Time

The cooperation I got from the clouds was greatly appreciated. It poured on the drive to Morristown where I planned to spend a few hours rooting around my storage unit. It stopped raining and I was able to place a few things outside of the unit while I consolidated boxes that were half full, a result of five years of pilfering and hording items. It gave me a chance to donate some more clothes to Good Will and toss a few things in the dump, a full leaf-size bag of junk. I packed three boxes of books thinking I’ll ship them off to Micronesia to some Peace Corps Volunteer, but when I picked the boxes up each weighed a ton. Even book rate, this will be expensive. Since it was Saturday afternoon and every Post Office in East Tennessee closes at noon, I’ll have to wait until June.

Consolidating my crap I discovered that I don’t want to get rid of everything, but don’t want to take it to Hawaii either. Photo albums. Old journals. A diary I kept when Kenai passed away. I wrote it during her last week. A long one of agonizing decisions and ultimately putting her to sleep. That was thirteen years ago. More stuff like this.

There are a bunch of memories in the twenty by ten storage unit. Letters I wrote Mom and Dad when I was in the Army. Mementos from places I have traveled. A puma from Peru. A picture from Chile. A hand painted picture by a fourteen year old boy, a troubled youth named Mike A. A commemorative Time magazine with Princess Diana on the cover. Gear for caving, camping, trekking, kayaking. A rug my grandmother made. A collection of skulls and turtle shells. A few pieces of antique furniture purchased in North Carolina, Georgia, Ohio…places I once lived. A summary of my material life is in the storage unit.

Before heading back to New York, I stopped to say good-bye to David. He apologized for being late the other day. It was so unlike him and more unusual for him not to call. He arrived over an hour later. By then I imagined the worst listening to Knoxville traffic reports. Everything was okay. That was the first time in the twenty two years I have known him to ever be late for anything.

He mentioned that it had been five years since I left Design Management. Five years since I joined the Peace Corps? Come August. I tried to account for the time. Sixteen months here, eight there, another six and then a year and none of it added up. Maybe some day, I’m going to get serious about all this. Before it is over, anyway. Meanwhile, I got to figure out what am I going to do with all these memories in a box.

Recalculation

My taxes are done and after a minor adjustment I owe $424. And my piece of the economic stimulus package is $424. How is this going to stimulate anything? I have to pay this before April 15 before I can get it back in May. How much did this bone head idea really cost me?

I'm Alive

The day was about done. Rays of light shone through the clouds that did not bring the predicted rain. Even washing my Jeep didn’t bring it forth. Yes, my Jeep. When the gasket to the valve cover is put correctly into place, it is amazing how much oil it won’t leak. I cleaned the thick film of dirty oil off the rear hatch and window using the car wash setting for degreasing the tires. My Jeep shined almost like new and together we rolled down 11E toward Knoxville, through the valley between the Smokies and Clinch Mountain.

I felt different than I had all week and I wondered why. I had spent three days doing yard work – trimmed hedges, pulled vines that ran up the vinyl siding, sprayed weeds, hacked grass (because I don’t mow grass), raked up the fall and winter debris and of course my own mess after I cut the hedges back. I fixed the weed whacker, removed a ceiling fan, installed a new light, and composed and delivered an ultimatum letter to my troublesome tenant who avoided me like the landlord I am.

In a last ditch effort to get him to contact me for a discussion I left a message that I wanted to inspect his place and gave him the 24 hour notice my lease requires (in Tennessee, I don’t have to give notice.). It was like fishing; he took the bait and I set up an “appointment” to see him tomorrow afternoon.

So I was feeling good about that opportunity to seek some sort of resolution. I also felt pretty good about riding in my Jeep again and the small fact I don’t need to buy a new car and the repairs only cost $171. I had seen my financial planner this morning for the bad news, but it turned not so bad and I had more funds than I thought and I got some cash which we planned to keep liquid because this time next year I’m going to have a whopper of a bill (This year I only owe Uncle Sam $564, and $339 to his cousin, Tennessee. Owe and pay means the same thing here, so that was another good reason for my feeling. And just think once I get my stimulus package from the government I'll be head of the game...stupid government.). I also had a little quality time with David, former business partner, who I don’t get to see or talk to that much anymore.

