Write In The Middle

Last day of a long weekend

2012-01-02T18:11:00.000-08:00

This afternoon, in pursuit of a story, I was rebuffed by a prospective interviewee who refused to talk to me and was adamant that she did not want to be quoted or named.
"I don't trust reporters," she said, to me, the reporter, but her voice, her tone, implied less distrust than outright hatred. "I had a bad experience with a reporter once, so I refuse to talk to them." I once had bad service at a restaurant, but it didn't make me despise all waitresses. Why is blatant disdain OK when it's directed at journalists -- or lawyers -- but not mechanics or plumbers or even priests, for God's sake? OK, the lawyer thing I get. But reporters? Yes, some are despicable. Those TMZ guys, for example. But they're not real journalists. Reporters are keepers of the faith, guardians of The Bill of Rights, bulwarks of the first amendment, for patriot's sake. I wrote a very nice piece, one sure to shed only positive light on the subjects and subject matter, which was peace by the way--hard not to shed positive light there (unless you're Ann Coulter or something). She, the testy reporter-hater, will not be in my fine story. That's justice enough for me.

A three day weekend has come and gone, and I've been about as productive as a lone turnip in the Mojave. Without irrigation. A withered vegetable. I feel rested.

It's been raining so much and so hard at our home in Hawaii that Ron spent today -- finally a nice one -- righting crooked trees, their shallow roots letting go of the mud and leaning like amputees without their prostheses. He fought fertilizer dilution with yet more fertilizer and mowed the impossibly soggy grass with no small measure of difficulty. Meanwhile, I gazed out at an impossibly brown landscape, broken by evergreens and mountain peaks, up and out to the brilliant blue, awaiting snow that so far this winter has been illusive, rendering my pending purchase of knobby tires moot. I did make my way to Gene Taylor's Sporting Goods today to drool over a pair of skis. I'm old school, and they all seem kinda fat to me. I'll buy them when it snows, but not until. No reason to thrash a brand new pair or planks on the rocks.

Speaking of fat, it wouldn't kill me to get into a little better shape before I go. Tomorrow night, I shall hit the treadmill and the leg press in ernest. Or with ernest. Whoever Ernest is. Actually, he is my grandfather, my uncle and my cousin. I have a very Ernest family. Of course, I won't hit the machines (or the Ernests) literally. People would stare, and the owners of the gym might frown on my abuse of their equipment. Surely, you know what I mean. You're not Shirley? OK, I'll stop.

Don't you just totally miss Leslie Nielsen?

A hui hou. Aloha!

Christmas memory

2011-12-25T09:35:00.000-08:00

Do you have a favorite Christmas memory? I revisit mine every Christmas morning, and each time, it reminds me what great parents I had, a childhood charmed. As it turns out, or at least as I turned out (not so terrible, if I don't say so myself), modest indulgence of one's children doesn't ruin them.

I was a one-big-thing kind of kid. Many of my friends produced annual litanies of Christmas wants, long lists for Santa well beyond the believing years. My style was to hold out for a single, impossible gift.
"What do you want for Christmas this year?" Mom would ask.
"All I want is _______________." When I was seven it was a horse, of course.
"Where are we going to keep him?" Mom asked. "In the garage?" My second-grade brain imagined that as not such a bad place for a horse to live, and dad would no longer have to mow the lawn and we never parked the cars in there anyway and I'd take care of him, I promised. Each Christmas thereafter, I asked for something I had little hope of getting. Some years, I came close. The year I asked for skis, for example, I got lessons instead, which included a bus ride to the mountain every Saturday. I had to pay for my own equipment rental, but I was thrilled nonetheless. The following year, I asked for the lessons again and got them, then bought the skis myself, from J.C. Penney, with money I'd saved picking berries and babysitting. I knew most years that my one-big-thing was often just out of my parents' budgetary reach (and, looking back, I realize that may have broken their hearts some). I asked anyway, but was never too disappointed when I did not get what I'd requested.
My junior year in high school, I wanted a stereo. I had it picked out; it was an Onkyo, pretty high end, with separate components, and a cassette player. It was expensive, and would have taken years to save for on teenage wages. The stereo of my dreams was more than pie in the sky. It was an entire bakery in the stratosphere. I asked anyway, but only once, humbly and contrite, with the disclaimer, "I know there's no way, but that is all I want. So if you want to skip this year, and maybe pay half next year, and I could pay the other half, and that could be my present for two years-- I really can't think of anything else I want."
That Christmas, I opened my gifts -- a nice collection of clothes, pajamas, socks, lotions and ornaments. Most of it I already knew. My mom was terrible at keeping Christmas secrets. She'd always divulge the best gifts well before the big day, unable to contain herself. She'd done so with the ski lessons. And the hot wheels I got when I was ten. So I knew when I unwrapped the last of the packages under the tree that was it, and I was content. My dad rose from the couch, Christmas toddy in hand. He stretched and wandered toward the tree, then veered to an adjacent chair and reached behind it with his free hand, careful not to spill his "coffee."
"It looks like we missed one," he said, and handed me a two-foot rectangular package with no ribbon or bow.
"I shook it, weighed it in my hands. Silent, and impossibly light, it felt like nothing.
"What is it?"
"Open it," he said.
"Go ahead," said Mom. Dad looked smug, like he'd just pulled off the ultimate heist. The two of them stood close, hovering. I ripped off the paper. Inside was an empty, plastic box missing one side.
"What is it?" I asked.
"We wanted to get you the stereo," dad said, his tone solemn, "but that's the only part we could afford. We figured we'd start with that, and get the rest later, piece by piece."
I looked more closely at the flimsy object in my lap. It was the cover to a turntable. My sixteen-year-old brain imagined it sitting atop the entire system. "Thanks!" I meant it, instantly saw the potential and began mulling which component I'd save for next, then next. It didn't seem odd to me that the store would sell them just the cover. They really had tried their best to get me what I wanted for Christmas. I was genuinely grateful and completely clueless.
The two of them burst with laughter.
"What?"
"You believe that?" asked Dad. I was stumped. A stupid look must have overtaken my face. "The rest of it is under our bed."
I sat there, frozen, staring at them, then down at the cover, then back at them.
"Go!" they said together, smiling-- big, rascally, mischievous Cheshire grins. I jumped up from the floor and sprinted down the hall. BEST CHRISTMAS EVER!

Merry Christmas, everyone. A hui hou. Aloha!

Look, it's like, you know, sort of, um whatever

2011-12-21T21:36:00.000-08:00

I work at a bank. When I relayed this tidbit to my buddy Rich, he asked, "Couldn't you find something more ethical? Wasn't the mafia hiring in your area?" Yes, banks are evil. But repugnance comes in degrees, morality in shades of gray. My bank, the one from which I now collect an arguably honorable paycheck, is better than most; it accepted no TARP bailout money and enjoys pretty high ratings for customer service. I can live with that. But if somebody makes me an offer I can't refuse... Most days, it's busy enough. I'm either helping customers with financial transactions, reading up on riveting new banking regulations and internal bank policies and procedures, filing, counting, organizing, sanitizing my hands for handling all that filthy money. But there are occasional lulls, during which a mind like mine is wont to wander. Today, on one such occasion, I was struck with snippets of self-amusing, cliché-riddled bank humor.

Hi. I'm Penny. Wanna meet my new boyfriend? His name is Bill.
You can always count on me to coin a phrase.
If bankers were gymnasts, they'd specialize in the vault.
Banking. Where nothing is constant but change.

Hey, it was just a few minutes.

Another few minutes, on another day -- though to be clear, I was not at the bank, but rather just cleaning the bathroom and listening to a painful interview on the radio -- had me pondering verbal fillers, those devices we all use to buy time to think, or to fill awkward silence between thoughts, especially when we're self conscious. There is, of course, the ubiquitous and timeless um and its famous cousin, uh. These were my favorites as a radio producer, because they're usually drawn out long enough to cut, which I always did, making the speaker sound brilliant. There's the teenager's favorite like, which has bled into the ranks of the middle aged. I have friends pushing 60 who use like like salt and pepper. In college, I had a friend who used all instead: She's all, "They were such jerks," and I'm all, "Why?" and she's all, "Because they were all, 'You look rich and snobby,' which I'm not, so I'm all, 'well, I'm not' and they're all, 'well you seem like it.'" And I'm all, "Wow, they do seem like jerks," and so on. I like all, much better than like.
There's the classy, Obama-esque look, which makes you seem smart as you pause to think of what to say next. It goes like this:
Wolf Blitzer: "Mr. President, you promised us change we can believe in. What happened?"
Barack (that's how he signs his personal emails to me): Well, Wolf, look, being president is not as easy as it seems, or as easy as we thought it would be and, look, we've had some setbacks, and certainly no support from the Republicans..."
There's a proliferation lately of what I'll call the intellectual's verbal filler of choice, sort of. I'm not fond of sort of. It's a pretentious version of like, but no less annoying. It works like an adverb, watering down verbs, diluting whatever follows. She was sort of pregnant. I was driving sort of fast when the cop pulled me over. They were sort of making out when his wife walked in. Right. There's Will Smith's fave, you know, which works well if used sparingly, but gets on people's nerves with overuse. I went through a you know phase as a kid. My mom was relentless with her parody in response, spewing back a plethora of you knows and worse, responding to every you know with, "No, I don't know," until I got the point. I know a fellow who uses please, which is, please, a very polite verbal filler. It's jolting for its weirdness, but effective in diffusing heated conversations. Not surprisingly, he's a lawyer.

When Bill Gates or Steve Jobs had time to think, they came up with ideas that changed the world. Of course, I don't suppose either of them ever worked at a bank, cleaned a bathroom or spent time splicing the opposite sides of ums together to make a sentence. Still, it appears the old NAACP slogan is true: a mind is a terrible thing to waste. Maybe it's the altitude.

More musings for Christmas. Until then, a a hui hou. Aloha!

Chinese food and coffee

2011-12-04T15:07:00.001-08:00

Ron called the other day to say he'd roasted the last of our coffee for this year and it's already sold.
"That's great," I said.
"It has an oriental flavor," he said.
"What does?"
"Our coffee. That's what they said."
"That's what who said?"
"The people who roasted it. That's how they think we should market it."
"So, our coffee tastes like shoyu and mono sodium glutamate?"
At this, he lost it, cracking up, laughing so hard I had to hold the phone away from my ear. Picture red cheeks, tears of hilarity. Ron collected himself with a signature, exaggerated sign, and said, "Good one, sweetie. I think they though it was kind of floral, like jasmine or something."
Our coffee is mellow and naturally sweet, but otherwise, it tastes like coffee. Really good coffee. Exceptional coffee. No bitterness. No bite. Smooth. Not jasmine or lotus or cherry blossom. Not salty, or sweet and sour. Not like hoisin sauce. It's a little fruity maybe -- it is fruit, after all -- but definitely not oriental. Coffee doesn't even go with Chinese food. "Gee, this pork fried rice and sesame chicken are delicious. I could go for a cup of coffee with this." Who ever says that? Nobody.

Here in Gunnison, I've enjoyed my grocery shopping excursions. This place is known for high prices, but food feels cheap to me after living in Hawaii. So I called Ron this morning to brag about all the good stuff I got today and the price I paid. He responded with, "How much do you pay for lettuce? I get that free. How about green beans? Free." He says this because he grows them in the garden, year 'round. Point for Ron. Of course, he doesn't count the potting soil he buys to plant it in, or the slug bait, or the fertilizer, nor does he factor in the gas at $4.25/gallon, fifty miles round trip to Hilo to buy it all. He used to feel pretty smug about getting "free" rooms in Las Vegas, too. Clearly, his definition of free is different from mine, but I'll give him the point anyway.

It's snowy, gray and wintry today. The view through the window looks like an Ansel Adams photograph. I suspect I'll be sick of it by March, but for now, it's nice. I'm a little upset by the notion that we may soon have an offer on the cabin. I've just settled in here. Ron tells me not to fret just yet, that it takes time for people to get pre-approved for loans, if they even can, and then there's escrow, and we haven't seen the offer yet and may not take it if it's too low-ball, and even if we do take it, it'll be weeks before everything is finalized. But weeks go by fast. Meanwhile, they've got me working full time again next week at the bank, and I'm writing more stories for The Gunnison Country Times, which you can subscribe to online, if you've a notion to do so. My legs hurt from too many presses at the gym yesterday. As my old boss and friend Jeanette Mushkin used to say (in a blatant rip-off of Sonny and Cher that she made uniquely her own), "And the beat goes on."

A hui hou. Aloha!

P.S. Matt Burt shot the photo of the tree, but since he posted it on Facebook, I figured it OK to snatch. I saw some of his photos at the gallery in town the other night, and they are exceptional. Go to mattb.net to check them out.

On work, literature, libraries and life

2011-11-28T10:41:00.001-08:00

It feels good to work, to have my feet aching when I get home at night. My cash drawer has balanced three days straight, and I'm told that's exceptional for a greenhorn teller. Actually, we're not called tellers anymore. We're customer service representatives. The money's nice, but the real value of work goes beyond the paycheck. It comes from knowing you've done something well, something that others value, and that people are counting on you to do. Whether you show up every day matters. There are jobs I'd rather have, those for which I may be better suited, and maybe I'll land one of those someday, but I'm not terrible at this one, and I don't hate it either. People expect their money to be handled with care, and that's what I do. From a writer's perspective, there is plenty of good story material to be had in a bank, I can feel it.

My pal, Mike Ritchey, now a student of writing at Portland State with his own fine blog entitled, Retirement for Dummies, reminded me that I should read more David Foster Wallace, whose brilliance scares me. Another pal, David Stevenson, recently recommended Denis Johnson's new novella, Train Dreams. Johnson scares me for a different reason. Wallace is out there, too smart, over my head. Johnson creates characters bad to the core, who make whack decisions at every turn, lowlife scoundrels doing deplorable things, and I'm sucked in with them, a partner in crime every time. I wondered if the local library might have the Wallace essays, so I logged onto their website to find out. No luck. I decided to check out the Hawaii Public Library system. They had it-- in Kindle format! I've just checked out my first virtual library book. What will become of brick-n-mortar libraries in the future? I really enjoy libraries, being in them, to read or to study. It's comforting to be surrounded, buffered, protected by all those books. Libraries are a refuge, an escape. They smell good. I love wandering aisles of authors, title after title, overwhelmed and consoled by too many books and not enough time to read them all. I hope there's a place for both the electronic and tactile, the virtual and real, forever into the future.

Some prospective buyers took a look and then a second at our cabin this week. That's good news, yet it dredged up all kinds of flotsam and jetsam in my turbulent, ever-conflicted brain. I'm just beginning to make some progress on the place. My awesome desk (it was Ron's, but now it's mine, all mine!) has been moved back into the office where it belongs. The kitchen table has been, in turn, retired from its desk duties and returned to the kitchen. A futon mattress is on order, so I will soon have a couch to sit on in front of a crackling fire. I've winterized all the windows. It's cozy. With the desk out of the back bedroom, I'm ready to rip the nasty, smelly carpeting out of there to reveal the pretty hardwood beneath. I've fixed the garage door opener and gotten a new remote, so I'm able to cruise in and out without having to get out of the car on cold mornings or frigid evenings. Civilized. The more I do around here, the less I swear at the place and the more I love it and wish I could keep it forever.

Last night, I was pulled over by a Gunnison city police officer, who wrote me a warning for a missing headlight and asked that I get it fixed in the next few days. He was a nice boy, very polite and respectful, and I thanked him for letting me know. I continued on to the gym. Little more than an hour later, less than a quarter mile from home, I was pulled over again, this time by a county sheriff's deputy. Same reason. I showed him the warning. Today, I spent part of my lunch hour at Napa, where I ran into an old friend who now works there. We exchanged hugs, caught up some and vowed to do more over a beer soon. It's a small world, a small town. This evening, I replaced the bulb and am shining brightly once again. What will the cops find to do tonight?

A hui hou. Aloha!

Finger filet, old friends and bluegrass

2011-11-05T18:19:00.000-07:00

Pay attention when you're chopping vegetables, and never grow too confident of your knife skills. I didn't even feel it at first. The tip of my left index finger, a little chunk, was inadvertently included in the pile of diced peppers and onions on the cutting board this morning, scraped into the saute pan in preparation of a killer breakfast burrito. A few minutes later, it started to bleed. And hurt. Wounded, I called my rainforest-bound husband to whine a little. He told me the belt on the drier drum had slipped off again. In the process of taking the contraption apart to get into the guts of the machine and fix it, he lifted the top panel. Somehow, he thought there was a notch or catch or latch or something that holds it up. There isn't. The heavy, sharp-edged slab o' metal slammed down onto the back of his knuckles. Ouch! My culinary mishap seemed suddenly miniscule. My finger was, and is fine. Life is so often a matter of perspective.

Day one at the bank went well. There was an orientation conference call, training videos to view, a stack of forms to complete and sign, plenty of corporate rah rah with a little sis-boom-bah, and several nice co-workers to meet. Odd as this sounds, I was comfortable right away. I've never worked for a bank, but I have worked with bankers, so maybe that's why. There's also a reserved western easiness here, and whether you're in a bank for your first day on the job, at the market or the gym, you feel it.

The other day, washing my favorite Kona Joe coffee mug, da slippery buggah squirted from my soapy hands and broke into a dozen pieces in the sink. It's the only mug I brought, thinking I'd only need one-- one person, one cabin, one fork, one spoon... and of course I counted on finding a few in storage. Damn! So I went to the best place I can think of to find a replacement coffee mug. Not the nicest place, for that is probably The Corner Cupboard, with beautiful, hand-painted, made-in-Colorado offerings, the kinds of mugs you buy for other people, or you hope other people will buy for you. The best place is Six Points, a local thrift store, where proceeds go to support developmentally challenged adults in the community. Many of the beneficiaries also work there. My old pal Donny was manning the cash register that day.

"What's your name again?" he asked.

"I'm Toni. Do you remember me, Donny?"

"Yes."

"I moved away for awhile, but I'm back now."

"I remember you. Where'd you go again?"

"Hawaii. It's good to see you. Glad to see you're still working here."

"Yes.... You should get a purple mohawk. Only kidding."

Same ol' Donny. It's a new quip, however. His original was always, "Where's your bikini? Only kidding." As signature lines go, they're both excellent.

He sold me three, matching Dansk mugs for $1.50.

We went to lunch together once, years ago, to Donny's favorite, the old Cattlemen's. It burned down not long after that. Yesterday, sitting at The Ol' Miner Steakhouse downtown (they have a nice soup and salad bar combo), I spotted him across the restaurant, finishing his lunch as I began mine. Ol' Miner is kind of a fancy version of Cattlemen's, so it makes sense that Donny would like it there. He wandered over to my table.

"What's your name again?"

" It's Toni. Hi Donny."

"Where's your purple mohawk?"

"Very funny. I like your hat." It was a homemade ski cap, bright green with a dark, patterned band.

"Thank you. Can I take your picture?" He lifted the camera hanging from his neck to his eye.

"Sure, OK." I smiled.

"See you later," he said.

"See you later." It's as if I never left.

I'm sitting in my tight, cozy cabin, A Prairie Home Companion playing on KBUT. Outside, a blustery, gray day threatens snow. Garrison Keillor has dedicated his show to Bill Monroe, featuring musicians who knew the man, toured and played with him. Bill Monroe is known as the father of bluegrass. Or as my pal Rich likes to call it, "Insipid barn music." Bluegrass is not for everyone. But here in rural Colorado, it fits. Mountain music. Not a summer weekend goes by without a Bluegrass festival happening somewhere in the Rockies. Bluegrass has been, as my friend Ernestine Hayes would say, "appropriated" from the mud poor, southern and Appalachian folk of Celtic ancestry whose lives and culture were its genesis, to the Subaru-driving, ex-hippy vegan crowd, people who have no concept of life in a Kentucky holler. Still, there's no denying the new fans' passion for the music. Like all forms of art, music transcends culture, class and ethnicity to touch people far removed from it's origins and impetus, often on a deep level. That must be what's happening with bluegrass today. Either that, or these legions of modern bluegrass aficionados are all just fakers pretending to be hillbillies, without a clue what that really means.

Deep, right? I think it's waling fiddles and the steady thump of a washtub base inspiring me to wax so introspectively.

A hui hou. Aloha!

Deer friends

2011-10-30T10:18:00.000-07:00

Here's something you may not know about me. I'm a sucker for guys with big, brown eyes. The other day, I spotted the handsome fellow on the far right of this impressive trio for the first time and, I must admit, I was smitten.

"Nice rack," I said. He seemed to appreciate the compliment. The next day this five-point buck was accompanied by a four-point buddy. The day after that, the day of this photo, there were three. Since then, I've witnessed these musketeers several times near the big, Colorado blue spruce in the southwest corner of my yard. Sometimes, the two smaller ones lower their heads and lock horns, but not fiercely. It's as though they're going through the motions because it's expected of them, but really they'd rather break out the cigars and play a friendly game of poker or something. Hang out here, guys, and you're safe from the camo-clad, neon-hatted crowd milling around this time of year. Of course, a sage, five point buck probably knows that.

I'm told I've missed scads of action in my other, mid-Pacific community. Our neighbors' son was spotted at a recent county council meeting in Puna, chanting and wielding a lai o mano, a tradition Hawaiian weapon, best described as a hardwood club edged with sharks' teeth. He was deemed harmless at the meeting, but later assaulted a large Samoan man at a local beach park and was arrested a few days later. The neighborhood is all atwitter about this. As I understand it, it's lucky for him the cops got to him before the Samoans.

The pack of dogs has returned, too, some distance down the road from us. They have killed again, this time the grandma sheep from the farm I featured a few weeks ago in this very blog. So sad. Humans are once again on vigilant watch. You'd think the best approach would be to contact the humane society and ask them to trap the dogs. The sheep farmers did that immediately after the first attack, only to land themselves at the bottom of a months-long waiting list. The humane society is overwhelmed by nuisance wild dog complaints on Hawaii Island.

All our stuff is out of storage now, and it feels a bit like Christmas as I rediscover some old favorite sweaters and shirts, which I will enjoy in the coming chilly weeks. That said, there's plenty to shake my head over, too. What were we thinking, packing this stuff for eventual transport to Hawaii? The truth is, if you haven't looked at something in six years, you probably don't need it and should toss it or give it to someone who does. Except, of course, what the IRS and the SEC require you to keep for 10 years. In that case, you have no choice. But much of that has expired now, too, so into the burn barrel it goes.

The house is in great shape. Everything works: the furnace (yay!), the original stove and oven, circa 1951, the fridge, the water heater. I've got some winterizing to do, a little touch up and sealing of the south-facing windows, some pipe wrapping and insulation. But really, this house is solid. It'll stand and provide shelter forever, and would really thrive in the hands of someone who enjoys restoring good old homes. The red oak floors and knotty pine ceilings are amazing. That old growth oak no longer exists on planet earth, other than in classic homes like this one. I just ripped the carpeting out of the office and found more of that beautiful wood underneath, in excellent condition. It's the perfect location for a home/business, too. If this sounds like a sales pitch, it is. I do love this place, but maintaining it from 3500 miles away is impractical. It deserves attention. It's really an awesome house.

My hunt for a seasonal job on the mountain has not panned out. I've gotten raves from interviewers who tell me I was their second choice (not good enough), that it was a tough decision, they will make complimentary notes in my application file and forward it to the next position in which I express interest, but they've chosen the applicant with "direct experience with the job." My guess is that people who worked those positions last year, having not found year-round, permanent positions out in the world, are returning to seasonal work. I have a few prospects in Gunnison, and one very attractive offer I'm mulling over that will enable me to work remotely and still have time to pick up a class to teach online if the opportunity presents itself, so I am still hopeful. I do miss my family. BeeCee the trouble cat is misbehaving and trying Ron's patience, but mostly, they're all fine, and so am I. Ron continues to tend the farm, and is preparing a spot to plant another 20 trees or so, no doubt dodging raindrops as he plants. Here, the sun is shining, the bucks and I are chillin', and the sky's so blue you'd swear you were halfway to outer space.

A hui hou. Aloha!

A bit of a bust

2011-10-21T09:22:00.000-07:00

I have arrived in the land of the immortal tractor, a place where the cattle are hearty and the grass will not need mowing for another seven months. The sun is bright, the nights are cold and the magpies are feisty. When I'm in Hawaii, I miss this place. Now that I'm here, I miss the island. As it turns out, I missed a classic Hawaii day today.

Some weeks ago, Ron and I disassembled an old, dead dehumidifier to see if we might recycled the innards rather than throw it all into the rubbish, since there's no practical way to dispose of stuff like that on the island. There was some copper tubing inside, plus other metals. We're constantly hearing about copper thieves in the islands, so we figured it must be worth something. He took the contraption to Reynolds Recycling in Hilo yesterday.

The scene goes something like this:

Ron pulls in and after waiting for a few minutes, an employee asks if he can please move his car. The man signals Ron to back up, stands behind the car and waves with a "keep going, keep going, you're good, keep going" motion. Ron watches him through the rearview mirror and rolls backward as the man waves.
And then...
Boom!
"What was that?" Ron asks.
"Why did you hit that?" The man asks.
"Why did you wave me into it?"
"I thought you saw it."
"I didn't see it. I was watching you. You were signaling me to keep going."
"You should have looked out your side mirror."
"Why would I do that when you were waving me on? You're standing right there. I was following you're instructions."
"I thought you saw it."
Luckily, it's just a wooden pallet, and no damage is done. Next, he shows the man the metal innards.
"Can you take this?"
"You'll have to have it notarized to prove it's yours. That you own it. That you didn't steal it."
"Why would I steal this?"
"Because it's worth money to recycle."
"How can I have it notarized? It's from something I bought five years ago. Besides, I'm not going to drive to a notary and pay $10 to prove I own this." The man has an alternative. He presents Ron with a wad of forms, requiring signatures in three places attesting to the fact that he does, indeed, own the metal and has not stolen it. He also takes Ron's photo in the act of signing the paperwork.
"OK," says the man, and hands Ron a check for eighty cents. Yes, you read that right, but it bears repeating, doesn't it? A check for eighty cents! He gets another ten bucks, cash, for a bin of aluminum cans. He doesn't have to prove he owns those.
The two men get to talking money. Ron mentions that he is a Certified Financial Planner.
"Would you look at my portfolio?" the man asks. "I lost $20 last month and I want to know why."
"I really can't if you're not a client."
"Just take a look," says the man, and hands Ron the statement from his mutual fund. He just happens to have it with him. It has a total value of about $400.
"Is there anything I can do? Can you tell me what this all means and why I lost $20 and ... "
"Sorry, but legally, if you're not a client, I can't advise you." Ron's used to this. Everybody wants free advice.

