Coincidence?

The restaurant was suppose to be in Naalehu. Dad and I arrived in the two-horse town just ahead of a tour bus. The bus burped its passengers at the curb and they scurried into the shade faster than cockroaches caught in a midnight raid of the refrigerator. The swarm clogged the restrooms and nearby bakery.

The bakery, America’s most southerly located, fronted as an information booth and turtle center. While inquiring about the location of the Lunch Box, I had to lean over the éclairs, chocolate-choked cream puffs and monstrous muffins. All at very reasonable prices. Good marketing.

“Hey, Val, you want to split one of those?” Dad pointed to a fat éclair. I hadn't seen one so scrumptous since I left Bastonge.

“Later, Dad.”

The young Hawaiian girl had never heard of my Uncle Pep’s son in law’s little restaurant, the Lunch Box. She thought it might be in Hilo. But there was no way I would confuse Naalehu with the Hilo. But maybe Pep did. However, I might have misunderstood the last name of a cousin I had never met. “Are you sure the name is Paul Nahoe? I know a Paul Hahoe. He owns the Lunch Shop, across the street in the park.”

I considered this a possibility. Sounded close. I was sure I had the right name, but you know that Hawaiian stuff. With names like Kamakawiwo'ole and Kahakahakea I could make a mistake. You say Paul Hanoe, I say Paul Nahoe.

Lunch Box? Lunch Shop? Maybe my unlce had the name confused. I was in the right tiny town. Maybe.

We went across the street. I awkwardly introduce myself at the window of the bright yellow shanty. I explained, "I’m looking for Paul who married my Oregon cousin. Last name Perez." Strangely, the local claimed she indeed had a brother named Paul who married a girl from Oregon, but not the last name Perez.

She asked me if I wanted to buy any fish. I went back across the street and got a cream puff.

Project

I had the wood, left overs from other projects. I knew where to get the paper. A little poking around in Home Depot and wahlah! A lamp. Now that I know it is possible, I'm going to think about sconces.

Pretty cool, huh?

Leaving

The airline agent asked Dad if he needed assistance.

“Sure,” he replied, more like it was a game, not a true need. I already instructed him not to ask for a wheel chair.

“Why not? You get the royal treatment.” He reminded me that he and Mom had flown to Portland since 911. Mom had a wheel chair.

“All you need is keep your Battle of the Bulge hat on and you’ll get the celebrity treatment.”

I escorted him through security. Dad had prepared to remove his shoes by tying them loosely. They slipped off. “They should provide chairs so you can put your shoes back on,” he complained. There are never any conveniently located. Outside of the shoes, Dad is beginning to be a pro at going through security. Remove the belt, empty pockets, kick off shoes. Take your sweet time.

I watched him tie his laces. He does this like no one else. Two bows, one loop. So unique it is obvious Mom taught us kids how to tie our shoes.

We waited in the courtyard of the Kona Airport. Nearby three bronze hula dancers, froze in a movement that flung their layered skirts out from their bare feet. Bird shit covered their outstretched arms.

For the past three months I had been with my Dad. I was going to miss him. The condo would be a bit emptier, a bit quieter and bit lonelier, if only for the first evening while I adjusted to being solo again.

“What are you going to have for dinner?” he asked.

Yes, my first adjustment. I didn’t have to make dinner. Costco wasn’t carrying batch tamales anymore, my island staple food, besides papaya. I’d have to switch to spaghetti. Not white rice, heaven forbid.

“Maybe I’ll finish off the cabbage salad. I’ll have to see what else is in the frig.” I laughed, as if he knew my answer. I needed to think. Probably ice cream.

It was oddly empty at the condo when I returned. I listened to Joy FM, a Christian radio station out of Tampa. I ate the cabbage salad. I plugged away at the crosswords puzzles. Tuesday’s are not suppose to be this hard. And I watched the clock, envisioning Dad on his trip back to New York, reading The Forgotten Man.

He won’t be.

Up Hill

Its ten miles. Up hill all the way, a very different commute from a flat mile to the Tarpon Springs Public Library where I use to meet with other writers. And easy walk. Not a trying climb on bike.

At Kona Stories, an independent bookstore in Kealakekua, there is a writers group that meets on Thursdays. I attended last week. The group had a guest writer, Ellisa Elliott, promoting her book Eve, a novel of the first woman.

Of Scandinavian stock her presence dominated the tiny lanai where we, the aspiring writers, sat in a circle of chairs to seek advice on the acquisition of an agent, and publisher. Her own story filled the breezy altitude with enough electrons to power a small city. With her can do attitude she admitted that not until she left her writers group was she able to seize the task of researching and hunting down an agent that might be interested in taking her on as a client. The process is not that mysterious, but it is a lot of hard, tenacious work.

Elissa will do well in any pursuit. Highly energized and sincere in presentation she's knowledgeable, confident and is not intimidated by any task before her. She advised us, "Don't worry about it. Not everybody is going to like you."

I am just beginning to read her book. It opens with a grabbing sentence. I came upon my son’s body by the river. She does well to explain in the afterword her research and some of the decisions she made in order to write the details of a story most of us think we know.

