. . . to distinguish between the different sounds that come from my tin roof. We have pigeon footsteps, pings when the tin expands under the summer heat, and rain drops. I no longer mistake one for the other. This is a fact which brings me an inordinate amount of satisfaction.
. . . that even here all storms come from the West.
. . . that many foods remain edible much longer than I once thought. Meat can sit around for quite sometime. Cheese gets pungent and moldy, sure, but you can still eat it. And do eggs ever go bad?
. . . that in the winter I don't even want a fridge. My cupboards are like little natural refrigerators.
. . . that people don't sleep much on nights when the moon is full. They sing, work, mostly play.
. . . not to leave a pen on my desk in the staff room, ever. Even while I'm sitting there, a teacher will 'borrow' it. Forever. The pen stays in the pocket, unless you're actually writing with it.
. . . that I like Basotho from villages much more than those who live in towns. They are kinder and sincere.
. . . to play my radio when Tholang and Makhala (two 8th grade girls) visit. They will then ask if they can clean anything. They will ask if they can cook something. Before you know it, I've got a tidy house, a meal ready to eat, and all I've done is listen to music.
. . . from whence water comes. Mine usually comes from a pump. A hole was bored down to the water that sits under the ground, and I push on this lever that sucks it up and into my bucket. I can also take it from the river. I can also take it from the spring on the mountain. Each tastes different. Some cleaner, or saltier, rustier.
. . . that you can eat every part of an animal that your teeth can manage to chew. Tendon, toe, intestine, blood, brain, lungs, stomach, hoof, tongue. It's all food. And pig tongue -- who would've thought -- is really tasty.