From there, Ron heads to Safeway, the real reason for his trip to town. They've advertised gulf shrimp in their weekly sales flyer. They almost never get those in. When he gets there, he sees a sign posted for the shrimp, big and bold at the fish counter. "Product of China" is written in small print at the bottom.
"Where are the gulf shrimp you show in the flyer?"
"We're out, so we're substituting these."
"But these aren't gulf shrimp. There's a huge difference."
"Yes, we know. But that's all we have."
"So you lure me here with an ad for gulf shrimp, in hope that I will buy these crappy, carcinogenic, farm-raised shrimp instead?"
"No, we just ran out, and this is all we have for the same price."
"I want a rain check."
"There are no rain checks. It's a 'while supplies last' sale."
Maybe such random rules apply to mere mortal shoppers, but Ron can be persuasive, especially when he's angry, if he feels he's been duped, or he has his heart set on Gulf shrimp and has driven 20 miles to get some. So they relent and give him the rain check anyway.
"We don't expect to get any more of those for awhile."
"I'll hang onto it until you do, and when you do, I'll get them at this price," he says.

Except for cat food, his entire trip to town was a bust. Ah, but in Hilo, even if you don't get what you traveled 40 miles round trip for, you at least always return home with a good story. Priceless!

I do miss that soggy, drippy place, most notably my husband, my furry babies, and the cast of characters we encounter daily. But there are characters here in Gunnison, too. I'm anxious to work again, not so much for dire need of money, but for the health and well-being of my psyche. I'm no kid anymore, but I'm too young to retire and don't want the economy making that decision for me. Able bodied people should work. It's the American way, or at least it used to be. Without work, without something meaningful to do, we flounder. I saw an image recently, I don't remember where, of a "Help Wanted" sign posted with the caveat, "Long time unemployed need not apply." The longer a person's out of the job market, the less employable she becomes.

Next year, maybe I'll have enough to do marketing our delicious coffee. Until then, my empty cabin in Colorado needs me, and I need something to do.

My trip to the Rockies was a bit of a bust, too. I had planned to drive from the Willamette Valley in my father's -- now my -- classic, 1962 Ford Falcon. It's been sitting in storage under my pseudo-step brother's carport for three years, a carport that was half my father's and I'm told is now half mine. He assured me it would "run all day," a few weeks ago, and maybe it could, but not well. Not yet. It's also unaccustomed to driving at highway speeds and could easily blow a gasket in the middle of bumfuck Idaho, in which case I'd be at the mercy of whomever towed me. If I were still my fearless, 21 year old self, I'd have jumped into that car as-is and headed east. Clearly, I've lost my edge. It ran OK when I pulled it out of the driveway, and even better with a new distributor and plugs. But it needs a proper carbuerator, not the outsized substitute sitting on it now, and when I filled it with gas, it sprung a significant fuel-line leak. The driver's side window likes to fall into the door when you slam it shut, and the crank takes some effort to get it back up. I could imagine that happening at a pit stop along the way, then driving the next stretch freezing my gnads off because I couldn't get the window rolled up. The moldings is a too thick for the doors, so they don't seal tightly with ease. I was told that in a few months the molding will "squish out" and getting the doors closed will get easier. Right. Another $1000 bucks will have that car hummin', but even perfect, it's not ideal for everyday use. It should be driven, sure, but I can't imagine sanded, snowy, slushy roads would be kind to such a car. So I returned it to its original spot, flew here, and am now driving a rental, in search of a practical vehicle. The Falcon is for sale. I love it, but it deserves better than to sit 2500 miles away from its owner. It really is a beautiful car, it's flaws easily fixable. It deserves those fixes, regular attention, and to be driven with pride around town and to car shows, to be admired in all its shiny red glory.

I had a job interview on the mountain yesterday, and will be checking out additional options in town today. The brilliant Colorado sunshine will light my way.

A hui hou. Aloha!

Bound for the Mountains

2011-09-29T15:25:00.000-07:00

   When we first moved to the Big Island, jobs were scarce. That hasn't changed, except to get worse. I know that's true everywhere, but Hawaii Island has long been notorious for its dearth of decent paying employment, unless you're an astronomer or work for the government. It's a challenging place to start a business, too, more expensive and arduous than any place in the nation. If you want to be an entrepreneur here, you've really got to want it. Perseverance and plenty of capital is crucial, for it's more likely to take years than months to acquire all the permits and open the doors. I can think of three large, empty buildings -- two new and one restored historic site -- sitting empty right now, waiting to open their doors for business. It's disheartening how many people who live on the windward side make the three-hour drive to work the upscale resorts of Kona and Waikaloa (a.k.a. Haolewood) on the leeward (west) side. One of my neighbors, just up the road a piece, works as a waiter in Waikiki. He flies over to Honolulu and sleeps for a few days each week in a camper he keeps there.
   Yes, people do extraordinary things to get by, let alone get ahead. Here's an example: It was an early morning, last summer, six a.m. I awaited the shuttle to take me to the airport, returning home from my Alaska/Colorado and one night in Phoenix adventure. I struck up conversation with the pleasant, personable young desk clerk. It was August, and at that hour already getting hot in the desert.
   "Whew! How do you handle this heat?" I asked.
   "You actually get used to it," he said. "Physically. Your blood changes after awhile and you can tolerate the heat better."
   "Are you just starting your shift or are you still here from last night?"
   "I'm the still here. One hour to go."
   "Graveyard. That's tough. Do you sleep in the morning when you get home, or do you stay up for a few hours and sleep in the afternoon?"
   "Usually, I crash as soon as I get home, but today we have a mandatory one o'clock staff meeting."
   "So you have to come back in the middle of the day?"
   "No, I have to stay. I ride the bus two and a half hours to work. It's impossible for me to go home and come back. Then I'm on again tonight, so I'll just stay here after the meeting, too."
   "Can they at least give you an empty room so you can snooze and shower before your shift?"
   "Yeah, I just found out they're going to do that."
   "Two and a half hours. That's a long commute."
   "It's not so bad. I can sleep on the bus. And it's better than no job at all."

   The resiliency of the young is impressive, isn't it? But older people are making big sacrifices for their paychecks, too. Later that morning, the middle-aged TSA ID checker at the airport commented on my Colorado Driver's license.
   "My wife lives in Denver," he said. "She said it rained pretty hard there last night."
   "She lives there and you live here?"
   "Yeah. It's not the best but we talk every day. Gotta do what you gotta do."

   I've applied for scores of jobs here over the past few years, dozens in the past few months. In most cases I don't even get a reply saying thanks but no thanks. So recently, I've been sending applications elsewhere, most notably Gunnison, CO, where we still own a cool, historic log cabin, biking distance to town, that nobody wants to buy. I have yet to land a job there, either, but I've at least gotten a few positive responses and have scheduled a few interviews, so prospects look good. The cabin needs an inhabitant, at least through the coldest part of the winter, so it makes sense that I should go there. There's a glut of rental property in Gunnison these days -- ours is not the only house not selling -- and we're just not up to being long-distance landlords again. Are we destitute and desperate? No. But sitting around unemployed has not been good for me. So off I shall go to bring home the tofu (we no longer eat much bacon at out house), to shovel snow and freeze my tush off in a new middle place, the middle of the Rockies, while my family remains in the middle of the Pacific tending to the coffee farm, basking in the liquid sunshine of the rainforest and keeping our cozy hovel from biodegrading into the earth. I'm confident we can withstand this skosh of adversity. Americans everywhere are working much harder and doing much crazier things. Plus, there's iChat, Skype and Magic Jack. We'll be fine.

I'm also looking at this as a writer's retreat. How can I help but be productive there, alone in a cabin in the mountains, fire blazing, snow piled up against the windows outside? And when I'm not working or writing (of course, writing is also hard work), there might be time to squeeze in a few turns. I dug my skis out of storage today, and while they're a bit outdated, they're still OK. A quick run over a base grinder, a squirt of silicone spray on the bindings and they'll be ready to slide. I just hope I remember how to ride 'em.

A hui hou. Aloha!

Okie Dokie, Coqui

2011-09-10T10:49:00.000-07:00

Smaller in diameter that a dime and cute as can be, the coqui frog is nonetheless much maligned here on Hawaii Island. Many view the little buggahs as disruptors of the peace, invaders who have turned our once quiet evenings riotous. By contrast, the bitty frogs are much beloved in their native Puerto Rico, and threatened there as a species. But they thrive here, the first of them having arrived as stow-aways on imported plants sometime in the 90s. Named for their sound -- coQUI, coQUI -- only the males sing, and only after dark. During the day, the frogs are quiet. For a time, it was all out war against the frogs. The county advocated and supplied a variety of chemical sprays -- caffeine, citric acid, hydrated lime -- with huge promotional campaigns aimed at eradication. They're still here, more than ever and in the Puna and Hilo districts here in The Big Island, it would appear that, for lack of funding in these austere times and a waning of the will to murder the little beasts, they are here to stay.

When we first moved to the upper Puna area known as Glenwood, there were no coquis here. Now? Listen for yourself. This fifteen-second soundtrack was recorded from my back lanai. It started with one, a couple of years ago. Last summer, we could identify two or three within earshot. This year, it's dozens, or maybe scores. Here's what they sound like.

Not everyone hates the coquis. Though still a minority, there is a growing faction that has come to terms with these raucous amphibians and, I admit, I'm one of them. And now, local experts agree, too. Time to lay down our arms in the fight against the frogs.

Yes, the coquis are non-native. So am I. So are many of the people here, and most of the plants and animals. To say that the frogs are disrupting the "status quo" would seem an indefensible argument. The natural balance of these islands was altered with the arrival of the first humans and has been under siege ever since. Frogs are dying off in alarming numbers worldwide due to climate change, pollution and habitat degradation. Here, it would seem, one renegade species has found a haven. It's true they have no natural predators here, but for the occasional chicken or cat who gets lucky. So there numbers are legion. And yes, they undoubtedly eat native insects and compete for food with other native and non-native creatures. Scientist worry that, if snakes are ever introduced to Hawaii, the frogs will be a ready food supply for the reptiles. Never mind that without the frogs, the snakes would no doubt find something else to eat. Like bird eggs (a bad thing). Or maybe rats (a good thing). Or, if we're really lucky, chihuahuas (Kidding.) It seems a bit fatalistic to assume that it's only a matter of time before the snakes come. Fatalistic, but not unreasonable, given the record of human screw-ups of this place. Still, it seems a better use of resources to put our efforts toward keeping worse creatures out than killing off a million frogs already here. The coquis lots eat mosquitoes, too, also an invasive species, one which carries diseases that infect native birds, pets and people. We've noticed this summer to be our most productive in the vegetable garden yet, and it's possible the little coquis have something to do with that. Fewer pests mean fewer pukas in da zucchini. There are fewer gnats and beetles doing the crawl through my beer in the evenings, too.

It seems the way of things in Hawaii that humans bring creatures and plants here, either on purpose or through carelessness, for many reasons. The creatures and plants flourish. They become a nuisance. We decide we hate them and must exterminate. We endeavor to do so, always at great cost and often employing deplorable methods, and in the end, our efforts always fall short. There are still mountain sheep munching native plants on Mauna Kea, fire ants tormenting lower Puna, feral cats everywhere, vast tracts of waiawi trees and miconia plants choking out native forests. Like them or not, they have become part of the landscape.

I'm not suggesting that what little remains endemic or indigenous to these islands should not be protected. Certainly, the diligence we all employ in keeping snakes away is worthwhile, and in keeping less onerous but nonetheless invasive, non-native species from entering in the first place. It's also on us to protect the few native creatures and plants that remain as best we can by resisting the urge to bulldoze their habitat to make it our own. But unless it's clear that the now well-entrenched coquis are a serious environment threat, it makes sense to leave them be and focus on bigger troublemakers. A recent story in the Trubune-Herald suggests that experts and government officials have come to the same conclusion. The coqui population has leveled off, they say, and is expected to remain stable here on Hawaii Island. Millions of dollars have already been spent to eradicate the frogs, and, as you can hear, that's been a bust. If it's a choice between coquis and mosquitoes, or coquis and fire ants, or coquis and centepedes, or coquis and pigs, or coquis and Christmas Berry trees (horrible), all nastier and far more destructive, I proclaim solidarity with chatty amphibians. Long live the coqui. Our problems will not be resolved by the elimination of one small, misplaced creature to an isolated archipelago. It's our planet that's ailing, the place where we're all native, all trying to find our best place to thrive. More important that we should retrain our focus on the bigger island, Island Earth.

Just Sayin'

2011-08-21T13:40:00.000-07:00

   I had a job interview for a marketing specialist position on Monday, with a follow-up assignment sent via email to provide a graphic and a writing sample on Tuesday. This second step seemed like a positive thing to me, like a second interview. So there I am, Tuesday afternoon, feeling pretty good about the interview and the samples I sent that morning. The Doctor Dog and I are cruising up the road for an afternoon walk, feeling light of foot and generally good, when we hear a familiar sound. There's no mistaking the distinct bumble of my neighbor's Anthurium-red BMW with the black rag top and miscreant muffler. It closes in on us fast, prompting us to step aside and into the grass along the non-shoulder of our one-lane road. Her window is down when she reaches us.
   "You didn't play tennis Monday, did you?" she asks. It's a weird question, since I play with her.
   "Nope. Had a job interview."
   "Oh yeah? Where?"
   "At a local credit union. Marketing Specialist."
   "Well, they had you come in because you're female. They have to interview all the woman who seem qualified to check them out in person, because you could be local but just married to someone with a haole-sounding name. What they're hoping for, you know, is someone well-connected on the island, with plenty of cousins and aunties and uncles and old friends."
   "Well, they spoke to me in person, then gave me a second assignment this morning, which I don't think they'd do if they weren't at least a little interested after the first meeting."
   "Maybe. I'm just saying you're probably not what they're looking for. That's how it is here."
   "Right."
   "Right."
   "Well, see ya."
   "See ya." And off she bumbled.
   Speeding neighbor's buzz-kill aside, I did my best with the interview. I was honest and sincere about my capabilities and experience. I had some good ideas that I think they genuinely liked. You get what you give. I may not be so well connected, but I think I've got a chance.

   It finally stopped raining Friday, so Ron set out to mow the lawn. The ground is saturated, so rather than looking nicer, it's as though kids on ATVs snuck in during the night for a quick spin in the mud, leaving tracks across the green.
   While he mowed, I ran errands. Errands are excruciating in Hilo. You can never get everything you need at one place and the traffic generally stinks. All the while I was thinking about that job, and what the neighbor said, and mentally reinforcing my belief that the interviewers were very nice and professional, that they are considering me, maybe among other strong candidates, but that I do, in fact, have a shot. When I arrived home, Ron had tipped the front wheels of the tractor into a hole. There are drop offs all over the property, and it's hard to detect their exact location until you fall over the edge. He found one, then spun the back wheels in the muck. Stuck. It happens. I've done it, too.

   So here's the scenario: I drive the Trooper to within a few feet of the tractor. He hooks it to the Deere with a heavy chain. But instead of just climbing straight into the yellow seat and shouting, "OK" or "hit it," he makes a special point of walking to the window where I sit behind the wheel of the truck, locked and loaded, ready to roll.
   "Go slow," he says.
   "Really? Shucks. I was planning to floor it."
   "I'm just sayin'."
   "For the fifteenth time." How fast does he think I can go, anyway, with the truck in low gear on soupy ground through a coffee grove?
   "Well, just go slow, OK." He climbs onto the tractor. "Ready," he yells. Finally. I apply the most miniscule amount of pressure to the pedal as is humanly possible, pressing oh-so-gingerly with my toes. The tires ease around about a quarter turn. The chain tugs tight.
   "Slower!" He shouts. I take my foot off the pedal. The Trooper stops. I cannot go slower and actually go.
   "Do you want to drive the truck and let me sit in the tractor?"I ask.
   "No, just go SLOW." Now I really want to floor it, but instead, he manages to sit still for a nanosecond while I ease the tractor out. All is well until I get the truck back into the driveway.
   "What's wrong?" he asks.
   "It doesn't want to shift out of four wheel drive." I'm working the stick, but it won't budge.
   "Why did you use the shifter? Why didn't you just push the TOD (traction on demand) button?"
   "Because I wanted the lowest gear possible. TOD is four wheel drive in high gear. The tractor's heavy. It's not like I was planning to drive 55 miles per hour in a blizzard. You wanted me to go slow, remember?"
   "Get out. Let me do it," he says. After ten minutes of him grunting and jerking the knob, he acknowledges that yes, it is stuck. "If you'd just pushed TOD. This button? Right here?" He presses it on and off several times for emphasis. "Everything would be fine."
If you hadn't driven the tractor into a hole everything would be fine, too.
   "Right," I say.
   "Why won't it budge?" he asks, rhetorically, not expecting an answer. I give him one anyway.
   "Maybe because it just sits here in the rainforest rotting day after day and something's rusted in there."
   He gives me a look. "Maybe if I get it moving," he says, and takes off down the driveway.
   "That should work," I say, because that's what I would have done next. It did.
   The next day,we take another trip to town for Diesel and beer and such, all the stuff we used up or forgot to put on the list the day before. We pick up everything at Cost-U-Less except eggs and JujiFruits. The chewy candy is a must-buy on Ron's list, never mind that it is made mostly of high-fructose corn syrup, something we scrutinize labels for when shopping for everything else. They require a special stop at Walgreens because the only other place that carries them is Walmart, which is enormous and crowded and unpleasant, so we only go there if we have no other choice, and we might have purchased the eggs at Cost-U-Less, too, but Ron wants to get them at KTA where they're two cents cheaper or something. At KTA he runs in and I stay in the car, because it feels silly to me for two people to go into a store, then stand in line to checkout for one measly dozen eggs. There's a location at the edge of the parking lot there where kids wash cars to raise money for their teams or youth groups or gangs or whatever, and it's near where we always park, and I watch them for a few minutes through the dirty windshield, thinking I should wash the car and the algae-festooned Trooper when I get home. Ron returns to find me snoozing, seat reclined, nice tradewind breeze floating through the open window. He gets in, hands me the bag and we head homeward. I close my eyes again and doze.
   "Time for a nappy?" he asks.
   "Time for a nappy."

   Halfway home, he blurts, "Where are the eggs?"
   I point to the floorboard between my feet. "Right here." I sit up, awake now, straighten the seat-back and turn on the radio.
   "That's annoying," he says and turns it off. I recline again and close my eyes, but can't sleep. Moments later, the wipers click on. Whap, whap, whap...
We pull into the driveway and squeak open our respective doors to exit the car.
   "Don't step on the eggs," he says.
   "Damn. I was going to stomp on them and smash them all to gooey bits."
   "I'm just sayin'."
   "Why do you think I don't know that stepping on the eggs we just bought would be a bad idea?"
   "Well, you can be forgetful sometimes."
   "I have never, in 52 years of life on this earth, ever stepped on a single egg, let alone a dozen of them."
   "They're right by your feet. I'm just sayin'."

   Now, there's no denying I can be forgetful. I've been known to leave my shopping list behind, or to misplace my purse or glasses or keys. Once, while traveling, I forgot to account for a change in time zones, neglected to reset my watch, didn't think to look at one of the hundreds of clocks hanging in the terminal, hung out for too long in the Hudson's Bookstore and missed my connecting flight. But I have never forgotten to not step on the eggs. It's like saying, "Don't run down any pedestrians on your way to town today." Gosh. OK. Glad you said something. I might have bowling-pinned a dozen of 'em before I remembered that.

   Alright, so I've been a little testy these past couple of days. Maybe a little more than a little. I can be a smidge sarcastic when I feel patronized, and am especially sensitive to that if I'm feeling a little more than a little testy.

Testy is as testy does. You get what you give.

Just sayin'.

A hui hou. Aloha!

Return to Fraggle Rock

2011-08-13T12:22:00.000-07:00

Some people collect Hummels. Others like stamps, or coins or those commemorative spoons from places they visit around the world. For me, it's college degrees. The next one will have to wait a few years, however, since I am fresh out of cash. Time to go earn some.

The mission, which I have no choice but to accept, is to find a job. This, I believe, will prove more challenging than earning any degree. The competition is keen. The pickings, slim. I've applied on the island for positions ranging from Seasonal Cookie Dipper to Marketing Specialist, and if that goat herder opening appears again the paper, I'll go for that, too. I like goats.

I'm happy to be home for now with my husband and dog and adorable kitties, and yet, more often than not, my head is elsewhere. To be specific, it's in Colorado, or Alaska. "There is no hope for the satisfied man." So states the motto of The Denver Post. If this applies to middle-aged women, too, then I am about as friggin' hopeful as you can get.

It was great to be back on the tennis court this week with my ball-whacking, Punatic homies.

"You weren't getting your degree in Alaska," said Kathy Hanson with a point and a wink. She's the instigator of our gang of four. Small and athletic, she's an especially smart player, formidable in many ways, with a wicked forehand down-the-line and great passion for winning. "You were at tennis camp." I did play well that day.

My good buddy Robert, who normally doesn't play on Wednesdays, made a special point to join us in honor of my return. He did so at great personal sacrifice -- riding the bus home afterward -- as his wife needed the car for errands. Robert has an infectious, boyish smile and looks much younger than his 49 years. Like Michael Jordan, he sticks his tongue out with concentration when he serves. Robert wears a UH Warriors visor over a black-on-white paisley bandana, and dark sunglasses. Long, cargo shorts hang to his knees. His look is nerdy, white-boy hip-hop, his shorts baggy since he's lost some weight. "I had to come see my girl," he grinned. Robert was nursing a sore ankle when I left for Alaska, but it's healed, and now he too is playing with greater confidence. His volleys were on fire that day.

"It feels like we're getting the band back together," I said to Barney after our match as we walked to our cars. Barney is Kathy's brother, an exceptional athlete and, at 58 years young, the best, most mobile player of us all. Our goal in playing against him is to hit the ball where he is not. Trouble is, he's everywhere. Barney plays rock-n-roll into the wee hours most weekends. He never trains. The first thing he does when we finish playing is grab a cigarette. Barney typically wears a headscarf to cover a bald spot on top, which, combined with a salty pony tail, makes him look especially cool. Between points, he practices a phantom base on his racket. His band is called Gin and Chronic.

"It is a beautiful thing," he agreed and smiled, fingers tickling the imaginary fretboard of his grip.

Today, I will talk with a woman I once worked with at the winery who may have an opportunity for me to sell locally made jams at the Hilo Farmers' Market two days a week. That could be fun. Who doesn't love jam? I've sent out half-a-dozen resumés and cover letters this week, too, the have-MFA, will-teach-for-beer-money kind.

Righ now, it's raining. Yesterday afternoon was delugenous. (That's a new word I just invented.) My neighbor and good friend Kathy McGonigle, our foremost local authority on rainfall amounts, said we got half an inch in an hour. The roar upon the roof was fierce. That sort of torrent is not uncommon here, but it is August and not the rainy season. So this was a little exciting. For my money, if it's going to rain every friggin' day, let it bloody rain. Hard. I want to see rain the likes of which would make Noah seem like an overreactive, whiney crybaby. Cats and dogs, lions and tigers and bears-- oh my! Rain like a vertical river. Bring-it-on!

A hui hou. Aloha!

2011-08-03T19:33:00.000-07:00

Yes, I know. I've been remiss with the blog. Shoveling sawdust and vole poop will do that to a writer. It's been nearly two weeks since my arrival in Gunnison and I should be ready to go home. Instead, I don't want to leave. The house is clean, or clean enough. It meets our standards, anyway, which have plummeted in recent years to about the level of limbo bars for cockroaches. The plumbing works now -- mostly. The grass looks like a bad haircut. But it's still a way cool house, in a groovy town, and I want to stay.

My friend Brian said it best in quoting the theme from Cheers on my Facebook page recently: "You wanna go where everybody knows your name." Lots of people know me here, and I know lots of people, and we've been genuinely glad to see each other these past days, in coffee shops, at their houses for dinner, on the sidewalk, at the market or the hardware store. Everywhere I go. Everywhere. And the people I've encountered who I don't know? Well, they seem like nice folks, too.

As much as I love the house itself, selling it does not preclude returning here. There are plenty of places to rent or buy here and always will be. And if the infusion of cash gets me off the island a little more often, then it's worth it.

And then there's Alaska. I was there, too, just a few weeks ago. It's a wonder, that place, and I've come to love it, too. There's so much more of The Last Frontier to explore.

I really should return to Gunnison and to Alaska mid-winter. Maybe then the rainforest won't seem so bleak, the green not so boring and oppressive, the warm, humid air not so cloying and annoying. There's more coffee to pick now, and even some to sell, which is kinda cool (but also grueling), but I'm still languishing "in the bushes" as my neighbor Kathy refers to where we live. Everything feels better here, in Colorado, or in Alaska, where I can look out across the valleys to mountains beyond, not far beyond, mind you, but further than the choke trees crowding my house in Hawaii.

Johnny Cash is singing dirges as I sip warm lemon ginger tea at Mochas this evening. Stuffed with Garlic Mike's Pasta, my stomach's uncomfortable, but in a contented way, with Alfredo fetuccini and, ala Hannibal Lecter, a nice chianti. My butt's sore, for I stepped funny the other day, into a hole maybe, carrying a load of rubbish from a slash pile left by the renters, a pile too damp to burn. And my hearts aching some too, for having to leave this place.

Time to take an ibuprofen and hit the air mattress one last time. Tomorrow morning, I'll say goodbye to Gunnison, and to these guys. They've been good company, too, coming to the fence most afternoons to visit.

A hui hou, guys. Aloha!

Ponderings of The Lone Wolf

2011-07-11T16:08:00.000-07:00

My mother once tried to punish me by sending me to my room. I must have done something pretty bad to warrant such a sentence, though I don't recall now what that was. She probably does. My mom's like an elephant. She rarely forgets anything, and if she does, she'll makes up something even better that quickly becomes the standard family truth. On that day, furious, she escorted me through the door of my room with a stern point of the finger, then pulled the door closed with a firm click. Two hours later, she returned.
"You can come out now," she said.
"That's OK," I said, smiling. She peered in to see that I'd set up all my stuffed animals around the bed. It was a theater-in-the-round and I was having a grand time enacting some sort of play for them. She laughed, shook her head and headed down the hall.

Children without siblings learn early and well to entertain themselves. We are our own best audiences. My buddy Janine and I -- she, too, was an only child -- have coined a phrase, "It's an only child thing," whenever we find ourselves the only two laughing at a lame joke no one else gets, or when one of us bursts into an unbridled exhibition of silliness as though no one is looking, then discovers that everyone is.

I loved being alone as a kid. I'd hold entire conversations with myself and my imaginary friends, or my fabric and plastic friends, catch end zone passes and land on the bed in a blaze of touchdown glory, blast down-the-line passing shots as the Wimbledon crowd in my head went wild. I'd sing to the radio into a broom handle to adoring, if inanimate fans. This was not an occasional thing. I did it often, and for hours. Even today, my husband, Ron, will come into a room and ask, "Who are you talking to?" and I'll say, "The cat," but he knows better. There were, however, times when I envied friends from large families. I remember waiting for the bus during those years my Queen of Peace classmates and I all picked strawberries in summer. The days began early, still dark outside, and chilly. Mom would drop me off, then head home to crawl back into her warm bed for another hour or two before the day started for the civilized world. Mrs. McCarthy was always at the bus stop, there in the parking lot of the closed gas station with a carload of McCarthys, motor idling, heater blasting. They'd squeeze me into their sanctuary, tight and toasty, a comfy place, of jibes and giggles and fun. There were always and ever so many McCarthys. The affection among and between them was palpable, and for a few moments those mornings, mashed in with them like Irish sardines, I too was a McCarthy, an honorary member of the tribe, a part of something good.

