I know all about Island Time.  It's the same as Africa Time, South of the Border Time, When in Rome Time and Don't Worry, Be Happy Time.  In theory, it is just great.  That's my heart knowledge speaking.  But, my head isn't as convinced.  Things should just work, and they should work on a schedule.  Isn't that the way the universe - and Jamaica - should roll?  Well, they do work on a schedule and that schedule is Island Time.

So, when things are out of my control and there is nothing I can do about it, I'm reminded of Bobby McFerrin's lyrics and I'm not worrying.  And, I'm in Jamaica, so what's not to be happy about?  And, I will forever be reminded of another singer after this trip.  More on that later.

As expected, and right on schedule I might add, I met with people from the U.S. Embassy, the two communities where I will paint murals and representatives from the Edna Manley College of Performing and Visual Arts.  This was on my first complete day on the island.  And, I spent the next day designing the mural with the input from the local community.  It is shocking how long it takes to arrange kid-friendly little cartoons into a mural design. It's an all day and into the night event.  But, I got the task finished.

Then, I waited by my phone for information about my taxi ride to the Standpipe community and beginning the work. I waited two days to get the scoop.  I don't know who is funding the project.  But, wherever the money is coming from, it isn't in the right place yet.  And, the paint company has this unusual little policy about not giving out any paint if it isn't paid for.  Imagine such a rule!  So, without any paint, things are on hold and we're back to Island Time once again.

I found myself waiting outside my hotel for my taxi to arrive.  It was scheduled at 2:30 in the afternoon, but we all know about "you know what" kind of time.  I decided to give the guy an hour.  After all, I wasn't worried.  Just before I almost gave up, the driver arrived.  And, truth be told, I kind of wanted to give up on him.  Across from my hotel in Emancipation Park, a choir was warming up for a concert.  It sounded good and I kind of wanted to go exploring. Instead, I was on my way to the Edna Manley College of Performing and Visual Arts for a tour.

Kingston traffic isn't so bad in the non-rush hour moments.  But, I've not seen the kind of roadways that a capital city requires for an ever-growing population with rush hour demands.  Tropical rains compound the issue.  And, if traffic is blocked for some kind of special event, it's the stuff of driving nightmares.

And, during my tour of Edna Manley, I learned a little about why the traffic in New Kingston was so messed up.  It appears that the driver's needed another dose of McFerrin music in their system.  They were not happy.  But, instead of listening to any more of Bobby, Kingston was in the mood for Kanye.  Yep, that's right.  Kanye West was performing in a free concert across the street from my hotel.  I cannot tell you one song the guy has sung.  I would not recognize Kanye if he walked up next to me and shook my hand.  I cannot imagine that I would ever go to one of his concerts back home - not even for free.  But, I would walk across the street for the guy. 

I knew that the concert would be crowded.  So, I did a little homework in advanced and asked the clerk at the hotel desk, "Is there a balcony where you can slip me into so I can see the concert from a better view? I know you could lose your job, but wouldn't it be worth it for me?"

He smiled and said he'd think about it.  But, even though there were lots of balconies on that side of the hotel, I got no invitation.  No room in the inn.  I guess there were no restaurants or cafes either.  I had to cross the street and face the sweaty mob.

The first song the choir sang brought me back to Peace Corps Liberia.  I didn't know the song had crossed the ocean, but the lyrics were identified as a Reggae song online.  "Higher, Higher, Lift Jesus Higher.  Lower, Lower, Stomp Satan Lower."  I can still see my friends, Joyce and Joanna, singing that song along with the required body movements.  So, the concert was off to a good start. 

The choir, at least 120 strong, and audience were hopping, stomping, swaying, waving, jumping, praising and sweating.  Well, I was sweating and all I did was stand around so I imagine they were too.  I'm guessing most of the choir members were American, so they couldn't be used to the heat any more than me.  There had to be sweat.  They performed non-stop.  It was loud and jubilant and oh so very active.

When the music changed to rap, I left.  Spelled with or without the silent "c" in the beginning, it is not a genre I enjoy.  It was time to join the chicken and cross the road.  On the other side, I walked into my hotel to find the same desk clerk.  Of course, he remembered me.   Who else would joke with him and risk his job as the same time?  He said, "There are people on the rooftop.  It's okay to join them."

So, I did.  And looking down on the crowd, I had a wonderful view.   There was nothing to worry about, Bobby.  I was happy to be in Jamaica.

When I look back over my many long years of education, I can think of very few classes that made a lasting impact in my life.  I'm kind of thinking that the list should be longer than that.  But, most of what I do (and I think I do it pretty well) has been self-taught.

