Last Day

“The is nothing more important than today,” read the inscription on the bracelet advertised in the Sky Mall magazine. Most likely true, but if it was so darned important why was I sitting on the tarmac at the Albany airport, delayed just enough to miss the connecting flight in Newark. Waste of time. I tapped my fingers on the Continental in-flight magazine and sighed. The December issue, dog-eared.

Since this was my seventh Continental flight of the month I had thumbed through the same issue enough times to know the exact location of the Suduko and cross word puzzles, the three page spread of the world map and the advertisement for the ten day tour to Costa Rica for $995. I also had read Jules Older's advice on winter travel. The editor in chief for two ski magazines said, “If you miss your connecting flight and the service desk tells you the next confirmed flight to your destination is 48 hours away, don’t panic.” Say what? I’d kill someone if I had to spend two days waiting on a plane in the Newark Airport.

“Lord,” I prayed. “I’ll need a little help being Christ-like in this situation. Like when I manage to get off this plane and I have three minutes to connect and my gate is seven furlongs away.” (I used the horse racing term, because that was what I'd have to do - race.) Christ walked on water, I’d have to float through at time continuum of restricted space reserved for all those baggage handlers dressed in jump suits the same gray color as the Newark skyline.

I felt a writing frenzy coming on - a two day study of the comings and goings at the airport. Maybe a few choice photos of security things I shouldn’t take photos of and someone from TSA might kick me out of the place. The whole incident could end up on Fox News! The thought of this project calmed me down as long as I didn’t think about the fact that my camer and cell phone battery chargers were in my luggage that I’d never see again.

My mind wandered to New Year resolutions. I had already made one. When riding in the back seat of a vehicle I'd use the seat belt. I estimated I’d be in the back seat of a vehicle about sixteen times in 2008, mostly at Christmas in my sister’s Subaru.

By the time I started to get to the more serious resolutions (being more Christ-like), the jet engines flared up and we taxied down the runway. I studied the layout of the Newark Terminals in the back of the magizne. If luck was to be had, I might be able to make the connection.

We arrived nine minutes before departure. I passed two people on the jet way and came to a screeching halt at the gate’s desk where I confirmed my departing gate. No sense running through the airport like OJ, only to arrive at the wrong gate. Mathematically, my departing plane sat eleven gates away, down the corridor, two left turns away. I began to count down. 106, 104, 102…,and around the counter gate 70. Shit. 72...

What began as a brisk walk turned into a trot with hiking boots and weighted down with a small but heavy backpack. Second left just ahead, but a departure monitor sat on the corner. Collected underneath, a gaggle of travelers paid homage - heads up, mouths open, eyes squinting - to the long display. I dodged among them, but my shoulder clipped a bag. I should have said excuse me. Instead I asked for divine intervention. “Don’t let my carelessness ruin their day, Lord.” I quickly moved on.

Two kids were playing on the moving side walk, skipping along against the traffic flow. Don’t hit the kids. Don’t hit the kids became my mantra as I side stepped the annoyance. Head, loomed 90. Then 92. On the right, gate 95. I broke my trot on the last conveyor belt and glided to the gate, pleased that the jet way door was still opened.
“Name,” the agent asked.
Trying not to gasp, I told him my last name. Despite being in good shape, the anxiety of spending 48 hours in my least favorite airport elevated the heart rate to a pace equivalent of a sprinter who just ran the 100 yard dash.
“Any chance I could go to the ladies room first?” I asked.
“We are leaving now.”
"Any chance my bags are going to make this flight?"
“Oh sure,” he replied without so much as a flinch despite the bold-faced lie. I knew the luggage didn’t have a pray. As I walked down the jet way, a caught my breath and pretended to be that ever so important traveler. I whipped out my cell phone to call Bob. “Plane’s on time. I’ll see you in the terminal.”

Whoever was sitting in 29D was not a happy camper. As I causally walked to my seat and mistakenly thought he was in mine, I unfortunately encountered him. He corrected my error with a growl and couldn’t unglue his eyes from the little hinge on the back of the seat that held the tray table in place. I settled in, sitting ahead of him, thirsty and in need of a pit stop.

Upon reaching that undefined place in the air - somewhere after take off and well before the use of portable electronic devices and the captain reaching a comfortable cruising altitude - I gently reclined my seat. The Grump (a man with thick glasses and flat white hair with that haunting yellowish tinge)immediately whacked the back of my seat with enough force to jar my head forward. I smiled. Actually, chuckled a little and said outloud, “Thanks, God.” I got a sideways glance from my seat companion. Surprisingly, I slipped into a calm and waited for the captain to give the permission to move about the cabin.

Ding. The seat belt sign was turned off. To retreat to the bathroom, I raised the aisle arm rest to slip out of the seat. Most people don’t know these things retract. The Grump yelled, yes yelled, “You are crushing my knees in everyway possible.”

He obviously didn’t have my imagination. I saw a rock hammer slam, then cars collide, and an alligator chomp with its vice-like jaws. No, I had hardly crushed his knees in everyway possible. I turned and faced him. What on earth made him so crabby? He was on the same plane that made me so happy? In an equally loud voice, I said, “I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.” A couple of old ladies' heads turned and that as the end of that.

For the rest of the flight I entertained myself lip-syncing the dialogue to the 1980's Family Ties Christmas show. I had seen it for the fifth time in three weeks.

My luggage missed the connection. I went to bed after I tacked a note on the front door and left a cooler under the porch light.