Since the writers meeting was not the norm, I could not asset the strength of the group, but I made notes of those who spoke, what they said and what they thought was important. I’ll soon have to asset the value of trucking ten miles uphill.

Missed Opportunity

How many times have I heard American is experiencing an economical crisis, if in appearance but psychologically rooted? We suffer from a lack of trust in our institutions – government, Wall Street, banking, auto manufacturing, housing, etc… We have nowhere to turn and put our trust. The economic crisis and responding actions taken haven’t been fair to those of us who didn’t go into debt, or didn’t borrow beyond our means, or didn’t spend our future on those things we wanted today.

These days Americans ask what can we trust in? What is there to believe in? Bennie Madoff, Tim Geithner, Barney Franks, Santa Claus?

And the answer is quite simple. Look at your dollar. Sorry. Flip over that last penny in your pocket. Read what our Founding Fathers declared.

Let’s not forget the basics. In God we Trust. If that is too simple for you, or you just scoffed, I ask, “What are you trusting these days?”

Pau Hana

My aunt and uncle arranged for a presentation at their West Maui Book Club. I wasn’t sure what I should talk about. (Yeah I know, the book, stupid.) There was interest in the joys of self-publishing. My aunt and uncle set about marketing the presentation by contacting several local papers and weekly flyers on the west side of Maui. I think we all expected a front page article with color photo. Big Island author that I am, and everything!

I donated several books to the Hawaii Library system to circulate among the club members so they could quiz me about my sanity, which always seems to be the subject of curious readers of the Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin.

A couple of days before leaving for Hawaii I dug out past presentations and glued a few bits and pieces together and added some original thoughts. During the week I glanced at the pages to be sure I could remember most of what I wanted to say without reading text. I hate sitting through presentations where the speakers read. My uncle thought I was going to deliver a sermon. Maybe one day.

There were probably fifteen people at the event. More than I expected. I sold six books, far more than I expected as the usual course of economics works out to be 1 sale/hr. That’s about $10.00 an hour, or so I tell myself. So it was by far a record breaking event.

I keep eyeballing the cruise ships in the harbor. Maybe I can put on a muumuu and a funny weave hat, sport a tattoo and hawk my book down at the wharf.

“Hey Lady. You got a permit for that?”

Getting Here

I hadn’t been through that much de-icing since Al Gore declared his inconvenient truth about global warming. The slushy substance oozed down the window, first a trickle and then a good sloshing like a glacier flow in spring, or during a cycle of thermal proliferation.

The first plane had been cancelled, an accidental discovery at 3 am when I went on the web to check airport and weather status. A click to the Delta website and there in bold letters – CANCEL, the flight from Albany to JFK. I figured such a thing would happen. Oh well, I’m flexible. It wasn’t like I had a hotel reservation and a six night window to cram an annual vacation into before I got back to a crunch job.

Before leaving the house for the airport I re-scheduled the trip to Maui through Cincinnati and Salt Lake City. And if all went well, we would arrive in the Aloha State four hours ahead of the original schedule. Looking out the window of the plane in the predawn and listening to the muffled splashes on the fuselage I held no hope of making a 30 minute connection. I resigned to spending one long day in some airport lounge, at best in a hotel room in the Blue Grass State. (Yes, the Cincinnati is in Kentucky.)

Cincinnati was covered in a combination of winter weather: sleet, snow and freezing rain under a white fog. Despite thinking we would never get out of there because we were late and bad weather, Dad and I made a quick trip from concourse to concourse. At the closed gate with a plane still on the jet way, the agent opened the door for us, the last of seven to make the flight from the Albany connection. Our seats had been given away and I expected our luggage would sit on the tarmac for a day and a half before catching up with us in Maui.

They wanted to check Dad's carry-on, but because it had all his medication, the attendants found space somewhere for it. I crammed into a middle seat next to a real white-knuckled flier who throughout the flight clutched the back of the seat and literally gasped when we hit the least amount of turbulance. It was a smooth flight and I felt sorry for the guy.

Salt Lake also experienced snow. Again, an OJ Simpson-like dash through the airport, concourse to concourse. We again found the plane waiting for us. If miracles of miracles got our luggage on the plane from Cincinnati, there couldn’t possibly be another miracle to get our luggage on this plane.

We sat near the bulkhead door and froze our asses off for six hours. The only consolation was that when the door opened, the blast of air on the other side would be 45 degrees above the freezing mark. Yeah, it was pouring rain but I wasn’t on vacation. I was in my home state, Hawaii. With my luggage!!

Delta is one of the few remaining airlines that doesn't charge for luggage, at least not the first bag going to Hawaii. (I checked their website to read the policy and because of the merge with Northwest it was too confusing to decipher. Well, not really, I was just too impatient to read it all.)

Good job Delta.

Garbage Disposal

Yep, this blog entry is about a garbage disposal.

Before leaving Hawaii in November I noticed a small leak under the sink. Added this to my To Do List that included calling a plumber. I even looked up the phone number, but secretly hoped that in the three intervening months the rust corroding the flange between the disposal and sink will somehow seal itself shut and dry. Of course things like that never happen.