But still, I wasn’t satisfied with any of these reasons for the “I feel so high” feeling. The morning’s I cappuccino from Pilot (Tennessee gas company) had long worn off so that didn’t explain anything either.

Listen. The radio. Praise music. Oh no, You never let go, through the calm and through the storm. Yep. God loves me. I had found a station playing that familiar music I love, reminding me that I have nothing without Him and I have everything with Him.

Oh yeah, I was cruising down the road in my Jeep, with the windows rolled down enjoying the warmth of springtime in the south. Makes me feel alive!

Jeep Cherokee

The image hung in my head. Dressed in grey jumpsuits the team inspected and diagnosed and concluded an expert needed to be consulted. He was just down the street. The expert, looked like a surgeon with the intensity of hours in the operating room sat on his brow. He came through the swinging doors to give the family the news. I saw it in his eyes. The news wouldn't be good.

He sat beside me, our knees touching so slightly. He all but took my hand in his as he said, “You need a new car. That one is so old, with 326,000 miles, it is leaking from everywhere.”

“No”, I silently screamed, thinking the last thing I need months before I move to Hawaii is to buy a new car. “How can you tell? There is oil everywhere.” I asked. And it was. Somewhere between Saratoga Springs, New York and Roanoke, Virginia I managed to lose an engine’s worth of black gold and had not attracted Al Gore. Under the hood oil coated every surface. The once white oil filter looked like a wet zebra.

I had noticed my rear window. Filthy. A hazy glaze much like a honey baked ham smeared across the glass when I tried to clean it with the wiper. When I stopped to fill up, I discovered the mess covered the rear of the Jeep. I knew what it was, but wasn’t prepared to see the mess when I popped the hood. The only place free of oil was the tip of the dip stick.

Fortunately, I had not blown the engine. After throwing a quart down the gullet, I cruised down an industrial-commercial street, in search for the yellow Pennzoil marquee. Ron and his crew huddled around the Jeep like five hungry men around a barbeque. After all, the underside dripped like a juicy steak on the grill. But outside of determining the engine cover bolts were loose, they couldn’t really tell where the mess was coming from. That’s when they referred me to John Porter, the surgeon.

I told him no one had ever talked to me so harshly about my high mileage vehicle. I wouldn’t accept that all was lost and I needed sell the Jeep as "quickly as possible."

“It’s just a car, a tool made of metal," he admonished. “The best I can do is send you on your way with a six pack,” referring to quarts of oil used every hundred miles or so. “And don’t drive too fast. The faster you drive, the quicker it will pour out.”

I paid him for the oil and went outside to have a talk with my Jeep. How many times have I done that? Since 1989 – a lot. How could I not be emotionally attached to the vehicle I bought in North Carolina nearly twenty years ago. I’ve been camping and caving in the vehicle. For a year, I lived out of it. How many trips up and down the east coast? What about all the times I made it out to Indian Country, exploring the wilderness to see my first elk, to pick up an old Navajo who had been tending his sheep and was coming to town to see a dentist? How many times have I slept in the back? I remember where I was when the odometer hit 100,000, 200,000 and 300,000. Got pictures of each milestone. Sure 400,000 has crossed my mind. It was a long 200 miles to Morristown, Tennessee.

I had not intended to make the whole trip in one day, but in Morristown there is a mechanic named Freddie. A quiet man of few words, he's worked on Jeeps for years. His methodical process of diagnosing the problem has resulted in never having to pay for something that wasn't fixed right the first time, the only time. He knows where to find used parts from wrecks, minimizing repair costs. But the jobs are never done quickly. I told Freddie he had until the end of May. If it can be fixed, Freddie will fix it.

But I do need to get home by April 2.