The writing residency feels a little like that. There's a warmth and support here, like being brought in out of the cold by old, best friends. Like family. We've seen each other in our jammies and without makeup. We even bicker and gripe a little, but mostly, we're crammed into this literary Chevy like contented McCarthys, genuinely happy to be in each other's company, worried over one another's troubles and setbacks, glad for each other's improvements and accomplishments.

To crave solitude is not something unique to only children, but it may be more acute in us. Fantasies of long road trips alone for days or weeks along endless stretches of empty highway gnaw at me, like hunger. Yet lately, as I listen to friends tell family stories of siblings and children and grandchildren, there's a sense of something missing, something I've lost for never having had it, the lone wolf displaced for lack of a pack. What becomes of elderly wanderers, only children with no kids of their own? Of course, having children is no guarantee you'll have someone to care for you and share your time in old age. Kids can be fickle that way. And I do have a husband who loves me and a fine, furry family of adorables. Able-bodied and well-fed, I am one lucky buggah, indeed. But it's something I wonder about. I still relish the notion of a solitary venture along some long, lonesome road, still bent on the merits of the journey over the destination, but now, it is connection rather than disconnection along the way that I seek, with the rare and special people I've come to know along the way. It would seem then, that I am far less the loner than I've pegged myself to be.

On Tennis and Writing and Being Too Nice

2011-06-12T13:47:00.000-07:00

I've recently been recruited to play tennis for a local 4.0 ladies tennis league team, referred to as either "Team Debbie" for the nice woman who manages us, or "Have Fun," which is our pre-match chant. We're still looking for a proper name. But we do have fun, despite getting creamed most outings. Last Saturday, we played in the Edith Kanakaole Tennis Stadium in Hilo. Good thing, too, since outside it was pouring, complete with thunder and lightning. It's a substantial structure, covered, yet open all around, most famous for hosting the annual Merrie Monarch Hula Festival in April. It was about 85 degrees outside and 100 percent humidity, air so thick it took three sucks of my albuterol inhaler just to breath. Several of us arrived early to warm up, but after twenty minutes' steady rallying with my teammate, Keiko, the human backboard, I was drenched. I played doubles with a nice, extremely fit and excellent ground-stroker named Cynthia from Pahoa. Our game was respectable through the first set, but faltered in the second. The final score: 5-7, 0-6. Cynthia and I came up with a chant of our own, high-fiving each other with "Tally Ho" after every court switch. It didn't help us win, but it made us feel better about losing.

I've been struggling lately with my put-away shots, choking on those easy, powder-puff balls, the ones delivered straight up on a silver platter. They should be sure winners, or as they say in basketball, slam dunks. On wednesday, playing with my usual morning group, I missed several of these.

"What's happened to your killer instinct?' asked Kathy, the most intense member of our foursome. If anyone plays the game with murderous intent, she does. I shrugged and smiled, transported instantly back to my too-serious-about-tennis-for-my-own-good high school days. I recalled a comment from my coach. It was one of those moments we all experience as kids, when someone you respect flattens you, saying something you'll never forget.

It had come after what I had thought was a particularly good hitting lesson. I'd been working with Bruce for a couple of years, and he'd always been encouraging. "You've really come along way," he said. "Your strokes are solid, with such a nice, topspin kick on your second serve. And that backhand down-the-line is coming along." I smiled. "But nice strokes aren't everything. You'll never go far on the tournament circuit, I'm afraid. You just don't have the killer instinct for it."
"What do you mean?" The smile was gone.
"I mean that you have to hate your opponent while you're out there on the court. You have to want to crush her every time you connect with the ball. You're too nice."
I was incensed. "No I'm not!"
"There's nothing wrong with being nice," he said.

For weeks I brooded about it, decided he was an idiot, did everything I could to dredge up distain for whomever stood on the opposite side of the net from me, especially if it was him. I've never forgotten that statement and, of course, years later, realized he was right.

I've since been called too nice in other areas of life. As a department manager with Deluxe Corporation way back in the gnarly nineties, my colleague and pal Janine dubbed me, Toni the friendly manager. She'd draw out the word friendly, for emphasis.
"Shut up!" I'd say.
"You're too nice. Sometimes, you really do have to be a little tougher on people to get the job done." "You can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar," I might say to her, that old, tired cliché, to which she might respond, "Maybe, but you can catch a lot of flies with shit, too." A valid point. For the record, we're still great friends.

And I'm still too nice. My husband tells me this all the time. If it were up to me, we'd pay full price for all our cars at some exorbitant interest rate because I'm such a pushover with unscrupulous dealers. Oh I can haggle and be tough if I must, but it's not a comfortable role. That's probably why I've never gotten rich, either.

Believe it or not, there's an analogy to writing here.

In thinking about the sorts of stories I read in literary magazines and even novels nowadays, heavy, wrenching, depressing stories, and considering my overt niceness, I know I don't have that in me. I will never make my readers gasp with some disturbing, cutting edge, nightmare-inducing prose that makes them squirm in their seats and want to chew on nails for relief when they've finished reading it. In fact, I admit I don't mind an occasional happy ending, not necessarily a Hollywood happily-ever-after sort of thing, but one where life goes on in some capacity and not everyone's completely miserable or dead.

Yesterday, the Have Fun/Team Debbie ladies played another match. I was a little surprised not to be included on the roster, but then I am the newest member, and several women have not had the chance to play matches yet, so it seemed fair. Without me, they won for the first time all season.

Tennis is an individual sport. Doubles team play aside, when the ball comes to you, there's nobody to pass it to, nobody to share the burden of your shot. It's yours alone. You either hit it and make the shot, or you don't. You win matches on the merit of your play and you lose them for the same reason. Tennis also requires myopic focus on a single objective. This is the most challenging part for me, to train my attention on the ball and only the ball, not let my mind wander to consider what I might want to cook for dinner or if I remembered to turn off the coffee maker before I left the house. It's hard to do for an entire match, to block out everything and just play. It's especially difficult when the going gets tough, when the competition is tightest, or when you've fallen behind.

The ability to tune out distractions is critical in writing, too. Those places where you find yourself injecting something personal, painful, or just plain stuck regarding what might happen to your protagonist next -- those are the worst. That's when you suddenly get the urge for another cup of coffee, or to pull the laundry from the washer and throw it into the drier, or to puck your eyebrows, anything but sit there and grind it out.

With writing, it's not so much about winning as surviving. It takes no small amount of tenacity and courage to wring words out of yourself and onto the page. And like a hotly contested tennis match, it can be exhausting. Given my lack of a killer instinct, I'm often content in tennis with a series of well-executed shots even if I don't win the match, or even the point. So too, do I find great satisfaction in a kick-ass sentence, a brilliant paragraph transition, or in striking that perfect balance between scene and summary.

I don't know what this all means, really. It's just musings on the page. Sometimes, I escape the most challenging aspects of writing with other writing. That's what I'm doing now. So, one more cup of coffee, then it's back to my story. Focus. Focus. Focus. See the ball. Be the ball. There's nothing but that ball.

Pickin'

2011-05-26T21:47:00.000-07:00

Last week, 60 Minutes aired a segment on child farm labor. Yes, it still exists in America and it's still legal. Kids do it to help their families. They're strong, these kids, resilient. They work hard and make the best of those long, hot days. But ask any of them, as the 60 Minutes reporter did, and they'll tell you they don't want to do it forever. They plan to graduate high school, go to college, make a better life for themselves and their children. When I was a kid, I worked as a farm laborer, too. No one forced me and I did not do it to help my family. I did it because many of my classmates were doing it, and because my parents had done it as children, and their parents before them. I did it for cash, for a pair of Levis and a Nishiki 12 speed bicycle. It was tedious, dirty work, but like today's farm worker kids, we made the best of it, picking to the rhythm of transistor radios tuned to the same, top 40 station. Backaches and sunburns aside, I have fond memories of those berry picking days.

At sixteen, I left the fields for a coveted cannery job, which required a union membership but paid way better than picking or fast food. The entry-level women's job at Del Monte was known as, "the belt." It's where everyone started. You stood on a raised platform watching an endless river of green beans as they flowed by on a conveyor. The task was simple: pick out the rotten ones, stems, clods and rocks. We wore fetching hair nets. After a few minutes on the job, staring down at the beans, I began to feel queazy. It was as though I was moving and the conveyor stood still. I bolted to the restroom, without permission from my supervisor, to puke. Upon my return, still pale and shaky, the lack of appreciation shown me for having not spewed on the product was an affront to my teenage sensibilities. They moved me to the steaming, sweltering cook room, the end of the line. Standing on another, higher platform, a line of cans, single file, ran up a skinny conveyor and onto a stainless steel table. As the warm tins gathered, I pushed them onto a pallet in a single stroke using a heavy, two-handled, sickle-shaped squeegie thingy. When one level on the pallet was full, I'd lay a divider on top, then push some more. I pushed, and pushed, and pushed, left to right, left to right, left to right. All. Day. Long. The best thing I can say about the cook room is that blanched green beans don't have much smell, and the faint aroma they emit when simmering is pleasant enough. I can't say the same for beets, which were cooking and coming off another line twenty feet away. Throughout that late, hot summer, feet aching on that metal scaffold, sweat pouring over eyebrows and drizzling down temples, I heaved green beans, inhaling the sickly sweet stench of boiling beets with every breath. I hate beets.

I come from a long agrarian line, proud of my farm-worker heritage. I appreciate what farmers and field hands do because I've done it. It's honorable work. But like those boys in the 60 minutes story, I aspired to a different life, one that did not involve blisters or stained hands, neck and back complaining, head and shoulders baked under a scorching sun, nor do I miss factory work, repeating the same, mindless task, over and over and over. This is why I am not so enamored with this coffee farm hobby we've taken up as my city-boy husband, for whom the romance and novelty are still fresh. He thinks it's really cool to be picking our own coffee. I think it's a chore and would rather just buy some at the farmers' market. Rustling through rain-soaked brush to find the ripe red cherry, stooping to get the low fruit, stretching on tip-toes to reach the high ones, sweeping spider webs from between the branches; this is his dream, not mine. There are so many better things to pick: the strings on my ukulele, the right word for a perfect sentence, a fresh, clean aloha shirt from the closet, a beer from the Gordon Biersch collection I bought this morning at Foodland, my nose, my dog's nose.

The Hilo Coffee Mill called this afternoon to say we have 20 pounds of green coffee dried, hulled and ready to roast. OK, I guess that's kinda cool.

A hui hou, Hoppsy

2011-05-09T00:07:00.000-07:00

She was the world's most brilliant, brave, mischievous, and beautiful border collie in the history of the universe. Hopps made us smile every day of her life.

She came to us from friends who adopted her from the Denver Dumb Friends League. She had been abused as a pup and was shy then, afraid of anything with a long handle, scared of belts and loud noises. Our friends loved her, but with a fledgling business and a baby on the way, they had little time for. We fell for her instantly that weekend they came to visit, and when they asked if we'd be willing to take her, we said, in unison and without hesitation, "Sure!"

Hopps transformed from city pooch to country girl and quickly became the happiest dog in the world.

Now, free from old age and disease, she can shag tennis balls all day long. "Hello, Hoppsy," my father says, as though he's been expecting her. He sits on the tailgate of his long-bed '65 Chevy, Crawford, our English shepherd, content at his side. Lucy, the calico, purrs on his lap. Hopps is crouched and ready, her gaze trained upon the ball, bright yellow and fresh from the can, snapped tight into the cup of the Chuck-It in Dad's hand. Dewy grass shimmers in sunlight. He pulls back. She's off! He flings it, and all is right with the afterworld.

"What's this sock doing in the middle of the living room floor?" Ron might have asked on any given day over the past 11 eleven years.
"I don't know," I'd say. "You'll have to ask Hoppsy."

In heaven, there are infinite socks to steal.

In heaven, you can eat all the cat food you want and not barf. You can sniff all the cat's butts and goose them with your nose whenever you get the urge and none will ever scratch your nose. You can go hiking, chase prairie dogs, leap over logs and wade through creeks -- shallow streams just right for a dog who can't swim -- running clear and cold to quench your thirst and cool your paws. In heaven, you can roll on cow pies or fish carcasses and nobody makes you take a bath. Ever.

There are no thunder storms in heaven.

You can eat all the licorice and Jelly Bellies you want and not barf.

You'll always be with us, Hoppsy. You'll always be our girl.

Here comes the sun

2011-04-01T12:06:00.000-07:00

"Little darlin', it seems like years since it's been clear..." George Harrison

After eleven -- count 'em, cause I do -- yes, eleven days of all-day rain with intermittent downpours and deluges, yesterday was glorious. Now, you might think that one good thing about a string of foul-weather days is that a person would appreciate the sunshine even more when it finally breaks through to lighten a dismal world. But I'll marvel at a sunny Thursday even if Wednesday was also fabulous. Maybe that has something to do with growing up in the great, if gray and drizzly Pacific Northwest. But it's a bona fide, documented, irrefutable fact that I would never take a sunny day for granted, even if it were sunny every friggin' day of the year. I wouldn't. Really. No way.

Hoppsy wasn't feeling her best, so we hobbled to the yard to sit under the kukui nut tree, she in the grass, me in my shaky, rusty lawn chair. The kitties all gathered 'round. I didn't get much reading done for all the petting that was demanded of me.

In the afternoon, I took a short hike at the park. The tradewind breeze was stiff enough to prompt a snugging of the Velcro on my cap, which blew off anyway when I turned to make my descent from The Jaggar Museum to the KMC. The Halemaumau Crater vent seems to be generating less gas these days, but the crater rim trail and road are still closed for the plume that crosses it on the other side from the museum. I love the crater rim hike, even that short stretch of it, for the diversity of plants along its edge and the drama of an active, volcanic crater on one side, the snoozing behemoth Mauna Loa on the other. Ohelo with ripe berries, o'hia lehua in bloom with shades of silver and lavender on some of the leaves, full, sickle-leafed koa trees (not like the ragged, nearly naked ones in my yard). And here's the best part. This is why I love that Americans are so lazy. Only occasionally did I encounter someone else on what I've come to consider my trail. There's a viewpoint parking area along the way, where people get out of there cars and walk to the overlook. They cross the path to the crater's edge, snap a few photos, then stroll back to their cars and drive on to the next pull-out. The museum overlook itself is always bustling, too. But not many people actually take the time to walk.

My quest today is to get Hoppsy to eat. She's alert this morning (and Lord knows, the world needs more lerts), chipper even, and she ate a bit of breakfast. I've got an order in at the vet to renew her appetite stimulant/happy pills prescription today. Hope that helps.

It's time for oatmeal (with raisins), then to do a little fresh, new writing. Today's not so brilliant as yesterday, but not so nasty as the day before. Onward.
A hui hou. Aloha!

Our Lucy

2011-03-15T13:50:00.000-07:00

There's never been a cat so indulged or more loved. She was our Lucy, our favorite (but don't tell the others) and we've been spoiling her for years. Yesterday, we made the wrenching decision to let her go. The inoperable tumor on her nose had grown furious and was making her miserable despite extra doses of pain medication. Today, our hearts are broken for the loss of our beautiful, bossy girl. We buried her at the base of the koa tree that angles out from the roof of the house. We might have trimmed it years ago for the leaves it sheds into the gutter. But she climbed it every day to bask in the sun on the roof, or to curl up under the eves when it rained. She climbed it before losing her sight, and after, too. It's Lucy's tree, as it is her house. We're just fortunate she liked us enough to let us live here with her. We stay on as caretakers in her absence.

Lucy is with Grandpa now, and her doggy-sister Crawford. I'm sure there's also a 24-hour all-you-can-eat tuna and fresh-roasted turkey bar nearby, for when she feels inclined to a snack.

When her eyes failed, Lucy would sit at the edge of the high grass for hours, listening to the rustle within, to the flitting and chirping overhead. Now, she can see all the lizards and all the birds. In Lucy's heaven, there is no pain. Only tuna and chicken and turkey and more tuna, with Greenies treats for dessert. There are cozy laps, office chairs, towel closets and couch-backs. Endless petties, but only when she wants them; only on her terms. Plenty of feathery, slithery things to swat across endless expanses of lawn. In Lucy's heaven, there is no rain. Only sunshine she can stretch out beneath, across driveways and rooftops, to feel the warmth and soak it into her sweet, cantankerous soul, every day.

We love you Lucy. Your spirit will live on here, in this place, and within us, forever.

Medical cost woes

2011-03-03T16:13:00.000-08:00

My friend Kathy and I were lamenting the other day how expensive it is to exist these days, let alone stay healthy, especially as a middle-aged human, with or without medical insurance. She has been nursing an injured, worn-out shoulder, diligent with ice, stretching and rotator cuff exercises, but knows it will need surgery to fix properly, something she can't afford. She was with me when I broke my tooth.

"Shit. There's another two grand, just like that! What's next?" I said.
"I know what you mean. It's like you're afraid to move because something might break and you can't afford to fix it," she said. I laughed, but truer words were never spoken.

I recently had minor surgery, a nether-regionectomy and gynecological spelunking as I like to call it. The medical staff at North Hawaii Community Hospital liked my description of the procedure and seemed amenable to changing its official name to exactly that, an NRGS for short. Prior to the surgery, my primary care physician had wanted to schedule me for an MRI. The ultrasound looked fuzzy, to get a clearer picture. I said no, since they were going to scope it anyway. It turned out to be a wise call. The surgery will cost me $800 dollars above what my insurance covers. An MRI would have set me back a bundle more. Medications are not covered by my plan, either. If they were, I'd be paying $600+/month premiums. As it is, they just hiked those by another $100 in January. That's about a 30% increase. The medicine itself, basic asthma maintenance, were I to buy it from my local pharmacy, would cost upwards of $350/month. (You should know that many drugs we're told do not have generic equivalents in the U.S. do everywhere else in the world. Advair is one example.) I'm all for supporting R&D at pharmaceutical companies. I realize it's expensive and without it, no new drug would be developed. But when I see the monthly price of Advair®, then learn that the generic is blocked from sale in this country and that even the brand name is half the price abroad, when I am bombarded by the plethora of expensive ads for this drug on TV, when I consider the exorbitant, multimillion dollar salaries collected by big pharma executives who have nothing to do with research and development, I get a little peeved. I'm a generally healthy person, yet staying that way is now close to prohibitive.

On a positive note, BC the black cat has become a total love junky. He's resting his chin on my arm as I type this. The other cats still hate him; he scares Harley-Dude terribly and can't resist terrorizing Mr. Sox, so I'd still love to place him with a soft-spoken, patient person who will love him as an only cat. He's needy and follows me around like a puppy, always underfoot. It's annoying, but sweet. The transition would be rough for him, but in the long run, it would be best for everyone. He's very good with the dogs, too. That said, the odds of me finding a kindly cat person in Hawaii who doesn't already have too many kitties are slim.

We've harvested a whopping forty pounds of coffee cherry from our trees this year! I'd guess we have another thirty more to ripen, too. Eighty pounds of coffee should process down to about sixteen pounds roasted. Not a ton, but not bad. Here's the bucket we took in for processing yesterday.

Time to get back to my thesis. I'm almost finished. The final minutia, getting the layout and mechanics just right, is a buggah.

A hui hou. Malama pono. Aloha!

Trouble Child

2011-02-17T13:09:00.000-08:00

WANTED: Experienced cat owner in between pets, or maybe with one but no more, to take on the challenge of socializing a stray-feral cat. I have befriended him at the expense of my other pets, all of whom are "special needs" as they say: blind, elderly, infirm. Our new friend was badly injured when he came to us and is now on the mend. But his social skills need work. He is fearful and combative one minute, sweet the next. But he will, with a few week's patience, make a nice companion for the right person.

   Here's the story: The Black Cat. We've taken to calling him BC. He's medium bushy with Simple Green eyes. BC has been a fixture in the neighborhood for years. Everybody knows him, and his range has extended along more than a half a mile of our road. When he'd visit our house, he'd sneak in through the back door to snatch a bite from our cats' food table. If one of us saw him, or he saw us, he'd blast away in a blur so fast you'd question whether he was ever really there at all. At one point, he disappeared for months. I figured he was a goner, He returned two weeks ago, mangled and filthy, a gash in his throat, lame front paw and scrawny. I fed him. He remained aloof at first, but in time, grew to trust me. Within a week, the cat that nobody could catch or touch or even see clearly was letting me scratch his head. This is a cat that was a stray turned feral, not born feral. One fateful day, I grabbed him up, plopped him into a carrier and ferried him to the vet for a "day at the spaw," a snip (of his kitty gonads), a cleaning and disinfection of his wounds. He immediately peed in the carrier for fear, so the half-hour ride to town was aromatic.
   "Whoa! Un-neutered male cat there!" said Alison, the receptionist at the clinic, when we walked through the door.
   He's been back for several days now, getting friendlier with me but still terrorizing the rest of the family. It's obvious his roaming days are over and he's chosen to stay put. I just wish he'd stay put someplace else.
   My neighbor, who knows him and whose house he once frequented, offered to help. So yesterday, I took him there. Fresh tuna at the ready, we released him inside, only for him to literally climb the walls in a panic and try to jump through a picture frame. We'd have done it in a room, but she doesn't have any with doors. (It's a Puna-syle house.) So before he destroyed her place and hurt himself, we opened the door. He's familiar with her porch, we reasoned, since she used to leave food out for him whenever she'd see him. He looked around, realized where he was, then made his way under the house, then under her car.
   "He used to sleep under there," she said. "Maybe he'll stay." When I got home, he was sitting on my back lanai with a look that asked the obvious question, "What took you so long?"
   We are not set up as an all-indoor cat household. Our house is well back from the road and the cats stay close. The house is tiny. They all come and go, in and out, freely, including him, which makes policing his rogue ways difficult.
   I remain armed with a squirt bottle and not afraid to use it, the best training tool for cats ever. That said, I was serious when I presented my original challenge. Hawaii would be best, and this island best of all, but I'll pay for plane fare and tranquilizers. I'll also take him in for a thorough exam at the vet, complete with vaccinations for anyone serious about working with this cat. It won't be easy, but it will be rewarding. I'll bet that in a week, he'll let you pet him. In two weeks, he'll be following you around the house.

Come on, cat lovers. Look at that face. Look at that pathetic, shaved throat. Check out those cool eyes.

Feral cats and gay roosters

2011-02-04T15:47:00.000-08:00

He's a feral cat, scraggly, scruffy, scrappy, bushy black with emerald green eyes. Black Kitty has been coming around for the past couple years. Sometimes, he disappears for weeks or even months at a time, and just when we're sure he's gone for good, he shows up again, battered and hungry. Our house is a good place to hang if you're a cat; it's safe, with comfy places to get out of the elements, people who talk softly and feed you when you meow at them. Recently, he returned after a three week absence, a scabby patch of missing fur on his head and an injured front right paw. I've gotten close enough to touch him once, this morning, for the first time. Until today, he's always darted away at the slightest move in his direction. He's not aggressive and the other kitties don't seem to mind him. Even Doc has gotten used to him and has stopped barking to chase him away. So we feed him when we see him. The last few nights, he's curled up to sleep on the back lanai. He needs a safe place to recover from his rough and tumble exploits. The poor fellow, or maybe he's a she, is just trying to survive, one day at a time, just like the rest of us.

Two other visitors have become regulars in the yard. A pair of roosters has taken to crowing under our bedroom window early and prancing around the vegetable garden, cavorting under the kukui nut tree every morning. I see roosters and hens together all over the neighborhood. Our own Charlie ran off with a brown floozy over a year ago, and just last week I saw him at the neighbor's with two, count 'em, two hottie hens. But I never see rooster in pairs. Well, almost never. These two are always together. I see them at Leonard and Mari's place across the street, or strolling along the road's edge, not exactly wing in wing, but never far apart. I think I saw them high-fiving the other day after news that the domestic partnership bill would likely pass soon, now that Hawaii has a new governor.

On Tuesday, Ron and I drove the Hamakua Coast to North Hawaii Hospital, where I was scheduled for minor surgery. That was also the third day of my acute laryngitis. They were reluctant to perform the procedure when they realized I couldn't talk and my throat was swollen. Then, like a dope, I admitted I'd had a little coffee that morning, and the jig was up. No surgery for me. "You should have lied," Ron said. Yeah, like I'm really good at that. So instead of anesthesia and snipping and scraping and whatever other horror they had in store for me, we went to Costco and had fish tacos and margaritas at Big Island Brewhaus in Waimea. Much better.

I have no good excuses for slacking off on my blog entries, other than to say that I've been too busy writing to write. How lame an excuse is that?

A hui hou. Malama pono. Aloha!

Re-writing Twain: Adendum

2011-01-23T12:34:00.000-08:00

The best thing about rants, at least among the civilized, is that someone smart always makes a valid point to the contrary. My fellow University of Alaska Anchorage classmate, Wendy, directed me to this column, written recently for the New York Times by a writer I admire, Lorrie Moore. She's on both sides of editing Twain issue, and for good reason, posing the notion that maybe Mark Twain was never intended to be children's literature and that that is the problem. Give it a read, then tell me what you think, if you're so inclined. It was Flannery O'Connor who said, "The fact is that anybody who has survived his childhood has enough information to last him the rest of his days." No matter how idyllic one's childhood, no matter how hard grown ups try to protect their young charges, trauma happens, sometimes the likes of which no child should endure. Stories that reflect this are often the fodder for great literature, stories not necessarily suitable for young readers. I'm with Moore. Send Huck Finn to college, where it can be discussed critically, and where students are mature enough to understand its historical context.

Sanitized for your protection

2011-01-15T00:40:00.000-08:00

A few bits of recent news have got me riled and not just a little heartsick. Some jackass (I will not glorify him by inserting his name into this blog), in the interest of political correctness and to protect the delicate sensibilities of American children, has taken it upon himself to change one of the greatest, most important works of American literature ever written. He's published his own version of Huckleberry Finn, deleting all reference to the N-word and replacing it with the word slave. How can this happen? How is it legal? It's not his novel to change. The word was widely spoken in Mark Twain's time and was arguably more derogatory then than it is now, which is why Twain used it and why it's the right word for the story. God forbid our kids would be encouraged to think and to question, and that parents might provide some guidance, and that teachers might actually teach. Regardless of the educational implications, it's reprehensible that someone would and could change someone else's art. Will they re-write Junot Diaz next? Will we wake up tomorrow to find Michelangelo's David re-chiseled to look like a Ken doll, or Picasso's nude women all wearing cubist sweaters? The whole world is now sanitized for our protection and I'm getting pretty sick of it.

