I recently wrote about how I was not even close to Boy Scout material when it came to power outages in my life.  Always prepared?  Not hardly.  Close to prepared?  Not that either.  After what I went through, you would think - at the very least - I would own some fancy, schmancy flashlight by now.  Nope.  It's still on the "to do" or "to buy" list.  And, sadly, it'll still probably be on that list when the next power outage comes around.

I'm really not much better prepared for car problems.  Flat tires were never a problem when I drove around in Africa.  The roads were so hard on tires in Zambia.  I had lots of flat tires.  But, it didn't matter how remote the location, every single time it happened, a young man showed up out of nowhere and offered to change the tire.  How did these young men know how to do that when odds were close to one hundred percent that none of them owned a car?  It's one of life's African mysteries to me.  I don't have the answer to that riddle.  But, they knew.  And, it was the best investment of a few dollars tip that I've ever had in my life.

Fortunately, roads are better in Ohio.  I've never had a blowout from driving over pot holes in Buckeye Nation.  But, on a couple of occasions, I've discovered flat tires when I approached my parked P.T. Cruiser.  They have all been temporarily fixed by those handy, dandy canned tire inflators.  God bless whoever invented those wonderful little cans of liquefied propellant and tire sealant.  They've fixed the problem long enough to get me to a repair shop.  (Funny thing though, they've never once fixed the flat.  It always seems to require a new tire.)  Anyway, I'm not completely hopeless in the Boy Scout department.  I always carry a can of Fix-a-Flat in my car.

Another reason I'm very glad not to have had serious flat tires in the past few years is because I never knew how to access the spare tire in my P.T. Cruiser.  I knew it was located under the car, but that's all I knew.  My first step with a ruined tire would be to call a repair service.  And, fortunately, that never happened.  But, in recent weeks, I've changed to a Fiat 500.  So, at the car lot, one of the questions I knew to ask about was how to access that dang tire.  You have to open the trunk, unscrew a bolt inside the car that lowers the tire underneath.  I never would have figured that out on my own.  

This Fiat is really a baby sized car when compared to my previous one.  I'm a little shocked by the lack of storage space in it.  But, I have a box of goodies for emergencies that takes up about a third of the trunk space.  It has the usual assortment of treasures: jumper cables, a four-way cross wrench (I had to look up the name for this tool), first aid kit, flashlight, collapsible orange cone, pocket knife and, of course, a can of Fix-a-Flat.  I felt moderately prepared.  Maybe even a little more than moderately.

The day after I bought the car, I headed off to that state up north that no good Buckeye even likes to utter.  That's a good way to test and see if you bought a lemon or not.  Take it on a seven hour ride to rural, rural *ichigan.  Now, it was not all that cold in Ohio when I departed.  I wore a long-sleeve T-shirt and a long-sleeve shirt.  It was warm enough for the length of time it took to fill the car with gas.  But, it never occurred to me that I was driving into a winter wonderland.  Seriously?  Who would want to live in that kind of cold with that kind of snow?  One day it snowed seven inches!  No wonder wolverines have such nasty temperaments!

While up north, my sister and I planned to visit some cousins.  We hopped into my baby car and headed to the gas station.  That's when I realized I didn't have my wallet.  Always prepared?  I told you that wasn't me.  My sister took over the wheel and off we headed.  When we turned on to a new road, the ride was suddenly bumpy.  We weren't sure if it was the road or the car.  Then, a new light showed up on the dashboard that my older car never had.  It said that the right front tire needed an air pressure check.  Well, air pressure wasn't the problem.  The car needed a new tire.  The old one was totally shredded with several gaping holes.  I'm really not sure what happened.

This might have been a good time to call for roadside assistance.  However, ever the unprepared Boy Scout, that insurance card was in my wallet which wasn't with me.  Yeah, I'm a lot closer to a Beagle Scout.

It was this day and this moment when those seven inches of snow fell.  It was a freezing mess outside.  And, it was also when I realized some of the things you need in order to be prepared for car problems in a winter wonderland.  Seriously, you need a pull-over hat.  A stylish fedora just didn't cut it.  You also need some heavy-duty gloves.  I didn't have any, either stylish or any kind of duty.  My shoes were my usual red tennis shoes.   In no time at all, they were completely soaked.  No, it never once occurred to me to bring sturdy warm shoes for potential problems up north.  And, there were a few mechanical issues that I was about to realize as well.

