The Things That Last

Thanksgiving is filled with tradition, minus little kids dressing up in Indian and pilgrim custom. God knows we don’t wish to offend someone or traumatize a tike as we might share a lesson of sitting down at a feast with those who come from different cultures and coexist on the edge where life meets death. It was a harsh time back then. One can only image how a child survived the real drama of life when the crops fail, Paw died and red-skinned heathens were whooping up the devil outside the log cabin.

Whether it is bundling up for a trip to Lambeau Field to see the Packers (Just isn’t the same without Bret is it?), watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving parade, simply perusing the flyers for tomorrow sales or gathering with friends and family to enjoy a butterball with all the trimmings like Mickey’s cornbread and stuffing, American’s have created traditions. Each year a little variation of the year before and silently without any formal acknowledgement a new tradition becomes part of the tomorrow's landscape.

We gather in Worcester, because Jennifer cooks the turkey. And each of us becuase we come add the things that become tradition because they are glazed with memories.

It is the frozen fruit salad served on a bed of lettuce. One of Mom’s recipes. There was the year that it was accidentally made with three times the amount of mayonnaise that the recipe called for. It was horrible, but now we smile remembering the disaster as the mayo is carefully measured and the batter taste-tested before it hits the freezer. Each year we ask about the three French Canadians who shared our table and blessed us with their French accents and broken English. We bring a pile of blankets and extra socks to endure the 62 degree room temperatures and 55 degree night settings because…I never understand why, except that too is part of the tradition. And maybe it will be the apple pie and the attempts to make a flakey crust as Mom's.

Thanksgiving is about conversation. We share stories and photos, opinions and views. We tell tales of cats, big and wild, and solve the world economic crisis and a few other issues along the way. And don't go home mad.

Three Thanksgivings without Mom. Doesn’t seem like that much time should have passed. Traditions are the things we keep that are so dear. It’s a new tradition without her presence, but not without her touch. These are not harsh times. These are good times and we are ready to face whatever tomorrow brings, taking with us the things that last. The family.

Delusion

Okay here is my year end prediction. Just in time for Thanksgiving. Hopefully, I’ll have a bit of time between pie baking, turkey stuffing and sweet potato mashing to get that blog out too.

Frankly, I was shocked to see $1.76 gas in Massachusetts. While we can once again enjoy the sweet smell of toxic fumes rising from the tank as we pump (except in those states with those stupid nozzle covers) and a trip across the Bay State costs $17.00 instead of $50.00, the soft prices are nevertheless alarming. Not that I didn’t predict that the prices would be at $2.00 by the end of the year.

Don’t ask why I suspected such. Maybe it was the common sense feeling that speculators were going to get burned like those who fooled around in dot coms and real estate flips. They were creating a nasty storm and a catastrophe was imminent. Or maybe I suspected the demand pull back would finally catch the market and OPEC by surprise. But by Father’s Day I told Jen the prices would be back down to $2.00.

What would I care about the price of gas? I haven’t bought a gallon since I topped my Jeep off in early October at $3.61. Okay, I rented a car in Hawaii for three days and bought $14.50 at Costco for $3.58, I think. I’ve been riding my bike every since. And since my return to New York it has been so darn cold that the damn Jeep wouldn't start until I put a new battery in it after the weather warmed up a tad.

My psychological breakpoint for a gallon of gas is $2.25. That I can stomach, almost. This price fell into my wallet after I returned from the Peace Corps. Life was good. Without a job, but with money in the bank, I could swallow the price.
I remember the first time I paid $1.75. I was ripped off at a station just off the New York State Thruway. Forty more miles and just south of the Jersey border it was sitting in the ground for 40 cents less. But I was on vapors and didn’t want to chance pushing the Jeep anywhere. I pumped it and swore I’d never pay that much again.

But how about that little?

Now we are caught in a precarious situation. We are breathing again – assuming you are not one of the ten million who have lost their jobs, or lost your retirement accounts, or your house. Americans will treat themselves to a few extra miles on the road this holiday because we deserve it, by God, because we don’t have much left, except hope, maybe a dribbling of hope with those mash potatoes. We’ll make the extra trip to Target or WalMart to pick up the Nano I-pod before trucking off to Grandma’s for glutton and gridiron in front of the brand new 50 inch wide screen high def TV. And that spike we create will raise the eye brows of Saudis and Democrats. The OPEC dudes will cut production and The People's Ruler will talk of imposing an oil tax to curb the spiked demand. By the end of the year the spike will settle, maybe around my mark $2.25.