Today, I heard that Canada has banned radio play of the original version of Dire Straights' "Money for Nothing." Somebody expressed offense to a line in the song as a gay slur. Never mind that "Money for Nothing" has been played on radios throughout North America for more than a quarter century and if you are paying attention to the lyrics, have seen the video and have a brain, it's clear that the language is a reflection of the clueless, character/singer/refrigerator-moving-guy, not the rock star to whom he refers. So, Canada, what about Green Day's "Holiday?" Can you say Eminem? Again, sick of it.

Up with subversive, thought provoking literature! Long live sex, drugs, rock and roll!

Let it rain

2010-12-21T20:18:00.000-08:00

There's a saying, issued forth by civil defense here on Hawaii Island whenever flash flood warnings are issued: Turn around, don't drown. They've been warning of this for days. It's finally here.
It's a funny thing about rain, especially for those who live in the Southwest, that is, there's never enough of it, except when there's too much of it. For what it's worth, it's raining here too, messing up vacations, overrunning sewer systems in Honolulu just like it does in L.A. As the toads frolic, I send you this Christmas poem.

Let it Rain
(Sung to the tune of Let it Snow)

Oh the weather outside is raining,
and this glass of wine I’m draining,
the tourists are mad, you bet,
they’re all wet, they’re all wet, they’re all wet...

Oh the sky looks like it’s melting,
as the rain, the roof is pelting,
the trickling stream's a-rush,
think I’ll just sit inside on my tush...

When I finally venture out,
don’t you know, I’m gonna get soaked,
so much water is pouring down,
toads in the driveway just croaked...

In the oven a pie is baking,
and another sip I’m taking,
so I'll sing with this foggy brain,
let it rain, let it rain, let it rain!

(This is why I don't write poetry.)

A hui hou. Malama pono. Aloha!

Roller derby, sirens and rackets

2010-12-02T14:49:00.000-08:00

Yesterday morning, as the dirty oil from my car was being drained and replaced with fresh, I walked the mile or so from Goodyear on Kilauea Ave., to Island Naturals, where they have brown rice salmon musubis that aren't all that tasty but are filling and healthy for the price. Midway along my route, near Cafe 100, the tsunami warning sirens revved, then blared. Had there been an earthquake somewhere around the Pacific Rim? I strained to recall, then remembered that they test the sirens on the first of every month. I'd thought they were limited to the big, yellow towers along the shoreline, but as I walked Kilauea, no towers in sight, the wale literally felt as though it was right over my head. I looked up to see, if that makes any sense, like you can see sound, and realized there were visually discrete speakers mounted on every other power pole along my route. The blasting lasted for close to 10 minutes, which seemed excessive for a drill, and when it finally died down, it was as if I'd just walked out of a Van Halen concern, my ears cloudy, the traffic noise muted.

Life's been rough for our girl Lucy. As if going blind, being diagnosed FIV positive and a growing cancerous tumor the diameter of a dime on her tiny nose weren't enough, Tuesday night she came up lame, her back left leg tender and sore. The diagnosis: sprained knee. The vet prescribed some kitty pain medication for her, which should also help her sore nose. Poor baby! We do love our Lucy.

Last Saturday night, my neighbor Kathy talked me into some unusual fun. The Afook Chinen Auditorium was packed with roller derby fans, there to see a classic matchup between the Fairies and the Scaries. Kathy informed me as we entered the rowdy place that we would be rooting for the Scaries.

"Good," I said, "because there's no such thing as Fairies."
"What?"
"Never mind," I said.

As we entered, an usher explained that the front row, "the suicide seats" as they are known, are to be taken at your own risk.
"Or, I guess, if you're in a wheelchair," Kathy said, pointing to the opposite side of the floor. Sure enough, that's where they'd park three in a row.
"I guess they figure if you're in a wheelchair, you won't be able to feel it if a skater slams into you," I said.
"That's awful!" she said, laughing.

We opted for a seats up high, where we could see the action from a safe distance.

The affair was akin to WWF wrestling, but instead of burly, sweaty men, the main attractions were scantily-clad young women skating and bumping, sprawling and brawling. The teams had hardcore fans, cheerleaders (men wearing tutus with letters spelling out F-A-I-R-I-E-S painted on their bare chests), banners emblazoned with Go Scaries and the like. We lasted until midway through the second period, then snuck out to beat the crowd and headed to Sombat's for dinner.

Yesterday afternoon, I dusted off the tennis racket and joined this same Kathy, and another neighbor, also named Kathy, for some tennis. We played for two hours, with only one mishap, which seemed terrible at the moment, but turned out OK. Barney, Kathy #2's brother, went for a low backhand on a ball that had just whizzed passed his partner, Kathy #1. Kathy #1 had spun and ducked to avoid the ball, and was facing the back of the court just as he swung, a full sweeping backhand. The ball hit her, point blank off his racket, smack in the temple. Her glasses took the brunt of the impact, the frames bent, but her eye was spared. Whew!

Today, I'm sore for having not played tennis in years now, especially my right gripping hand and forearm. My antique tennis shoes, which have been sitting on a shelf outside by the doorway, or in a closet, or in the back of the car, chose midway through our rally to biodegrade in earnest, the midsole on one shoe blown out, the heel flapping like a floundering flounder. Bummer. And they're only 15 years old, too.

A hui hou. Aloha!

Sunday in the hood

2010-11-14T22:53:00.000-08:00

Hope you've all gotten your flu and ammonia shots this season. That's how someone describe their vaccinations to me the other day. My own, well educated husband used the word, "upsurp" just yesterday, as in, "The upstart could upsurp the reigning power."

"Upsurp is not a word," I said.

"What is it then?" he asked.

"Usurp. The word is usurp."

"Oh, well, whatever," he said.

You say pneumonia and I'll say ammonia. You say upsurp and I'll say usurp. Pneumonia, ammonia, upsurp, usurp. Let's call the whole thing off!

It was nice just long enough this morning for us to borrow the neighbor's ultra-long ladder and send our fearless neighbor up to clear out the grass and leaves clogging the gutters. Young Joe trod the roof like a pro, with the balance of an athlete and the belief in immortality and desperation to earn $20 only an 18 year-old possesses. What a nice kid.

When visiting our neighbor, Leonard, we discovered the ladder being used as a table, ends resting on blocks, plywood planks laid across.

"We had a garage sale yesterday," Leonard said as he unloaded the ladder of its burden to display what was left, the stuff nobody would buy for fifty cents.

"How clueless are we?" I said. "We live right across the street and we didn't even know."

"That's OK," he said. "We know you guys are hermits."

"Hey, look at this?" Ron said, pointing to a suitcase with a price marking of a dollar. "We need one of these. It looks like a pretty good one."

"You don't want that," said Leonard, "It's OK, but not suitable for travel."

"A suitcase that's OK, but not suitable for travel? That's hilarious!" I said. As we schlepped the ladder home, me carrying the front and Ron the tail, I was still giggling about it.
"That's like saying, 'Sure, it's a great hammer. I just wouldn't pound anything with it if I were you. Or, that's a fine pan, the tool of a gourmet, for sure, so long as you don't cook anything in it." I had him laughing by the time we got home. Sometimes, the fact that little things like this amuse me so much is a friggin' blessed miracle.

Too bad we can't upsurp the raining power. Ah, whatever. The toads like it.

A hui hou. Aloha!

As promised, a flash in the pancake pan

2010-11-01T15:08:00.000-07:00

Here's the link to my flash fiction story, entitled, The Lemming Sisters. Happy reading!

http://www.hobopancakes.com/animalania4.html

Oh, and if you like this and want to support this funny little humor ezine, check out their merchandise. The t-shirts are cute!

Pineapple peace

2010-10-29T23:45:00.000-07:00

Today was pineapple pickin' day. Ron wanted a photo of me with the fruit, in front of some other fruit, to tout his pineapple growing prowess. Never mind that we've harvested maybe 4 pineapples in the five years we've been here. "You can't grow pineapples in Glenwood," says our neighbor Leonard. Whatever Leonard says we can't grow, Ron sets out to prove him wrong. This, I must admit, is our best pineapple yet, twice as big as any we've whacked before and twice as sweet. I attribute this to the unusual amount of sunshine we've had with this year's drought and to uncharacteristic patience, waiting, waiting, waiting, until the thing was actually ripe before picking it, something we've rushed with our previous harvests. For those who may not know, the pineapple belongs to the bromeliad family. Riveting, huh?

That's a lemon tree behind me.

Here's the big news. A far-from-literary cyber-rag has written to say, "We love your story," a piece of flash fiction called, The Lemming Sisters. I'm a sucker for compliments, of course, especially when it comes to writing, so I'm way more thrilled by this than I should be. The publication is called Hobo Pancakes, an online humor magazine based in San Francisco. Some of the stuff they publish is funny, though some is crass, tasteless, juvenile potty humor, which, I'll admit, I also find funny more often than not. November 1st marks their third, quarterly edition. With time, increased exposure and better material, (like my story), Hobo Pancakes will improve and become the humor site to which it aspires. My contribution is a fluff piece (and I do mean that literally) with furry rodent as protagonist. It's silly, sure, but also, if I don't say so myself, well written, a bona fide piece of serious, talking lemming literature. So stay tuned. I'll publish a link on Facebook Monday when it hits the Web.

Crazy normal

2010-10-07T10:44:00.000-07:00

My husband pads down the hallway in his slippers, thumps muffled by the soft soles of his L.L. Beans. He arrives at the lanai, where I sit with my coffee and laptop, working (checking emails and Facebook). He's got the paper in his hands and a grin on his face.

"Guess who just filed for bankruptcy?" he asks. Maybe it's Donald Trump again, or one of those famous TV investment advisor like Jim Cramer or Dave Ramsey or Suze Ormand. Maybe it's Sarah Palin or Christine O'Donnell. It could be one of those greedy bankers or mortgage brokers responsible for the real estate bubble and subsequent economic collapse, maybe an AIG, Countrywide or Haliburton executive, or maybe it's Dick Cheney, somebody who either knows better or deserves it, someone big, rich and in the spotlight. I'm intrigued.

"I don't know. Who?" I ask.

"Toni Braxton," he says. A few seconds pass. I don't know what to say.

"How would I ever guess that?" I ask. "Seriously, how would I ever conjure the image of Toni Braxton from that question?"

"I don't know," he says. I am stunned to complete silence. I shake my head. Blink.

"Why do I care if Toni Braxton declared bankruptcy?"

"I don't know. I don't even know who she is," he says. He-e-e-e-lp me!

The pigs are back. Of course, like an old fashioned love song, they're never really gone. A few nights ago, sitting on the same lanai at 7 p.m., a shotgun blasted out through the darkness. I jumped. Ron came running. "What the..." Dogs barked. cats ran for cover, except for Abby, who looked at me with a half squint expression from his chair as if to ask, "Is that something? I'll be worried if you are." The gunfire around this neighborhood makes me think sometimes I've actually moved to Gangland, U.S.A. and the state of Hawaii has hired Hollywood set designers to make us believe otherwise.

On Tuesday, we found two baby coffee trees unearthed, holes dug with such neatness and precision you'd think they used a shovel, seedlings lying traumatized but otherwise unharmed on their sides. Pigs aren't normally so considerate, more often opting to trample and snap everything in their path. Their piggy tracks were everywhere, so there was no denying the culprits. It was the one little patch of new planting without a fence. We had taken a chance with that, we knew, and the gamble cost us. We replanted and placed wiring at the base of each tree, our best, quickest way to deter the detestable omnivores. Ron is now on regular PP (Pig Patrol) every morning and evening. Meanwhile I stand, or rather sit guard from lanai.

A hui hou. Aloha!

Swimming with no fishes

2010-09-29T11:28:00.000-07:00

The weather's been pinch-me beautiful lately, so yesterday I made plans to take a swim, never mind the tidal surge my entrance into the waters of Hilo Bay might create around the Pacific Rim. After a productive shift tutoring at the Hawaii Community College Learning Center, a visit to Abundant Life Health Food on the bayfront for an organic cane sugar soda and a sprouting, sprouted with sprouts, multi-grain bagel -- which isn't a bagel at all despite what they call it on the label, but more of a donut-shaped doorstop -- felt well deserved after a morning's work. At the entryway to the store, a woman, 60s maybe, sat with a cardboard sign that said, "NEED FOOD." A young man came through the doorway just then and handed her a beverage and a sandwich. I watched as she settled onto the sidewalk with her gift, then went inside.

My own frugal purchase in hand, I returned to my car to find an elderly man standing inches from my back bumper. He announced that he had run out of gas and would like to, "earn" enough money to buy a gallon to get home. Thin as a Kenyan marathoner but frail and pasty, his polyester pants and an equally flammable shirt gave him a look that suggested he'd fallen from a jet liner by accident, a charter filled with pentecostal ministers en-route to a convention maybe, in the 1970s. He spritzed my back window with Windex, then rubbed and squeaked it clean with a rag. I handed him two bucks, thanked him, wished him luck. Out on the highway, I approached the first signal and half expected to see a Mexican man selling bags of oranges or bouquets of flowers at the intersection. Then I'd have thought I was the one who had fallen from a plane and landed smack onto the pavement, L.A., 1986.

Nourished, quenched and beach park bound, my swim suit, snorkel gear and I jiggled with the the rumble of the engine and our anticipation of a cool plunge in the blue Pacific. The plan was to hit Leilewi or Richardson, two local beach parks with great lagoons, but they were both packed, with no place to park but the street. That's the way it is every sunny day in Hilo, even if it's a Tuesday. So I settled on Onekahakaha. It only looks hard to pronounce. Break it apart -- Ownay...kaha...kaha. Put it back together. Say it fast. Easy. It's known as a keiki (kids') park because of its shallow, sandy-bottomed swimming hole, and there were, as always, toddlers with their mom's splashing about, but also a fair number of beefy, tough girls with tattoos and a healthy smattering of elders, drawn, no doubt, by the placid water and the horseshoe pits. Apparently, it's the keiki/tita/kupuna park, the latter group to which I must reluctantly admit affiliation.

I plodded across the pahoehoe, tossed my reef shoes onto the lava, donned flippers, mask and breathing tube and pushed in against the incoming tide. Hilo beach parks are not known as great snorkeling spots, but I brought the gear anyway, more for the benefit it presents when swimming than for spying sea life. Even so, I was surprised to see not a single fish. There were rocks overgrown with kelp that looked like wiggling Shrek ears, and an odd, white, worm-like creature writhing within reach on the bottom. Plenty of leaves floated on the surface, plus one sandwich bag, which I snagged and stuffed into my pocket. Yes, pocket. With my gams, and to avoid chafing, I always wear surf shorts, which conveniently have pockets, tank suit very much. A few sand crabs darted hither and yon, but no fish. Onekahakaha was relinquished to the use and abuse of humans decades ago, as were all the beach parks along this stretch, the shallowest areas long trampled and made inhospitable to coral. No coral, no fish. This shoreline was once covered with homes, but two tsunamis, 1947 and 1960, prompted government officials to rethink the wisdom of redevelopment. There are still houses along the road that will be swept away when the next big wave strikes. A few newer houses on the makai side (toward the sea), built upon thick, concrete pillars 15 feet off the ground, stand in stubborn defiance as they face Chile and San Francisco, as if to say, "Bring it on." As tall and stalwart as these structures look, however, my money is on the ocean.

Even without fish, the water felt perfect, the sun warm and bright. Just beyond the barrier rocks, the surf pounded. Spray caught by the breeze and blown into the air created a salty, fragrant haze. There was a high surf warning along north shores of all the islands yesterday, but some of that swell made its way to the east side, too. It's not every day you can see curling, six-foot waves breaking in Hilo Bay.

On the way home, a visit to Wal-Mart, my least favorite place, did what it always does; it makes me feel thin, less frumpy, classy even, never mind my wet, uncombed hair and wrinkled t-shirt. This feeling is always fleeting, of course, for the simple fact that I am there, perusing the aisles for deals like everybody else. My very presence in the store belies all the snobbery and rhetorical self-aggrandizing. The truth is, I am, no more, no less, and whether I like it or not, one of the Wal-Mart minions. So much for the healthy, sprouted, sprouting sprouts and the organic cane sugar soda. They sell cheap cheese doodles and Diet Pepsi at the big box. Thin? Less frumpy? Classy? Right.

Malama pono. A hui hou. Aloha.

Cats, Cajuns and coffee

2010-09-12T19:52:00.000-07:00

The coffee trees, dolloped with white flower clusters that look like snow from a distance, are showing promise for a fruitful winter. We've learned this week that a voracious beetle called the coffee berry borer has invaded our islands, one that drills into the cherry to feed, then further into the seed, or bean as it's known, to lay its slimy little eggs. These are not the same beetles previously featured in this blog. Rather, they are tiny, the size of a sesame seed, and much more destructive. These bitty beasts are a scourge, accounting for crop losses of 20 percent worldwide, and should never have become a problem in isolated Hawaii but for the state's stupid policy of allowing imported, green coffee beans. They're almost impossible to eradicate, since the larvae develop inside the bean. Who knows how many of these we've all brewed up in our Mr. Coffees over the years. Hawaii allows other plant importation too, and with lax inspection, we've acquired fire ants and coqui frogs in recent years. I've often wondered why they inspect our suitcases for agricultural products when we leave the islands, but not when we travel toward them. Luckily, no beetles have infected our coffee. We don't process other farmers' harvest (or even out own, yet) and we are nowhere near any other coffee growers, so we should be safe. That's not to say any of a dozen other menaces might not strike our orchard, but for now, our trees are healthy. Our biggest nemesis is fungus. This is the rainforest, after all. We might have enough coffee this year to harvest and process. I'm hoping for at least a potful of my own, medium-roast brew.

Last night, my friend and neighbor Kathy and I went to see the Red Stick Ramblers at the University of Hawaii Hilo Performing Arts Center. They were great, providing us with a dose of culture not of these islands. This band is authentic Louisiana, true to its Cajun-French roots, of the bayou, of the south. Check 'em out.

I had a job interview at The Palace Theater last week. Four members of the board asking about my experience with multi-tasking. I broke into a sweat during our discussion, not for nerves, but for the humidity and heat in Hilo, and thereby inside the old, un-air-conditioned building. They were a friendly, easy group, very nice, though they seemed more interested in my writing than my office skills, so it's hard to say how the interview went.

Last spring, our Lucy, the cranky calico, had laser surgery to remove cancerous lesions from her nose. The surgery gave her a cute little Janet Jackson pinch, which she has worn well. Her nose was much improved for several months, but now, the cancer is back, in the form of a tumor inside her nostril. It's inoperable locally, though the vet says we might fly her to Honolulu or Maui or the mainland for a CT scan, radiation and/or surgery. Lucy, however, is elderly, blind and FIV positive, so the vet also warns that doing this could stress her out, exacerbate her other conditions and possibly spark new maladies. She also tells us it would cost a few thousand dollars. So, we will do our best by Lucy, here, at home, continue to spoil her as we always have, and give her the best life possible for as long as possible.

Speaking of Lucy, the queen is on her perch, awaiting her dinner.

A hui hou. Malama pono. Aloha.

My Hoppsy keeps on hoppin' along

2010-08-31T23:31:00.000-07:00

Our Hopps is slowing down these days. She's grown finicky about her regular food in recent months and won't even take a doggy biscuit, so we've resorted to indulging her by lacing her kibble with goodies, like chicken or salmon. She still tries to sneak the kitty food any chance she gets. Last night, we played catch for a few minutes in the living room, something we haven't done in weeks. She can still catch the ball out of the air if I toss it well. She loves that. We travel her speed wherever we go. It takes half an hour to walk four driveways down the road, stopping at every tree, fern, bush and rock, sniffing, sniffing, sniffing. Doc goes along too, and he is quite patient with our plodding strolls. I sneak him out for long, faster walks when she's napping. The past two days she's perked up, with more energy than she's had in a few weeks. I even found a dirty sock in the middle of the living room floor this afternoon. That was a heartening sign. We've been finding socks in places we don't remember leaving them -- the hallway, the bathroom, the living room, the lanai, one here and one there -- for years. It's common in our house for one of us to come upon one and ask, "What's this doing here?" and the other of us to answer, "I don't know. You'll have to ask Hoppsy." I've caught her many time nosing through the pile of clothes I leave on the floor when I'm in the shower. (She thinks I'm not looking, but I can hear her come in, so I peak around the curtain.) She pushes all the other clothes aside until she finds a sock, picks it up, then trots away with it in her mouth. I find it in Ron's office or in the kitchen. She sometimes goes through the laundry basket, or picks up socks we've left by the side of the bed. She seems to like my socks best, though Ron's socks will do in a pinch. She's 15 years old with Cushing's Disease, a tumor on her pituitary that causes it to signal her adrenal glands to produce wanton amounts of cortisol, a.k.a adrenaline. It makes her pant and pace and drink gobs of water. We give her medication to quell the negative symptoms of that, but the tumor is inoperable. It also effects her motor skills somewhat, and has causes seizures, so she gets medicine to prevent that, too. She has developed a funky hop (Hoppsy) when she walks, but overall has adapted well to her condition. We spend lots of time on tummy rubs and ear scratches, and she gets good treats. Hoppsy still can't resist goosing the kitties and likes to bury her chewy bones in the yard. She also torments Doc, saving her treats until he has finished his, then laying next to him to eat hers, taunting him until he starts to whimper. As long as she maintains her passion for orneriness, we know she's feeling OK.

I went to the library yesterday to check out a couple of books, one of which they had (a miracle) and the other available via inter-library loan (also a miracle) that will arrive in a few days. The plan was to check them out, spend an hour writing, pick up a few sundries in town and head home. My butt hit the chair in a quiet corner. I flipped open the laptop to a story I've been wrestling with for days, (as I do all my stories). When I looked up next, three hours had passed. Three focused, productive hours, with no potty break, no drink of water, no dog wanting to be let out or in, no cat jumping on my keyboard, no refrigerator beckoning, "Open me. Stare inside," no husband wanting to chat or ask me to help him with something that he promises will only take a second but takes two hours, no Facebook (I don't get Internet access at the library), no emails to answer, no phone calls. The library. What a great place!

A hui hou. Malama Pono. Aloha.

Fruity booty

2010-08-22T14:55:00.001-07:00

It was a long drive from Glenwood to the northern tip of the island -- three hours -- so for sustenance, we stopped at Baker Tom's for malasadas on the way. My pal Kathy and I were headed to Kapa'au for a hike, one we'd read about in the local newspaper. The couple who run Baker Tom's (not sure if the husband is actually Tom or not) are delightful, with enduring stamina. They're as old as radio, yet they're always on duty, ready to serve behind the counter, as they have for many years, frying, baking, brewing and smiling, there in Papaikou, gateway to the Hamakua Coast. The malasadas are enormous, cheap and delicious, the coffee OK, the tourists all happy to have discovered this place, buzzing with sugar and caffeine. They make a killer pumpkin cheesecake at Baker Tom's, too. It's always a pleasant stop.

Ahapua'a. It's a Hawaiian land division, usually a strip or wedge, stretching from mountain to sea. Hawaiians lived in villages within the ahapua'a, gatherers up high, farmers in the middle, canoe-makers and fisherman near the shore. Our destination was a place called I'ole Ahapua'a, an acreage in beautiful North Kohala. I'ole, as a quirky aside, means rat in Hawaiian. As the caretaker told us, the land was slated for development some 15 years ago, subdivided and ready to rip, when "The Campbell's Soup Guy" as she called him, a man who had earned his fortune on Chicken Noodle and Cream of Mushroom, stepped in to buy it all, then turned it over to a Buddhist-affiliated non-profit foundation to preserve for public use and education. The land was one of the first areas settled by Christian missionaries on The Big Island. Adjacent to the visitors center stand a dilapidated school house, home and cottage, circa 1840s. The land itself is an impressive parcel. There are three hikes, one, two and three miles each, the two longer ones not strolls like you'd expect, but pali and gulch treks through rainforest and across streams. Ours was the two mile jaunt. It led across a macadamia nut orchard, down, down, down into a gulch, across a stream three times, then back up, up, up through the thicket. We were pleased with ourselves for remembering to douse with a generous squirt of Deep Woods Off before we began. I walked away with only three bites on the tender, inside of my arm. I musta missed misting there.

Along the way, we scavenge some nuts, sour lilikoi (passion fruit) and a couple avocados. It was a great place to be on sunny day. After hiking, we ate a tasty lunch at a tiny place called Pico's Bistro in Kapa'au, then drove to the Pololu lookout, since Kathy had never been and since I never tire of that view (a photo of it is featured behind the title banner of this blog). Maui loomed to the northwest. We caught glimpses of the Valley Isle along highway 270 as we ventured home, Haleakala gigantic upon the shimmering sea. A wispy string of clouds stretched across her like a cotton-candy bra. So close was the mountain, it seemed you could swim, if you were Duke Kahanamoku accompanied by his aumakua (guardian) shark, or maybe the shark herself, or a dolphin, or a turtle when the sharks are napping or busy escorting Duke.

Since then, I've been deleting rejection letters from my inbox. There's something satisfying about that, though I suspect getting an acceptance letter would be even better. Someday, my literary dinghy will wash ashore.

A hui hou. Malama pono. Aloha!

Mechanical aptitude and a close call

2010-08-15T21:14:00.001-07:00

I returned home from an obligatory shopping trip yesterday afternoon to find Ron's tired fingers bruised and bleeding in his near futile attempt to put the coil spring back into the plastic circle thingy (that's the technical term for it) on our busted lawn mower. The day before, I had pulled the cord to start the motor and it ripped completely away. So yesterday we disassembled it, took a look and thought we could fix it. We always think we can fix stuff. Or at least Ron always thinks we can fix stuff. While it sat in pieces awaiting our attention, the coil spring, neatly tucked into the circle thingy, which is also the pully, leapt out, thwacked and clanged to the ground. The end that catches against a small, metal prong designed to keep it there had snapping off, freeing the spring from its confines. So when I arrived home, Ron had spent the better part of two hours trying to rewind it tight and cram it back in. Tough work with stubborn, thick, flat elastic metal that doesn't want to be rewound. The poor man's eyes had blurred. Half an hour later, however, he'd done it. Ta da! Ah, but now what? Which way to bend the end in the center of the coil to get it to again catch on the metal prong? The direction the pully would travel when tugged into action by the cord mattered. Which way would it turn?

"I think we should bend it this way," he said. I looked closely.

"Nope," I say. "This way. We bend it this way. I tried to explain why.

"I'm not seeing that," he said. This may sound like disagreement but I assure you, it was not. Over the years, Ron has learned and come to accept that I have a knack for these things. I see things, not dead people, but the way things work. I'm not always right, but I often am. So he agreed to try it my way and... Voila! We were feeling pretty smug as the engine roared to life, him for his tenacity and patience with getting the coil spring in place and me for my mechanical inclination.

Doc and I strode up the road on our walk today, happily cruising and sniffing (I was cruising, he was sniffing) when, from out of nowhere, an angry dog, teeth bared and dripping, ripped toward us. It circled snapping hard, trying to bite the backs of Doc's legs. I shouted and kicked at the offending beast.

"Here Laser. Laser!" A voice yelled. The owner. She was right there in her own driveway.