December 30, 2007

Hey Luggage Delivery Guy,

Thanks so much for my two bags. Please leave them under the stairway by my door.

In the cooler there is a Zero Vanilla Coke. I’ve been away - obviously. It’s the only thing in the refrigerator besides Soy Milk and I didn’t think you would enjoy that. Feel free to accept the refreshment. A little bit of caffeine may help you finish your night.

Be safe and have a great New Year!

Valerie Perez
376 Moorings Cove Drive

Author
The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin

When I woke my bags sat under the stairs and the Coke was gone.

There was nothing more important than yesterday, but I get to have the same great experiences today.

Have a wonder-filled New Year and may you be as blessed as I am.

American Chop Suey

Chop Suey is a bland mixture of overcooked vegetables that includes onion, celery, bamboo shoots and thin noodles. It comes with some bland pale white sauce and barely sees soy sauce touch the dish. Yep, it is American but what urban legend is the truth about its origin? I personally like the story of an angered cook and the mispronunciation of “chopped sewage.”

Maybe because I’m from Saratoga Springs and the locals all know the story of the potato chip, invented by another angered cook. I think if I were to open a restaurant I’d name it “The Angry Cook.”

Other lore has the suey placating hungry miners and railroad workers. And then there is the theory that mothers know. Mix up some leftover surprise slop, give it an exotic name and kids will eat it.

But what I want to know is where does Chop Suey, a "Chinese" concoction, become American Chop Suey, a goolosh dish of macaroni, tomatoes and ground beef. Walk into small town New Hampshire diners and order Chop Suey and you’ll get a dish that resembles a bad Hamburger Helper dish, a shocking expectation if you were looking forward to a cabbage-noodle combo. From a small diner in New Hampshire how far does one have to drive to get the "Chinese" food?

I offer no recipes for either dish.

Christmas Day

Christmas Tree

Twenty two degrees, and a bit of sunlight. Breeze was stift on the hill by the Stumpies. The law of tree hunting: the colder it is the further you must go for the best tree.







This is the perfect tree. Get the saw out and get to work.
















Robin and Darryl unpack the tree.












An ornament from 2001, commenorating 911.

Hostage

The flight from Newark was delayed. Continental refused to board passengers until we got one volunteer to take a later flight. The problem wasn’t overbooking, but too much weight. (My rule of thumb is generally to stay off of planes that have to dump weight. Did they need a fat passenger or a skinny one? If my 110 lbs makes a difference, hell I don’t want to be on that plane.) To entice someone overboard, they dangled $400, meal vouchers and a seat on the 9:25 PM flight to Albany. It was noon. No takers.

A few minutes later, the offer was $500, meal vouchers and a seat on the 9:25 PM flight and now they needed four passengers. The friendly reminder that the plane would not be boarded until volunteers were had stirred the crowd gathered at the gate. Two takers, got train tickets to Albany through Penn Station.

The announcement that the offer was not going any higher so if “You expect to hold out for more…” It wasn’t going to happen. Lies, Lies, Lies.

I use to purposely book a flight out of Detroit to Atlanta on a Friday night because it was always over booked. As a graduate student at the University of Michigan, I flew back and forth more times on free round trip tickets because of the over booking. I’d show up early and put my name on this list and 75% of the time, I got a round trip ticket to anywhere in the continental US. Today, I scoffed at the offer and shuddered at the thought of 9 more hours in Newark.

Then the threats. “We need eight and if we don’t get them, we will take the last eight that checked in.” The crowd stirred but remained calm. After all, in this day an age they can shaft you and then have the TSA boys haul your ass off somewhere where you can die. It happens.

The ransom was now $700. And miraculously, 20 more seats were added to the 4:25 flight.

The stand off could drag on for hours. Starving, I strolled over to the deli adjacent to the gate. Ten minutes later I was eating a piping hot chicken sandwich and watching the passengers cue up to load. They extorted the passengers and got their weight, but I was toting an extra pound.

Kennedy

“Hey, Kennedy.”

He turned around, expected to see someone he'd recognize. Instead, he saw me.

I saw his name on the backpack he slung over his shoulder. Dressed in a dusty brown camouflage fatigue, he strolled casually through the corridors passing one gate after another, pausing to stare out the windows. Newark's skyline dimmed in the faint light of winter weather. I had been stalking him for several gates. I noticed the heels of his boots were well worn. Either he had been in the Army for some period time or the US Government issued cheap boots. Where had he been? What had he seen?

Under my arm I carried a Christmas present, framed photos of another soldier. I bridged a gap of time, but an emotion that was timeless.

I smiled at the young Asian American. His jet black hair spiked as if static electricity drew it to the sky. "I know you don’t know me, but I wanted to say thank you for your service."

He took my offered hand of appreciation. It was warm and soft, like a baby's. He was a baby. Someone's son.

"Thank you ma’am." I tried not to cringe. Not at his politeness or in awe of it, but at the word ma'am. But what should I have expected?

"Are you going home?"

"Yes, ma’am."

"Well, I want to wish you a Merry Christmas, safe travel and again, thanks for your service."

"Merry Christmas."

Yeah, it will be.

65,000,000

That's the number of years ago when the dinosaurs got wiped out by a meteor.

67,000,000 is the number of people hitting the road and skies this weekend, breaking away for Christmas cheer. It was also the same number of shoeless people standing in line with me this morning as we waited to pass through airport security.