Take That

March is known for its wind, at least that’s what the local weatherman tells me. A cold wind gusting to thirty miles per hour drove snow pellets from a pigeon gray sky. The tiny specs of snow collected on my jacket, gloves, hat and my eye lashes. By the time I got around the block, down past Hagadorn’s, I’d given up on spring. “I’ll fix ya,” I threatened the sky. "In three weeks I’ll be in Hawaii again." So there. I can hunker down, and forget about spring altogether, by the time I get back in May, it will be spring. I shuddered remembering the May my sister got married. The leaves were not on the trees yet, a very late spring.

But to show my never ending ability to adapt to the situation, I laughed this morning when I stepped outside on my way to the library and said, "It's not that cold." 28 degrees. Geez.

Spring

Technically.

The Lingering Effect of Winter

Life slowly renews in the North Country. Whether a wooly bear making its way across a snow field or the tiny silhouette of a squirrel perched on a rock wall at dawn, the signs are subtle. How did both tiny creatures survive the winter months? They brave the chilly days stuffed between blazing sunrises over the Hudson Valley and the long golden shadows of dusk.

Last night the temperatures dropped into the teens. The wooly bear curled up on a tiny island, taking refuse on a spit of high ground surrounded by pooled water, runoff from the days’ thaw. At sunrise, the fuzzy clump of prickly fur looked frozen to the ground. Left undisturbed it warmed in the sunlight needing only the tiniest climb in temperature. Last report, the little black and rusty orange caterpillar was on the move. Heading south-south-west. Very slowly. Just like spring itself.

The squirrel was in trouble. It sat on the ground under the maple. The rain poured. Its ears laid flat, its tiny head bobbed in an effort to keep its nose off the ground. The next evening looking out the kitchen window, I noticed its tiny chestnut color body fallen in the snow. I went outside to investigate. Dead red squirrel. Although the body was cold, it was still limp and had not frozen. Its death was not old.

Blood dripped off the lower branch and spotted the snow beside the tree trunk. Examining the squirrel blood seemed to come from its rectum, but I found no visible injuries.
I saw fear and confusion in the dark pupils that stared blankly at me. I failed to understand what caused the body to collapse in the snow that stole the last bit of warmth from its life. Retrieving a shovel from the garage and I carried the body to a tiny bare spot in the woods. Although the ground was full of frost, the earth yielded to the blade and I buried the squirrel in a shallow grave.

Cheap Tricks

7 PM and sunlight began to disappear, throwing a pallid hue as appealing as last night’s dishwater. Beneath the last call of the day’s light – turbid snow, pocked with the scars of melting and freezing, every dead twig, branch and limb that fell during the winter standing like a two-day stubble on the acne-scarred face of an old man. Nothing pretty, except it’s pretty cold.

It is a dirty trick, changing the clocks forward a month early. The extended light at the end of the day should be accompanied by the damp yet warmer temperatures of spring, sounds of the peepers’throaty chorus and red wing black bird’s singing above the tender buds of pussy willows. All signals that with just a few weeks of warmer weather the saturated earth will dry, fiddle heads will uncurl and the long shadows of winter will recede.

Instead a light sprinkle of silver snow blows across an encrusted snow still deep enough to rise to one’s thigh. Vermont Public Radio forecasts eight degrees in the North County. Horses huddle around the feeding trough wearing shaggy coats, and if lucky, blankets. Across the road I heard three hoots of a barn owl as I watch Diablo find three blades of grass near the vent to the clothes dryer. “Come on in here before the owl gets ya,” I warn her.

It sure as hell ain’t spring out here and I’m freezing.

Sewing Machine

When he was seventeen years old, geek wasn’t even a word. Nerd may not have been a word either. I entered the small store front. He checked me out by glaring over the top of his glasses. Short tuffs of gray hair stood on his head like prairie cactus after a summer rain storm. He didn’t budge, but suggested I put the thirty pound machine on the floor. It was accidentally hooked on my front jean pocket. I tried to free my pants from the weight. My hesitation resulted in an impatient bark, “Put it down on the floor.” I obliged. So much for customer relations.