I launched a barrage of expletives. I can be profane when I'm pissed. Or scared. Or both.

You might expect, when a vicious animal charges after someone with full intent to rip flesh from bones, that the owner of said beast would be alarmed over such an incident, take some hasty action, feel remorse, maybe say something like, "Oh gee, I'm so sorry," as she holds the crazed canine back with all her might to keep it from attaching you. You might think that, but if you did, in this case, you'd be wrong. She just stood there.

"He's just a puppy," she said.

"Pretty mean for a puppy," I said. In my experience, puppies, like children, are not born mean. Dogs become mean when encouraged to be so, or after they have been antagonized and ill-treated by humans. This was a pit bull "puppy," maybe eight months old and close to 40 pounds of solid, angry muscle coming right at my larger, but much older, now-a-lover-not-a-fighter dog. The woman was young too, though not a kid and able-bodied. The dog was close enough to her that had she chosen to move her lazy ass with the slightest sense of urgency, she could have grabbed him by the collar and drug his snarling ass away. Instead, she just stood there and called to him. He ignored her. I lunged at him, shouted, kicked and finally spooked him back toward her, until finally she made a move to nab him and he ran the other direction, which allowed us to get far enough away that he stopped following.

Thankfully, the remainder of our walk was peaceful. Whew. I don't like that neighbor.

A hui hou. Malama pono. Aloha.

Lumps, birds, dumb people and blog posts

2010-08-10T21:55:00.000-07:00

My big boy (the four-legged, furry one, not the two-legged annoying one) had a recurrence of a bump on his face a day or two after I arrived home from Alaska. This weekend, it got huge, like a golf ball under his left eye, so I scurried him to the vet today. It's not a tumor, nor a tooth abscess, which is good news. Doctor thinks it's an infection, as white cell counts and t-cells are raging in the aspiration sample she took. Poor baby! This photo, taken just before we left home, shows him drunk on tranquilizers and ready to travel the 20 miles to Hilo. Now, as I type this, he's still pretty wasted and the lump has been shaved. Yikes! I hope the antibiotics work their magic soon.

There's someone in my neighborhood who I can't figure. This person leaves bread crumbs out for the birds every day, ON THE ROAD. They were there again today. Here's my dilemma. I can't decide whether this person is a kind, bird-loving soul who just also happens to be a complete idiot, or someone who hates birds. I'm inclined to believe the former, since I like to think the best of people and, in my experience, humans are more inclined to be stupid than malicious. Still, I don't really know...

The birds, I know, aren't so bright. They don't have the sense to get out of the way when a car is speeding toward them. Dumb birds, bread crumbs in the middle of the road and cars with careless drivers are not a happy mix.

I recently posted a writerly essay on 49 Writers, a blog dedicated to writing in general and Alaska writers in particular. I know I don't live in Alaska (except, corny as it sounds, in my heart), but I have a legitimate connection to the place. I spend lots of money there, for one thing. To find my essay, scroll down once you arrive at the site. There's also a fine post today by my classmate, Erin. If you are inclined to read such things, check it out.

A hui hou. Aloha.

Rescue

2010-08-02T22:59:00.000-07:00

He was scrawny, ragged and soaked, a tiny, pathetic black and white kitten, hunched in the grass at the side of the road. My neighbor had called me a week earlier about a baby she'd seen hanging around her house. She was sure he'd been abandoned. I've only known this neighbor for a few months, but she's already got me pegged for a sucker. She called to ask, "If I can catch it, will you take it?" The moment I mentioned the kitten to Ron, I got the, NO MORE CATS speech. I ignored it, of course, and went to see anyway. No kitty. The neighbor called to ask if I could assume feeding duty for a few days while she was away. The food I left was eaten after the first night, but not the second, by which time I had still not seen the little orphan. The neighbor returned. No kitten. We figured he was a goner. Then yesterday morning, on my way home from the farmers' market, I spotted the adorable little wretch, a quarter mile down from the neighbor's place. I pulled over and approached. When I got close, he darted into the thicket. I heard him crying from the bushed, like he wanted help, but he wouldn't come out. I took the car home, then walked back to the spot. There he was again, at the road's edge. I bent and reached to lift him, but again, he bulleted into the ferns. I returned once more, this time with food. Score! He came out, famished. The skinny fellow rode my palm and continued to eat from the small paper plate I held in front of him as we trudged up the road, willing to suspend all distrust of me for a meal. Tucked into a cozy spare bedroom, dry and warm, his tummy full, he purred like a well-tuned engine. We cuddled. We fell in love. I knew if I couldn't find him a home within days, or maybe hours, I'd give up and keep him. I called my friend Janet, the first, best cat person I know. It just so happens that Janet recently lost one of her kitties, and she was excited about the prospect of being a new kitty mom again, rescuing a lost soul. I delivered him to her and her son Carson last night. They were surprised at how small he was, but delighted! Janet called today to assure me that our darling survivor has since pooped and peed. He continues to eat well. She too has fallen fast in love with him. Some might say he's the luckiest stray kitten in the islands. I say he's gotten the loving, happy, forever home he deserves. It's what they all deserve.

Traveling

2010-07-26T05:52:00.000-07:00

I don't know how high we flew last night, but two hours after landing, I have yet to come all the way down. En-route from Anchorage to Seattle, I woke from fitful airplane sleep to peer out through the small, oval window. The moon, its face bold and woeful, shone full above the wing. Below, low clouds, like crusty frosting, were broken by splotches of black, and through these breaks in the sugary strata, a great river flowed. Upon its water, up and down its length, the moonlight played, dancing in white sparkles, like tiny bursts of fireworks. The horizon curved along the edge of the earth.

The word amazing is used with cavalier indifference these days, but this scene, this moment in time, was. Amazing.

If a city's airport is at all accurate in its reflection of the place it represents, then Seattle is a fine and funky place indeed, worn around the edges, hip in its strangeness, strange in its hipness. There are dozens of Starbucks, sure, but there is also the Seattle Taproom, in which I did not indulge at 5:30 a.m. for reasons other than the fact that it was closed. There's also Ivar's, where, no matter the time of day, breakfast, lunch or dinner, I always stop for a friendly, rich, piping hot bowl of chowder. I could learn to like a place like Seattle.

Home in Alaska

2010-07-24T22:27:00.000-07:00

After banging out some words on pages this morning, I took a lovely walk with my classmate/writer-pal Charlotte around a nearby lake here on the University of Alaska Anchorage campus. We talked about our projects, inhaled the fresh, clean Alaska air, exchanged exaltation's regarding the mentors we'd drawn, and enjoyed the many friendly dogs with their humans who shared our path. The walk was followed by a nap. I'm still recovering from the residency. This evening, I ventured to town for dinner. Hanging out in coffee shops alone is one thing, but eating solo in a fancy seafood joint can feel weird. So I took a book to read, though not just any book; I chose one to perpetuate an eccentric, adventurer-to-the-great-north-country image, to help me look the part. And since I don't have a Craig Childs adventurer-style beard, a book about fly fishing with pastel watercolor salmon swimming across the cover seemed like the next best thing. Opening Days, written by another writer-pal, Richard Chiappone, isn't about fly fishing at all. Oh sure, there is lots of casting and hooking and reeling and fly tying and so forth, but the fly fishing is incidental. Opening Days is a collection of essays, short fiction and poetry about conflict, desire and futility. It's hilarious, touching and so beautifully written I became engrossed in it to the point where my halibut turned cold and the waiter grew concerned about whether I would ever slip any money into that black vinyl folder on the table. I did pay the man, eventually, then walked out into the still bright night, passed a dollar to a pathetic fellow on the street, then rumbled back home on the bus.

Home. Tonight is my last here in the dorm. This place feels like home, as much as any place. I can't wait to come home to Alaska again next summer.

Rockin' writers

2010-07-22T01:24:00.000-07:00

It's our last night at the residency, and the final shindig was as fun as ever. Last year, I noted that these same writers were terrible dancers. After tonight, however, I've changed my mind. This reversal is based on fervent observation, and the fact that my friend, writer-extraordinaire Samantha Davis, has threatened to pound me to within an inch of my life if I don't retract it. She's no wimp, this Sam. She lives in the woods of Southeast Alaska, teaches eighth grade, kills her own food and fells trees with her teeth. Or something like that. Anyway, at Sam's urging, and upon my own visual inspection and participation in this maniacal frenzy, I shall officially confirm, here in the annals of this venerable blog, that these writers are not terrible dancers. They are enthusiastic, creative, goofy, whimsical and entertaining dancers. They are Barishnikov's with ball-points, journaling Jackson's, Pavlovas with pens, authorial Astaires.

Furthermore, these writers are talented, driven wordsmiths. They are all brilliant, and I am smug for the opportunity to count myself among them.

Writers' on the storm

2010-07-14T19:07:00.000-07:00

Anchorage was beautiful today, the kind of day that if you flew in for a layover and this is what you experienced, you'd sell all your stuff, pack up your critters and move here. Until this morning it had been cloudy, and misty off and on, which ain't bad either, but today was spectacular.

An hour-long session with the editor for Red Hen publishing this afternoon had me vacillating between hara-kiri and an overdose of barbiturates as the preferred method of suicide. How do you like these odds: They publish 20 manuscripts for every 5000 sent to them each year, and you've got to know someone connected to the editor, or one of their authors, or be referred by someone just to get them to read your work. It helps to drop names like parachutes over Normandy in your cover letter, lest interns dump your sweat and anguish onto the flaming slush pile. It made me re-think the merits of self-publishing; for a moment. Then I remembered universities and colleges won't hire you if you're not published the old fashioned way. What a racket.

Time for dinner.

Cali days

2010-07-01T23:56:00.001-07:00

I'm in Encinitas, Leucadia to be exact, with my best Gail-friend, uh, Gail. We jogged today, four long, grueling miles, and I'll have you know that I kept up. Never mind that she practically had to walk on her hands to match my pace. Just prior to our workout, I'd gone upstairs at her tiny townhouse -- which is like, 900 square feet bigger than my "real house" (and much cleaner) -- to change into my sporting attire. I bounded down the stairs to meet her on the patio, where I found her watering her tomatoes.

"Ready?" She asked.

"Yep. Two bras. Set to jet," I hopped up and down, trying to act like a jock.

"Why two bras?" She asked.

"I don't like to bounce when I run." She burst out laughing. I mean really, she was rolling.

"Hey, I bounce," I said. She shook her head and walked into the house.

"I've put on 20 pounds over the years," I said. "Seriously, I bounce!" She just snickered. I swear, there's just no reasoning with some people.

So we jogged, then we went to In-and-Out Burger. I ran much farther and faster than I might have alone. It's nice to have somebody to do stuff with. Not that Ron and I don't do stuff. We sit on the couch and make ooh and aah sounds watching Paula Deen drop mounds of butter from an ice cream scoop onto a rib eye steak. We play Scrabble sometimes and he kicks my butt, but in a way we are kicking my butt together, since I am, by virtue of my Scrabble ineptitude, complicit in my own butt kicking. We marvel at the cuteness of our pets. It's all good, to be sure, but there's really no substitute for a good friend who will jog or hike or even just walk with you and then take you to In-and-Out Burger.

This evening, we nibbled on calamari and falafels at a funky place called Roxy, drank fine beer, listened to an amazing Jazz guitarist, returned to Gail's pad, drank fine port and watched a movie. I'm feeling pretty citified right now. Sophisticated. Chic even. Tomorrow, I'm told, we're going to watching pigs race at the county fair. It's just what I came to the big city to do. Like I never see any pigs. Seriously, Gail-friend.

A hui hou. Aloha!

Happenings in the hale

2010-06-18T00:10:00.001-07:00

I have neglected this blog for too long. Ron was on fire tonight with what we like to call Ronspeak, or sometimes Ronisms here at hale Todd-Neiderpruem. I think that's what's inspired me to get back to it. Between Ron and my mom, I am never at a loss for curiosities of language.

Here's the scene. Ron is in the kitchen, cooking.

"What are you making?" I ask.

"Balsamic rice," he says.

"What's that?"

"You know," he says, "that Indian rice."

Of course, he means basmati rice. I suggest this, and he gives me a look.

Later, Stephen Colbert interviews the playwrite David Mamet.

"That's the guy who wrote Glengarry Glen Close," Ron says.

"Glen Close the actress?" I ask. Again, he gives me a look.

"That's a good one," I say.

My census job is, as they say here in the islands, pau. I am relieved. The funniest story to come out of it is one relayed by a co-worker on our last day. It happened just after we'd finished training, her first day in the field. She'd gone to a house, pulled in the driveway and found the occupant home. He turned out to be a very nice man who gave her a complete interview. She thanked him, then returned to the car to complete the form.

"He stared at me through the window for the longest time," she said. Finally he came out

and asked, "What are you doing?"

"Oh, I'm just finishing up some paperwork," she said.

"Yes well, you're sitting in my car." She looked around her and, sure enough, she had gotten into his SUV instead of her own. To be fair, they were the same make, model and color.

We recently lost one of our kitties, and while I hold out hope that he will return, the prospect of that seems slimmer with each passing day. Alvin disappeared without a trace three weeks ago. We searched every cupboard, twice, every cranny and nook. We combed the neighborhood, scanned the roadside brush, asked neighbors. I've posted signs, put in a notice at the humane society, put an ad in the paper. Nothing. There's no sign of him. He's the only one, of all our kitties, who ever ventured down the driveway except for Mr. Sox, who has been trolling this 'hood since long before we arrived. Even he doesn't go far these days, now that we're here to rub his belly every night. I miss my Alvin.

Hopps has been diagnosed with Cushing's Disease. She'll undergo an ultrasound within the next few days to determine the type of Cushings, then we'll decide on treatment. Poor baby. She's got cortisol coursing through her system, causing her to pant, pace, drink buckets of water and, worst of all, have seizures. We've got the latter under control with phenobarbital, which also helps her sleep better at night. With luck, we'll get her on a course of medicine to help manage her symptoms and keep her happy and comfortable.

It's always something in our house.

A hui hou. Aloha!

Goose steppin' in the rain

2010-05-21T20:44:00.000-07:00

I've said that the majority of people I encounter in my travels as an enumerator are friendly, kind and cooperative. It's still true. I've come to appreciate Home Depot in a whole new way. Go to Home Depot, buy a home (aka plastic storage shed), place it on a flat piece of ground and viola! Instant dwelling. Add a few poles and some plastic sheeting and you're stylin'. And the fact that someone lives in one is no reflection on the niceness or contentment of that person. In fact, some of the most rudimentary houses shelter some of the happiest people. That's the beauty of America. We are free to live as we choose.

That said, we all know that not everyone is nice. Today, a woman asked me if she had to answer, grilled me on why the information was needed, asked if I counted illegal aliens. Then, she had the temerity to say, "It feels like Nazi Germany, having someone come to your house like that." Really? Nazi Germany? Now, I do look pretty ominous, a 51 year old woman with frizzy hair wearing an orange Big Dogs shirt and purple sneakers, so I can see where she might have felt intimidated. And I'm sure she would know all about what it felt like to live in Nazi Germany, having been born in the 70s. Comments like that must infuriate people who know what Nazi German was like. They infuriate me, and I can't pretend to know. I'm getting pretty sick of people throwing labels around without the faintest concept of what they really mean.

That said, I'm happy now, home in the hovel, listening to the rain wash from the sky in great sheets, my SS cats and my Gestapo dogs all snoozing about the house, my husband with the German last name watching old movies in his office but telling me he's working. My beer is chilling and almost ready for me. I'm free, free, free to do any damn thing I please right now. Nazi Germany? Come on!

A hui hou. Aloha!

Work

2010-05-11T22:39:00.000-07:00

Enumerating is fun! OK, I'll admit I wouldn't want to do it long term, but mostly, it's cool. I drive to Hilo, attend my meeting, submit my time card and completed forms, stop at Good Earth for a muffin and coffee, then head into "the field" as they say to count people. Most people, I've finding, are nice, cooperative and not scary at all. A few are creepy and paranoid, but the majority are pleasant, polite and generally swell. The paycheck is also swell. Don't you just love economic stimulus?

New job

2010-04-25T20:02:00.000-07:00

It feels like ages since I last posted to the annals of my blog. Or is that anals? I always get those mixed up. The big news is that I am now employed, if only temporarily, as a United States Census Worker. My official title is Enumerator. That's a fancy, government way of saying I count people. Of course, if someone is adamant about not being counted, so be it. Far be it for me to press the issue, especially if said person looks mean or is well armed. Most people want to be counted though, don't they? The training is complete, but our enumerator binders will not arrive until Wednesday, so that's when the real work begins.

Meanwhile, I've been fighting the tenacious, tail-end of a cold. Just when I think it's gone, I realize it'snot, which totally blows.

With just a few short weeks left in the school year, my tutoring position will end for the summer, to resume next fall. I look forward to that. I enjoy it more than I ever expected to, and find the diversity of students refreshing. Lots of people, it seems, are returning to school. Nothing like a long, deep recession to get people rethinking the merits of education.

It's been a slow, dull few weeks, so I'm fresh out of da kine stuffs to say. So, to quote the immortal Porky Pig, b-dia, b-dia, b-dia, th-th-that's all, folks!

A hui hou. aloha!

Cats on a wire

2010-04-03T22:18:00.000-07:00

More high drama this weekend! This time, I mean that literally. Upwards of 15 feet high. on Saturday, Lucy, our blind calico, wandered out to the far, skinny end of a branch, the same branch upon which our fickle, traitor of a chicken is pictured in the very annals of this blog, a slanted koa adjacent to the lanai. Despite her disability, she insists on climbing it, usually en-route to the roof, where she curls up under the eves and naps. This time, however, she decided to explore the tree. The thin, whipping branch could barely hold her. Mr. Sox saw her there, instinctively knew she was vulnerable and scrambled up the tree to get in her face. He can be evil that way. When he got there, he took a swipe at her. She held fast, but he lost his footing and fell, catching himself at the last second. The old guy clung by his toenails, all four of them, upside down, holding tight with all four feet. Abner, our skinny, fit Colorado tabby, watched all this from a safe distance. There is no love lost between Abby and Mr. Sox. So when Abby saw his not-so-svelt nemesis dangling belly-up, he could not resist. The typically mellow but occasionally ornery Abby scampered up the tree to do some tormenting of his own. This put angry, posturing boys between Lucy and the fatter part of the branch. Somehow, Mr. Sox managed to right himself. He growled at Abner, who hissed back, while poor Lucy bounced in the wind. I grabbed a long pole. First, I nudged Abner, since he was closest to the trunk. Next came a gentle prod of Mr. Sox. Once the two bad boys were clear, a few shakes of the treat bag brought Lucy down.

Hoppsy had another tiny seizure Saturday, too. Between the two events, Ron's blood pressure was through the roof. He does worry about the kids.

This morning, the Volcano Farmers' Market was a mellow affair, not crowded as usual, with no line at the coffee urns and plenty of good pickin's left for the purchasin'. It was unclear whether this was because it's Easter, or because of the deluge. I met a man named George Barton who makes cool furniture out of waiawi, or strawberry guava, an invasive tree the government wants to eradicate with a beetle. Then, I trekked over to the KMC, where the draw of their Easter Buffet forced me to alternative parking and the smell of bacon wafting out from the cafeteria -- even more than the rain -- inspired me to rush indoors. Yes, it was raining. It's been raining for days. Torrential rain. Softer rain. Persistent rain. Rain, rain, rain.

Happy Easter, everyone!

A hui hou. Aloha!

Good shite

2010-03-29T16:31:00.000-07:00

There was high drama at the Volcano Farmers' Market yesterday morning. I was half way along the sidewalk between the covered skate park and the main Cooper Center building, en-route to the gravel parking lot where I'd wedged my car. I plodded along, my green, re-use bag in one hand, celery stocks and carrot tops sticking up over the top, my coffee in the other, styro-cup lifted and in mid-sip, walking and drinking, drinking and walking. I might have been humming. It was a nice day, perfect for multi-tasking. Suddenly, I heard a great thump and turned to see the aftermath of a spectacular crash. A woman had stubbed her sandaled toe and fallen - splat - face first onto the pavement. Her nose was gushing blood and a quail's egg had swollen beneath her right eyebrow. I dropped my bag and ran to help, as did a young man who had also been nearby and heard impact. I helped her sit up, then instructed him to go find some tissues or towels. Others gathered. I sent one to find the woman's husband. Another said there was a nurse on duty doing free blood pressure screenings, so I sent her to grab said medical professional and drag her back to the scene. Somehow, I had become the director of this mishap. Paper towels arrived, and I coached the woman to pinch them onto her nose. She'd hold it there for a moment, then peel back the sticky paper to sneak a peek at the blood, which looked way worse than it was because the paper towels were white, and because a little blood always looks worse than it is. "Keep the pressure on," I said, hoping that the flow would stop soon and that by not looking at it so much, she might be less freaked. The nurse arrived, checked her for concussion, then advised that her husband take her directly to the emergency room, just to makes sure her head injury wasn't serious. Whew! It was encouraging to see so many people stop to help, and so many more ask if we needed anything else. It seems there are oodles of nice people in Volcano Village.

It was a beautiful morning, so after than, I went to the park for a jog (not to be confused with a run). My route took me around the Kilauea Military Camp's outer loop, then uphill to Jagger Museum and back. It was a killer, especially that last pitch. Still, I thought, not bad for a pudgy woman who's just chiseled another year deeper into her second half-century.

This morning, en-route to my tutor's gig, I punched buttons on the radio as usual, trying to find a song I liked. It's not easy here. First I landed on, I like fish and poi, I'm a big boy.... Yuck. Then there was, If I was invisible... Yuck twice! (Sorry, Claymates.) Besides cheesy songs, I kept catching the ends of news reports on the nasty divorce of Frank McCourt. I thought, "Shite! Can they do that to a dead man? Why won't they let the poor lad rest in peace? He did die, didn't he?" Click. I love my huli huli chicken, baby! Gag! His ex-wife wants a million dollars a month. "Shite!" This time, I say it out loud. To other motorists, I must have looked like some crazy haole woman, talking to herself, hand slapping the wheel, swearing in an Irish accent to no one in the passenger seat. "I knew he sold a lot of books, but shite!" All day, I was thinking of THEE Frank McCourt, the Pulitzer Prize winning author of Angela's Ashes. When I got home, I did a quick google search and learned that the news reports were referring to anOTHER Frank McCourt, a rich one who owns the L.A. Dodgers. I now realize the error of my geekish, if literarily influence ways. What a maroon!

I made a crock of chili last night. We're having leftovers again tonight. If I don't say so myself, that's some good shite. A crock o' shite!

A hui hou! Aloha!

Broken toes and such

2010-03-26T11:30:00.000-07:00

It's been a rough week. Last weekend, Hoppsy had a seizure. She's since recovered and is feeling well, cruising along as if nothing happened. The doggie Valium comes in handy for that, too. Two days later, we found that Abner broke his toe. Most likely, her brother/homie/best buddy Doc, the 80 pound, clueless wonder pooch, stepped on him. Abners a ten-pound, slightly built tabby with tiny feet like his mother, so there you have it. He got a shot of anti-inflammatory at the vet and is doing much better now.

The weather's been beautiful in Hawaii, everywhere but here.

I drove to the university Monday to find bright orange cones blocking my entry into the parking lot.

"What's up?" I asked the security person at the gate.

"Spring break," she said. Duh! So I went to Seattle's Best at Borders (since Kope Kope is pau - sniff!). It was packed, probably because Kope Kope is pau. They have a killer orange spice latte. I hunkered down and wrote a goofy piece of flash fiction that I've entered in a small writing contest sponsored by Western State College's fledgling MFA in creative writing program. I'm hoping to win a gift certificate to Amazon. The story started out with 750 words and I pared it down to 360. That, in itself, may disqualify me, since the word limit for the contest is a paltry 250. I submitted it anyway. If nothing else, it was a good exercise in revision. I can also submit it elsewhere. It's just weird enough that someone might pick it up. To all my fellow Alaskan Fictionaires out there, a piece of flash fiction might keep us all from going over our three minute time limit at the student reading next year.

Speaking of flash fiction and in honor of brevity, I'll sign off now.

A hui hou. Aloha!

Hard rain and rejection

2010-03-15T14:06:00.000-07:00

Hoppsy has developed a fear rain. Not drizzle, but the cats and dogs, torrential kind. This is not a good thing for a dog who lives in a rainforest. She's always hated thunderstorms. Thunderstorms are most often accompanied by downpours, so now, she hates downpours by association. It's not so irrational when you think about it, from her perspective, through her ears. It makes perfect sense. So this afternoon, having run out of herbal calming capsules, we have resorted to half a doggie Valium, just to take the edge off. Poor baby.

I received another rejection note today. This one came via email. They're all so damn polite. We appreciate the opportunity to read your story. We have decided, however, that it does not suit our needs at this time. We wish you luck .... blah, blah blah. No you don't. You think I suck. If you really appreciated my story, you'd accept it. Well one day, someone will, someone huge, or at least someone reputable. They'll print one of my pieces. People will read it. They'll like it. It's all part of my diabolical plan to... dun, dun dunnnnnnnnn..... get published. Mwahahahahahaha!

While nobody wants to publish my stories, it seems the readership of this blog has gone global! I received a comment on my last post from Japan. Sadly, I could not read it, nor did I quite understand the translation, so I did not post it. I do encourage my Japanese reader to try again, if he or she is so moved do so.

I could have sworn I spotted Charlie, at the next driveway down the street, cavorting with that floozy of his. That's not really fair. For all I know, she's a nice girl, although from what I could hear through the windshield, she's a bit foul-mouthed. I could go on with hundreds of chicken puns, but I'll spare you all today. I've got writing to do. Real writing, not this fun blogging stuff.

A hui hou! Aloha!

Aloha Charlie?

2010-03-06T14:32:00.000-08:00

It is with a heavy heart that I announce the disappearance of our rooster, Chuck. Last week, I caught him hanging out at the end of our driveway, cavorting with a cute little hotty of a brown hen from across the street. They did look like a happy couple. She must be something special for him to give up premium scratch, fresh fruit, bread, and other chicken-delectables, not to mention the fun of tormenting the cats. I asked Ron if he'd had the talk with Charlie. He shrugged. So I suspect we'll soon see the little brown hen with a trail of tiny, fluffy chicks in tow.

Kope Kope closed this week! It's my favorite coffee shop in town. Now, we're left with just two independent shops (that I know of), neither of which is great for hanging out to read or write or listen to live music. One is little more than a drive-through kiosk. The other is Bear's, downtown. It's funky but tiny, with tasty fruit-topped Belgian waffles. The coffee, last time I was there anyway, was lukewarm. I actually asked the waitress if she would zap in in the microwave for me. The parking sucks, so I almost never go there. Seattle's Best in Borders is OK. Starbucks is Starbucks. None match up with Kope Kope. My neighbor Leonard was playing jazz guitar on their little stage just last week while I tinkered with a story. Their chai lattes and homemade granola bars are awesome. Were awesome. Bummer.