Okay, I knew how to access the spare tire.  I opened the trunk and unscrewed the bolt.  Amid the flutter of snow, I read the owner's manual.  It said to lower the tire and unscrew a special bolt that was specially made to be turned by human hands.  Well, it might have been made that way, but it wasn't turning.  It obviously hadn't been turned in a long time and it wasn't going to budge without a wrench.  Wrench?  Who carries one of those?  Who even owns one of those?  That wasn't in my car (or home) so I certainly wasn't prepared for it.  So, my sister put up the orange cone and we crawled back into the warmth of my car. 

My brother-in-law got the call and was on the way.  In the meantime, a good Samaritan (er, Michigander) stopped by.  He took a look at the tire and agreed we needed a wrench.  But, this guy traveled with one.  Who does that?  (I now do.)  The joint that held the tire under the car needed to be folded in half and slid through the hole in the tire rim.  It wasn't about to fold.  We hammered it a few times with the wrench, but it was decided we probably needed to spray some WD-40 on that sucker.  Well, guess what "Samarigander" had in his truck?  Guess what is now on my shopping list?  And, it worked!

By this time, my brother-in-law showed up and took over the rescue.  The "Samarigander" went on his merry way never hearing one word about the Ohio State Buckeyes or how they shellacked those Wolverines 56 - 27 this past football season.  Nope, not a word.  My sister agreed it was a good time to keep silent on that subject.  This man only received sincere gratitude and repeated thanks. 

As my brother-in-law knelt down in mud and slush, he said, "You two can go on in my truck, and I'll take care of this problem."  But, you really can't leave someone out in blizzard cold when they are helping you.  Instead, I unsuccessfully tried to block the wind and swirling flakes from his path.  It might not have helped one lick, but at least I was outside suffering at his side until the tire was replaced and he could go on his merry way to find new ones.

Obviously, I wasn't prepared for a winter wonderland.  Seriously, I learned a thing or two from this experience.  But I am a little curious why my sister and her husband were not as prepared as they could have been.  After all, they call this "wonderland" home.  When my brother-in-law replaced the tire, he wore neither gloves nor pull-over hat.  He knew full well what he was getting himself into.  That's a mystery.  And, my sister had no hat and the wrong shoes as well.  Her hair, which had been curled and looked her best, was damp, stringy and miserable by the time we crawled into that truck for warmth.  Our cousins had to accept us "as is" when we arrived at their doorstep.  But, seriously, isn't that how you want family to accept you any time of the year, winter wonderland or not?

Who's counting down to Christmas? 

I mean, seriously, what is there not to love about a jolly old guy with a sleigh and eight reindeer?  And with unlimited funds, the guy travels the globe giving presents to all good little boys and girls.  Somehow he manages to do it every year.  Yep, call him a right jolly old elf or Santa Claus or Saint Nicholas.  Whatever you call him, everyone loves him.

But, shhhhh!  We know he isn't real.

I, however, know someone who is the closest thing to a saint that I'll ever meet.  He's the best friend I made while I was in the Peace Corps.  So, if I had a sleigh with eight flying reindeer, I'd go visit Daniel in Liberia as often as I could.  And, if I had unlimited funds like the guy at the North Pole, this friend is the first person on my "nice list" that I'd help.

Now, you may remember that I once blogged about Daniel when I located him after so many years of separation.  But, this guy deserves an update.  I don't remember all the details, but when Daniel fled Liberia during its civil war, he didn't just sit around in the Ivory Coast moaning, "Woe is me!  Woe is me!"  And, to be very honest, I might have done that after the police in that country beat me and robbed me on multiple occasions.  But, that is not Daniel.  He helped aid projects with United Nations who came to support the Liberian refugees in the Ivory Coast.  During that time, many Liberians qualified to immigrate to the United States as refugees.  Daniel could have, and should have, been one of them.  However, resettlement opportunities for refugees were not yet available to Liberians in the location where Daniel had fled.  Before this was possible, the situation in the Ivory Coast became too difficult.  Daniel had to flee back to Liberia for safety and his opportunity to immigrate disappeared.  He returned to the village of his birthplace, Tugbaken, in southeast Liberia.  

Tugbaken remains his home.  And, I can testify that it is so very beautiful.  It's like walking in the pages of a National Geographic.  But, when you sit in the comfort of your living room reading that magazine, you cannot possibly imagine what it is like to live without electricity, running water, air-conditioning, refrigeration, television, internet and the rest of the things that most of us just expect out of life.  There are no shops in the village.  The closest ones require a walk of at least and hour and a half.  In Liberia, the average annual income is around four hundred dollars.  If that is the average, there are a lot of people in rural Liberia living with much less than that average.  They survive on subsistence farming, mostly rice.