“I called early about my machine.” I announced.

Without moving from behind his desk, he identified the model. Singer 201. I had not bothered to note the model number. I figured you either knew how to fix something this old or you didn’t.

Mom and Dad bought the machine housed in an art deco cabinet when they lived in Saranac Lake, sixty years ago. The machine cost a fortune. $300. Over the years, Mom made clothes for five kids…baby clothes, jump suits, shirts, dresses and became a fine seamstress.

Mom didn’t use the machine much in the last few years before she died. As far as I know I had been the last one to use it to hem a pair of jeans about a month before she died. The tension on the thread had not been right. “You’ll need to get a scrap of cloth and make the adjustment”, she instructed after I explained the stitch didn’t look right. I hemmed up the jeans with a stitch that was less than perfect.

Geez, I hated sewing and to fool around with machine adjustments were too much. The aggravation of thread slipping out of the needle, the patience needed to guide the cloth beneath the foot in a straight line, with gentle care smoothing out the material. The truth of the matter was the perfect standard Mom set was nothing I wanted to strive for or anything I thought I could achieve.

Now I stood in the cluttered repair shop seeking help on what was a small matter of some disconnected wires. I might not like sewing but the idea that the machine didn't work was upsetting. I wanted to fix Mom's machine. And not coming out from behind his desk, he told me how to fix it. The arrogant old fool. He hasn’t even looked at it.

“You hook one wire to number one and the other to number two. You can do it because if I do it, you won’t be able to put it back into the cabinet.” His words of “you can do it,” seemed more like “don’t bother me with such trivial repairs” more than a vote of confidence or encouragement. I didn’t explain that last night I tried to reconnect the wires to number one and number three. “Idiot,” I admonished myself for being subjected to his arrogance.

I became frustrated. The night before I discovered the loose wire, but the three pronged plug confused me and I have a fear of electricity every since I was three and put my finger in a socket. I knew the problem. If he fixed the electrical problem by reattaching the wire, I wouldn’t be able to put the wire through the cabinet hole without taking what he fixed apart. Therefore, he instructed me to do it now that I knew where the wires went.

If the black cast iron machine didn’t weight so blasted much I would have picked it up and stormed out of the shop. But nothing will stop drama short like thirty pounds and a car parked half a block away.

“I have a simpler solution,” he offered after I suggested splicing the wire to accommodate a plug that could allow the wire to be threaded though the cabinet hole. He disappeared into the darker recess of the store and returned with a new power cord. “Attach this end to the foot pedal after you thread it through the cabinet. Simply remove the corner screws on the pedal. You can do that.” Again, I felt admonished, not encouraged.

“That’s $15.95.” I never counted my change from the twenty.

Back home I took the pedal apart, attached the new cord and listened to the motor hum as I lightly pressed the foot pedal. Good.

Age turned the pages of the instruction booklet brittle. Not a single word was in Spanish. It read that the machine should be oiled daily if used continuously. I had no idea when Mom oiled it last, but it was well over two years. With the detailed instructions I located the tiny holes and gave each orifice a drop of Singer sewing machine oil. The manual suggested that the motor be greased annually. I couldn’t find any grease in Mom's supplies, so I called the shop to see if they had any in stock.

After identifying myself as “the lady with the old Singer who had been in the store earlier” to the shop clerk, a plain woman whom I assumed was “Bob’s” wife, I asked if they had the special grease.

“Oh no, don’t grease it.” She warned.

“But the manual…”

“Don’t do anything with the grease.” She repeated. I heard her confirm this with Bob. In the background I heard him say don’t grease it.

“Why?” I asked.

“He said not to.”

“But why?”

“Because he said not to.” It wasn’t a good enough answer for me, but that was the only explanation I got. She instructed me to run it after I finished oiling it. “Run it hard. You can’t kill it.” Well that was encouraging.

I explained what I had learned to Dad. He wanted to know why the guy wouldn’t make a house call.

“Dad,” I explained, “the guy won’t even come to the phone.”