I came through the Tampa airport two weeks ago on my way to Hawaii and walked right through the army of transportation security agents. This morning, I waited and when it was my turn to receive the shakedown, the TSA agent asked me to step inside a little booth that puffed me with air. I don’t know what it did, but it managed to dust off some cat hair. When the machine finished farting on me, I waited and waited and waited some more for the door to open. A wheel-chair bound passenger had been rolled up to the exit door and it wouldn’t open, sensing the obstruction.

Once they got her out of the way, the doors flung open and I grabbed my boots, computer, and backpack and was on my way to Albany, New York via my least favorite city, Newark, New Jersey. Weather is dreary and delays are increasing, so will see if I get out of here on time. Presently announcing 1 hour delays.

I am sitting next to a girl who is on the phone to someone explaining a mishap she had this morning. She fell asleep at the gate and missed her plane! Unbelievable. I wish I could sleep like that! Ah, to be twenty something and stupid.

Got two hours to wait (if I am lucky)...just chilling and reinforcing the fact that I OWN A PLACE IN HAWAII. You see, Newark is GOOD for something!

Photos of Condo

Cold Cash

I went outside to I plug in the Christmas lights. I didn’t have to chip away the ice or brush off the snow from the four little snowmen lights that line the canal outside my door. But when I uncoiled the extension cord it was a bit stiff. I know it doesn’t get this cold in Hawaii. (Okay, so there was 10 feet of snow on the mountains, but that is not where I’d live.)

I wore a jacket and gloves to work this morning. It was 34 degrees. Heat is on in the condo.

Everything is in motion. Hawaii condo deal was struck on Saturday, but the owner got so emotionally upset she requested that my agent deal directly with her husband from this point on. The seller is a real estate agent! No, I didn’t play that hard, but I hung firm to my price and date. Just goes to show the tangle of emotions real estate can twist when its a buyers market. Knowing there wasn't another offer coming before the end of the year that could bet my offer I was ready to fold if they didn't take it. They did.

I won’t deny I got my own set of emotions to deal with. Taking a chunk of change out of my lifetime accrued piggy bank has twisted my guts up. Still, every time I go to my part time job, I secretly chuckle to myself. This morning I was counting imported sea shells, of all things, at Surf City in St. Pete, Florida. Do tourists really buy these things?

Imagine

I have two friends, Denis and Robert, artists who work out of the same studio. Within that studio their life’s work, a rich history of creations that captured imagined dreams, recorded personal and professional growth, and extended a promise of tomorrow in paintings.

Robert lives a simple life, simpler than mine. He resided in the studio. Kept his tooth brush next to his pallet of color. And since he is also a musician his guitars and recordings were in the studio.

On Wednesday, fire stole the creative works of these two men. A complete lost. Tonight, I heard his voice crack when he spoke about the loss of the pictures. Not his paintings, but photos of his kids.

Imagine all the cumulative work of your life - gone. All your belongings gone. All your mementos gone. His identity, pieces of himself, gone.

It made me back up my hard drive, but if both hard drive and memory stick are in the same building, I’m not protected.

Robert is safe and he has family in the area. He said things could be worse.

Last Leg

I know the red-eye from Honolulu to Newark use to leave earlier in the evening than 10:45, because I remember arriving in New Jersey as the sun rose over the tarmac. I'd watch the employees loading and unloading luggage and wondered how in God's name anyone could live in New Jersey. But ever since I was a little kid visiting Grandparents in New Jersey I asked that question, and my Grandparents lived in Sussex County, hardly Newark. There is something about New Jersey after spending time in Hawaii that is just darn, flat out depressing, especially on a cold winter's day.

Newark was overcast, but not too cold when I arrived about 1PM. I grabbed a Duncan Donut decaf, although I could have used a good shot of caffeine. Swear, no sleep on either flight, but there were times I must have dozed. I didn’t recall the guy next to me getting his laptop out, or seeing the end of Ratatouille (A good move, but any movie is destroyed (primarily due to sound) when you watch it on a plane, and airlines tend to show the worst movies ever and this time of year they show the worst Christmas movies ever.)

Anyway, I must have been sleeping when the beverage cart rolled by. When I got up to hit the head (they must have installed a new vacuum system in the bathroom because when I let the sink water out after washing my hands, the cabin door nearly came off the hinge.) I asked flight attendant for a coke. She asked what seat I was in. Was that to be sure I had not already gotten a beverage and only one per passenger is allowed? Airlines are not making any money? I logged 8000 miles and didn’t get a single peanut.

Arrived home safely, but tired and hungry. The cats are sticking to me like glue.

The End

No more looking at bathrooms. So my trip to Hawaii ends. Made the offers and before I left the Big Island I had ticked off an agent and caused another to sigh. But we are still negotiating. My agent...she's been great.

I'm exhausted and I think I got a middle seat on a nine hour flight to Newark. That little secret was kept from me until it was too late. I tried to check in early yesterday, but kept getting error messages. Oh well. I'll be asleep, I hope.

Dual Offers

Making two offers in the morning. No, not buying both, but want the sellers to know that in this buyers' market I have choices and can make this happen without a lender.
Meanwhile, I take the day off and go to South Point, US' most south. No it is not Key West. I've been to both places this year!

I cleared my head. My cousin (that's him and I'm standing on my tippy toes.)sent me this quote which inspired me to move ahead.

