out to be just that. We'd been looking forward to attending the Festival of Quilts, billed as the biggest show in Europe and, when one is possessed by quilt passion, a terror threat is no deterrent.

Before we went to Birmingham, however, we spent a day in the home studio of Maureen Thomas. I encourage all quilters to visit her website at www.aquiltartist.com to view her magnificent work and beautiful home on the south coast of England. The four of us played with hand-painted fabrics and specially-drawn patterns of poppies all day long, and the day was heaven on earth, topped off by a convivial meal together with Maureen and her husband at a local pub.

Isn't it amazing where a bit of fabric and a needle and thread can take you?

2006-08-22T12:32:00.000-07:00

Lifetime Friends

I didn't intend for my second blog to be so closely connected to the first, but this one also has to do with letters.

The two smiling ladies in this photo began their friendship as Pen Pals some 61 years ago. That's me on the left, and Jenny on the right, next to her husband Mike. The Berrys live in Wiltshire, not far from Stonehenge, and we had a little reunion there just last week while I was on a holiday in the UK with three other dear friends. (More about that quilt adventure in a future blog.)

I was eight years old when I picked Jenny's name out of The Weekly Reader and composed my first "friendly letter." Ordinarily, this sort of childhood interest wanes quickly, but our correspondence did not. We wrote about our lives; we wrote about school; later we wrote about our boyfriends, our romances, our weddings, our children, and our longing to one day actually meet one another.

Countless letters crossed the Atlantic for 37 years until, one day in 1985, our mutual dream became a reality. I will never forget the exhilaration of embracing my sister-across-the-sea amid throngs of people in Heathrow Airport.

Times have changed, but our special affection for one another never will. Jenny and I are blessed with a relationship that warrants the appelation Lifetime Friends.

To this day, whenever a small envelope bearing the words Royal Mail arrives in the post, my eyes grow misty with wonder.

Letters

2006-08-06T14:21:00.000-07:00

My sister (Nancy, Near Philadelphia) created my blogspot for me more than a week ago, and I immediately came down with a severe case of Bloggers' Block. "What shall I write?" I asked myself a thousand times or so. "Does anybody care what I think -- about anything?"

During this BB period, two different long-time friends came for lunch on two different afternoons and, oddly, the food for thought in both conversations settled into the subject of letters.

By letters, I mean those old-fashioned communiques written on pretty paper known as stationery, scribed in ink, folded in half and placed in a 4" x 5" envelope, sealed, hand-addressed, stamped and dropped into a big blue mailbox.

Jane, my friend who came to lunch on Wednesday, told me about some letters written by her mother more than 60 years ago that surfaced recently when the friend to whom they were sent found them as she was tidying up. She had saved the letters because they spoke of a sweet anticipation that she shared with Jane's mother -- both women were about to deliver their second child. Jane's mother died soon after that second child was born, and her sister Reenie has spent most of her life tortured by the belief that she was an unwanted, unloved child. It's impossible to imagine what these letters meant to her when they were kindly placed in her lap by her mother's dear friend.

Mimi, my friend who came to lunch on Friday, told me she recently had celebrated her "Jubilee," meaning that she has been a Sister of Notre Dame for 50 years. Her only sibling, a brother, was among the guests when her classmates and other members of the Order gathered to honor her. He read from a letter he had rescued from his parents' home in which Mimi's choice to become a nun was described with reverence and joy and -- at the same time -- not a little sadness because their roles and parents had come to an end.

Thinking of my own mother, I remembered the loving caretaker who was with her while she slipped away mentally from Alzheimer's Disease. Lystra was from Trinidad, and she had a special gift with people suffering from dementia. My sister and I grew to love her, admiring the creative ways she kept our mother safe and relatively free from anxiety. When Lystra decided to get her G.E.D., we and her children enjoyed helping her with her homework. I enjoyed helping her to write a "friendly letter" by sending one to her that exemplified the form and content of such a missive.

These days, it is rare for a letter to arrive in the post (though I always look for one amid the supermarket ads, catalogs, charity appeals and bills stuffed in my mailbox). I mourn the near-passing of this old-fashioned form of written conversation. Computers are a marvel; e-mail messages are fun to receive and once in awhile reflect a person's feelings. But they inevitably disappear down the dark hole of Delete, never to be remembered or recovered.

As I begin to count down the months until my 70th birthday, I have resolved to write some from-the-heart letters to those whom I love, in the hopes that they may find their way into a bureau drawer or desk, perhaps one day to resurface at the precise moment when the words need to be savored.

I wonder if you have some old letters tucked away, and what they mean to you today.