I just read an article in an October 8th newspaper. To quote, “anyone who thinks gas will be below $2.00 anytime soon is delusional.” I am. I am. After almost an 8 trillion dollar bailout of Monopoly money, the economy isn’t going anywhere. Gas will continue to tank. Gas below one dollar? I say hell yes, until we believe we are personally going to grab a hammer, join Obama’s union and build a new bridge. That’s the real delusion.

Parade Junkie?

When a parade in paradise starts late you get some shaved ice, settle back with your toes in the grass and sit around talking story. Forty five minutes isn’t a matter of life and death or hypothermia.

The same can’t be said for a Christmas parade in upstate New York where temperatures have been hard pressed to climb into the twenties.

The only saving factor was the sun, but the clouds kept creeping over the low hanging orb so flashes on warmth were scarce. Along the route kids played oblivious to the cold. Everyone seemed numb to the artic air that swept down the street toward the Hudson River where ice chunks built up along the falls under the Glens Falls bridge.

I couldn’t tell if the tears in my eyes were due to the bite in the wind or for my longing for Hawaiian breezes. I listened to the hawkers rattle their stolen shopping carts full of Chinese toys down the street, stiff rubber tires grinding against the frigid asphalt. My God the guys gripped the steel of the car with bare hands.

Before the honor guards passed by the gas station selling fuel for $2.03 I couldn’t feel my fingers. My toes felt as if a stone crusher mashed my piggies and wouldn’t let up. The pain rolled my eyes.

No beautiful Miss Kona Coffee Queen and her court. Grizzled faced Hog riders rumbled by the assembled parade watches dressed in parkas, hoods, scarves and thermal underwear. I was too. Dressed in the same manner as if I woke at Everest Base Camp.

It is late November. Temperatures 10 – 15 degrees below normal.










By the time the hamburger floated by, I was ready to jump into the deep fat fryer.

"Come on Dad, it's time to go. Aren't you cold?"

"Yeah."

"Let's go watch a football game."

Going Nuts

My plan to become the Johnnie Appleseed of the butter nut trees isn't going to happen. A few weeks before leaving for Hawaii I put a dozen in the refrigerator. In order to germinate the nut it must be kept moist and needs to go through a dormant state for about ninety days. After three months I'd plant the seeds in the basement, a cool environment simulating spring. Hopefully, by the time warmer temperatures rolled through the northeast I’d have a couple trees on their way to a healthy life in western New York and New Hampshire.

A jar of Alfredo sauce, a carton of cottage cheese and a few other items were also in the refrigerator. Dad didn’t eat these things so imagine the growth of green stuff when I returned last week. Of course I tossed them out.

A large family size package of Eggos occupied the bottom shelf. Apparently Dad started eating Eggos when he visited Mike in Colorado. He discovered that with syrup and whip cream they make a sweat tasty breakfast, a substitute for his cereal and cookies. The package replaced the nuts which were in a sealed plastic bag.

“Where are the butter nuts?”

“They were getting moldy so I put them outside.”

“Where?”

“Out by the shed. See the black bucket?” I looked out the kitchen window. A chipmunk scampered across the yard.

“When did you do that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why? Why would you throw out my nuts? You leave moldy food in the refrigerator.” I suspected he needed a big empty spot for that family size Eggo package.

I went outside (and it was butt ass cold) there were no nuts in the bucket. What do you expect when you drop a dozen nuts in a place where there are enough squirrels to outfit every member of the Tsar’s family in furry underwear.

High Post Stumpie

Spot the Stumpie sitting high in office. Poor little guy will not be in NH for Christmas but will spend the holiday with Cocoa the bunny. The plans include deep sea fishing and then a helicopter ride to see the volcano.

Depression

Kona sunrise on Nov 17, 2008

What churns holiday memories as smooth as hand cracked ice cream and evokes feelings as warm the soles of feet propped on the hearth? Not Christmas carols ground out by knock-off pop artists and regurgitated through cheap speakers filtering the notes through a strip mall as if it were parmesan cheese through a plastic grate.