I received two more rejections from literary magazines last week, so have created a folder just for them. The nice thing about rejection letters is that it confirms receipt of the story on the other end. Otherwise, you really don't know where the manuscript has gone. It's just out there, floating, in either cyberspace or real space or languishing in some post office or at the bottom of some editors slush pile somewhere. It's better to know, one way or another, than to wait. Waiting feels like the theme song from Jeopardy playing in my head, over and over, for eternity. Du du du, du-du, du du du.... du du du du DU.... du-du-du-du-du....

The rain has returned to our neck of the rainforest. Drought over. Water tank full. Algae in full bloom on the driveway. Mold thriving. Kitties soaked with muddy paws.

A hui hou. Aloha!

Just some stuffs

2010-02-14T19:29:00.000-08:00

Ron expressed concern today for our dog, Doc's sexual orientation.

"You mean, you think he's gay?" I said. "I've known that forever. A mother knows these things."

"It's just that he spends so much time with Charlie."

"So, you're not concerned that he's gay, but that he's trans-species?"

"Yeah! That's it," he said.

"And why does that bother you?" I said.

"It doesn't really. It's just a concern."

I told him not to worry, the dogs of a feather will always flock together...

And so went our conversation. Meanwhile, as I type this, Doc and Charlie are sharing some quality time together under the carport.

Winter Olympics!!!! Love 'em.

I've spent the past two days sending manuscripts to literary journals. I've been advised that the best way to approach the publishing challenge is to blanket the market. My blanket is a thin one, riddled with holes, more of a net really, a net with a super-loose weave. It would let whales and semi-trucks pass through. I've sent to The New Yorker (only because doing so is free, so what the heck) and of course Bob's Low-Falutin' Jernel. I have high hopes and low expectations that I'll get published somewhere. Look for me in Bob's.

These photos are from a hike I took with my friend Kathy last week, just north of Hilo along the Hamakua Coast. It wasn't a traditional hike with a clearly marked trail, but more of a scramble, followed by a stroll. First, we meandered along the rocky pali, then crossed a wide, grassy field to meander through a lovely neighborhood of large-acre estates. We finished our day with lunch at What's Shakin' on the Onomea Bay Scenic Loop.

The rain has returned. On the bright side, the vog is now blown away by tradewinds, so we're breathing easier.

A hui hou! Aloha!

Rubbish and other stuffs

2010-01-23T22:35:00.001-08:00

Who says chickens can't fly? Here's Chuck, a good 10 feet up. He flaps with furious abandon to heist himself that high. It's feathered flurry at it's finest.

Yesterday was an unplanned road trip. They had an opening at the dentist in Waimea, so I went to get the pearly whites scraped and polished. Afterward, I stopped for lunch at the Parker Ranch mall, a place called Las Casuelas. Their food is good, but the seating is in a collection of tables shared by all the vendors, like any food court. While the food was cooking, I went to stake out a table, sat and read my book while I waited. I looked up after a few minutes to see the woman who had taken my order waving to me that my meal was ready. Hmmm.... What to do? If I carry my book with me to keep it secure while retrieving my food, the table will be empty and someone might snag it. If I leave my book on the table, someone might snatch the book. Then it hit me. What was I thinking? This is America. Better, this is Hawaii. Nobody is going to steal a book. I left it to save my table, feeling so confident that I took the time to load up on condiments from the salsa. Sure enough, there was the book when I returned, open to the page I'd been reading. Perfect.

Costco is just another half hour from Waimea, so added the extra mileage to my jaunt to pick up some goodies. They sell plump game hens, bigger than traditional Cornish hens but smaller than your garden variety roaster or fryer. I picked up two. So there I am am in the checkout line, jawing with the friendly woman who's doing the requisite Costco thing, whereby she lifts stuff from the basket I was pushing into another basket. She lifts one of the frozen birds looks it over.

"Wow," she says. "These are big for Cornish game hens. You usually see those tiny ones."

"Yeah," I say. These are perfect for the spit."

"Do they taste like chicken?" She asks. I'm a bit flummoxed by her question. The man checking the items through at the register stops. I can see from the corner of my eye he's taken aback too and wondering what I'll say.

"They are chicken," I say. He bursts out laughing.

"They are?" She asks. I always thought they were something else. That's why I've never bought one.

"Yep," he says. "Hens."

"Well I thought they might be some kind of rooster or something," she says. Roosters are chickens too, of course, but I this slide.

"Usually people don't eat roosters. They aren't as good as the hens," I say instead, to which the young checker man nods his approval.

"But people eat tom turkeys," she says. "They always advertise them as 'young tom turkeys,' don't they?"

"I guess they do," I say, holding back on my desire to point out the obvious, that turkeys are not chickens.

We always wait to roast chicken until after Chuck has gone to bed for the evening.

While I was away yesterday, Ron had the fun of schlepping the trash. We take turns, but it's been me lately just because I'm the one who's always on my way somewhere, so he has not had the privilege since they implemented the new, restricted hours at the dumps. Here on Hawaii Island, we cart our rubbish in the trunks of our cars or truck beds or trailers or whatevahs to sites called transfer stations. There, giant bins have been positioned below ramps for our relative convenience. Transfer stations are positioned all around the island so no matter which way you're going, there's one on your way. It's always been reasonably convenient if not the most fun of chores. No more. They've cut the transfer station hours of operation by more than half, changing them several times within the first few weeks just to be sure,nobody could memorize the schedule. Now, they promise the hours are set. They did all this, they say, to save money. Small stations once open seven days a weeks are now down to three. The days alternate between stations, so while Glenwood is open on Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday, Volcano is open Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Or something. Maybe that's reversed. Like I said, they've changed it more than once. It's hard to get a bead on a moving target. The hours on the days they are open are shorter, too. Most days, they don't open until 9 a.m., which is after most people arrive to work. They close at 4 p.m., long before people return home. You can go on your lunch break, of course, but that means leaving your garbage in the trunk of your hot car all morning. Not good. Now, twice as many people visit a single location on any given day. This provides not only the fun of dropping off your own trash, but the thrill of waiting in line to do so. When it's finally your turn, the bin is full past the brim with the overage of bags strewn everywhere. It's a huge, stinky mess. We're also seeing more bags of garbage left on the roadside. That always makes a nice impression on visitors to paradise. To prevent people from dropping rubbish off on days when the transfer stations are closed, the county has erected gates and posted guards to turn people away. They're nice gates, a few grand each to install, I'd guess. I'm sure they pay the guards, too. Then there's the extra cleanup required around the dump site. So it's unclear, not just to me but to other patrons of the transfer stations I see shaking their heads and grumbling in disgust, just how this is saving money.

On the bright side, I took a side trip down to Kapoho the other day, just a few minutes to shoot some pictures. Here they are. A hui hou. Aloha!

Life plodding along

2010-01-17T12:29:00.001-08:00

Lucy had laser surgery on her cancerous schnoz last week. She's now sporting a pinched, Michael Jackson look, but it's healing nicely and with luck, no more soreness or bleeding. Poor baby girl! She was furious with me for awhile there and still a bit miffed for the antibiotics I squirt down her throat twice a day. Can't say that I blame her. I'd put sunscreen on her nose to protect it for her, but she'll just lick it off. I suppose it's fortunate then that it's so rarely sunny here. When it is, however, the sun is intense. That was our big trauma last week; a kitty nose job.

Our water supply is holding out, despite the lack of rain these past days. It's been dry, yet the vog has stayed away, so it's been a nice stretch. I can sit on the spider infested lanai to write without getting wet or asphyxiating from the toxic air. I've grown accustomed to the company of the arachnids. There's just no defeating them and I appreciate the fact that they are such diligent workers, undeterred in their web building. They do a fine job keeping the beetles and gnats and mosquitos at bay, even if they do insist on decorating the house like Halloween year round. Watching them spin webs is fascinating. Mostly, it's just nice to be able to be outside and breath, with or without the eight-legged gnarlies.

The Vikings are crushing the Cowboys right now. Go Bret!

A hui hou. Aloha!

Brain fart

2010-01-05T20:02:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, there's nothing new to write. I do have a new song though, sort of. It's sung to the tune of an old 70s melody. Remember Love Is In The Air? Well here's my version:

Vog is in the air

everywhere I look around,

vog is in the air

spewing right out of the ground,

and I don't know if it's gonna kill me,

feel my esophagus swell,

eyes burning bloodshot and tearing

and you know I'm not keen on the smell......

Today was mostly clear, the gas ebbing and flowing, it's here, it's clear, it's here, it's clear. The cilantro growing in the garden is fried. Beans too, but only the leaves. Basil? Not sure. It seems OK... The trade winds are M.I.A. and it hasn't rained in almost two weeks. Now, you'd think I'd be ecstatic about that and I am, really (cough, hack), but now, in addition to being subjected to Pele's halitosis, we have to conserve water as our tank is down to half full. If it's yellow, let it mellow.... you know the drill. No laundry, short showers. Sigh. Wine. That's the ticket.

A hui hou. Aloha!

Holiday traditions

2009-12-23T21:36:00.001-08:00

Christmastime in Hawaii! People have snapped up the sashimi-grade tuna and poke like mad, like usual. There's a shortage this year, which has put a damper on tradition. The fishery has been closed on big eye tuna to long liners. People will be stuck with less traditional fare this year like marlin or ham or turkey or tofurkey.

Besides tuna, there's also the annual holiday run on bamboo. It is Japanese custom to create a tiered, bamboo vase for the new year. Bamboo brings luck and prosperity. I'm surrounded by it, or at least I drive through a thicket of it nearly every day. So far, the luck and prosperity have been slow in coming. That said, it's Christmas and people are want to believe. So they ravage local bamboo forest, whacking it with gusto along the road's edge. Nobody cares much. It grows back quickly.

Mochi pounding is another New Year's ritual. Rice is pulverized in giant mortar bowls into fine flour. This is accomplished with great effort and the weighty assistance of heavy logs. It looks like a workout. Mochi flour makes tasty candy and cakes, chewy, springy and sweet.

Sweets. Ah, my teeth are aching. Love Christmas!

Merry Christmas! Happy New Year.

Mele Kalikimaka! Hou'oli makahiki hou!

A dash of irony

2009-12-11T13:18:00.000-08:00

A friend of mine went to the unemployment office in Hilo Friday morning to file her claim. It seems everyone's out of work these days. I have three friends here with whom I actually hang out on occasion, and of the four of us, three are on the skids. Of course, that could be a testament to the company I keep. Considering that I'm one of the three, however, it could also be a testament to the company they keep. Anyway, when she arrived, she found the office closed. That's right. The unemployment office has been furloughed on Fridays.

There is a great ad in the Help Wanted section of the Hilo Tribune-Herald this week for a Goat Herder. There was also one looking for fruit packers and another from a diner seeking dishwashers. There's the omnipresent local search for an astronomer with a PhD in Astrophysics and at least 10 years experience in black hole research. There's always that, what with all those big, bad-ass telescopes on our mountain. Otherwise, the pickings, as they say, are exiguous. (Look that up in your Funk and Wagnalls.) So to my mind, Goat Herder is the best opportunity out there. Ah, but here's the rub; you must have experience to qualify. When I read that, my mind was cast into shallow rumination (as it often is), to conjure an image of highly skilled yet unemployed goat herders by the score. They were scattered about the island, sitting, standing, whittling, humming Irish folk tunes, ready and waiting for their big break. I snapped out of my daydream and thought, "Shit. I knew I should have taken that goat herding elective in high school instead of Typing and Spanish. What a maroon! Que lastima!

A hui hou. Aloha!

Surf's up!

2009-12-08T19:08:00.001-08:00

It was a slow day at the tutor's desk. Shopping was a drag. The highlight of my town trip today was a bumper sticker that read:

Militant Agnostic:

I'm not sure and neither are you

It's funny, in a heady, heretical sort of way, right?

Then later, walking on campus, I spotted a young woman, so brave in her political incorrectness, sporting a t-shirt that said, Fearless Haole. Fearless Hawaiian and Hawaiian Pride are emblazoned on windshields and chests and biceps everywhere you look. There are Fearless Filipinos and Fearless Potagees. Never have I seen a Fearless Haole. I thought about getting a Fearless Norwegian-Irish-German-Scots Irish-Native American-poi dog-whatevah decal, but couldn't see where that might fit. No, the back of my pants is not an option. That would require removal of my Wide Load sign and endanger everyone.

The Eddie went today. That's the Eddie Aikau Invitational big wave surfing competition. Eddie was a renowned big wave rider and the first lifeguard at Waimea Bay on O'ahu's famous North Shore. He pulled dozens of surfers safely from the thunderous torrent over the years, heading into the giant breakers when no one else would go.

In 1978, Eddie volunteered as a crew member on the Hokule'a crew. Hokule'a was (and is) a voyaging canoe, a full scale replica fashioned after the canoes sailed by the first Hawaiians across the vast expanse of ocean from Polynesia 2000 years ago. The late seventies mark the start of The Hawaiian Renaissance, the birth of a resurgence among Hawaiians' and others in awareness and appreciation of Hawaiian culture. Almost home, the Hokule'a '78 sprung a leak. It capsized 12 miles off the coast of Moloka'i. Eddie swam toward shore for help. The crew was rescued by the Coast Guard, but Eddie perished. He was never seen again.

Today, the slogan Eddie would go graces bumpers, shirts, mugs. Over the years, several variations on the phrase have emerged. During the June Jones/Colt Brennan era of UH football, Eddie would throw came to represent the team's pass-oriented offense. In another manifestation, those who support the notion of a surfer being pulled out by a WaveRunner to catch giant waves rather than swimming to them, espouse, "Eddie would tow." Purists in the surf community aren't keen on this one. They think towing is cheating and are confident that Eddie would not tow. Here are some of my own adaptations: To get him to kick the football, Lucy might tell Charlie Brown, "Eddie would toe." Wondering whether or not to move into that home near the nuclear power plant? Hey, Eddie would glow. Maybe you want to sneak onto a freighter and travel the world on the cheap. Sure. Eddie would stow. Know a pensive rooster? Tell him, "Eddie would crow." Tempted to drive 65 in a school zone? Eddie would slow. Venturing out to the lawn, I've been known to say to nobody in particular, "Eddie would mow." In its most traditional sense, the mantra is used as encouragement, whenever someone faces a scary, risky or challenging proposition in life. No guts? Feeling apprehensive? Unsure? Seriously. Eddie would go.

A hui hou. Aloha.

You can't make this stuff up!

2009-12-03T19:58:00.000-08:00

Check out this story. Really, just click on the link. I know you'll marvel at what you read. What does Forrest Gump say? Stupid is as stupid does? Next time I find myself lying on the road in the middle of a dark night with my head on the white shoulder line, I hope no good Samaritan calls the cops to help me out. This happened within walking distance of my house. You've heard the expression 'brain drain?' I think the intellectual contents of this rainforest sink we call Glenwood has long been circling.

This morning we had a bit of a scare. Our neighbor John took a tumble into the bushes right across from the end of our driveway. John wears a leg brace and has only one functioning arm, so he could not get up. My dog Doc barked ferociously, sounding the panic alarm. He knows John and watches for him to deliver our paper every morning. Touser, the neighbor's crazy terrier, yapped too. Good dogs! Who knows how long John may have languished there in the thicket before someone came along and noticed him. Ron went out to check on all the fuss and spotted John in the weeds. Poor John. Ron got him to his feet, then beckoned for me to join him. He needed a translator. John's pretty tough to understand. John insisted he was fine, but I walked with him to make sure he made it home. Our neighbor Leonard knows John well. He says John is prone to falling and that the tumbles have become more frequent in recent months. John refuses to use his cane. I can't say that I blame him, what with only one good arm. He struggles mightily when it rains, trying to retrieve the paper while he maintains grasp of his umbrella. He insists on walking - it's that or stay cooped up inside the house all day - so we'll all just have to keep a close watch over him.

Today's beautiful sunshine was ruined by vog, which came and went all day long, creating a noticeable haze, a sulfuric stink and that tell tale, funky fuzziness you feel on your tongue. Yes, you can taste vog. It has flavor and texture. Blech!

A hui hou. Aloha!

Mellow T-day

2009-11-26T20:13:00.000-08:00

What a nice, low-key Thanksgiving. It didn't rain and while the sun was not blazing, it felt nice to dry off. We've enjoyed some cooler weather of late. Around here, that's an overall dip of about five degrees across the low-high graph. It's enough to have silenced the coquis. All's quiet now in the mauka (toward the mountain) rainforest, except for the geckos and a few winged insects that make buzzy noises. I didn't mind the coquis so much, since we had so few of them. The few will not likely become millions up here, as it has at lower elevations on the island. Of course, there is that whole global warming phenomenon to consider.

We spent much of the late morning and early afternoon indoors cooking, or at least I did, so it might as well have rained, though I'm not complaining that it didn't. No way. What took hours to cook was devoured in a flash, a fury of forkfuls stuffing our pie holes. We have some leftovers, sure, and pie too, with whipped cream for tonight, but really, Ron and I put a respectable dent in the bulk of the victuals. Good eaters. That's what we are. Grandma Steinberger, rest her "Can I fix you something to eat?" soul would be proud.

I hope the day was a pleasant one for all of you out there. A hui hou. Aloha!

Paradise for the moment

2009-11-22T12:59:00.000-08:00

Right now, it's not raining. The early morning was glorious. I zipped up hill to the Volcano Farmers' Market, which has become a hangout of sorts for me on Sundays. The air was cool enough to justify my long pants and sleeves, like early autumn in the Great Pacific Northwest. The place was packed. It's always busy, but today was especially so, a hive pulsing with busy bee activity. The sticky bun lady ran out of sticky buns by 7:30. I arrived at 7:35, so had to settle for cherry turnovers. Not a bad concession.

I'm suppose to be writing. I have two vague story prompts rattling around inside my head, ideas that are products of my memory and life. I want to write these stories. I do. I'm also scared to death of both of them. I'm a big chicken. There's a reason I don't write non-fiction. It takes cojones and, truth be told, I ain't got any. Never did. I'll ski the headwall at Crested Butte, but truthful writing, even in the form of fiction (and I do mean real fiction, not the formulaic, genre kind), takes real courage. I keep repeating the mantra, It's fiction. It's fiction. It's fiction... Then, Grow a pair. Grow a pair. Grow a pair. I want to believe that, by the time I finish with these stories, change the names of the guilty and innocent alike, embellish and make some stuff up, well, eventually they will be. Fiction, that is. And interesting enough for someone other than my college mentor to read through to the end. It's time to buck up, grow and pair and write.

You know how I said that at the moment it was not raining? Well that was moments ago, an eternity in the rainforest. That was then and this is now and the clouds are threatening. Still, it was a lovely morning. It cheered me up. Back at the market, the lady who makes green papaya soup smiled at me. I made the jam guy and his customer laugh. The vegetable woman grinned and blushed when I wished her Happy Thanksgiving. The hand-made tortilla dude clapped when I grabbed a dozen. The photographer showed me her new line of customer embroidered kitchen towels.

"I just thought of it and made a few and now they're selling," she said. She's got a keen eye and a golden touch. The coffee lady was comically frazzled enough by her long line of patrons that, rather than try to remember who she owed change and how much, just pointed and said, "Go ahead and take what's coming to you out of the chicken." It was a ceramic chicken; a cookie jar. She uses it as a cash drawer. I'm guessing she may come up a little short today, but she too was in a fine mood and probably won't mind. The sun was shining, the atmosphere sweet. The moss and the trees and the ferns and the people seemed giddy for the chance to kick off their rubber boots, shake off their drips, drop their umbrellas, lower their hoods, ditch their snorkels and come up for air. Yes, I'm in a swell mood, so much so that I think I'll zip back up the hill and spend some time at the gym. Wait a minute. I've got work to do. It's fiction, it's fiction, it's fiction... grow a pair, grow a pair, grow a pair... Maybe another cup of tea.

Island exploration is our forte

2009-11-10T11:46:00.000-08:00

The fun just keeps coming here with mom on the rock. On Sunday, we shopped for swim suits. A Phillips screw driver hammered into my ear would have been more enjoyable. Once I'd exhausted all the likely contenders (none of which I purchased), we moved on to jog bras. Much easier. There were a few alternative styles I'd never tried before and, having taken up residence in the fitting room and feeling quite cozy in there, I opted to try them on. Mom ferried them to me from the rack. She passed one through the door that looked a little small. Idiot that I am, I tugged it on anyway, trusting that she'd chosen the right size, never thinking to check it before donning the dud. Jeepers! I thought I was going to need the jaws of life to get the thing off. Some serious jumping was required to gather enough momentum to break free. Anyone who's ever tried to remove a really sweaty one knows what I mean. Just then, she arrived at the door with several more.

"Here," she said. "These are the water kind."

"The water kind?" I was perplexed. I'm a jog bra junkie. I had never heard of the water kind.

"I guess the kind you can swim in," she said.

I grabbed the bundle. They were all the same color; sea green. The dangling tags shouted, "Aqua," in bold print.

"What are you laughing about?" I heard her say from outside.

"I'll tell you when I come out," I said. Aqua the color, not the function. Don't you just love my mom?

Yesterday, we meandered through the Hawaii Tropical Botanical Gardens at beautiful Onomea Bay. It seems every business is cutting costs these days, and this place was no exception. They used to provide complimentary insect repellent at the trail head. Now, you have to buy a bug-off towelette in the gift shop for $1.50. Being the frugalistas, a.k.a. cheapskates that we are, we opted to forgo protection. Big mistake. That's just a life lesson for you kids out there. Always use protection. It's a buggy world. Ankle welts aside, it was still a nice stroll on a lovely day. The foliage was lush, colorful, grand. Think Jurassic Park without dinosaurs. We also enjoyed some ono grinds on the lanai at What's Shakin,' a little smoothie and sandwich place along the scenic loop.

Mom and I were chatting about a friend with a successful business as we drove the highway home. This was the night before, on the way home from Kona.

"Sounds like she's found her forte," Mom said. She pronounced it fort, like Fort Carson or, "Let's build a fort." So I asked, "Isn't it fortay?" And she said she knew an English instructor, from England no less, who told her that everyone pronounces it wrong and that it is in fact proper to say fort.

"If everyone pronounces something wrong," I asked, "does that not, by default, make it right?" Devil's advocate. That's my forte. She sensed logic in my question, but insisted that no, if an English professor from England pronounces it fort, then fort it must be.

Today, she bought us a new microwave! Wow! Ron's been managing her money, so now she has more than we do. We've lived well enough without one for some time now, so it will feel like fine luxury to warm my tepid coffee in the morning, to nuke my soup, to zap some spuds. It has a browning feature, too. Awesome! Crispy is good.

A hui hou. Aloha!

Island Road Trip

2009-11-07T00:05:00.001-08:00

Mom and I busted up the highway today. We cruised to Tom the Baker's to eat malasadas the size of Volkswagen's, then yonder on to Hawi and Kapa'au. There, we hung with the spirit of King Kamehameha and looked at some pretty Pololu Valley scenery. Lunch was nice at Bamboo. We caught a fantastic, Rose Festival rival of a parade along Ali'i Drive in Kailua-Kona. That's a wee exaggeration. It was a modest, fun, community affair. No roses. But there were kids on trikes, Knights of Columbus wearing fuzzy hats and school children dressed as pirates. It's Kona Coffee Festival week here on the west side, so they're celebrating the bean. It's actually a seed, from a fruit. They're celebrating none-the-less. Curry at Thai Rin was yummy. So were the Haagen-Dazs bars we grabbed at the gift store and are now digesting, tired, warm and happy, in our free upgraded, ocean-front room. It's been a hoot of day. Stellar.

Mom's watching a movie on TV right now. She says it stars Penelope Cruz. She pronounces it Pen-a-lope, like jackalope. I do a double take, then begin to laugh. "I guess I was picturing her name written in my head," she says. Indeed. Then I tell her about how Ron pronounces Sean Connery's name Seen Connelly. Nobody knows why, least of all me. We agree that Pen-a-lope Cruz and Seen Connelly should star in a movie together.

A hui hou. Aloha!

Good boy, good time

2009-10-29T15:01:00.001-07:00

My BFF Lisa ( Best Fairbanks Friend) challenged me in a recent email to use the word horticulture in a sentence. How's this:

You can lead a horticulture, but you can't make her appreciate it.

Lisa also mentioned someone famous named Dorothy Parker. Famous to most people that is, but not to me, literary dilettante that I am. So I looked her up and now vow (brown cow) to read her stuff. She sounds funny, like someone I'd have liked to jaw with over a latte. Too bad she's already punted the pail as they say. Well, that's how I say it.

The groggy doggy Doctor dog and I made our way to the vet for a clean bill of health yesterday without too much trauma. I may now be deaf in my right ear from his high decibel whining, but otherwise we're fine. He's eleven years old now and needs an extra oomph to jump onto the bed these days, not to mention a ramp to get into the truck. He's also still a Satan-possessed psycho mutt, but otherwise sweet and sprightly as ever. Shoots. I need an extra oompth to jump onto the bed now, too. I do hate that they make us wait for so long every time we got to the clinic, even though we have an appointment and when there's no obvious emergency to preclude seeing us. It was a good half hour before we were escorted into an exam room and another 20 before the doctor strolled in. Good thing my boy was so heavily sedated. I might have done well to take one of his pills. Then I'd have been as patient a patient as he. Driving home might have been a bit sketchy....

This afternoon I celebrated my BHF (Best Hawaii Friend) Janet's 50th birthday at my other BHF Kathie's house, eating lasagna and giant wedges of red velvet cake, watching Elvis' GI Blues and drinking margaritas. I wish Janet could turn 50 every day. Janet's son, my BHTF (Best Hawaii Teenage Friend) Carson was there too, reminding us how much fun helium can be. Carson is a good sport, hanging out with three old... er, middle aged women like us. It was good fun!

We've had a few earthquakes of late. One last week registered 4.1 and woke me up. Another tiny temblor quivered day before yesterday. This morning the earth stood still, but we were treated to a fine combination of vog and rain. Ah paradise.

A hui hou. Aloha!

Furlough Fridays spark protests

2009-10-26T21:03:00.001-07:00

It's a sad state of affairs in Hawaii. Here, in the birthplace of our president - a walking example of what a good education can do for you if you apply yourself - kids are being shortchanged big time. The teachers union has agreed and the legislature sanctioned something called furlough Fridays. Public schools in hawaii are now closed on Fridays and remain so for the next 12 weeks of school. It's unclear now whether the kids will attend the requisite number of days required for federal funding under No Child Left Behind. Many have asked why the teachers can't just take the pay cut they agreed to and still work those Fridays. That's what people who work for private industry are doing these days. (Those lucky enough to still be working anyway.) The teachers make an eloquent argument. You wouldn't ask a lawyer or doctor or accountant or other professional to work days for free, they say. We too are professionals, they argue, and should not be expected to do something for nothing. I agree that teachers are professionals. I also believe them to be a most underpaid and overworked lot, especially considered the importance of their charge. That said, there is one huge difference between teachers and other professionals. Doctors, lawyers and accountants are not paid by taxpayers, nor are their salaries negotiated by union representatives. Many do regular pro-bono work. There were so many options suggested to counter the furlough Friday idea that were not considered by either the teachers, their union reps, the school board or the legislators. Some charter schools, also public but allowed greater operational independence, have come up with cost cutting measures that precluded them from having to close one day a week. Needless to say, people are peeved and protests will continue outside the state capital every Friday. There are also two class-action lawsuits pending. How much will it cost the state to defend those? Sheesh. What a mess. Of course, you could pick an issue, any issue and make the same claim. What a mess.