Life in Tugbaken, and most of rural Liberia, is as it has been for generations.  It's a hard life.  A few modern conveniences have slipped in since my Peace Corps days.  Fortunately, there is a community well that is sealed and clean.  Everyone in the village, including visiting Americans, can safely drink from that well.  That is life changing!  There are also solar powered lights.  Yep, even in Tugbaken, little solar panels can be spotted on top of thatched-roof dwellings.  When I lived in Liberia, I had a kerosene lamp.  It lulled me to sleep.  When the sun when down at seven, I was soon in bed.  So, yes, I was very well rested in my Peace Corps days.  Solar lighting would have rocked my time in Liberia.

Also in Tugbaken, these days everyone has access to cell phones.  And, there was even one home in the village where everyone could get their batteries charged.  I'm guessing it was solar-generated as well, but I could be wrong about that.  However, it really wasn't easy to get telephone reception so far in the bush.  For the best luck with your call, you had to walk outside the village and up a small hill.  Then, it was possible to call friends in Zwedru, Monrovia and beyond.  Communication with Daniel remains difficult in a country without good telephone service and no postal deliveries.  That's right.  It is impossible to send him a letter.  So, it probably comes as no surprise that I've never gotten a phone call from Tugbaken either.  But, we have been able to communicate by way of his daughter's Facebook account.  His daughter lives in Harper, a rural capital city, with Internet access. 

But, times they are a changing.

You may remember that in recent months I finally took the plunge, kicking and screaming, and bought a smart phone.  That's right.  I'm slowly learning about apps, "Hey, Google", and the rest of things that have so addicted most of the rest of the world's population and caused so many auto accidents.  And, one of those apps is WhatsApp.  Low and behold, I can make and receive phone calls from friends all over the world now.   That does not include Tugbaken.  But, when Daniel comes to visit his daughter in Harper, he can use her telephone, Internet service and one very special app.

So, Christmas came early this year when Daniel called me on WhatsApp.  I couldn't have asked for a better present.  I must confess, I've rarely ever heard so much joy in another person's voice upon hearing me on the other end of a phone conversation.  I don't know how often Daniel will visit Harper.  But, I do know one thing that he will do from now on, every visit.  And, I can hardly wait.

I got a little update on Daniel's life that confirms my sainthood theory.  First of all, he's still a teacher and the principal at his local school.  Need I say more?  But, there is more to say.  It is a building constructed by the teachers in the community.  I've never heard of that anywhere else in the world.  It's an entire school taught by saints in my mind.  At one point, the school was supposed to be replaced by a facility built by the government.  However, the contractor took the money and ran.  Ran where?  Nobody knows, but he had the money to finance his run.  And, the villages of Tugbaken and Parken still share a school built by their teachers.

I've already told you about the average income for Liberians.  It's my guess that the three paid teachers at this school make less than the national average.  But, that means a few of the teachers work for free.  Who does that?  Nobody that I know at any school anywhere else.  More reasons for sainthood in my mind.  And, Daniel told me at one point, one of the teachers was sick, the other teachers were missing, and he alone ran the school.  The school has five or six classrooms.  He had to rotate around the school and teach each group of students.  How anyone can do that and maintain their sanity is beyond my comprehension.  When the other teacher recovered and came back to work, Daniel had to take some time off for his own recovery.  Who could blame the guy?

And, just to get a more complete picture, when the school day is over, all of the teachers have to go to their rice farms and work.  It is backbreaking.  But, if you don't work the farm, you have nothing to eat.  Life is a struggle for everyone in the community.
                                                           What can you do for twenty-five dollars?

Daniel also explained that many of the children in the community can no longer afford to go to school.  Education used to be free, but the government now requires that students pay an annual fee of 5000 Liberian dollars.  For many families it is just too much to afford.  I checked a currency converter to find that it equals a little over twenty-five dollars.  So, five cups of coffee could pay the education fees for a child in Liberia for an entire year.  That puts a lot of things into a whole new perspective.