A low ceiling sprinkled flakes into the artic air to dance over the wings of the 727. Touchdown, Albany. Welcome home. By the time Dad and I stopped at Cracker Barrel for a late lunch, the Subaru’s front license plate disappeared under a coat of flurries that fell from a patch work of fluffy white clouds, dark threaten smears of winter and Hawaii blue sky. In the ditches that follow the Northway to Saratoga Springs, the dead tassels of the reed canary grass bowed under the burden until sharp winds released the stalks. By the time we pulled into the driveway, only a light dusting remained settled beneath the Robin’s maple.

Sunrise Chicago's O'hare Airport November 18, 2008

I bared the cold. Once inside the house I left my sweatshirt on and donned my slipper socks made of reindeer and felt. Dad took a nap and I settled into the living room to watch the day draw darkness from the night's well. It was before 5 PM. Another 45 minutes will be robbed from the day before the winter solstice begins to take the light back. A wave of isolation washed through me and and left depression on my shores.

I’ll recover, if slowly. My blood will thicken like Thanksgiving gravy, slowly. I’ll forget my afternoon swim and bike ride traded for a walk around the block dressed in three or maybe five layers. My eyes will water and I’ll remind myself to keep my mouth shut so my teeth won’t ache when I have a hot drink after I get back inside. I’ll patiently wait until I can buy a ticket to go back.

I spent the afternoon installing ten latches on the kitchen cabinet doors to prevent Phoenix and Diablo from prowling through the cereal boxes and garbage. This eliminates the half a dozen paint sticks wedged between the handles and doors to foil the attempts at swing the doors wide open and feast. I also discovered the hidden stash of dog food in the basement. Diablo had been eating the two year old food, despite the diarrhea.

I am glad to see my cats. Purring Diablo snuggled on my lap as I sit tucked under a blanket. See, it isn't all that bad.

O'hare

And just like that 80 degrees becomes a crystal clear shattering 23 degrees. A taste of winter, with Christmas trees and all the trimmings. It actually started while I sat in the lavatory in the rear of the plane. From every crevice that wasn’t mine, poured a chill, as painful as a tourist sunburn, and as deep as the ache of flu-laden muscles. I looked in the mirror and wondered how long ago was it that my t-shirt soaked up my body’s perspiration like syrup on a pancake?

My body thinks it is the middle of the night. It is tormenting me with a series of hot flashes. Bring it on. I don’t expect it to be warm anytime soon.

Stolen Bike

Last minute chores include fertilizing my plants.

The sprinkler system had just gone off so I was feeding the plants in my backyard when I noticed two kids coming down the road. They were carrying boogie boards and trying to thumb a ride when one delinquent spotted a bike parked between two trucks along the road.

“Hey I found a bike,” one kid said. With his toe he kicked the kickstand up and climb on board. No hesitation, but they scanned the vacant lot for an owner who might be in the weeds taking a whiz.

“Hey, that’s not your bike,” I yelled over my fence.

The two perpetrators looked up. The rider slipped off the bike, but didn't park it.

“Is it yours?” the other asked.

“It’s not yours.” I retorted.

“It was just lying here.” he offered as logic for the crime.

“No it wasn’t. It was on its kick stand.” Is there some rule that if a bike is upright, it’s not fair game?

“Yeah, but it was just here.” Maybe there is a rule?

“So is that truck,” I said indicating the parked vehicle they were standing near. “That’s just there too. Would you steal that?"

Incredibly, the kid without the bike said, “Well, maybe.”

“Put the bike down, take your boards and get out of here.”

"What?"

"What do you mean 'what'? What didn't you understand?"

The kid unceremoniously dropped the bike near the fire hydrant, but neither moved down the road. Instead, they raised their thumbs for the next car.

I went back to measuring fertilizer for each plant, but popped up to peep over the fence after dropping pellets on each plant. By the time I got to the end of the fence the two juveniles had a ride.

The heap-of-a-bike, most likely stolen in the first place, had to be harder to ride than to walk. The chain and gears had more rust than the hull of a sunken ship. For the next two hours the bike sat unclaimed on a road with lots of foot and vehicle traffic. I went to retrieve it, knowing someone would spot me “stealing” the bike.