As I went through the manual I read that if I needed any instructions on how to operate the sewing machine I could ask any Singer Shop dealer. Not on your life am I going to ask Bob.

When I began to thread a bobbin, the motor began to smoke. I stared at my cell phone and thought of Bob sitting behind his desk surrounded by late model sewing machines. “Who sews anything any more?” I wondered. “How much business could he have?” I called the shop and Bob answered. I took little time reintroducing myself. “Hi Bob. This is Valerie”, as if we were old friends. "The motor is smoking and I’m a little over my head."

“It has been sitting for a while.” It was a statement, not a question and a second later I understood this as a diagnostic assessment, but I answered yes.

“Well run it. It will dissipate.”

Dad, I am sorry I burned the house down, but he said it would dissipate.

“I’m not going to wreck the motor?” Thinking of Mom’s beloved machine ruined.

“It would be wrecked by now and if it is, I can’t help you. So just run it.”

Well, I do know what an electric fire smells like and honestly it didn’t smell that suspicious, so I ran it. The smoke dissipated. Guess that old geek-nerd knew what he was talking about.

-----

Mom took great pride in maintaining the machine, its attachments, her scissors (which we could never use to cut paper) and all the sewing supplies – pins and needles, bric-a-brac and even scraps of material (kind of like reused Christmas paper). As a little kid I was fascinated with the attachments—buttonholers, binders, zigzag makers and lace feeders—all looked like medieval torture equipment. Though tempted I knew better than to play with these thing.

Her machine was just that. A machine. A tool. To be respected, and used for its proper purpose. She learned that from her father.

Mom would laugh if she knew what I did today. I don’t think she would have ever imagined, but she would have appreciated me fixing the machine. Nor would I have imagined that there would be a day that I would sit in front of the machine and cry. Not out of frustration over a broken needle or jammed cluster of thread in the bobbin cradle, but out appreciation. For the art my mother loved. And out of love for my Mom.

Stumpie in Hawaii

I was a bit neglectful. Stumpie should have toured the island with the Brazilians much like Lake, the moose, did on the Lake George kayak expedition a few years ago. Later Stumpie, I promise. Maybe a surf lesson?

Stumpie found a new furry friend, who doesn't have a real name yet. Both enjoy hanging out on the plush Nepalese rug in my office. I'm taking suggestions for the bunny's name. Be creative! Win a free night's stay on the Big Island! Or maybe two?

Stumpie's new home includes a huge waterfall with a pineapple. He likes the soothing sound. Better than the cold howling wind through the pines in New Hampshire.

He checked out the "ocean view" from the condo. See it? Right over his left shoulder. (okay, stumpies don't have shoulders) And believe it or not, there is yet another angle of the "ocean view". OOOOh. It is only 800 feet away and when the surf is up and the cars aren't cruising down the street you can hear it! Say about 3 AM.

Today Is?

Sunrise over Nevada. Tons of snow in those mountains. A cold reality sitting 31,000 feet below me. About four more hours of this plane, a trip from Honolulu that we almost missed. Someone has to explain to me why Gate 15 displayed Newark, but the plane boarded out of Gate 16. Neither Dad or I heard any boarding announcements and I found it strange that no one in the gate area seemed fidgety when we had not started boarding fifteen minutes before the plane was due to depart. Granted it was going to Newark from Honolulu. Only someone who had been in Micronesia and was coming home for the first time in fifteen months wanted to be on that plane.

My name rang out over the PA system. Then Dad's. Final boarding. “Oh shit, Dad. We are at the wrong gate.”

Fortunately, we needed to hustle just one gate. Never-the-less by the time I got to my seat a sleeping “intruder” was roosted in my blue space. Decked out in one of those silly eye masks, she slouched against the window, propped up on her own house pillow. I flagged the flight attendant to straighten out the situation, but she “woke up”, gathered her nest, muttered something or other and moved to her assigned seat. I swear I saw a few feathers float to the cabin floor.