Tomorrow I will sit in on an English composition class at the college. That should be a hoot. I never took that class. I'll probably go Thursday, too. The instructor is a favorite among students, so I know I'll learn something.

A hui hou. Aloha!

Shoots and ladders

2009-10-17T16:20:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, we borrowed a neighbor's expandable ladder and schlepped it across the road. I toted the front end - or at least walked in front, for who knew which end was really which - and Ron carried the back. We stretched and leaned it against the gutter. I ascended, the aluminum steps and rails stiff and unyielding under my feet and hands. I liked that. My pockets were stuffed with tools and my head with plans to take down the tilting antenna. It sagged at a precarious angle, ready to tumble. We decided it would be best to remove it before it fell and impaled someone. Like me, for example. Rusty, yes, but the bracket was still stronger than I or the screwdriver or wrench or hammer or whatever else I held in my wimpy little hands. I grunted. It was no use. "Shoots," as they say here in paradise. The bolts were fused with chunks rusted away, so I couldn't get a grip. We hoisted up the reciprocal saw fitted with a hack blade and I cut the thing into manageable pieces, eventually dislodging it from the tweaked and oxidized brackets. Ta da! What an amazing gadget! It sliced through the metal like buttah. I didn't fall and break my neck. (Been there, done that, don't recommend it.) The trickiest part was going back down the ladder. It's always easier to climb up. Ron was grateful. High places are not his favorite.

I had my eyes examined the other day. The good news is that I still don't need bifocals or reading glasses. The bad news is that, as my ophthalmologist says, "We lose the elasticity in our skin and our eyelids begin to droop as we age." Super. Just what I wanted to hear. Here's a news flash for ya, doc. It happens to other body parts, too.

Go Dodgers! Go Yankees so the Dodgers can kick your okole in the World Series! Go Broncos!

Did I mention that it's raining?

A hui hou. Aloha!

Just unwrap and enjoy

2009-10-05T15:54:00.000-07:00

One of the best things about shopping at Costco is the samples. At the end of almost every aisle, you'll find a cheerful, apron-clad, white-hatted person - usually a woman - doling out some goodie or other; a new juice in tiny paper cups, a slice of some new smoked ham on a cracker, a bite-sized hunk of granola bar. Sadly, it was one of those very offerings yesterday, there within those hallowed warehouse halls, that sparked a pang of internal angst regarding the level of laziness to which we as a species have fallen. One of the women had placed pieces of something from a box into small, wavy-edged cupcake papers. Upon closer inspection, I saw that the something was wedges of hard boiled egg! These were prepackaged hard boiled eggs. Eggs already hard boiled FOR YOU. Each one is individually wrapped inside the box. I'm still reeling.

It was good to get out of the rain for the day, eat a fresh malasada and some cheap-but-OK-for-the-price sushi. Other than the eggs and their impact on my sensibilities, it was a splendid island road trip.

Did I mention they are already boiled for you? What's next, instant Starbucks?

A hui hou. Aloha!

Rain on the brain

2009-10-01T20:45:00.001-07:00

October 1 marks the start of the wet season here in Hawaii. Oh goodie. Here in beautiful Glenwood, mud capital of the Pacific, we received 107.46 inches by month's end August. Stats for September aren't in yet, but today's deluges (there were several), should put us well on our way to a fat, 200-inch year. Did you know that algae can grow on car paint? Mold too. Our cars don't get dirty in the traditional sense here. They just grow creeping, slimy plant and animal life. Ferns sprout from the house gutters.

As I drove home from tutoring this afternoon, squinting through the water-logged windshield, I cranked the volume to hear the radio over the din of the fast, fwap fwap of the wiper blades. Some cheesy song played, lamenting the crooner's location somewhere on the cold, snowy mainland. She longed melodically for sunny Hawaii. I wanted to poke out the dial, to jab it with the point of my enormous, still dripping unbrella, but I was driving. To grasp the improvised javelin with both hands would have been tricky while hydroplaning, even for an excellent driver like me. So I turned the nasty thing off and mumbled some self-pacifying explitive under my breath. It's all enough to dampen the spirits of the cheeriest person, which I am. Ask anybody. I consoled myself with not one but two fat spam musubis with furikake from J. Hara store. Fresh, warm, tasty. It's Hawaiian comfort food with no ingredients that come from Hawaii. Rice, spam, nori. Sort of like lomi salmon. Technically the tomatoes and onions can be grown here, but the ancient Hawaiians didn't grow those, nor did they eat said fish. Yet it's a tradition offering, served at every luau. I defy even the most proficient angler to catch a salmon off the cliffs at South Point. In this warm water, that would be one sluggish buggah.

Why is Pago Pago pronounced Pango Pango? Why don't we change the English spelling of the place to reflect the native pronunciation? These things eat at me. Why is Worchester pronounced Werster? Bejing was once Peking, right? Should we not spell Phuket (Thailand) differently when using standard Arabic lettering? Fookette, maybe? Nah. I like misprouncing that one.

A hui hou. Aloha.

Will work for eggs

2009-09-24T22:12:00.000-07:00

Speed bumps. You know them, those jolting bars of raised blacktop placed across roadways or in parking lots to control drivers' speed. Today, I traveled a long, lonely road to my pal Steve's farm. He wants me to write some copy for his new website. I've been buying his jams and jellies for a couple of years now. Anyway, I couldn't help but noticing the placards warning motorists along the way of those sharp rises in the pavement. Diamond shaped and yellow, they look like yield signs but say, "speed hump." That's what they call them here. Speed humps. What an image. There are some in things in life that should not be rushed and humping is one of them.

Steve has tiny dogs that dart around in front of the car as you pull in through his gate. I stopped, of course, for fear of hitting them, and the gate closed on my car door. It's a thrash and bash mobile, so no harm was done. He waved me in, shouting, "Don't worry. They're fast. They'll get out of the way. We've already flattened all the dumb ones." Steve's a humorous guy.

He gave me a dozen eggs today just for driving out to chat with him. We'll be discussing further compensation later - a chicken, more jam, other sundry and intriguing herbs the likes of which I have not sampled in 30 years. Hey, it's Hawaii. There may even be some cash in the deal. Meanwhile, I couldn't help but feeling a bit like a 19th century country doctor.

A hui hou. Aloha!

Vog and silliness

2009-09-22T11:50:00.000-07:00

The tradewinds are dead, dead, dead this morning and the vog, like Old Man River, just keeps on rollin' alo-o-o-ong. Our zucchini leaves will be fried before noon. Cilantro? Fugettaboutit! It's history. Lettuce? No chance.

On Saturday night, Ron was watching something on the History channel while I was, as always, parked on the couch, legs crossed Indian style as we used to say (though I'm sure that's no longer PC) with my laptop, believe it or not, on my lap. The announcer made a reference to Casanova. Ron rose from his spot and headed to the kitchen to get himself a beer. This was an anomaly, since that's typically my job. He stopped en route, right in front of me, and stuck his gut out as far as he could, swaying his back just a bit for added effect. I looked up.

"What do you think? Could I be a Casanova?" he asked, a goofy grin plastered just below the mustache.

"Maybe a casserole," I said. Yeah, it was hilarious. You know you've fired off a good one when the person you've just insulted doubles over with laughter, choking on his words while responding, "Hey, you should talk. That's not very nice."

Sunday morning we were back on the same couch reading the paper when he flicked on a football game.

"Check out number 67," I said. "Oh, and number 79."

"What about 'em?" he asked.

"Not exactly svelte," I said. His eyes lifted from the paper.

"Yeah, now those are some casseroles," he said.

"Good one," I said.

It's all about timing.

Gotta go indoors. It's a beautiful sunny day outside, but the air is toxic. No more blogging on the lanai today. (hack, cough, wheeze, gag) Ah paradise!

A hui hou. Aloha!

What was that?

2009-09-18T10:14:00.000-07:00

We were on our way to town the other day - we needed beer and wanted papayas - listening to that venerable radio news source, NPR. They're professional. They're knowledgeable. Master journalists. The two anchors talked about the exploits of a firm owned by Blackwater, the company doing work in Iraq. I'll admit I tuned out for a moment, mentally that is, my mind somewhere far away. As I stared through the window, the woman's voice faded, to become vague and distant, obscured by the whir of passing trucks with over-sized mud tires. Then, a single word wrangled my attention away from the buzz of traffic, the passing foliage, the dashboard squeaks.

"Did she just say, 'subsiderary?'" I asked.

"Yes, I think she did," Ron said.

"Un-f#$@%^ believable," I said. I didn't say that out loud of course, because that would be crude and classless, but I thought it. OK maybe I said it. The male voice followed, using the same word, but pronouncing it properly. "Subsidiary." He stretched it out, for her benefit as well as ours, enunciating with unnatural crispness. "Sub-SID-ee-air-y."

"Thank you," I said to the radio.

Ron listens to blathering noggins on cable financial news channels all morning, five days a week. It's his job, he tells me. Gotta keep up with the latest business news, he insists. The other day I walked past his office and caught a statement, admittedly out of context, that made me pause. A man's voice said, "In any case, that's a really very rare trend." Hmmmm.... Ignoring the really and very (adverbs that are really very much overused for lack of substance in the words surrounding them), I focused on rare trend. Now, if something's a trend, then it's not rare, is it? And if something's rare, it's not a trend. So which is it? If you're deciding whether or not to buy a stock, it matters. Sheesh!

If I never again hear the expression, "Wrap my head around it," it will be a happy miracle. I can't help but envision someone's cranium bent and draped like the clocks in a Salvador Dali painting.

"It was just so complicated, I had a hard time wrapping my head around it."

"Even the politicians who wrote it are having trouble wrapping their heads around the proposed policy."

Ugh!

It's a mad world, I tell ya, a cliche riddled, pronunciation mutilating, mad mad mad mad world.

A hui hou. Aloha!

A tutor, or a four door?

2009-09-10T22:08:00.000-07:00

When I told Ron I would become a writing tutor, he said that was impossible, since I'm not English. (I have so rubbed off on this guy.) Together, students and I hammer home thesis statements and smooth paragraph transitions. We identify possessives and the need for those pesky apostrophes that go with them. We ensure proper tense and article usage, fix sentence fragments and run-ons; you get the picture. It's satisfying to see the lights come on when they recognize the errors themselves and craft fine sentences right before my eyes.

There is, however, a dark side to the tutoring trade, a sordid element, a seedy underbelly. On Thursday afternoon, a girl approached the desk while I was working with another student. She waved a paper in front of me, interrupting our session. I recognized the form. Some lower level English course instructors require that students review each assignment with a tutor. The tutor checks off each element reviewed, then initials the sheet.

"Sign this please," she said.

"If you'll just wait a few more minutes, we're almost finished here and I'll be able to work with you," I said. "You can put your name there, on the sign in list." I pointed.

"I don't want to wait. Just sign," she said, fanning the page. I felt the breeze.

"Nope," I said. "Can't do it." She huffed away, indignant. I looked at the girl beside me, a more honorable student, who shrugged and smiled. I returned both gestures, then sat back in my chair, the proud, tutor-warrior. That's right. It's me and Steve McGarrett, a.k.a. Jack Lord, thwarting the evil doers that would snag the moral fiber of Hawaii. Book 'em, Danno! (Feel free to play the Hawaii Five-O theme song in your own head as you continue to read this blog. Oh, and picture those hunky canoe paddlers too, if you like.)

We attended an intimate shindig tonight to celebrate a friend's husband's birthday. Burgers, dogs, some killer blueberry cheesecake, enough alcohol to supply the seventh fleet on leave and excellent company all made for a pleasant evening. The party was held at a cabin at Kilauea Military Camp. The happy couple rents one every year for the occasion. It was a swell dwelling with three bedrooms, a fireplace, full kitchen and some comfy couches. Nice digs. Nicer than my house. A room at Motel 6 is nicer than my house. Not to knock Motel 6. I wonder... do they still have Magic Fingers? You put a quarter into a slot in a gray box mounted on the nightstand and the bed begins to vibrate at about a 4.2 on the richter scale. Anybody remember those?

It's not raining tonight and the sky is clear. You can see the southern cross and the north star from my backyard.

A hui hou. Aloha!

A typical day

2009-09-01T10:17:00.000-07:00

I am standing at the kitchen sink washing dishes when I hear Ron get up from his nap.

"What do you want for dinner tonight?" He asks. This is the first and most important question we address most days.

"I don't know. Anything," I say. This is my customary answer. (It's our version of, What do you want to do? I don't know. What do you want to do?)

"We can have that masala sauce we bought the other day with some chicken and stir-fry vegetables," he says.

"We have stir fry vegetables?" I confirm.

"Yep. I bought some," he says.

"Sounds good to me," I say. "Are you getting up?" I ask, dishes rumbling in the sink.

"No. I just had to pee," he says. (Are you riveted yet? I swear to Pele, this is how boring we really are.)

"OK. Have a nice nappy," I say. That's what we call it. A nappy. I resume with the dishes. Left to my own, inner mental devices, it's not long before I've conjured up a song, inspired by carrots and snow peas and shitake mushrooms. "Stir fry, don't bother me, stir fry, don't bother me...." Of course, I think it's hilarious and genius. I am well entertained by myself. (Only-child syndrome persists well into the AARP years.) I croon away, the same refrain, over and over, chorus only, because I don't remember the verses to Shoe Fly - that's the model for this ditty - so I can't make up alternative words for those parts.

The next thing I know, Ron is standing at the end of the hallway, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, staring at me.

"Are you listening to yourself?" He says.

"Why would I do that?" I say. He turns to head for bed and I realize my singing might be too loud for him to sleep (it's a small house). I take it down a notch, almost whispering, "Stir fry, don't bother me..." Then I hear him chuckle. He can't stop. Within moments, it becomes one of those run away laughs, the kind that leave you gasping for breath afterward.

Later that afternoon, as he putters around the kitchen to make himself some lunch, I hear singing. "Stir fry, don't bother me..." It's catchy.

A hui hou. Aloha.

Plight in Puna

2009-08-26T22:29:00.000-07:00

Adventure! That's what my buddy Kathie and I had today. We traveled to Kaimu, to The Kalapana Cafe. It may well be the best burger you can get on this island. The end of the road was quiet. There were a few monks with shaved heads milling about in loud, yellow and orange robes. One girl in a bikini advertised the perils of mis-stepping on the lava when so clad, a nice strawberry on her thigh and a bleeding knee. A few tourists, a local or two. A dog curled up in the corner by our table. We disturbed her nap when we sat down, so she sauntered over to another, unoccupied corner. Papayas were ripening on the trees that grew out of the gravel adjacent to the place. Coconut palms, noni and mango trees lined the parking lot. Kalapana Cafe may be the only burger joint in the world with outdoor seating and fresh orchids to accent each table. We ate a satisfying, all-American lunch, then meandered out onto the pahoehoe ourselves, not wearing bikinis, thankful for red cinder dusting the trail, marking the easiest path to the shore. The wind blew our hair back.

"Dudette? How high is your forhead?"

"I don't know. How high is yours?"

It was a beautiful, stiff tradewind day, clear enough to see all the way up the slope to Pu'u o'o, the source of the current flow of lava to the sea.

We hiked back, slid onto the leather seats of Kathie's Lexus and headed home.

"Hey," she asked as we traveled along Highway 130 en-route to her house. "Have you ever been to the steam caves?"

"You mean the steam vents? The one's at Volcanoes National Park?" I asked.

"No, they're caves, right along here somewhere."

"Cool. Nope. I've never seen those."

"Look for the scenic point sign. We'll have a little adventure."

We spotted the sign and the pullout. "It's down here," she said as we approached the edge of the road. We began our descent off the side of the highway along a narrow, easy-to-miss path through the brush. It was overgrown and rocky. We bush-wacked some, and it wasn't long before we happened upon a fork in the trail. Following Yogi's advice, we took it. The fork, that is. Then we took several more. "I have no idea where we are," Kathie said. Ah, but it's an island. Big as it is, how lost can you get? Winding, twisting, stepping with care, the thorns of invasive berry bushes scratched our shins and imbedded their spines into my shirt. Lava cinders crunched underfoot. It was fun! We searched, but found no caves. A few piles of rock, stained with white and yellow sulfur, were all that remained. At one time the piles were caves with benches to sit on; natural saunas steaming with geothermal warmth. It was unclear if the caves had colapsed naturally or had been taken down on purpose. We wound our way, knowing only that to get back to the car we must walk uphill. The highway appeared, and while we hadn't found the caverns, we'd had a jaunt. Kathie grabbed for her keys as they dangled from a hook on her day pack.

"Uh oh," she said, fumbling through them.

"Uh oh what?" I said.

"My key. To the car. It's gone."

Now, my friend Kathie has a wad of keys that would be the envy of any self-respecting maintenance man. There were at least a dozen of all shapes and sizes, jingling like sleigh bells from two carabiners. I'm sure she had no idea what some of them opened. The only one missing was the one we knew we needed.

"Well, maybe you just lost it when you grabbed them," I said. "Maybe it just fell right here on the road or near the car." We walked along, scanning the ground. No key. Looking for it along the route we'd just trudged would have been like trying to find a contact lens on Mount Whitney in a blizzard. In the dark. Oh, and did I mention that there's no cell phone service in parts of lower Puna? We were stuck.

So, we stuck out our thumbs. Two cars passed before a third pulled over. It was a woman we recognized from the shore where we'd hiked earlier across the lava. She recognized us too. Her name was Candace, a Sociology Professor from Chicago. She listened to our story and was kind enough to take us to the cross street nearest Kathie's house. We walked from there to retrieve her extra key, pet her adorable dogs and to cool off with a beer. The two of us began to ponder who we might call to give us a ride back to her car. Ron was in town, shopping, unaware of our plight and not carrying a cell phone. Ray, her husband, works atop Mauna Kea, the great mountain, far, far away.

"I need to get more friends here," she said.

"Me too," I said.

After several calls came up short, she connected with her pal Tiffany, who it just so happened was in Kea'au, not 15 minutes away. "Sure," Tiffany said. "No problem."

Once safely delivered to the Lexus, we traveled to Pahoa to treat our savior to a thank-you margarita. All was well and again right with the world.

The funniest thing about this story was how stressed and sorry Kathie was, though I still got her to laugh about it all, while I remained un-phased and without worry. She had been the one to lose the key, but it could have been me. In fact, it should have been me. It's just the sort of think that would happen to me. It was an outright pleasure to accompany someone else in such a predicament, acting as sidekick to her hour of oops instead of being the star of my own. Kathie, I'll lose keys and hitch across the island with you any day. It was a blast!

Word goulash

2009-08-25T14:31:00.000-07:00

Ah blissful ignorance! A year ago, I had no problem launching into a new project, typing away for hours on end, tiny springs in my fingers, a story teller telling a story, welling with confidence. No misgivings. No reticence. I was good and I knew it. I had been accepted to a program, goll-dernit and my mother and friends had been telling me I was awesome for half a century. Now, I know better. I have been trained to recognize crap when I read it, and when I write it. I can still spend hours piling words onto a page, only to see them for what they are; a rambling, aimless heap of dung. There's no story in this effort and there may never be. It's words, sentences, paragraphs, lying around haphazard, like Jenga blocks after somebody gets cocky and pulls too hard, or too slow, and the tower crumbles. Some of the sentences are good, no doubt, but it will take Herculean effort and no small amount of luck to assemble and re-write it all into something readable.

So today, I walk away from the pile. I will leave it, jumbled on the page, to stew like rhetorical chowder. Fresh eyes will take a peek at it later in the week, but no sooner. Meanwhile, I shall plunk out an unrelated essay discussing someone else's story, a real writer, someone who knew what the hell he was doing, or at least who made it look that way. Ah, but before that, there are dishes to wash. No story there, either. Just a mound of bowls and plates and pans and cups.

A hui hou. Aloha!

Pimp my brain

2009-08-20T22:35:00.000-07:00

Four miles in 45 minutes, 12 seconds today on the guinea pig wheel, aka the treadmill. Woohoo! My sneakers were like tiny rockets, flames blasting from their heels. Smoke billowed up from the rubber conveyor. Smokin'!

As it turns out, I lost three pounds at the residency. Makes me rethink my diet strategy. Move over Jenny Craig. Outa the way Weight Watchers. No exercise, extreme sleep deprivation, college cafeteria food, tables sprinkled with mini-candy bars, occasional cookies, plenty of carrot cake and ample amounts of alcohol consumed well into the wee hours - that's the ticket. Follow that with a train ride and three days eating hunks of halibut as big as your head, wash them down with heavy ale and those pounds just melt away.

As I read the job postings for English Composition and Creative Writing instructors at colleges across the country, I can't help notice one glaring element they all have in common; college teaching experience required. I have teaching experience, but I don't think it will impress the interviewers of academia. It's all the outdoor variety and has nothing to do with writing. Unless you view carving turns on the corduroy as a type of artful script. Powder 'S' anyone? Man, I'm getting the itch to slide. It's August. There's an El Nino forming in the Pacific. Could be an epic winter. Anybody got any frequent flyer miles they can't use?

I met with an English professor at UH Hilo Tuesday to discuss how I might pimp myself out to him as an assistant in his creative writing classes. He was smart, cordial and supportive, but told me it's too late for this semester and referred me to four books on pedagogy to prep for teaching English Composition to students of diverse backgrounds, primarily, as he called them, dialectic speakers like many who attend the local schools. OK den. He suggested I assist with English Comp and actually enroll in his senior creative writing class. Maybe. I'm already paying bookoo kala to attend a masters program in Alaska, so the notion of paying for yet another class gives my wallet da kine chicken skin. He's a widely published professor with vast teaching experience, not to mention an exalted reputation with his students. No doubt, I'd learn gobs.

Yesterday, I contacted the director of what's called The Learning Center at Hawaii Community College and offered my services as a writing tutor. Bingo! She was very enthusiastic about bringing me into the tutoring fold, signed me up for tutor orientation and promised to call next week to schedule a meeting. Cool. Tutoring might be a better, more practical place to start.

So, things are looking up here on the rock. I still want to go home, but it doesn't have to be tomorrow.

Hoppsy rolled on a dead rat this afternoon, so it was bath time for doggies tonight. The walls are still wet with shake spray.

A hui hou. Aloha!

Rooster Scare

2009-08-15T19:27:00.001-07:00

Ron and I took a quick trip to town for out third fleecing of the week by Hilo grocers. We were out of TP and diesel for the convertible (aka the tractor) and needed tofu for the stir fry he wants to make tonight, so we loaded the trash and the reusable shopping bags into the car and headed for town. Stopping at the Glenwood transfer station to unload the trunk of rubbish (no trash service here, folks) we proceeded on to an otherwise uneventful if hot, muggy and wallet-emptying sojourn. Our highlight came in the form of a woman, older than Delaware, walking at the speed of frozen syrup, out of the store and along the sidewalk as we walked in. She was wearing an orange and yellow flowered smock, black and white checkered capris and a floppy hat that seemed to weigh her head down on one side, cocking it to the left. She passed us and was just far enough to be out of earshot when Ron said, "Now that's an outfit." He leaned toward me as he said it, talking out of the side of his mouth like a bad ventriloquist, while at the exact same time I mumbled, "Nice ensemble, auntie." Then, of course, we proceeded to giggle all the way into that arctic blast you get when you enter a grocery store in Hilo in August.

The KTA was packed, as ever, and we dawdled, as always, this time over the plethora of noodles in the vast asian food aisle - soba, udon, somen, chow funn - reading countries of origin on cans of clams (I found one from the USA). We checked out the chirashi bowls in the sushi cooler but deciding to pass and get just a tiny tub of tako poke to nibble on instead. I do miss those days when we didn't have to pick and choose based on price. Twenty dollar square of toro tuna? No problem. Two thick, local, grass-fed rib eye steaks? Sounds perfect. Chunk of smoked salmon, wild caught from Alaska? Great. Sixpack of Mehana? Who cares if it's 12 bucks? Throw it all in the basket. Sadly, those days are gone. I did opt to pay 35 cents more for the Hilo-made tofu. Hey, a girl's gotta have some standards.

When we returned home, the place was uncomfortably quiet.

"Where's Charlie?" Ron asked.

"Hmmm," I said. "He's usually right here." Ron walked around the outside of the house. I did the same, expanding my search to a broader patch of green. I found a few scattered feathers and a dead rat covered with flies, but no chicken. Ron went to the lanai and shook the food bin we keep there.

"The cats finally got him," said Ron.

"I don't think so," I said. "I mean, they chase him, but they never get him."

"Oh I don't know. They get close. Alvin chased him all the way down the driveway yesterday and he didn't stop until I caught up to him and chased him off." Alvin is our cat. Now, I know there's no way Ron, running head to head with Alvin or any other cat chasing a chicken, could ever catch up, but I let it slide. Plus, I like the image, arms flailing, feathers flying.

"Still," I said, "I just don't think, I mean, roosters are pretty good at defending themselves. And he's pretty big."

"Well that's what I was worried about," he said, "that Alvin would be the one to get hurt."

"So?"

"So, I think the cats got him."

"I don't know," I said. I was in denial.

"I think he can protect himself from one cat," Ron said, "but two? He doesn't stand a chance against two. Or three." I couldn't argue with that.

So the afternoon remained quiet, no breeze, no birds in the trees, no rooster. I had this odd, melancholy feeling. I missed that feathered, pea-brained idiot. There was real sadness there as I pondered the prospect of his violent demise. Ron went into the bedroom to take a nap and I did the same, on the couch where the fans blow almost hard enough to cool a woman of a particular age here in the tropics. I dozed. When I awoke, I felt no better. I listened for a cockadoodle doo, a cluck cluck, something. One of the cats sat in the window sill, batting a moth as it fluttered across the window, as if nothing otherwise had happened all day. I rose to spot his two feline siblings torturing a tiny lizard on the living room rug. They were smiling.

"Jesus," I said, "you guys are relentless." I went to check on Doc, the dog who, given a choice, would love nothing better than to burrow into a snowbank for his siesta. I figured he had settled onto a cool spot on the driveway cement despite having two doggy beds and a rug out there. I opened the door and there was Charlie, dear ol' Chuck, hangin' wit' his homeboy the Doctor Dog. I can honestly say I've never felt so glad to see a stupid, pinheaded chicken. I mean, have you ever noticed how much smaller their heads are than their bodies?

I went back inside, then out on the lanai. I shook the canister, filled with assorted bread crumbs and cat food and seeds and stale crackers. Charlie came running - sprinting - around the house and across the grass. Yay! That is some entertainment, watching a rooster run. I rewarded his efforts with a big handful. Then I went to wake Ron to tell him the good news.