Now I had a derelict bike, worthless except for two good tires. After consulting with the complex's secretary, I decided to see if the people upstairs want it. If not, I'll leave it by the dumpster and let whoever takes it have it. Just as long as those two kids don't get it.

On Saturday

It felt like I was in Hawaii today. Gosh darn it, I was.

There is something about watching the fish swim in the breaking waves, in water so clear it reveals a whole other world. The crystal blue waves just kept rolling onto the worn lava flats in front of Hale Halawai where the 38th Annual Kona Coffee Cultural Festival presented the International Market Festival of Artist. The sun sparkled on each crest. Man, does it get any better than this?

How about another parade on Alii? This one, at 9:30 AM.

I took a break from the crowds to walk down to the shoreline. There that feeling hit me. I'm in Hawaii. Except this time it wasn’t followed by, “I wish I could live here.”

I am filled with a mixture of emotions. Nice to go home to see Dad and be with family for the holidays, but I sure don’t want to leave 80 degrees for minus 13. Okay, it isn’t that cold yet in New York, but Dad tells me the cold weather is forecasted to arrive starting tomorrow. Sure, that's because I'm coming home.

For breakfast I had two monster pancakes compliments of Cub Scout Troop 12. All you can eat pancakes for $5.00. All I could eat were two. As I rode my bike home I thought one would have been plenty. I rode slowly not to get any cramps. There were eggs and rice and other things too, but after two hot of the griddle flat cakes I could eat no more.

I rode home and left Kona to prepare for the day’s festivities. After I showered and grabbed my camera, I returned in time for the parade.

How many parades have I been to this year? Three. Two in Kona just this last week. Unfortunately, I won’t be here for the Christmas parade. That’s when the cement mixing trucks roll. And I say it isn’t a parade unless you got cement mixing trucks. No mixers today, but a few good tractor trailers pulling floats.

I spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon wandering in and out of the crowds until I couldn’t stand it any longer. Regardless of where I am I can only take so many people for so long.

Intruder II

Two things I am constantly doing - running around the condo without my glasses and leaving the screen door to the lanai wide open. I berate myself. “Damn, the cats got out again”, for I would not dare continue this habit if they were here. Nevertheless, I can’t seem to break myself, even going to bed with the door left wide open. So when I stalked the living room without my glasses and ran right into the screen, knocking it off the hinges, it caught me a bit surprised to find the door closed. I got to put my glasses on, especially if I’m going to find the cats.

I half expected a mongoose to visit. Maybe he has. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught his nose poking around my bike tire. If not for the breeze which disturbed the newspaper he might have ventured further onto the lanai. And the door was open.

The open door invites in the geckos and a few insects, but I expect both critters would have made their way past the threshold regardless of the screen. Birds have come darn close to entering. The doves and Hawaiian cardinals peck around the patio eating something. I can’t figure out what except the sand which has fallen off the shingles and has washed down to the concrete.

It was dinner time and I was in the kitchen preparing fish when I saw a rangy cat with a collar in the living room. “Well wha’cha doing in here?” He paid no attention as he checked out the Nukuoro totem and my water fountain. Then without much adieu he slipped out the lanai door as quietly as he entered. “Hey Prowler”, I yelled after him. He disappeared under the fence.

The next evening he was out front. As I approached he hissed. “Hey, don’t be hissin’ at me.” I crouched and extended my index finger. He took the invitation and came to me. I petted him and he was friendly enough that my upstairs neighbors returning home from Costco asked me if the cat was mine.

Nope, just an intruder. People in the condo complex are not suppose to let their cats run loose. Before he took off I told him to stay out of the road.

Intruder One

The most common footwear in Hawaii is the slipper, known to the Mainlanders as flip flops. There isn’t much need to shake them out before slipping them on. A little kick sends a millipede or a gecko lurking on the foot strap on their way. In the morning before putting on my sneakers I’ll give them a little rap on the concrete step to be sure there isn’t any unwanted creatures living inside. I have yet to find any.

I’ve camped and hiked enough to know that creepy things can crawl into dark places. Before donning hiking boots, it is a good practice to rap on the heel against a tree stump or hardened earth to dislodge unwanted critters from the cavernous toes. It is wise to inspect where a spider, a snake, a centipede, or scorpion could have made its evening’s nest. This is one reason why boots should not be left outside the tent, even muddy, smelly one. I’ve been to places where I have even slept with my boots inside my sleeping bag so that come morning, my toes didn’t slide into an ice block of stiff leather, which has to be worse than getting bit unexpectedly by a critter.