I'm still looking forward to Christmas.  But I don't need any presents.  I seriously wish that I had funds to support my personal friend and nominee for sainthood.  I wish Saint

Nicholas could help fix up the school in this village and give Daniel and his teachers a real Christmas surprise.  And, I know there are plenty of children in this community, actually about 500, who would be on Santa's nice list.  I would love to give them some Christmas cheer and pay for their school fees, every year.

I wish a Merry Christmas for Tugbaken and all the best to my friend, Saint Daniel.

After "yeah, man" the third word I heard a lot in Jamaica was "respect".  It wasn't used in a sentence.  It was a one word statement.  If you want to tell someone how important they are or how much their actions or words mean to you, this is a really good way to do it.  That one word emphasizes the point very well.  It's always good to end an experience on a high note . . . with a little respect.  And, in Jamaica, I received my respect.  I had two mural dedications in two days.

ROSE TOWN - The first presentation was in Rose Town at the Rollins Enterprise Center where my new mural on panels was just installed.  The ladder was still up and a man was cleaning up little smudges as I arrived.  I'd say that was freshly mounted.

The U.S. Ambassador, Donald Tapia, was there for the ceremony and ribbon cutting.  It was my first time to see him during my stay.  His schedule was crazy busy so I was pleased that he made time for my mural.  The ambassador sat in one of the four seats set aside for dignitaries at the event.  While he had a spare moment alone, I slipped in next to him and said, "I don't think I'm supposed to give presents to embassy people, but I have something for you."  I gave him a copy of my Jamaican folk tale Anansi and the Market Pig as a way to say thank you for bringing me to this island. 

Now, I didn't know who the four reserved seats were for, so after a little talk, I thought it was best to vacate the seat for whoever belonged there.  As it turned out, I belonged there.  So, I got to turn around, sit down, and get to know the ambassador a little better.  I thoroughly enjoyed our time to talk.

No matter in what country the ceremony may be, all kinds of people need to speak at events like this.  Everyone needs their moment in the spotlight.  A representative from the Embassy Public Affairs Office spoke, and she did her homework.  She knew this was mural 60, in 26 countries and 4 continents.  I was impressed with her preparation.

The ambassador spoke, as did I, then a local member of Parliament, and Greg Bailey represented Edna Manley College.  The ceremony was short, sweet, and desperately hot - even at nine o'clock in the morning!  Greg almost broke a sweat, which just never happened the entire month I was in Jamaica.  Shortly after the ambassador cut the ribbon, he needed to hurry on to his next event.  We closed up shop and left too.

STANDPIPE - Just like when teaching a lesson for the second time, things always go smoother.  The ambassador showed up again, and it was so nice to be greeted by name.  This time I knew I was supposed to sit near him.  More people showed up to speak.  Other people showed up to be seen.  And, many people in the community came to genuinely thank me for the project.

When it was my turn to speak, I told them that I'd been away for a week and this was like coming home to Standpipe.  It was a good way to start a speech.  I explained a few things about the mural, focusing a lot on their loodie board.  I confessed that I'm an American and I would just toss the dice.  But, I loved how Jamaicans used their whole bodies to roll the dice.  It was kind of a dance when they played and it was so much fun to watch.

I spent a while talking about my two secrets concerning the mural.  I knew everyone could tell that I illustrated things about Jamaica and their local community, but most people didn't see the secret text "Standpipe" that was hidden in plain sight until I pointed it out.  It was an audible "aha!" moment in the crowd with an unexpected round of applause.

The second secret concerned the domino with the numbers 5 and 9.  I told them it was a huge controversy while we painted.  So many people stopped to tell us that dominoes didn't have a nine.  I seriously wondered if I was crazy (always a possibility) but I distinctly remembered seeing nines in dominoes.  A Google search proved I wasn't imagining things.  But, the tiles only go to six in Jamaica.  But, then I shared the reason for those numbers.  It was my mural number 59.  And now, they knew both of the secrets and they could explain them to their friends in the community every time they shared the mural.

The final person to speak was a representative from the community.  And, he could not have possibly been more gracious and sincere with his thanks.  He really didn't have to say anything.  His smile said it all, and he was truly so very pleased with the project.  Respect.

It was still another hot morning in Kingston.  I was drenched by the end of the ribbon cutting.  Greg almost broke out in a sweat for the second time in two days.  Almost.  And, the ambassador had to race off to another event.  But, the dedications left such a warm feeling in my heart that will last a lot longer than twenty minutes of blistering heat under a Caribbean sun.

I mean, seriously, if you go to Kingston, Jamaica, don’t you have to go to the Bob Marley museum?  Yeah, man.