Every day you may make progress. Every step may be fruitful. Yet there will stretch out before you an ever-lengthening, ever-ascending, ever-improving path. You know you will never get to the end of the journey. But this, so far from discouraging, only adds to the joy and glory of the climb.
-Winston Churchill



Now this is what I'm talking about. Hawaii and the blue Pacific Ocean.







Lava Rock Wall
















Have no idea what kind of flower this is. Looked poisonous.

Photo Log

And you were expecting hula dancers?

Decisions

I’m sitting on a decision. Two options, very different from the other. One is the easy route and the other - not so much. And you know me. I’m leaning toward the Robert Frost’s choice, the one less traveled.

I planned to meet with my real estate agent this late morning after church to work up an offer. We talked over the pros and cons for both condos. The price, the location..., condition, amenities, resale, age, square footage etc… the usual elements to consider in a real estate transaction. And the unusual stuff: storage for my bike, pets, inspiration for writing (a Hawaiian feeling). And questions like: can I ride my bike home from the grocery store with a gallon of ice cream in my back pack before it melts or can I walk to the waterfront and town no matter what time of day? In other words, can I live without a car?

My heart goes to Malia Kai, my brain goes to Alii Lani. It’s not a business decision, it is a long term emotional one. Other wise, I’d know what to do. With Malia Kai, a complete remodel is needed. Alii Lani, is in mint condition. That is a huge difference.

I thought about last year. Where was I going to live? I asked God for some guidance, and I ended up in Florida - a great condo, good friends, church and fellow writers. I had faith and quit resisting common sense which said I should be back to Tennessee to take care of business. I have to stop asking questions and listen. After all, I am blessed to have the decision.

People are asking when I am moving. Not too soon. But I'm preparing. The question is am I coming with the toothbrush or the hammer.

Kona Side

This is a view from 1200-1500 feet up, looking west toward the Pacific Ocean into the weather that has sat on Hawaii since Wednesday. It is trying its best to clear. Note, the foreground is lava fields.

Later, it socked in again and I thought the sunset would be a fizzle. Never doubt the sunsets in Hawaii. I was treated to a sun disfused by a shower sitting on the horizon. Behind the curtain of rain, the sun shimmered as if it sat on the hot Sahara sands, but the light was as a soft as a whisper.

I recommend you blow this photo up.

December 7, 1941

Photo Log

Blow Hole: Enlarge this one. I got soaked taking this photo. Save camera.

Storm Clearing: A Kona sunset

Mushrooms: After all that rain

Deluge

A Kona Low stalls out as it passes over the Big Island. The forecast calls for six inches of snow on the two Big Island peaks. Drifting expected. Temperatures predicted to drop into the twenties. It’s pouring in Kona. At least, I didn’t fly into this storm with tropical force winds. 72MPH on Molokai. Doesn't that qualify as a hurricane? I haven’t seen it rain this hard since I was on Pohnpei. And they keep telling me "Kona is the dry side." Great excuse to look at condos.

Japanese

Continued observations about language. In the Honolulu Airport, security annoucements (keep your luggage with you at all times, don't accept gifts from strangers....please when was the last time that happened in an airport?) are made in Japanese. Too bad those announcements weren't made in 1941.

The Quest

After years of searching from Alaska to Louisiana, to Cleveland and Atlanta, north and south of the border (actually only in Tijuana), I had diminished hopes of ever tasting a tamale as good as the ones my Grandmother Perez made. I never expected to find any better. Last night, the quest ended.

I had been to Habaneros before, but never had the tamales. At the dinky little hole in the wall food place (I can’t bring myself to call it a restaurant), I stumbled on the Wednesday special. Two tamales, rice and beans for $6.99. Okay, that isn’t a great deal by Mainland standards. But the tamales were to die for. I confess they were better than grandma’s (pronounce that with a soft a, like muff.) The salsa is the hottest I have every tasted outside of Dave’s stuff and kimshi.

And you thought I came to Hawaii to look for a condo.

Coming Home

He confessed he let the pear trees go. “The pears fall to the ground and rot.” He eyes locked onto a distant image I could not see. “I got so tired of them. My wife cooked everything with pears. When she died, I let the trees go. They need lots of care. You have to prune them if you expect something larger than a baseball. Otherwise the pears don’t get that big.”

In his steady yet age-blemished hands, he clutched an imaginary ball and rubbed the seams like his hero Joe DiMaggio would have done. But all he was really doing was demonstrating the size of the Bartlett pears that litter the ground of his Texas ranch outside of San Antonio. I saw the golden fruit lying in waste, buried by the fallen leave and small branches that had not been pruned in years. If mom were still alive, I would get a box of pears for Christmas. Had he ever told his wife that he wasn’t fond of the pear gelatin salad with the soggy pecans, pear pie and other pear dishes?

He told me that he put Vista on his desktop, but the program took too much space on his laptop. “Wait a minute,” I challenged. I didn’t want to be rude or disrespectful. But he certainly wasn’t the stereotypical Best Buy Geek Squad member. “How do you know all that stuff?”

“I spent thirty years as a systems engineer,” he replied with a smile.

Gilbert Meyers was a long way from home, his rotting pears and his pecan orchard. He traveled alone, carried one small piece of luggage and a cane. He sat at the airport gate, waiting for the flight to Honolulu. Behind him two children, a brother and sister, entertained themselves on a Gameboy, unaware of the man who wore a hat that said USS Utah. But I noticed it and his jacket that said Pearl Harbor. Men like Gilbert wear them, like sports fans wear the ball caps of their favorite team. Except, men like Gilbert wear them like badges of humble honor. So they don't forget. So we don't forget.