After my swim at the community pool, I slip off my Chaos—the high-tech slipper—and wrestle my bike socks on over my damp feet. As I do so, I usually sit on the concrete pad surrounding the pool and watch the comings and goings of others. The cute pool maintenance guy who makes mysterious entries through the “staff only” door, the kid coached by a master swimmer, the teens collected on the top bench talking on cell phones. Once shoes are tied and bike unlocked, I swing my backpack on and head to the condo to get something to eat.

This particular day, before I got out of the parking lot I felt something on the side of my foot. It felt like a muscle twitch. There it was again. While coasting I inspected my bike shoe, half-hoping the stitches had ripped out and that was what I felt. But the shoe held together. By the time I got to the fabric store I knew something was inside. Something wedged between my foot and the leather. Something wanted out. And I wanted the same thing.

I couldn’t get the shoe off fast enough. I ripped it off almost before I dismounted my bike and dumped a tail and a semi-swished skink out on the sidewalk. I apologized to him and left him there to die. Except when I came out of the store only the tail was there.

Two days later, his presence lingers. The physical contact and the determined fight for freedom crawls on the side of my foot.

Habits

I just ran out of gas, not the $3.45 a gallon type. It’s the drive to get things done. Writing things mostly. For the past twenty-two days I’ve set a routine that began with dragging my ass out of bed before daylight. I know most working stiffs do this. It was something I always hated when I collected a pay check. I am a morning person, but rising before daylight is difficult. The plan was to accomplish much in the morning hours. Play in the afternoon.

For the past two days I’ve growled at the froggy burps the cell phone’s alarm threw into my ear. Sleep arrived far too late in the hours assigned to sanitation workers, gum cracking waitresses at the Waffle House and newspaper delivery boys sent out the door by their fuzzy-slippered mothers. “Damn, I got to reprogram that thing,” shouldn’t be the first thought of the day.

I padded to the lanai to see the full moon under the soft gauze of Big Island clouds. One star’s light was strong enough to cut through the hazy sky. This will be gone by daylight.
The plan had been to put “then before when.” That stops the game playing. When I do this then I’ll do that. To illustrate: when I take a shower, I’ll then buckle down to write some more. A few days I didn’t get a shower until the mandatory one before swimming sixty laps at the community pool. I saved some hot water, but I can’t say it resulted in much critically acclaimed writing. I made the point to myself. Valerie, you can waste time with the best of them.

It’s Hawaii for crying out loud. Island Time. Later Brah. Taste the water before you flop your belly on your board and join the boys on quest for the perfect little wave before sunset. It’s the best life offers - hope for the best of wave.

I punched my internal work clock and set about the mornings. First priority was to take up the Bible reading plan designed to take me through the New Testament in ninety days, except I only had thirty left to spare. The goal wasn’t to read to gain knowledge or insight, but to have a life changing encounter with God. A lot to expect in thirty days, but I am talking God here. The thirty-first reading came on day twenty-two. And that doesn’t count the study of Genesis which I embarked on.

The insight was remarkable. The relationship, as usual, challenging. I picked up some applications for the guidebook I am working on, and I found my journaling began to sound a bit like some cloistered monk having an out of body experience. All this without the aid of incense, candles or alcohol.

By 10 am, with Romans 4-5 completed, a bit of journaling about my faith's need of the same calm state as a drowning man, and a few more words on the guidebook, I decided my encounters were getting too heady. I acknowledge that I have not written a word without Him, but when I wrote Middle English servitude I had to scratch it out and replace it with service.

It’s November 11, 2008. I served.

Don't Ask

If not politics, then pop-culture?

I should have just kept making the sandwich. Shades of Europe - ham and cheese.

The Orphans

It felt like I was on safari when I passed these guys. Too little to eat me, big enough to snag my heart. These guys – well, we know at least one is female, the calico – are doing well.

The one in the front, the boldest and bravest. Yet they are all cowards, hightailing it to the bush if anyone tries to approach. Except maybe the food dude. I don't know.