Dad and I were too organized in leaving Kona. With everything packed and placed in the trunk of the car we had plenty of time to dawdle. In doing so, I relaxed on the couch reading the paper and took my cell phone off – normally glued to my hip. I got all the way to the Honokohau Harbor before I realized I was without my Can-You-Hear-Me-Now network.

Kona traffic can be brutal at sundown – okay any time. But it was strangely light this late afternoon. If one can zip around town, I managed and we arrived at the gate with twenty minutes to spar, by hitting every light green. Never ever before.

Get to see my kitties tonight if I ever get out of the Newark Airport. Weather delays. Dreay, but warmer than I expected. How many days before I return to Hawaii?

Woody

I confess, he is special. Thought I'd share some of his photos.

Surviving

Well, I think he is going to live. Taking a good spill on the loose gravel at the bottom of a snow field on Mauna Kea, Dad cut his right hand open in several places and strained the muscles in his left shoulder. Always fearing infections, he wanted to go to the hospital to be sure it was cleaned out. Of course we had washed it out with bottled water and bandaged him up. Nevertheless, I took him to Urgent Care in Hilo after dropping the Brazilains off. That took nearly two hours and we got home about 11 PM. I told him I wasn’t bringing him to Hawaii anymore. We always go to Urgent Care – last time it was because he cut his foot on rocks while swimming.
He had a reaction to the medicine – Ibuprofen and the antibiotic of Sulfur. (I know I am allergic too it.) I strongly suggested he quit taking both medicines on day one and I’ve tried to keep him hydrated. He was looking awfully like an old man – unshaven, shuffling around, sometimes too weak to keep his hands from shaking and feeling dizzy. Let’s just say after two days of living in the bathroom and sleeping, he is beginning to turn the corner.

Last night he wanted a Burger King Junior Whopper (after not eating much more than a bottle of Ensure). I went out and got him one, but drew the line when he wanted to put salt on it.

This morning he saw that the park at Captain Cooks Bay had a bathroom, so he wanted to go there. I saw this as a good sign. And he wanted chicken noodle soup for lunch. Another good sign. He ate the whole can and not once while eating did he have to shuffle off to the bathroom.

Photo Log

Blow these up.

Staple Gun

I’m now a proud owner of a staple gun. A heavy duty one too. You move to Hawaii and it is one of the necessary items to purchase.

There is a mosquito flying around here. Bit me twice. Wait until I get him with my new staple gun.

Honestly, I’ve been looking at furniture and my budget all week. The two don’t match. Sure it is now March first and my condo fees are paid up to date and my rent moneys should be coming in any day now, so one would think I’d have a little bit of cash to buy a nice couch to replace the blue sort-of-kind-of-day-bed with blue stripes in what will be my office. The piece looks like it belongs in a Cape Cod beach house or a Florida sunroom or a college dorm.

I’m going for a Southeast Asian with southwest native American style for my island abode. Sounds awful and no one can every accuse me of having a flair for décor. Remember I once lived in Florida for five years with a buffalo skull and a bike in my living. A futon was the only piece of furniture I had and my TV stand was the very box it came in.

My objective this week was to set up my office. I didn’t come close, but I did identify and order a desk enclosed in an armoire. Set up for a computer desk top, it comes with two filing drawer, a place for a printer and paper, and shelf space for books. No particular board in this thing either. Finished in black it should pop in the room with walls of butter, the light wood bamboo floor and my Indich Volcano Rust rug, hand woven in Nepal.

My Navajo rugs and buffalo skull will go nicely in the room. But then there is the matter of the blue one armed settee. This is where the staple gun comes in handy.

Ten yards of fabric, a little strong adhesive and a staple gun. Wa-lah.

I’ll bring the pillow fabric home to New York to sew the covers. I might even attempt the cover for the mattress. Right now it is a fitted sheet. Wouldn’t be so bad if I can measure everything right. Lord knows I hate sewing. But boy, I loved the staple gun.

And in the end, lots cheaper than buying a new couch. Now if I can get a couple of pallets. I could make a book shelf.