A hui hou. Aloha!

Road trip

2009-08-10T22:09:00.000-07:00

There's a tiny rash under my left nostril that's been bugging me for weeks now, so I traveled the coast to Honoka'a Town to see the doctor. He gave it his best guess, shrugged, prescribed some ointment and sent me on my merry way. I expected the journey to be rainy and it was, but only in short, bursts and squalls. For the most part, it was nice. No big surf in the ocean. No great gale force winds. It was just a day, and a descent one at that. Felecia has fizzled and veered northward toward O'ahu and Maui.

Tex Fine Foods provided lunch; kalua cabbage wrap, sweet potato chips and a malasada to bring home for dessert later on tonight. Love Tex.

The island seems quiet these days. Maybe it's because the prospect of the now dwindled storm put a damper on things. Maybe tourism is down a little more again this month. Traffic was light along the highway. Tex was not so busy. Service was fast.

I had the radio tuned to a local radio station as I headed back through Hilo, en-route to the hovel. They played a little John Cruz - nice - some Cecilio and Kapono - always fun. I think I've mentioned this radio station as eclectic. They feature many local artists, but also play rock, pop, country, old-timey - all sorts of stuff. As I turned into the pharmacy parking lot in Kea'au, out of the speakers wafted Rocky Mountain High. Rocky Mountain High! What's up with that? I just wanted to buy a 12 pack of regular Coors, rip open a package of elk jerky and cry. As nice as this day was - even the part when I had the patch of skin directly under my nose examined at close range by a cute doctor with a tiny light was OK - eating ono kine grinds, driving the pretty coastline, I still want to go home.

A hui hou. Aloha.

Felecia en-route, she's a Hurricane to boot

2009-08-06T21:19:00.001-07:00

I don't like hurricanes. I don't like the threat of hurricanes. I'm not keen on tropical storms, either. That's what they say Felicia will be when it finally comes a knockin.' Right now, however, she's classified as category four, which is no slight breeze. Felecia is approaching from the southeast, which means it will hit our island first. Now, if you look at a globe, you can see that the Hawaiian Islands, the most isolated archipelago on earth, is but a speck on the vast Pacific Ocean. You'd think the odds of us being hit by a hurricane are roughly the same as someone winning the Powerball lottery. The thing is, someone always eventually wins that lottery, even at a bajillion to one. So too do hurricanes, given enough shots at it, eventually hit these islands. The last big hit was Iniki, which nearly wiped Kauai off the planet We've had a few near misses since then. There are no hurricanes in Colorado. I'll take my chances with a nice blizzard or a crackling thunderstorm any day. Hurricanes suck.

Went to the gym today. Wrote a ditty about it: The Peri-Menopausal Gym Rat's Rap

Yo to the gym, joggin' 'long the treadmill,

Keepin' it flat, not ready for a hill,

Crankin' up the tunes, Green Day through the buds,

Givin' up sweets and layin' off the suds,

Crunchin' flabby abs 'til they burn like toast,

Metab'lism slow like an uphill coast,

Bones turn to powder as estrogen wanes,

Crows feet deepening, tiny spider veins,

There's weight to bear and some vitamin D

in a bottle-ain't no sun shinin' down on me,

Need a kinda mantra, to keep me strong,

Or a silly ditty, like this here song.

OK so Kanye West has nothing to fear. Yet!

I think I need a job.

A hui hou. Alo-o-o-o-o-ohahahahahahaha!

Cluckin' Chuck

2009-08-02T13:09:00.000-07:00

Charlie the chicken. I've taken to calling him Chuck instead. Charlie rhymes with Harley, which is one of the cat's names. Chuck rhymes with cluck which is what roosters do. They also crow. Roosters crow at dawn, of course. They belt it out whenever they hear other roosters crowing from however far away. They crow if a car speeds by or a bird sings in a nearby tree of a bee buzzes overhead or for whatever the hell reason and whenever they jolly well feel like it. Ron finds this endearing. He has already told me at least a dozen times not to get too attached.

"They don't live very long, you know," he says.

"He's a rooster," I say.

"I'm just sayin'," he says. "I wouldn't get too attached."

"He has a tiny head and an enormous body by comparison and he poops on the driveway and crows all damn day," I say.

"He's a good boy," Ron says. "He seems to like bananas."

"He's a chicken. He likes everything," I say.

"Well, just don't get too attached," he says. "He is pretty, don't you think?"

"Yes," I say, "He is pretty. Annoying, but pretty."

"He's a good boy," he says.

This is what our life has come to.

Chuck's crow sounds like the intro notes to the theme from Get Smart. Er er errrrrrrr ER.... I think mold spores have invaded my psyche.

It's warm and sticky and we're headed to Hilo to brave the throngs of first-of-the-month-yay-it's-pay-day shoppers. Only the heartiest will survive.

A hui hou. Aloha!

Sleepless in Glenwood

2009-07-29T23:19:00.000-07:00

Home. I learned on the way from the airport yesterday that Ron has endeared himself to the new neighbor by firing off shotgun blasts. His objective in making such a racket was not to kill anything (although if the neighbor insists on being pissy, that could change). It was instead to scare off the pig family that has chosen a spot near our water tank to nest, or burrow, or whatever pigs do to set up house. Apparently, new neighbor guy likes to sleep during the day. He told Ron that shooting to scare them would do no good. He insisted, and we've heard this before, that you have to kill them to get rid of them. Well, they're gone, probably to someplace quieter. We were told we couldn't grow zucchini here too, but that was hogwash, pun intended.

Speaking of noise, we have a new critter, another interloper that Ron has named and feeds and calls, "good boy." Charlie the chicken. More specifically, Charlie the rooster. He's pretty, but annoying. His favorite crowing spot is directly under our bedroom window. His preferred time is 6:00 a.m. Charlie hangs out. And crows. He likes Doc and is not afraid of the cats. Did I mention that we feed him? I know it's a long shot, but I'm thinking this could be why he hangs out. Why do roosters crow? No, this is not the beginning of a joke. It's a question. Note to self: must google why roosters crow. Should google be capitalized when used as a verb? Note to self..... google when to capitalize google. Maybe Charlie is the reason those pigs skeedaddled. They couldn't sleep either. Note to self: look up the spelling of skeedaddle.

A hui hou. Aloha.

Pining for the Fjords

2009-07-25T19:42:00.000-07:00

No cookies were tossed this afternoon, by me or anyone else on board. No turkey on sourdough with tomato, mayo, mustard and onion, either. Star of the Northwest was spared, as was the plankton rich, puffin pocked sea. It's a miracle of modern medicine (bonine) and a testament to the tranquility of Reserection Bay. The mellow ride held fast until we hit the open ocean, where the swell was met with a storm that rolled in. I stayed on deck for most of the trip, pelted with cold rain and a brisk, chilly wind that helped keep the queasiness away. Gail hung with me for shorter stretches, then went inside for beers and warmth. Thank goodness I had on my Gorton's Fishstick-guy hat.

We saw eagles, stellar sea lions (on the rock in the middle of this photo), mountain goats, dahl porpoise, jelly fish, pink salmon and puffins. The Kenai Fjords are grand, beautiful steep faces, craggy, rugged, stubbled with evergreens from timberline to the sea.

Yesterday, we spent some time at the Alaska Sea Life Center here in Seward, up close and personal with the puffins and sea lions in their habitat displays. It's a nice nature center, with informative kiosks.

The train ride yesterday morning was relaxing and pleasant. A woman sitting in the seat ahead of us was from California. We stopped to ogle a glacier. Our car was quiet. She said, "That looks just like frozen water." It was impossible not to hear her, sitting so nearby, and my head nearly exploded from holding in laughter. Gail nudged me with a "be nice" jab of the elbow. A moment passed, then her husband replied, "Ya think?" We were freed, all of us, to burst into hysterics.

Tomorrow, we head for a short hike to Exit Glacier. Then, it's back to Anchorage for the night, Seattle on Monday, Hilo Tuesday.

Some things I've learned

2009-07-23T02:01:00.000-07:00

I know that writers are lousy but enthusiastic dancers. They are great huggers. Some are good singers. A few play guitars. One, I hear, plays the oboe. I play the ukulele. Badly. Badly is an adverb and adverbs are for sissies. Where was I? Oh yes. Writers. They are adventurers and homebodies. They are flirts and back-patters. And huggers. Did I mention that? It's true, especially at the end of a two week intensive residency. They stand in awe of their colleagues' eloquence, wit, lyrical prowess and overall, kick ass wordsmithin.' Writers are sensitive - especially poets. They ache to tell stories. They tell them in verse. They tell them with prose. It's what writers do. Besides dance badly, that is. Shit. Am I a sissy or what? Writers drink. Boy howdy can they drink. Howdy! Writers need encouragement. We are fragile. If you don't understand us, you'd do well to support us. We do not need encouragement to drink, however, nor is prodding required to make us dance.

As humans, we are nothing without our stories.

Things go better with Joke

2009-07-19T23:57:00.000-07:00

Last night, propped up, sleep deprived and feeling a little out of my element, I was about to bow out early from a party with my fellow writers here in the dorm. It was fun, and I enjoyed chatting with individuals throughout the evening. Truth be told however, I'm a little shy in certain situations. Yeah, you read that right. (Give me a break, all you knuckleheads who know me!) Literary conversations with smart, well-read people slam home the fact that I should have spent less time watching Gilligan's Island re-runs or riding my bike or whacking fuzzy yellow balls or careening down mountainsides and more time as a thoughtful grown up with my schnoz poked into the pages of the classics.

I was poised to muster a graceful exit, to rise from my seat and bid everyone goodnight, when someone told a joke. A joke. They might as well have started passing around the coke tray. All the world's a stage for a joke junkie. I stayed, of course. And all that stuff about being shy? Never mind.

Hometown

2009-07-10T19:28:00.001-07:00

You wanna be where you can see, troubles are all the same,

You wanna go where everybody knows your name. (Theme from Cheers)

I was driving through the mountains today, gawking at the 14ers along highway 285, feeling fine, soaking in the scenery, pondering how I might figure a way back to this place. The radio faded, so I hit 'seek.' The numbers fluttered, then landed on the first notes of Man in the Mirror. I started snapping my fingers, singing along. Gonna make a change, for once in my life... I got to ... It's gonna feel real good, gonna make a difference... and burst into tears. Shit!

Did I mention that I had a lovely dinner with the Cress family at my/their house? A steak as big as a tractor tire, but much tastier. Of course, I've never eaten a tire, so I'm just assuming...

On Tuesday afternoon, Dr. Gloria Beim delivered the stellar news: I have no arthritis in my hip. None. Nada. Zippola. Did I mention this already? I ran out of ginko a while ago and with the hormones fluctuating as they do these days, sometimes I forget. Anyway, it's comforting, since my mother has two artificial ones, a titanium shoulder and pins in her fingers, all due to the disease. Lindsay Wagner's got nothin' on my mom. (For all you younsters' benefit, Lindsay played The Bionic Woman on TV, way back in the stone age. Now she sells mattresses through a gauze filter.) So, all I have to say about the lack of joint trouble is, thanks Dad. Instead, I have bursitis, with an excessively tight IT (iliotibial) band, probably due at least in part to the fact that one leg is longer than the other. I'm not sure who to thank for that. Anyway, a shot in the rump, some new orthotics and a bit of physical therapy and I'm on the road to recovery. My literal pain in the ass is already fading. (We'll save talk of my figurative pain(s) in the ass for another blog entry.)

Gunnison was Gunnison, complete with people I know in restaurants and shops, walking along the street, at the gym, on the cot next to me in PT, talking on the radio, everywhere.

My friend Stephen invited me to attend a spoken word performance at the Gunnison Arts Center Wednesday night. I started downtown from my digs at the Comfort Inn, but soon realized I'd forgotten my purse and wallet. Blast! How on earth was I to buy a beer? I turned around and high-tailed it back up Main Street, figuring I could make it to my room, snag the bag and be back at the Arts Center is eight minutes flat. Not so fast. That's what the sheriff's deputy told me when he pulled me over. Well, actually he said, "Slow down," which is the same thing. Thank you Deputy Medina for letting me off with a warning. I arrived just in time to catch the last of the milling and mixing prior to the performance. It felt like old home week. Mark Todd was there, a guy so famous around these parts that people still ask me if I'm related to him. George Sibley hung in the wings. No, not the actor George Sibley. (Remember Babe?) This is the writer, teacher, philosopher George Sibley from Colorado. I don't think anybody in Gunnison doesn't know George. Mark read a couple of poems in his spirited way. The young poets were impressive, too. Stephen did a fine job as MC. Last night, it was dinner with my pal Delaney. We vowed to make it our ritual to eat at the new Mexican restaurant every time I come to town. There's always a new Mexican restaurant in Gunnison. It was fun hangin' with all my homies in G-town. To those of you I did not get the chance to see, I apologize and promise to connect next trip. Yes, there will definitely be a next trip.

A thunder storm just ripped through here. The sky rumbled and flashed, the heavens burst with a deluge. Sheets of water defied the awning over my hotel room door and soaked the walkway. That's what I love about Colorado. It's exciting! Don't like the weather? Wait a few minutes. And the rain? No biggie. It's here and gone in a few minutes. The sun will come out tomorrow. Bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow, there'll be sun.

I've included a little eye candy, a shot from Monarch Pass, for your viewing pleasure.

Aloha. A hui howdy.

In the air and on the road

2009-07-07T15:51:00.000-07:00

As I sit here typing and refusing to pay for a wifi connection, I wonder if this kooky font will transfer via cut and past from my word processor to the blog. No matter. I’ll write it now in this whimsical way and hope for the best.

It was a fun packed, whirlwind weekend in L.A. La la la la la la..... I caught up with some old friends at a part Friday night, some I haven’t seen in way too long. Good food, chilly libations and lively conversation were had and enjoyed by all. There was a nice beach bike ride on a congested fourth of July. It was so crowded, there were spots along the way where we had to walk our bikes, wedging through the throngs that had spread from party houses out over the path. My only mishap was a dribble of beer on my hand made my a staggering young delinquent shouting, “USA, USA!” Cops were everywhere - on foot, on bikes, on horses - as were revelers and weirdos. What’s not to like about L.A? Stretches of sand were completely covered by towels and shelters and bodies. The smell of salt and Coppertone and charcoal grills filled the air. Helicopters patrolled back and forth along the shore. Our friend Carol joined Janine, Lila and me for burgers back at the girls’ house and later a fireworks show in Woodland Hills. The next day we enjoyed some pool time, then headed to Staples Center where there was plenty of Michael Jackson hoopla. The funeral was today, of course. The early crowd waited patiently in line to sign a large, white board with a picture of Michael. We took it all in, experiencing a bit of history. I signed man’s autograph book upon request, giving my last, heartfelt sentiments for The King of Pop. There were people from all over the world. Janine chatted with a group from Poland.

We found Trader Vic's for libations, then it was on to the Sparks game, LA's WNBA team. The Sparks played well - for the first half. They pretty much stunk up the place in the second. Still, we cheered and were treated to some great basketball. The ol’ timers dancing and the little kids jamming were a highlight that certainly beat the slutty cheerleaders featured in NBA games.

Yesterday morning, I did my time in the dentist’s chair. Now, I’m off to the Mile High City, Queen City of the Plains, where John Elway is God and the air just a little thinner. Then to sunny Gunny.

Yay! The font works! A hui hou. Aloha!

Getting ready for the big trip

2009-07-01T21:21:00.000-07:00

To kill time yesterday while my car was being inspected, I walked to town for a nice lunch at Aloha Luigi, then down to the bayfront to pick up some mints at the candy store strong enough to kill the garlic from my ceasar wrap. Back at Midas, I was told I needed new back break shoes. Mine were cracked. I saw the cracks for myself. So while they fitted the Focus for those, I strolled over to Starbucks, right next door. There I sat reading my classmates' manuscripts and enjoying a slightly sweetened iced coffee when the woman sitting next to me leaned over, tapped me on the arm and asked, "Excuse me. How do you spell heritage?" Really? Is this years-long Hawaii experiment just one big cosmic joke, a bad dream from which I will never awaken and during which I will be asked to spell simple, everyday words wherever I seek solace? I spelled the word.

Thankfully, this lady turned out to be different from the man at the library (please refer to a previous blog for that story). For one thing, she did not ask for dozens of additional words. For another, she was a she. It was a coffee shop, after all, not the hallowed halls of la biblioteca where quiet is both revered and expected. We talked about art, about poi, about breadfruit, about the merits and overuse of noni. She was lovely and interesting. I couldn't help but notice the copy of Natalie Goldberg's Wild Mind on her table. Below that was Writing the Natural Way by Gabriele Lusser Rico. Everyone's a writer these days. We chatted about that a bit, too.

Today it was back to town for another pound of coffee, some dog food, cat food, burritos for lunch and a prescription for some nose spray my allergy doctor thinks I need. I'm not so sure. Stuff tastes nasty when it runs down the back of my throat.

I'm packed and ready to fly away. Tomorrow night I'll land in beautiful San Diego. After some much needed underwear shopping at the Jockey outlet, my friend Gail and I will head north for a fun-filled weekend in L.A., with the coup d' gras a trip to the dentist. My dentist is in Encino. My orthopeodist is in Colorado. I'll see her the next day. My gynocologist is in Honolulu. Years ago, I had a gyno named Dr. Ira ( I don't remember his last name) in L.A. He had pictures of Farrah Faucet and Ryan O'Neill on his walls. Seems Farrah and I had something in common. The same kindly Jewish grandpa doctor did our pap smears. He delivered her baby. I really liked Dr. Ira.

I told my mom about my visit to L.A. I said I had requested a hike, followed by dinner at Los Toros.
She asked, "Is that as good as Las Flies?" I took her there once when she came to visit me in The Valley eons ago.
I said, "That is Las Flies." That was our old nickname for the place. It's grown since those days but the food is still the same. Same owners. They still pour an extra shot of tequilla into the glasses when you buy a pitcher. Only difference: now it's huge with valet parking. Love Las Flies. Tacos al carbon. I order the same thing every time. Hmmmm... the carnitas rock, too.

A hui hou. Aloha!

Sad times

2009-06-26T20:44:00.000-07:00

I broke my own person treadmill record yesterday, jogging four miles in 45:30. That's pretty slow by most standards, but it's Speedy Gonzales for me. I ran to Michael Jackson as my version of a tribute, so maybe that's why the feet flew so fast. I defy anyone to listen to Jam and not move.

What a day; Michael, Farrah and the incessant rain.

Farrah Faucet lived life on her own terms. She was beautiful and smart. When faced with a terminal disease, she fought the good fight. Cheers to you, Farrah.

I remember where I was when Elvis died. I had seen him in concert (with my parents, no less) just a month earlier. I can also picture the exact moment when I heard the news about John Lennon. My friend and soon-to-be-housemate Lori and I were moving a mattress on the top of my Volkswagon Beetle to our new digs. We were holding onto the plastic handles through open windows in a futile attempt to keep the thing from catching air as we crept along. The two of us gasped when we heard the news on the radio. I hit the breaks. We stared at each other in disbelief as the words came through the speakers, tears welling, spilling, tracking down our cheeks. The news of Michael Jackson has not hit me so profoundly as did those moments. Maybe I've grown a wee bit jaded in my old age. Still, like all of my contemporaries, I grew up with Michael. I was a fan when I was 11 and I'm a fan today, ever in awe of his talent, mildly intrigued by his quirkiness. There's little more to say that has not been hashed and rehashed over the past 24 hours, so I'll keep my commentary simple: Cheers to you too, Michael Jackson.

A hui hou. Aloha!

Wonder herbs, lychee, rice and such

2009-06-18T21:22:00.000-07:00

Not much has happened worth writing about the past week. It's been a mixture of rain and sun, enough rain to make it squishy and enough sun to encourage the grass to grow and the blossoms to pop on the coffee trees. There a bunch of fat apple bananas hanging from the rafters of the front lanai, waiting to ripen. It's pretty much poured all day today, making the kitties stir crazy, wrestling on the couch, toppling the recycling bin full of soda cans on the back lanai. The dogs are bored silly, lying around with forlorn expressions, their chins resting on the floor between their front paws. I could have taken them for walks today in the torrent, but opted to stay dry for once. Dry-er anyway.

This morning I ventured to Kea'au, where I shot this photo of the giant lychee tree in the parking lot. You can just make out the ripe, red fruits. The lychee on the bottom of the tree always gets picked, but the trees grow so tall that most of the ripe juicy beauties at the top go unharvested. What a bummer. I love lychee and they charge a bundle for it at the farmers' market, even though there a tree in nearly every yard in Hilo. Must be 'cause the trees are so ding dang tall. Next to mangos, it's my favorite local fruit.

I went to the heath food store to purchase Tumeric, a wonder herb. It's actually a root, not an herb, in the ginger family and goes well as an anti-inflammatory with the boswellia and bromelain I'm giving Hoppsy. It smells great, but I'm a big Indian curry lover, so others might not find the aroma so enticing. I plan to consume some of it myself. As I entered the store, I stopped to peruse the posters and messages on their bulletin board, just to see what's going on and what's for sale. Sadly, I saw a familiar face. Molly, my neighbor's dog. She's missing, last seen in the parking lot there at the shopping center. She either jumped out or, more likely, was taken from her person's van. Sad. I so hope Molly's found. I know she and her kids love that little dog.

Rice is cooking in the rice cooker. I usually cook rice in a pan on the stove but since I have a rice cooker, I sometimes plug it in and let the magic happen there. It came with the house. The first time I'd ever seen one was when my college roommate Colleen brought one to our apartment. She was from Hawaii and ate a lot of rice. The thing I remember most about her rice cooker is how I accidentally ran over it. I don't recall why it was in the driveway. It may have been there because she was taking stuff to someone's house to cook and set it down temporarily while she ran into the house to get the rest of the stuff. Or maybe she was bringing stuff back. Nothing else makes sense. I just know that I backed up and straight over the thing, making it flat as a penny on a railroad track after the train passes by. Have you ever done that? The penny thing, I mean. It's pretty cool if you can manage to actually find the thing after the train passes.

Harley likes the view from on high. Guess the world just looks interesting from up there.

A hui hou. Aloha!

I'll Tumble for ya, I'll tumble for ya....

2009-06-07T13:16:00.001-07:00

They love each other like typical siblings. One minute they're all cuddly, like this. The next, their initiating body slams and chomping on each others' jugulars.

I had a bit of a start the other day. It happened in the laundry room. I say this like it's some far-away wing of my vast mansion. It's a small offshoot from the kitchen. Stooped over the edge of my top loader, I gripped and tugged at wet sheets that were wrung tight and smashed against the sidewalls inside the washer's basin, listening to Jack Johnson in the background, wondering, "Where'd all the good people go?" just like Jack, relishing the mindlessness of my chore. Once the wad was free, I hurled it into the open dryer, slammed the door, set the timer and pushed the button. At first tumble, I heard a loud thud and wondered if the dryer, like all my other appliances, was about to expire. A few more bumps had me worried. You can see where this is going, right? I opened the door and our flew Harley, dazed. Poor baby! I scooped him up, checked him over, heard him purring like a Cummins diesel, decided he was fine and set him free. Crisis averted. I hadn't seen or heard him come into the room, let alone jump in. They can be stealthy that way, like B-2 Spirit bombers with whiskers. Kitties. They keep me on my toes. I thought I was being diligent, checking all cupboards with open doors before closing them, scanning the car after bringing in the groceries to be sure no felines had gone exploring through the interior. Looks like I've got to step it up a notch. The good news is that he's now afraid of the machine and darts away like a goosed Cheetah when it starts.

As we all know, Roses like rain. This one is growing in a pot that I largely ignore, sitting in my driveway. Pretty, huh?

A hui hou. Aloha!

Trash talk

2009-05-30T15:52:00.000-07:00

There's a joke here on Hawaii Island that the the primary way locals dispose of their rubbish is to load it all into the back of a pickup truck, then drive around until it's all gone. On strolls up my narrow, one-lane jungle road, it seems it's not really a joke at all, but a statement of fact. Lately, I've noticed an odd assortment of trash strewn along the edge of the roadway. There's the usual stuff, like McDonald's bags and Kentucky Fried chicken boxes and soda cups and beer bottles. I even see the occasional Starbucks Frappuchino with whipped cream plastic tumbler, which just goes to show you that a person willing to spend six buck on a cup of coffee isn't necessarily enlightened or evolved. That said, it's the other stuff that's got me perplexed; yogurt containers, egg cartons, tampon applicators, vaccuum cleaner bags. These are not items a person just has in their hand and flings out the window. (I don't even want to think about that prospect with the tampon applicator.) It's just so sad, you have to laugh a little, or you might break down and cry. Maybe that's why it's considered a joke.

Locals like to blame tourists for their woes, for messing up the beaches and crowding the roads. The truth is that the vast majority of litter here is generated by locals. Tourists never find my road except by accident, the occasional lost souls who's made a wrong turn. It's a dead-end route used by residents, by their visitors, hunters, county road crewmen and cops. That's it. So that is where the garbage comes from. The idea that my own neighbors are so willing to trash the street we all share is unsettling, to say the least. When I lived in Gunnison, I'd get frustrated at the occasional bit of junk tossed out to land in my yard, so I know litter happens everywhere. It's noticeably worse here.

It's been hot and muggy for days with only occasional, light evening showers to cool things off. I'm not complaining. A reprieve from the rain is both welcome and appreciated. The poor poochies spend their days flopped in the coolest places they can find, their tongues hanging out, zapped of energy by the humidity. Good thing we live at 2500 feet. They'd die these days at sea level. The cats are hot too. Poor Alvin and Winnie have thick coats more suited to a chilly climate. It's a rare thing to see a cat pant, but they do.

The summer semester has not yet officially begun, but we have vast amounts of work to do in preparation for our residencies and assignments due in the weeks leading up to that, so my nose has been pointed toward the pages of books, reading, taking notes, formulating questions, preparing myself to discuss the material with some semblance of intelligence.

And speaking of intelligence, did you happen to catch the Scripp's National Spelling Bee finals last Thursday night? If you've read the annals of this blog over the years, you know I love it.A boy from Kona just misted making it into the finals. He finished 12th, which is spectacular. The kids are amazing, smart, diligent, disciplined. They are goofy, spirited and unique. With all the horror stories we hear of teens in our society today, these youngsters give me hope for the future of the world. The competition was especially keen this year, with many of the finalists going several rounds before someone would ding out with a mistake. The words were off-the-chart difficult and contestants were forced to rely on their knowledge of word roots of origin to get the spelling right. Seriously, these words were gnarly. One boy who was considered a favorite because he had come in second place last year, came in ninth or tenth this year, missing a word by one letter. I found myself tearing up when the bell dinged on him. You could see he was crushed. If you've never watched, be sure to catch it next year. It's really good. I think I look forward to it as much as the Superbowl. The winning word was laodicean. Look that up in your Funk and Wagnall.

I shall sign off now, lest you become laodicean about my incessant rambling.

A hui hou. Aloha!