My Parade

No matter what the event - Christmas, Fourth of July, a Festival - Kailua-Kona knows how to throw a parade. The Lantern Parade didn’t have the cement trucks roll down Alii Drive, but this small parade attracted a crowd that lined the streets to watch the procession of lanterns bob through town. For the past ten years the parade, kicks off the Kona Coffee Festival. The Lantern parade is a Japanese tradition created to pay tribute to Japanese ancestors. I can’t explain the connection to Kona Coffee Festival.

Since the parade features lanterns and glow sticks, darkness is required to appreciate the softly-lit orbs. The parade began about an hour after sunset. Shortly after the last blue lights of the police car rolled by, I headed home. Dark, but not late, this was my first hike home in the dark. In the morning I run in the dark, but at that time of day the traffic is lighter than the flow on a Friday night. Shoulders are wide, except in a couple of places were cars are parked along the side of the road or where a bridge crosses over a dry creek bed. It was there that I started my own two person parade.

Linda, a tourist from Minnesota, sat on the bridge’s guardrail next to the ocean. She was on the opposite side of the road, the side going with the traffic, not the side she should have been on as a pedestrian. Linda had been out to the luau at the Royal Kona. When I passed the hotel the luau dancers were still on stage, so her departure was early. Nevertheless, she had made the most of it in the short time. As I approached she got up and started walking up Alii in the direction I was headed.

This stretch of Alii is almost pitch dark, no hotel or condo lights. It’s tough to see where concrete ends and the dirt shoulder begins. Her shoes were not the most sensible. When she stumbled I wasn’t too surprised. But she continued to stagger tripping on nothing but her brain’s inability to manage coordination.

From across the street I yelled, “Are you okay?”

She stopped to remove a pebble from her shoe. In the typical fashion of most people who are intoxicated she said, “Yeah.” Her voice and body traveled into the road. The hell you are.

I was afraid continued conversation would bring her out into the path of a car. She wandered up the road and I cringed when a couple of vehicles whizzed past.

I crossed the road and she staggered into me. “Can I help you make it home?”

“Do you know where you are?” she asked.

Here was an opportunity to be a wise ass and say Hawaii. “Yeah. But, I don’t know where you are going.”

“Right up there,” she waved an aimless finger down the road.

“To the Sea Village?” Whew, only a few hundred feet. “Let me walk with you.”

When we got there, she said, “This isn't it. I’m going to the Sea Cliff. You know where that is?”

Suddenly, I became a tour guide. “Top of the hill.” It was about a quarter of a mile. I wanted to put my arm around her to prevent her from wandering off the pavement, but was afraid she would push me into the traffic. I walked between her and the road. When she veered my way I steeled myself and let her ricochet away from the road. Cars passed uncomfortably close. Fortunately, she was about my size. I couldn't have worn a white shirt instead of dark blue?

She stopped walking. She looked right at me. “You are so kind. Where did you learn that? From your mother?”

Here I paused. Thoughts swept through my head like snow across the midwestern plain. I rewound what I had been thinking before I stumbled upon my Minnesotan.

Why had I gone to the parade? It was fun; something to do. But this was a long walk back in the dark, alone. I pondered Genesis 4, the story of Cain and Abel. (I don’t make this stuff up. Well, some of it I do. I have been studying Genesis this past week, so the story in my head made sense.) I mulled over the idea of whether I should pick up the weird stuff I find on the side of the road – a sheet metal screw, a paper clip, an Allen wrench. I could do something with this stuff. Sell it on the Internet under a site called Lost on the Side of the Road.

Of course I learned this from my mother. I simply said, “yes.”

Help others. Do the right thing. Care about the welfare of those less fortunate, except I don’t think Linda was less fortunate. She was just drunk.

But are things that simple? Where did my mother learn this? And her mother and so on? And was every generational step along the way perfect? Was there any disconnect to this concept of doing good? Was someone in the lineage a horrible, horrible person?

Well, yes, Cain. But tonight, I am letting some stranger bounce off me so she doesn’t get hit by a car, or taken advantaged of by another stranger. Look what I found along the side of the road. Not a safety pin.

Did I have to learn this? No, I was born with a conscious, a sense of having a responsibility toward others. God gave me that, even before the knowledge of good and evil. The farther away we have gotten from God, the more rules we have made under the assumption that without the rules we don’t know how to behave toward others. We knew long before there were Ten Commandments.