The First Course   The first class that I know made a difference was a quarter elective class in eighth grade.  Seriously, who has a life-altering class in junior high?  I don't think I signed up for the class.  I think it's just the way my schedule worked out.  I had to take a speech class. 

I had a lot to learn.  I remember that my first speech wasn't really planned out.  I thought I could wing it.  I specifically remember my mother asking me if I was ready.  She probably should have asked to have a listen.  She didn't and I fumbled through my speech with a whole lot of room for improvement.  There were a lot of bad speeches presented in that class.  However, I listened.  I learned about introductions, wrapping things up with a conclusion, and a huge dose of preparation and poise in between. 

The teacher was strict.  And, good for her.  She wanted us to learn and do our best.  Nobody got a 100 when they gave a presentation in Speech class.  Well, that is, nobody but me.  And, I did it twice.  It was a large junior high school, but gossip flew all over the place when that happened.

A few years ago, I discovered one of the reviews of a speech I gave in that class, along with the teacher's name.  I contacted the school district and asked if they could deliver a message for me.  I wanted to thank her for teaching me skills that I've used my entire life.  Now, I've taught long enough to know that not many students write to thank their teachers for anything.  And, certainly, the thanks rarely comes a few decades later.  I seriously doubt if this woman remembered me.  But, my message found its mark.  I got an email reply from the teacher and I think it's safe to say that I made her day.

'Riting   I really can't credit any course for my writing skills.  I think part of it must be a gift and part of it comes from a lot of practice.  The skills certainly weren't honed when I was in high school.  I will never forget (or forgive) the teacher who read my book report to the class as a poor example.  Well, I learned a lot that day which she never intended to teach.  I learned one really wrong way for a teacher to instruct a class. 

The next book report was oral.  I knew what to do.  I blew everyone away.  No student or teacher was prepared for what I could do.  Of course, this teacher was not one to praise any student  (another method I learned not to follow in a classroom setting).  Her only comment was, "I was a bit breathy."  She did, however, tell her next class how amazing I was.  A lot of frustrated friends rushed to share the news. 

Something happened between high school and my master's classes.  By then, my papers were read as worthy examples.  And, it blew the professors' minds that I usually didn't have rough drafts.  I just sat down and wrote.  That's when I first started hearing the word "gift" to describe what I do with words.

So, what caused this change in my writing?  I think it was continued practice.  I kept a journal every day of college and I still do every time I travel.  And, the more I travel, the better the travel writings get.  At least, in my very not always humble opinion.  It is true.  We all know what practice makes.

No 'Rithmatic   I knew quickly where my skills were.  I might use a little geometry and gridding when I create my murals, but I can't say that math and I have ever been friends.  No math class ever changed my life, not one little bit.  But, that said, I can't think of an art class that did either.  Everything I do as an artist has been self-taught.  My cartoons have been with me throughout my childhood and I practiced a lot in math class.  Thanks to a heavy influence from Charles Schulz, I developed my own style of cartooning that has done quite nicely for me.  Nobody taught me to do the portraits I draw, which are my best souvenirs from my world travels.  And, on my own, I figured out how to paint murals of any size on any wall.  That has taken me around the world.  So, I guess it is fair to say that I'm better than good enough (a standard that I will never be satisfied with).

Before I continue on to another topic, this is a good place to mention another elective that positively impacted my life.  It was typing.  I took typing back in the days of typewriters instead of computers.  Everyone hated the class.  Everyone hated the sound of the teacher's voice as she said, "A, S, D, F, G" or "H, J, K, L, Semi, Space".  Yep, we all hated it.  But, I never dreamed that I would one day spend large chunks of almost every day sitting at a keyboard typing.  And, I never have to look at my fingers - unless I need to type numbers.  I'm very thankful for that awful class.

Modern Languages   I should be so far beyond monolingual.  I studied Latin for three days.  There was a smattering of Tagalog and Arabic.  I had three months of Spanish in college.  There was a year of German and two years of Dutch studies.  To top off all of that, I studied French for three years.   In most of these languages, I would be hard-pressed to string together enough words for the most simple of sentences.  In a life or death situation, I'd be dead.

Surprisingly, I have my most success with Spanish.  I have found Spanish speakers to be the most gracious and patient liars on the planet.  Almost every one of them tells me that my Spanish is wonderful.   They say, "I wish my English was so good after only three months of study."   Because of their amazing patience, I am able to communicate almost any thought I need to say with a perfect gringo accent.  I know very well how bad I sound.  I know this because on occasion I have met the Spanish speaker who feels the need to correct every mistake that I make.  Every sentence needs correcting.  Every dang sentence!  Honestly, I can't say even one sentence without a mistake in español.  Believe me, it doesn't take long for me to stop talking to those people.  I prefer gracious liars.