Many times, I've been with Dad, when he sported his Battle of the Bulge hat. Strangers have come up to him and thanked him for his service. Occasionally, a person will press a twenty dollar bill into his hand, shake it as if meeting a dignitary and walk off as quickly as they approached. I wasn’t compelled to offer Gilbert a Jackson, but I felt obligated to acknowledge him, to thank him and to tell him about my Dad.

He had been seventeen and he and his buddy knew a place where they could get a couple of beers. They made plans to go there on Monday, when they got off duty. “You see, we were on duty that day.”

That day, when young men didn’t make plans much beyond their day off. His buddy never made it out of the USS Utah. “The first time I came back was about five years ago. When I saw his name on the plaque, I cried like a baby.”

No Gilbert Meyers cried like the man he is.

Houston,...

we have a problem...

7:35 AM. I’m sitting at the gate for San Salvador. Got to have the passport checked before boarding. The announcement is made in Spanish, before English. My country, going to hell in a hand basket. Now one would argue that the flight bound for a Spanish speaking country would warrant an announcement in the language. Shouldn't the language of the "host" country be said first. (hosts have parasites)

I’ve traveled out of a few non-English speaking countries headed back to the US: Thailand, Taiwan, Chile, Micronesia, the Marshals to name a few and never was the announcement made in English first. It just boggles my mind.

On my plane from Tampa to Houston there was a young woman headed to Mexico City. She was greeted in Houston by a Continental rep (just like me). She didn’t say a word, showed her ticket to the agent and he, in Spanish, told her what gate. When she shrugged, he gave her directions, in Spanish. I followed behind her and noticed that every sign in the airport was in both English and Spanish. Reclamo de Equipaje, salas, etc… If traveling in Nepal was so easy!

Anyway, I’m headed to Honolulu in a few hours. No passport required. I’m betting the boarding announcement won’t be in Hawaiian, save for Aloha.

Packed

This morning, while stretched out on the chiropractor’s table, I fell asleep with a warm hot pack on my back. Later, while sitting under the hair dryer in the local salon, I took another doze. I had stayed up to see Hawaii defeat Washington the other night and it caught up to me.

Since I am headed to Hawaii in the morning, I tried to get into the Aloha Spirit and the six hour different time zone. When I finally went to bed at 2 AM, I doubted Hawaii would remain undefeated. Under a deluge, they pulled it off. I knew Mike was in the stands, getting drenched, but having the time of his life.

The Warriors are coming to the Sugar Bowl. I got my only connection to the game checking on tickets. It’s a long shot.

Suitcase is packed, slightly empty. Leaving room for Kona Coffee.

This trip is all business and I’m nervous.

Whew!

Mission accomplished. Eighty-five Christmas cards.

I sat on the porch and licked envelopes all afternoon while listening to Christmas tunes on the radio. I could have used some eggnog. It was pretty hot out there and totally didn't feel like Christmas. If you don't get a card, I swear I either don't have your address or I don't like you. (Not really)

I got these guys at K-mart. I thought they were a little less tacky than the flamingos and alligators. Notice the two small cat heads in the upper right hand corner. Phoenix and Diablo. Such curious kitties wondering if they have been naughty or nice.

Boat Parade

I spent the day compiling and merging addresses for my Christmas card mailing list. Yup, checked it once, and then twice and finally hit the label print OKAY button.

Hey, if you think I might not have your address, drop me a line...(Good Lord, don't post it in the comments.)...otherwise you might not get that Christmas card with me standing in a field of Stumpies. What are Stumpies? Send me your address and I'll send you a photo.

After watching Tennessee miss out on a BCS Bowl (Is it basketball season yet?), because they couldn't beat LSU, I headed off to the harbor in Dunedin to see the parade of boats come floating by the docks.

Weather was perfect for a sweatshirt. Listened to some really awful Christmas music compliments of the Salvation Army Band and a few people who missed the try outs for American Idol. Ruined the spirit of the holidays.

Values to Lead

Faith, Family, Freedom...
No, I won't turn the blog into a polyblog, but Mike Huckabee is looking and sounding like the next President of the United States. Who is this guy? Find out at www.mikehuckabee.com.

Become a Huckabee Ranger.

Going to Hell

I haven't been writing much. Lazy and distracted.

On Black Friday, I worked for Macy's. My assignment: operate the frieght elevator. I got pretty excited about that, because other assignments for the eight person crew involved being out on the floor with customers. Yikes. The job was fun, but hardly a full eight hour job, so I occupied my time with hanging empty clothes hangers (a whole wall of them), sweeping the floor, breaking down boxes and smashing them in the compactor and running packages to "Will Call". At the end of the day I folded sweaters in the Men's Department and helped a gentleman decide on the proper size of a black leather jacket for himself. Oh, my MBA!!

The experience of running the elevator brought a story to mind. Here it is. I hope you enjoy it.

Going to Hell by Valerie Perez, Author of the Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin.

With high school behind me and no concrete plans ahead, I applied for a job at the old Brennan Hotel on South Broadway, the last kosher hotel in Saratoga Springs. Raised Baptist, I knew little about Jewish laws and traditions other than the two kids who vied for valedictorian in my graduating class were Jewish and they generally missed a day or two from school in September for something called Yom Kippur. My official title was bellhop, an unusual career selection for a young woman even if it was the summer of 1972. My duties included the operations of a vertical transport system.