It would have eaten at me to let you stumble home alone. Am I doing this for me?

“By the way, where are your friends?” I asked. Am I my brother’s keeper?

“I left them at the luau. I’m a very independent person as you can see.”

Yeah me too, but I’m not prone to do stupid things.

I got her home. She’s leaving the island tomorrow, disappointed that the island isn’t prettier. It is all the matter of your point of view. I thought the island was pretty sparse and Kona crowded. But the crowds are tourists, and the land is vast and diverse. Lady You won’t find me living in the snowscapes of Minnesota anytime soon.

I made it home, still alone. I wondered how my brain tied all this together. Only by being alone, I supposed. I thanked God for creating me with the deep sense to help a stranger in need. And His Word.

Smooshed

Normally, I don’t pay much attention to squished bugs found on the street. Sometimes, I might see a flattened cockroach. I assume during its midnight raid of the dumpster put out for collection, the garbage truck got the better of the bug. The sight makes disgust crawl through me, but at the same time I hide my elation. Where natural selection doesn’t seem able to take care of the cockroach, Goodyear might.

Occasionally, I’ll see a millipede coiled tightly in the grip of death. The crunchy little thing attracts the industrious ant. A tiny workers busily march in a chaotic line to the tradegy to carry away lunch, dinner and winter stock. On the side of the road, life partners with death. Nature stays in constant motion, spinning its cycle of existence. If any of this happens in the kitchen, it is really disgusting, and everybody dies, no exception.

This morning I returned from my usual stroll across the street to retrieve a newspaper. The outline of a smooshed bug caught my eye. There on the gray asphalt was the familiar body of a praying mantis.

How many of these large insects are around here? If they came in the bucket load like cockroaches, ants and locust they would be equally repulsive, regardless of their contribution to the eradication of other insects. Have a few of these crawling around the bedroom at night, and suddenly they take on a whole new personality. With images of its eerie shadow cast upon the wall, the night stalker sucks the life out of the new born and drops pebbles in your ears.

I flinched. I wondered if it was the same one I photographed.

Wha'chya Lookin' At

I’ve been addressing an invasion of mealybugs since my arrival. Who will take up the chore once I leave? Maybe this guy will. I just found him in the ti plants. (Click on the photo and see him larger than life.)

If not, I suspect the mealybugs will prosper and multiply. I’m most concerned about the ones on my arecas. When I arrived the leaves were covered with these white fluffy, sticky globs of bug secretion which tiny piss ants love. The underside of the leaves looked like freshly fallen snow.

Initially, I thought they were white flies. My first address involved a pesticide. A week later I hit them again. I saw no improvement. On the Internet I found out the pest was a mealybug. I spent two days wiping the leaves off with a soapy rag.

Everywhere I looked I saw mealybugs. The island is covered with them. I saw them at the library, the farmers market and at the pool. They are probably at Wal-Mart and Safeway, but by the time I bike to these places perched on the side of a steep hill, I’m panting, and sweaty. I’m not up to looking at the foliage in the parking lots. Then I discovered where my bugs were coming from. The neighbor’s tree is lousy with them. The branches hang over the fence and drop contaminated leaves and twigs on my ti and areca plants. Every morning, I clean up the infected debris. Every night, I sneak out and squirt the tree with soapy water. I’ve never met my neighbors. "Hi, My name is Valerie and your tree has mealybugs. Can I spray 'em.?"

The situation now seems under control. Spotty out breaks are handled by applying an alcohol-soaked Q-tip to the bug. This breaks through their hard protective shell and kills them.

I suppose when I return in January, I’ll sit out on the concrete and swab the leaves again. Unless this guy has a lot of friends.

Three Pieces

Oh, my brain hurts. There must be something terribly wrong. Yesterday, I put the panel in the screen in upside down. Today, I attached a picture hanger on the bottom side of a frame. Man, you would think I was living in Australia or something.

I shipped a flat wall hanging from Luna House to Hawaii. The pottery arrived in three pieces. Could have been a total disaster, but the way in which it broke was interesting. I made a wooden backing and attached the pieces in a tiered fashion, instead of gluing them back together.