There is a reason for my minimal success in Spanish.  I've never had to use most of the other languages I've studied.  Usually someone speaks English, and I just consider that a blessing from God and immediately give up attempts with a foreign tongue.  But, I've traveled across a large portion of the Spanish-speaking world.  And, I've had to use it to get around.  When push comes to shove, and there is no way around it, I will habla a little español.  I've done it in Spain, Mexico, Guatemala, Belize, Honduras, Nicaragua, Costa Rica, Ecuador, Peru, Bolivia, Paraguay and the Dominican Republic.  I cannot say that practice makes perfect.  But, I can say that it has helped me communicate.  And, as far as I'm concerned, most people don't care if it is perfect as long as they understand what you are trying to say.

Through It All   So, just like everyone else, there were a lot of teachers in the mix to get me as educated as I am.  Many I've forgotten.  Some I certainly wanted to forget.  But, I have one in my life that I've kept in contact with over the years.  She knows she's the only one.  And, I certainly hope that everyone has a Madame Heine in their life.

When I grew up, nobody traveled.  I went to Miami Beach one summer and it was absolutely huge.  Nobody traveled that far.  Almost every family vacation we ever took was to the Smoky Mountains.  Perhaps eight hours in the car was as much as my parents could stand?  And, with four kids, I completely understand that.  But, Madame Heine traveled.  She shared her stories and she fully expected us to travel as well.

But, like I said, nobody in Ohio traveled.

I fully never expected to leave the state.  However, Madame Heine shared slides (and if you don't know what those are, you are just too young) of her trips to Paris.  She prepared French onion soup and escargot for us to eat in class.  She started so many sentences with, "When you go to Paris . . . "  And I knew full well that when I went to Paris, I was supposed to go to Notre Dame Cathedral, the Louvre, Montmartre and Sainte Chapelle.  But, in my heart, I never thought I'd leave Ohio, let alone venture off to Europe or Paris. 

Well, life has its surprises.

I traveled a lot of the world before I finally made it to Paris.   It took me twenty-five years to get there.  But, after I did, I had to contact Madame Heine.  I told her that I finally saw Notre Dame Cathedral.  I tasted French onion soup and snails, which really didn't compare to what she prepared for us.  I remembered the locations she suggested so I visited the Louvre, walked the Left Bank, strolled down the Champs Elysees, and wandered around the Arc de Triomphe.  And one day, years later, I did cartooning work for Notre Dame Cathedral.  I told Madame Heine about all of this, and she cried. 

My French skills are not what they once were (or what they should be) but a little came back to me when I traveled with a group to the Democratic Republic of the Congo for one of my murals.  While I was there, I was the only one in the team of eleven who spoke any French.  Funny, none of us spoke Swahili either.  So, I served in a minor capacity as translator.  Very minor.  But, I can shop for souvenirs like nobody's business even in French.  And, when I returned to Ohio, I had to contact Madame Heine one more time and tell her about my success thanks to her classes.

I contacted Madame Heine after the fire in Notre Dame Cathedral.  I knew she would be devastated.  And, I told her that I needed to see her again.  It had been too long.  So, I made my way to her home a few weeks ago.  I'm so glad I did.  She had so many students over the years.  I have, too.  I know I don't remember all of them.  She most likely doesn't either.  But, she remembers me.

Now, I've heard conversations about students who say that they were influenced by a special teacher in their life.  I'm hoping everyone has at least one of those.  But, it never occurred to me that teachers might be positively influenced by students in their classroom.  However, on this trip, I realized that I had a positive influence on Madame Heine.

One of the best presents I ever received, perhaps the very best, was a badge maker that my mother found.  It was the perfect present for a budding young artist in high school.  I sold badges for basketball and football games.  Life would have been so much easier if I could have printed the art with computer generated graphics, but this was in the Dark Ages before computers.  Every illustration was hand-drawn and hand-colored.  And, as it turned out, Madame Heine liked my badges and my artwork.  She purchased some of my work and added more to her collection over the years.  And, for the rest of her teaching career, she wore a badge every day.  So, she had to think of me a lot over the years.  Her collection, after retirement, is now on display in her home.

Another thing I remember about Madame Heine was the fact that she helped me in math.  I hated story problems.  Really, I truly hated a lot about math.  But, Madame Heine was such a special teacher in my life.  And, one more time, I want to say merci. 

Something was wrong.

Yep, something was wrong when the gadget in my car refused to open up the garage door.  I figured the battery died.  It wasn't the first time that happened.  So, I parked the car, and got out to use the little key code box by the garage. 

The door still didn't open.