I had three stereotypes about Jamaica in mind before coming to the island.  I’m not 100% sure, but Bob Marley may have helped to implant all of those ideas.  First of all, I knew that everyone in Jamaica had dreadlocks.  Anyone who could possibly sport them in my folk tale book Anansi and the Market Pig certainly did.  So, the rat, cat and bull didn’t, but almost everyone else did.  But, once you land in Jamaica, you quickly learn that isn’t the case.  Yes, you can see those locks every day and every place, but most people sport something a whole lot shorter and, my guess, a lot more comfortable.

My second stereotype about the people of Jamaica is that they all say, “Yeah, man.”  Well, it actually sounds more like "Ya mon", but they do.  It’s true.  No stereotype at all.  Every one of them.  You hear these two words all day long, from everyone, anywhere you turn.  I don’t know if Bob Marley said it as well, but chances are good.  Oh, yeah, man.

And the third stereotype?  That would be weed, kaya, ganja, pot, reefer, grass, dope or whatever else you might want to call marijuana.  It’s legally and readily available in Jamaica in two-ounce quantities.  But, I honestly don’t know how much is required to actually make up two-ounces.  I have no interest in ever knowing that.  And, the best friend I made during my stay in Jamaica has never used the stuff.   Thank goodness.  But, Bob Marley did.  It’s in his music, on his album covers, photographed, documented and even portrayed in murals at the Bob Marley Museum.  He believed it to be a healing herb.

I knew they guy’s name and could tell you two songs by this reggae legend (Buffalo Soldier and One Love).  But, that’s about all I knew of this national hero.  So, yes, before I left the island, I had to learn more at the Bob Marley Museum, a Jamaican Heritage Site.

The museum was his actual residence as well as his recording studio, until Marley died of cancer in 1981.  And, the home was a treasure from the 19th century with a lot of the original colonial wooden architecture intact.  I personally would have preferred more of the furnishings but that was only preserved in the kitchen and master bedroom.  However, the walls were filled with photographs, paintings, gold and platinum albums from around the world, costumes, awards, newspaper clippings, posters and a Lifetime Achievement Grammy.  There were also a couple of bullet holes in the walls.  Yep, there was an assassination attempt in 1976, rumored (depending on who you talk to about it) to be political in nature, that was fortunately unsuccessful. 

Robert Nesta Marley was born on February 6, 1945, on his grandmother’s farm in Nine Mile, British Jamaica, a rural community in the north central part of the island.  His mother, Cedella Booker, was 18 years old and his father, Norval Marley, was a white Jamaican from England and somewhere around 55 to 60 years old.  I’m not going to touch that.

The opportunities in young Bob Marley’s life changed when he moved to Trench Town, an area of Kingston, when he was twelve.  (In case you just have to know, Trench Town is the area of Kingston right next to Rose Town, where my mural number 60 was painted.)  In Trench Town, Marley was influenced by musicians in the community, both family and friends.  By 1963, (when Bob was 18) he had already formed Bob Marley and the Wailers.  And, two years later, the group debuted their first album, which included “One Love” and brought them world-wide attention.

In the sixties, Marley converted to Rastafarianism and the message of this movement spread around the world in the lyrics of his reggae music.  It’s hard to sum up a religion in a few words, but one of the main founders, Marcus Garvey, was inspired by a “back to Africa” movement.  Really devout followers, grew their hair out in dreadlocks, inspired by a lion’s mane.  Haile Selassie, the crowned ruler of Ethiopia, was viewed as a Biblically fulfilled king of Africa and the Conquering Lion of the Tribe of Judah.  And, smoking cannabis was a way of communicating with God.

I have the feeling that any day is a good day to visit the Bob Marley museum.  There were several groups of school children there when I visited.  My guide tried hard to direct our little group around their way and out of their path.  But, there were a lot of people roaming the building.

And, hopefully, if you go there, you’ll have a guide as excellent as the one I had.  From what I heard there were a lot of good guides.  In every corner of the house, you could hear the guides/performers/singers working their hardest to pull the lyrics of classic reggae hits out of their visiting guests.  And, isn’t that the experience you want in a musician’s home?  There were people, of course, who knew all the lyrics and swayed just right to the beat.  They sang with the guides, harmonized and danced.  It just wasn’t me.  I didn’t know the lyrics and I have no moves.  But, I do recognize a good public speaker when I hear one.  I was well informed and entertained.