The museum piece elevator traveled between three floors and the basement, where, “You have no need to go,” the equally ancient hotel owner informed me on my first day. Operations were simple. After closing the door and rusty accordion gate across the threshold I engaged the handle on a small pedestal to the left of the entrance. The handle served as the throttle, but required an operator to be sufficiently skilled to compensate for Newton’s Laws of gravity and motion. Going up with several passengers required more energy and the elevator’s glide diminished. Coming down, just the opposite.

To achieve the proper flush position, I assessed the weight of my load, and estimated the power needed to come as close to the floor as possible without jogging the car into place. Before opening the door, I directed the passengers to watch their step.

“Whatever you do, don’t bounce the guests,” the owner advised. He occasional rode the elevator, testing my skills and critiquing the three inch step I usually left. “Our guests are old. They can’t see the step.” He said shaking his head at the rookie operator.

One of the seasonal hotel guests, Mrs. Shapiro usually sat on the front porch in the evenings to watch traffic parade down Broadway. She’d ask me to fetch a cup of tea with cream. For this and a few extra errands I ran for her, she tipped me a quarter at the end of each week.

The first time she asked, I headed into the kitchen through the swinging double doors. There a cook, who looked like a stewed prune confronted the intruder. She wielded a metal ladle like an independent appendage. “Mrs. Shapiro would like some tea with cream.” I sprouted as I ducked to avoid the flying spoon.

“You shouldn’t be here.” The old woman scolded. She added “And always enter on the right, never the left.” Puzzled, I articulated my best high school graduate, “Huh?”

“The door. The door. Going out, a waiter carrying a large tray of dishes uses the left side. You entered the kitchen on the left. And look through the window. Otherwise, boom.” She cracked the metal spoon against one of the sink basins. I jumped. She pointed to a stool with her spoon and instructed, “Sit. I will prepare the Shapiro woman’s tea.”

The late evening sun streamed through the back stoop door and glistened on the pots that hung from the overhead racks. I wandered into a place I knew nothing about—a kosher kitchen. Stacks and stacks of dishes lined the opposite walls. There was more kitchenware there than found at a Williams-Sonoma store.

No matter what time of day or night I went into the kitchen for Mrs. Shapiro tea and cream, I ran to the cook and sat on my stool while she prepared it. And at the end of every week, Mrs. Shapiro gave me a quarter.

But one night the cook wasn’t there. I prepared the tea. When I came out of the swinging double doors into the dining hall, the owner swooped down on me like a hawk on a field mouse, snatched the tray and asked, “Where did you get the dishes?” Before I answered, he disappeared into the kitchen. Dazed I stood in the middle of the empty hall watching the doors slowly rock back and forth on their hinges.

The elevator bell summoned me back to duty.

I motored to a perfect landing on the third floor. Mr. Shapiro, teetered on the heels of his wing tips, a wrinkled little man with three wisps of hair glued to his Charlie Brown head with a few too many shakes from the Vitalis bottle.

“Your wife is waiting for her tea on the porch,” I informed him with a smile.

He stepped into the elevator. “Do you like the boys?” he asked. As I snapped the gate shut he groped for my breasts. Catching me off guard, he managed a good squeeze before I swiped away his hand. “Have you ever been kissed?” He lunged forward swimming in the stale smell of alcohol. I bucked the elevator down to the second floor and he tumbled to the back wall.

“Keep your hands off me.” I growled, startled by my own deep voice. He was a freaking old man. Older than my father. Hell, he looked older than my grandfather.

I ran the elevator into the basement. Shit. I opened the door anyway and let Mr. Shapiro stumble into the dungeon. The humid smell of stale earth that hadn’t seen day light since 1848 drifted into the cab. Mr. Shapiro froze in the dim shaft of light from the elevator.

Do Jews believe in Hell? I don’t know, but for a moment I thought that’s where I took him. He whirled on his wingtips, tripping back into the elevator. I let him fall. I thrust the lever forward and listened to the motors haul the elevator from the darken depths. I left nearly a foot ledge to the first floor when I opened the gate. “Watch your step,” I warned.

I never told anyone, fearing the repercussions for taking the elevator into the basement. Mrs. Shapiro’s weekly tips became a dollar, and whenever I went into the kitchen I cared less from where I got the dishes.


Bad, bad Karma. I've asked my Lord to forgive me for that one.

Giving Thanks for Many Blessings

I am thankful for many things this Thanksgiving Day.

Ten months in Florida, making new friends and reuniting with old.

Ten months of writing – discovering it comes naturally to some, and others have to work at it. Me? I struggle.

Ten months of swimming and running and kayaking and occasionally pumping up the tires on my bike and going out for a ride and a good lunch afterwards.

Ten months worshipping the Lord at First Christian Church of Tarpon Springs.

I’m thankful that I have a family that gets together for the Holidays, even if I can’t make it home for pumpkin pie and chipotle. Thanksgiving once was all about New Jersey and Grandparents. This year it is about New Jersey and Cousins.

I’m thankful for Dad’s health, his doctors and my brothers and sisters who provide support and love for each other.

I’m thankful for being debt free.

I’m thankful for God giving me to Phoenix and Diablo. That’s what I tell them all the time.

I’m thankful David keeps asking me to come back to Design Management, and for my $8.00 an hour part time job that nets me a buck fifty after I pay for gas and taxes and a latte.