It was time to leave the car parked where it was and go in the house to explore.  When I checked the button in my garage that I push to open the door, the light was off there as well. Now, that was more than unusual.  This time I wondered how much it might cost to fix the dang thing.  Whatever that would be, it was a lot more than the cost of a battery.

Okay, so sometimes I'm just not as perceptive as I would like to be.  There was nothing wrong with my garage door or its accompanying buttons.  Nothing needed to be fixed or replaced.  A large chunk of Columbus was experiencing a power outage.  I guess that can happen anywhere when the temperature is in the mid-nineties.  Who doesn't want air-conditioning on days like that?

Boy Scouts are always prepared.  Always.  At least if you believe their motto is followed.  I was anything but prepared.  I was smack dab in the middle of a First World crisis.

Now, I lived in my Peace Corps days without electricity.  That meant no refrigeration, no television, no computer, no lights and no problems.  It wasn't nearly as difficult as it sounds.  But, I was prepared.  Instead of refrigeration, I went to the market on a daily basis or I went to one of the local cook shops for a meal.  I had a radio for entertainment and this was well before the days of computers and the Internet.  And, I was very well-rested.  Kerosene lamps lull me to sleep.  When the sun went down around seven in the evening, it was time to go to bed.

There were other ways to get around the lack of electricity.  If you had friends with a generator, you could watch videos on their television.  Our treat in Zwedru was when the local nuns decided to have a party.  Cold drinks and a movie!  It was a little bit of heaven on earth.

Now days, little solar panels dot the roof tops of homes across Liberia.  The panels provide enough power to light their homes in the evening.  That would have rocked my Peace Corps experience.  And, there are also little charging shops that will power up your rechargeable batteries so you can have radios, cell phones, computers and a variety of other modern necessities.  If you are prepared, you know what you need to do to get by.

But, I was not prepared in Ohio.

So much of my life revolves around my computer.  I might be editing some of my writing.  You could find me illustrating stories for one of the books I'm working on, but that requires research.  And, where you might ask does anyone do research these days?  The answer would not please Jiminy Cricket because it certainly isn't the eeeeeeeeeeeeeeencyclopedia.  And, even if my computer was working, my internet was down.

The power was out all afternoon.  Eventually, some time that afternoon, I wanted something to eat.  Now, in Liberia, I knew how to light up charcoal on my coal pot to prepare a meal.  Usually, I preferred it when my Liberian friends joined me - and I let them do the cooking.  But, I had the needed supplies.  In Ohio, I have an electric oven and stove.  They weren't going to cook a thing for me.  My microwave was as good as dead.  Useless.  Actually, I have a little grill.  I've had it for about ten years.  I've never once taken it out of its box.  I had no lighter fluid or charcoal any way.  It did me no good.

The only thing in my home that didn't need cooking was tuna.  But, I have an electric can opener.  I remained hungry.  I thought about it for a while.  "Surely, somewhere in this kitchen, I have to have a regular can opener?  I have to, don't I?"  And, so I opened up drawers and shuffled through gadgets that I once thought I needed but rarely use.  In a canister in the corner of my kitchen, I found a can opener.  Actually, it was a really nice one.  It worked perfectly well.  So, my meal - as well as my life - was saved.

Humorously, every time I use an electric can opener, my two cats come running to the kitchen.  They know they'll get tuna nine times out of ten.  I thought, "This time they aren't going to hear an electric gadget.  I'll eat the contents without their cries for a treat.  There will be no sharing today, buddies."  But, nope.  It didn't happen that way.  I have psychic cats.  They came running from distant corners of the house with the first twist of the hand-held gadget.  I have no idea how that happened.  It's their super power and I could have used a super power myself.  I'm quite sure that Superman could have used his laser vision to bake a potato or two for me.

So, what do you do when you can not do what you normally do?  I read.  No, I didn't have any books lying around that I was dying to read.  But, I had downloaded something on my laptop.  I could read to my heart's content, and then some, as long as the battery lasted.  So I curled up in a favorite chair, without a hint of a fan or air-conditioning, and sweltered as I enjoyed a good read.  Fortunately for me, the battery lasted longer than the power outage. 

Usually, always, there are too many distractions that demand my attention.  There's just so much that "needs" to be done.  But, not on this day.  Honestly, I can't even remember the last time I spent an entire afternoon wrapped up with a good read.  Quite possibly, it might have been when I lived in Liberia.  I read an awful lot of good books during my Peace Corps experience.  I may not be much more prepared the next time there is a power outage.  But, I've learned one thing from this non-Boy Scout experience.  I'm going to have a good paper book set aside because I really enjoy a real, honest-to-goodness, page-turner in my hands.