Shortly after my arrival back in Hawaii I inspect the situation in the kitchen. Leaking a little bit more. Never having the experience of installing a disposal I took a shot at it. Installation? Not too difficult. Extracting an old rusty coupling, and snap ring? Ah, that was a different story.

With the help of a guy named Jim, a Lowes employee who had been a rocket scientist in a previous life, I located a new flange and sink drain housing. “Looks more complicated than I thought”, I told him. Not really he assured me. And explained the process in detail. The reason he did this was because he has sent his wife on some wild chases after things and wanted to be as helpful to me as he expects others to be toward his wife. A good Christian sort of thing.


Armed with bolt buster and plumber’s putty I left the store on a mission. After saturating the rusty coupling rings I began to whack away at the rust. I hadn’t seen that much oxidized metal since I left the harbor in Micronesia. The stuff fell off in chunks like stalactites from a cave’s ceiling. I never thought I would have enough muscle to get the two frozen pieces of metal apart. After a series of sprayings and whackings the disposal began to work its way off the coupling. But there was still a welded snap ring under the rust on the flange and sink drain. I would not have known it was there except I had the replacement part to compare and examine.

More spray and finally the rusted “Jesus ring” appeared. A whack or two later and it fell off. With a little bit more muscle the top coupling dropped off and the old sink drain was free. Rust and caked plumber putty everywhere. Neither tasted very good.

Since I tore everything apart I took little note of how the bottom coupling piece attached to the disposal housing. I concluded that the rusted bottom coupling came with the disposal and that needed to be cleaned as I didn't have a replacement part. While I didn’t get down to bear metal, a good bit of the corrosion was removed with a hammer and chisel. My finger nails were stained like I had a very bad nicotine habit.

During another trip to the hardware store to get a wire brush I discovered that I need the gasket in order to reattach the old bottom coupling to the disposal. This was just a lucky accident. Still it took some mock installations before I figured out how everything would go together. I still can't believe that the gasket holds this thirty pound piece of equipment to the coupling. But it does. Or at least it does in this installation.

Jim offered a last bit of advice. “After you put the putty in place and press down on the sink’s top flange, go have a beer. Let it set a bit before you tighten it all the way. It’s a hydraulic thing. In five minutes it will be ready to tighten up.”

“Takes me more than five minutes to drink a beer.” I haven’t ever drunk a beer.

“Good, you’ll be all set then.”

That was the easy part. To install the disposal I wedged myself completely under the sink and got my legs in place so I could lift and wedge it into position while Dad aligned the unit so I wouldn’t have to replumb anything. Some more hammering required, although directions said, “Simply turn into place.” Nothing like using a hammer on something other than a nail. It took some contortion to get out from behind the disposal and p-trap.

Now I got papaya seeds being ground to smithereens. No drips, no runs and no errors. Add another skill to the resume.

Looking Up

I listened to the rain pound on the concrete decking of my yard. A lunar eclipse seemed out of the question when I went to bed. I rose at 2:38 am needing to pee. I almost didn’t bother to peek outside. I expected a thick layer of clouds, but I found the moon dancing behind a breaking layer. A few minutes later the skies cleared and I stayed up for a show.

I’m no astronomer so to me an eclipse is an eclipse. Okay, I get solar and lunar, but not so much the concept of umbra and penumbra. The difference is way cool and not so cool to the point of “should have stayed in bed”.

Back in New York it is 9:06 am, time to call the electrician, or maybe the heat and air guys or the fire department. Apartment number 3 smells smoke and hears cracking noises from the fuse box. JMJ. Here in Hawaii, the moon is just beginning to dull, as if some weak shadow is falling over it. Hey, that is what an eclipse is all about. It’s 4:09 am. The early morning hours have made me hungry. Dad is sleeping. I wish I knew how to shoot the moon with my camera. Just one big ball of blinding white light.

While I wait for something spectacular to occur, I wait on the tenant to call me back. Lost phone last month so I lost the electrician's phone number. Haven’t paid him yet for last visit in January because I left town for Hawaii and the bill is most likely sitting in Dad’s mail box. I’m darn close to becoming a deadbeat.

The peak of the event is at 4:39 am. I’m ready to crawl back onto my mattress laid out on the floor in my office. Dad’s got my bed. It’s okay. I sleep about as good as I normally sleep which isn’t good.

I feel like I need to write one of those “catch everybody up on everything that has happened” Christmas newsletters. No blogs since mid-January.

If four seasons of Lost can be covered in 4 minutes (see abc.com) I should be able to wrap up 30 days in a sentence. After subzero temperatures and enough snow to pile it over seven feet high at the end of Dad’s driveway I escaped to Hawaii. Ta-Da.

Well, the northern half of the moon is a bit darker than the lower half. I think that is the show. No stark contrasting disk falling over the light. Just a grayish foggy look. Penumbra. Remember that. If I had not known, I’d miss it. Geez, I even hear a rooster crowing. God, I hope my place isn’t burning down.