I am thankful for my brains, my opportunities and my life, because I can go to Hawaii and consider buying a condo with left over change for the latte.

I’m thankful for all the blessings God has given me and my family.

Old Dream, New Look

Twenty years ago I had a dream. The images and the emotions I felt during that dream lingered long after I woke. They were too powerful to forget.

I had been flying. The plane was about to crash. It banked sharply to the right and then plummeted out of the sky. My stomach became light, as if I had been riding a Ferris Wheel. The momentum of “over the top” quickly replaced by the abrupt decent. A brief moment of weightlessness, vanished because on this ride there wasn’t any thrill. When I woke I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, surprised by my reaction to my own death. I hadn’t scared.

Instead anger gripped me harder than my clenched hands on the back of the seat in front of me. During the dream, I imagined my father. He would be deeply upset when told I had died. Knowing how hurt he would be made me mad.

Even though it was a dream, I always wondered why I reacted that way, unconcerned about my death, instead anticipating the grief my father would feel. I hated hurting him like that.

Last week, after learning the news about my father’s prostate cancer, I was shocked, angered and saddened by the news – the inevitability that my father, who is eighty-four, is going to die one day came too close, became too real. The emotions I experienced kept me awake. I thought of the dream.

However, I had a new perspective. Instead of thinking about my father’s reaction, I saw my Heavenly Father’s reaction to the news of my death. He would have been sad too for at the time I had not surrendered my life to Him. In this new interpretation, I didn’t want Him to be upset.

I smiled. For He won’t be.

I did a lot of praying last week and asked others to do the same for my Dad. A few days later, after more tests, I learned the good news that the cancer had not spread.

Veteran’s Day

Shake the hand of one who served and thank the veteran for serving.

Unbalanced

Out of sync all day. The day started too early. I didn’t run like usual. Instead a vacuumed up the cat hair. Will they ever stop shedding?

When I started writing, I pushed description, forced dialogue. It wasn’t working, so I put Diablo on the leash and took her for a walk. Cat on leash. Something ain’t right about that.

Sunny but cold. Too cold. Was it the drop in temperatures or was it me? Florida isn’t suppose to be this cold is it. I waited until 8:30 for an eight o’clock phone call.

“Coming down with a sore throat, too windy and cold to go kayaking. I’m going to go do laundry. Maybe in a couple of hours, after it warms up.”

Whimp. I could have gone to work this morning and made $20 bucks.

I went back to writing, looking for a motive and a dialogue to push the story ahead. Better?

By noon I felt like I had been writing forever. Let’s go swim a few laps. Heated pool, sunny. Every stroke exposed my arms to the cold. For crying out loud, what am I doing? Out after thirty laps. And getting out of the pool! Freezing. Now who is the whimp? (By the way it is 72 degrees.)

Its 2 pm. My schedule way off. Usually I’m heading home, fixing something to eat and watching Neal Cavuto on Fox at 4 PM, that is if I don’t fall asleep. Instead, I went to the chiropractor, slipped past the tree trimming crew who cornered me the other day in long discussions about my Jeep and kayak. Aren’t you guys suppose to be working?

The entire day was off. Sail club meeting at 7PM. Why am I thinking about joining? I might be here just another three months. Besides, this is the coldest time of year to be out in the Gulf learning about tacking, jibing and all that other nautical stuff I supposedly never learned when I sailed across the Pacific.

I went anyway. Reminded that sailors are sailors. Hesitated at joining, but like all guests I stood up and introduced myself and gave a brief synopsis about my sailing experiences. “Jumped on a 40 foot boat, no sailing experience, sailed 46 days across the Pacific…. Wrote a book about it. Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin. Buy it and read it if you want to know the rest of the story.” Chuckles around the room.

At the meeting, guess speaker Mark Epstein, Community Advisor for the Florida Suncoast Hospice. I picked through literature left in the back of the room. Phone ran. Too early for Dad, but that was the way my day was going. I was talking to someone, so I ignored it. A few minutes later I excused myself. Checked message. My aunt from Hawaii.

I called Dad first as it was almost 9 PM, reasoned if I called Aunt Clara, I’ll be on the phone when Dad calls at the usual time.

“Radiologist read bone scan and X-ray. Cancer has not spread beyond prostate.” I begin to cry with joy...unbalanced. New plan.

Options

Doctors don't give options. God does. He always has.

Tonight, before I go to bed I want you to know that your prayers have been greatly appreciated. They have meant so very much. I've got a story, but I'm afraid I couldn't do it justice at this late hour. Know this. He answers prayers and you never know when you might find yourself standing moments away from a miracle. Never quit, for the Lord doesn't.

Tomorrow.

Begin Here

Today is the day that begins the rest of your life. A simple statement that rings truer on some days more than others.

My father, accompanied by my older brother Mike and my two sisters, Robin and Jennifer, sat with Doctor Maddox to discuss the results of his bone scan. The test was done last week after a biopsy showed Dad had prostate cancer.

Cancer, that word that stabs fear into the hearts of those who have sat across the desk from their doctors dressed in white lab coats to present the diagnoses to their patients. We fear cancer more than God.

Dr. Maddox call Dad on Saturday while I was in New Hampshire making mwarmwars for Jerry and Jess. Aggressive. Could be in the bones. "It's news. What are you going to do?" Dad said.