Fortunately, I discovered my mistake before I glued the ceramic to the wooden frame. Otherwise, I don’t know how I would have been able to hang it because to attach the hanger as an afterthought would have been impossible.

God, this is boring. I better stop to see what else I am writing.

One Day Left

Once there were many and dreams soared like eagles. Hats were tossed into the ring like popcorn to pigeons. Early rounds of the Sunday morning TV studios and cable networks were made. Stump here, debate there. Favorites and long shots lined up in front of red white and blue banners to tout their plans and promise us hope while pot-shotting the opponents. It was too much, too early to pay attention to for most. We never saw it coming.

A caucus, a primary and a convention later, from the crowd emerged two contenders. The process clearly illustrated that Darwin’s theory of evolution doesn’t work in the political arena. For the past two years we’ve endured the campaigns of the strong and the weak, the financially powerful and the grass-rooted meek, the media backed and the media shunned. We’ve tuned into radio, read the newspapers, watched television and surfed the Internet to be entertained, amused, befuddled and disgusted. Pundits, pollsters, anchors and reporters, newscasters and radio shows hosts cut, sliced, diced to serve up their opinions. We never saw it coming.

We heard the hollow arguments, the inept logic, the empty reasoning, the simple stupid “feelings”, the unabashed emotion. We saw the wide-eyed acceptance of discounted truth and swallowed-up lies. We wondered why the “other side” just doesn’t get it. And we never saw it coming?

Tired, worn out and disillusioned, we want to get it over with. We just want to move ahead. We want to get on with life. Not a life we knew, but a life of change, where we don’t worry about putting gas in the car, or paying the mortgage, or putting our kids through college. Our kids don’t even have to go to college now, because who needs to work? Health care is free. Everything comes on a silver platter. We’ll be poor!

Hell, what are you waiting for? Get out and vote. At least let that be the last credible thing you do for yourself.

Cover Up

How to make an air conditioner disappear. Get the right tools. Without them, it can be a bit difficult. Nevertheless, two weeks later - a lot of putzing around and a lot of thinking (well not so much) - I finally put my shoulder to the wheel and finished – sort of – the screen to hide the air conditioner, which I don’t use. It would have been easier to get rid of the unit or put it into the closet.

It is not an heirloom, but it is functional and it isn’t going to fall over and fall apart. I worked really hard to make it as square as possible without a square. When that didn’t work I went to Ace Hardware and bought one. I tried really hard to make sure the pattern in the frames hung straight. And while it does, I some how managed to get the middle piece in upside down.

I said damn it and left it that way. There will be a day when the irritation grows bothersome enough that I’ll pull the staples out and re-hang the middle panel. Until then...

Note my "entertainment center". Bose radio on a box I refinished this summer.

Trick or Treat

I've delighted in seeing the costumed fairies, dragons, superheroes and ponies come to my door, but not since I lived in North Carolina have I been in a neighborhood where kids' parents knew me. Last night I had a few tricker-treaters. I expected some, but didn’t buy any candy for the little munkins. Call me scrooge, but don’t we live in an age where kids are not suppose to collect treats from strangers?

My first tricker-treater was a total surprise. It was a white cat. She came to the door and meowed.

“Well, well, well. What are you doing here?” I asked her. She sat down in front of the screened door.

The cat hangs out on the rock wall between two other buildings across the way. I figured she belongs to someone even though animals are not suppose to run free. No dogs are allowed in the complex.

I usual ask her what she has been doing to which she never answers. I guess it is none of my business. A few weeks ago, she was sitting underneath cousin David’s truck. I stopped to greet her, sticking my index finger out from my close fist. Cats greet each other nose to nose and this will bring a house cat closer. She almost acknowledged me. Honestly, I don’t remember seeing her since, but I thought of her when I found the dead cat near the complex’s entrance.

"You smell my salmon?" She blinked. "Out tricker-treating?"

I retrieved the empty can still sitting on the counter (try that at home with Phoenix and Diablo) and opened the screen door. I expected her to take off, but she merely moved allowing me to place the can on the walkway.

As the parade of little kids and moms came to my door I forgot all about the cat until I cleaned up the kitchen. I went to get the can and the damn cat had not eaten a thing. Phoenix and Diablo would have had the inside of the can so clean an ant would not have bothered with it.

The cat was gone. Was that a trick or a treat?