2 PM. I was in the pool. Do one lap. Breathe. Four strokes and breath again. Do sixty more laps. He braced for the results; I held my breath. The cancer is found in the bones – pelvis and perhaps the ribs, but that could be a war wound or arthritis. Tomorrow an X-ray. Treatment: Nothing or hormones. Exhale.

I had twenty six cents and rock in my pocket when Robin told me the news. I watched the fiery sun fall into the Gulf and missed sailing.

Options. Options. We all want options. At eighty four, you don’t get too many. And doctors don’t make too many promises either.

Colts verses Patriots

The cooler weather brings the friskiness out in the felines. Diablo flew over my head the other night on her serpentine route to the lanai where an egret lurked beyond the screened enclosure. I believe I felt the brush of her soft underbelly against my nose, but I was too distracted by the claw marks left in my knee.

In church this morning before we set off for another week of clean Christian living, the pastor, offered up a prayer of victory for the Colts in today’s game against the also unbeaten Patriots. If I heard that prayer last weekend while in New England, someone would have died.

All in A Week

Noel hopefully ends the hurricane season in the Atlantic, but it is about to unleash a NorthEast’er on New England. Grab your trees. The leaves in Edgewood Cemetary, Hudson, NH were peaked last weekend. If they haven't fallen, there could be some serious uprooting.

Back in Tarpon Springs...our first fall weather. I noticed a pile of water oak acorns squished by car tires in the parking lot. Humidity dropped as the winds have been coming straight from the north all week. This was why Noel kept off the Florida’s East Coast and earlier out of the Gulf. Diablo went under cover and the hot water is back on in the shower. Blue sky, sunny, pleasant temps aren't the only thing that arrived on the north wind. Snow birds have returned, packing the shopping malls, roads, swimming pools and restaurants for the early bird specials. I ask myself, "Why not stay?"

Ah Florida: Flat, flat Florida. The land of retirement communities, mobile home parks, minimum wage jobs and a stupid property tax structure which the state is desperately trying to reform as the price of real estate drops further than the belly of a pregnant sow. (I was going to use the dog word, but decided that was too easy.) It’s why I’m not buying.

Yet, I have found a few good friends, writing buddies, a church.

While I am considering plans and checking out options for the upcoming year or two, at fifty three you would think I’d know life doesn’t always go as planned. What's that line? Life is what happens to you when you're making plans? Is that from the Beatles or the Stones?

Actually, that is okay. It is part of the fun, the adventure, the experience. I accept I am not in control. However, I have a powerful arsenal for adaptation and acceptance once I get past the shock, the anger, the fear and apathy.

There are still twenty seven more days to the hurricane season.

If this was too cryptic...wait.

By The Way

Malinda, Christy and I won the dance contest. And the unofficial two time winner of the Toss-the-Eyeball contest was none other than me. This can be clearly seen on the instant replay.

Jess and Jerry Primo

It was a Halloween Theme
The couple before marriage on Friday nite.
Bride and Groom
Rocker and She Devil
Mom and Dad

Road Trip

Two cars, four friends (Malinda, Christy, Nancy and I) and five wrong turns later we made it to the hotel. The directions said one thing, road signs said something else (if they could be found)and between the four of us, it didn’t feel like we were headed south toward Nashua. Friday night, rush hour and the sun setting.

Suddenly, I felt directionally challenged, an experience that would plague five former Peace Corps volunteers throughout the entire weekend. No wonder the Peace Corps decided to put us on small islands in the Pacific.

On Saturday morning,sitting around the breakfast table, we decided traditional island mwarmwars were in order. After all, the groom is from the Federated States of Micronesia and we wanted him to honor him with a traditional head lei, and neck leis. But New England is short on coconut trees and tropical flowers, but this time of year it is rich in golden and red maple leaves and brilliant mums of many colors.

Brainstorming on a rainy fall morning some thought it was best not to raid the gardens surrounding the Marriott Courtyard (I was game). Instead, Malinda commanded the car and we headed out to find a Target. We needed plastic shipping bands from the back of the warehouse, to serve as the base for the mwarmwar (think mar-mar).
I convince Paul, a floor associate, to talk the store manager into giving us the warehouse trash. After a brief wait Paul retrieved fifteen feet of stripping from an overhead shelf in the warehouse. I had spotted it when Nancy and I were casually strolling through the tombs of Target like we owned the place. A quick stop at the florist and we were in business. Back at the hotel we constructed the head garlands while we commandeered the business center usually occupied by business and road warriors. You know, those guys who are as cool as the other side of the pillow. Later Nancy convinced the hotel staff to keep the flowers fresh in the kitchen’s refrigerator.
By then we had about thirty minutes before we needed to get in costume for the wedding. Not wanting to miss out on any of the hotel amenities, the five of us – Christy, Malinda, Amy, Nancy and I donned out bathing suits and hit the whirlpool. Unfortunately, my camera batteries were recharging-no photos. Nothing better than to bring old bones to a boil in the bubbling froth of jet streams while enjoying good company. Outside it was still raining.

Weeks ago Amy asked me if I would paint her for the party. Not having a better offer all year, I said yes, not knowing what body parts I might be applying brush tips to. Results were great, but her Trinidad Bound outfit will need a zipper repair.

So what was I? A Mardi Gras something or other. I was accused of being a pimp. Check out the 70's hat with cheetah print. Heck the costume was free compliments of Frank, Nancy’s son-in-law. Although the outfit was a little large and dancing required a constant readjustment to keep gravity from yanking my britches to the floor, I loved it.



Before, during and after. Completely sober.