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.

Peace Corps - Micronesia 70 and 71

Once the flight attendant announced that in case the plane turned into a cruise ship and the life vests were under the seat, passengers decided it was a good idea to applaud the landing. My plane arrived on time in Manchester, New Hampshire. Actually five minutes early. Hurray for SouthWest Airline. I removed my seatbelt and moved freely about the airport for two hours waiting on Christy.

It’s going to be a great weekend visiting with Peace Corps friends. The occasion: Jess and Jerry’s wedding. Stay tuned

Photo Log

Jack Attack

I’m not a fisherman and can't tell the difference between a tuna and a chicken except by the label on the can. Ok, I’m not really that inept.

Let me introduce the lesser amberjack- olive green or brownish black and silver sides; dark band (variably present) extends upward from eye; juveniles have split or wavy bars on sides; proportionately larger eye and deeper body than greater amberjack. Affectionately known as “jacks” a lightening fast fish is known for a low leap out of the water in large schools. While kayaking I’ve startled many schools of jack. Or maybe they have startled me. It is pretty awesome to see them crowd out of the water.

This afternoon Chuck, Bob and I were kayaking the Anclote River. Low tide pushed us down the river toward the Gulf. Ahead of us, I saw a large school of jacks fly out of the water. They looked like gazelles sprinting across the Serengeti. In low arches the fish crossed the surface of the water, repeating the jump several times before disappearing beneath the water.

As we approached the spot where they had been we were talking. I had forgotten about the fish when Bob’s kayak caused the fish to jump out the water. The stampede began. They crossed in front of Chuck’s kayak, but they were on a crash course for my boat.

When in the thick of things, you sometimes miss the appreciation for what happens. All at once I was in the middle of a wall of fish leaping over the bow of my kayak and slamming into the side of the hull right below my paddle. They beat on the hull like a drum. Thump followed thump as the fish followed the leader like lemmings over a cliff. I raised my paddle expecting to get hit in the ribs by the flying fish. It was like being in an avalanche.

As suddenly as it happened, it was over. I inspected my boat amazed I wasn’t hit and that I had no flopping fish in the cockpit. Nor did I find any scales stuck to the bow, but there were several brown streaks left behind. No it didn’t belong to me.

Mary

Mary left a week ago on Saturday. She sold the double bed where she slept with her husband before he died. After she gave the bulk of her household goods to Goodwill, it took only boxes to pack her belongings into the back seat of her Toyota Camry. I gave her two books on tape to listen to on the drive through the Carolinas and the Middle Atlantic States. She was headed home to live with her sister in Rhodes Island. Just outside of Providence. Everything in Rhodes Island is just outside of Providence.

I said good-bye to her after church. We were pew mates, if there is such a thing. She reserved our seats with her Bible and a cup of coffee tucked under the pew while she served as a greeter. I wished her well. How did that get started?

And even though we exchanged email addresses, I know we won’t keep in contact. I don’t keep in contact with those who are closer to me, why would I email someone who I have known only on Sundays for the past five or six months? That’s the way it is.

Oddly, I’ve missed her. I pray she is well. Do we all end up going home?

Journal

If I was still in the Peace Corps, those of you who use to get the Journal would get a field entry sounding something like this.

Last night, I went to the theater to see Twelve Angry Men. Very enjoyable. I've seen the movie a couple of times and it is one of my favorites. John Boy Walton (Richard Thomas) played Juror #8, Fonda's role. Went with Russ, Master Electrican, who has worked for the government for the last 30 years. Currently he is learning Ballroom dancing. After the show, he walked me to my car. Kissed me goodnight. Since it was 9:45 on a Friday night and I found myself in Tampa, I hustled back across the Bay to a Mexican restaurant where Robert was finishing up his guitar gig. I bummed a 1/2 eaten burrito off of some woman, who had it in a to-go box. Her name PZ, never met her before. I loaded it with hot salsa and washed it down with a bummed margarita. Got kissed good night again, just before midnight.

Kissed goodnight by two guys on the same night. Don't think that ever happened before.

What is it?

Contest: Guess what this is a photo of?

Daytona - Part 1

If you found it impossible to schedule an MRI this past week, the reason might have been that the Who’s Who of Imagining Techs were in Daytona, Florida upgrading their certifications, know how and driving skills at the International Speedway. I couldn’t help but think of Dale Earnhardt as I drove past the famous raceway. I’m not a huge auto racing fan. Nevertheless, I can tell you where I was when I heard the news that Number 3 went into the wall.


I’m not an MRI tech either, but Robin is and she had been in Daytona since Sunday. Conference over on Wednesday at noon, I drove to the east coast and found the streets empty. If this was a town out west, sagebrush would have tumbled down the middle of Main Street. Life guards were all but sleep in their chairs as they watch a handful of tourist frolic in the warm waters of the Atlantic. God, how I miss the ocean.

I took a scenic route over on State Highway 50, cutting through the heart of Florida. Once I got to Clermont I thought I died and went to Heaven. As much as I love the oceans, I love the mountains and Florida doesn’t have any. In Clermont the earth rose to a staggering height so much so I could see the skyline of Orlando in the distance. I bet you can see Disney’s nightly fireworks in the town.

The highest place in Florida is — Britton Hill in Lakewood in Walton County, located in the Panhandle — is a mere 345 feet. Of the highest points in the 50 states, it is the lowest.

Robin tried to sneak up on me as I waited for her in the lobby of the Hilton. Nice hotel, of course, but subject to the city’s ability to maintain their water supply systems. Reminded of the fancy hotels I stayed at in Bangkok and Singapore where the water wasn’t potable. In the morning a notice had been slid under the door that the water wasn’t safe to drink. Suddenly, the $3.00 bottles of water staged in the rooms were complimentary! It was Aquafina. Where do you think that comes from? The tap.

Some things we did:

Walked on the beach and Robin got blisters. Stopped in at Starbuck’s for coffee and to ice the feet down. Then took off for the Ponce Inlet Light Station Got there right at closing, but we managed to buy a couple of t-shirts. Buy now, we were famished. Thought we would eat some fish, but not the one we found floating in the drink. Instead, we went to Aunt Catfish's. I had garlic scallops. Robin had shrimp, salmon and Dijon scallops. .

We debated the weight of the catfish and decided that if this fish did weight 435 pounds,
catfish could feed a lot of starving people. World hungry demolished. Maybe we had too many margaritas.

Cool beanereno, Jen. We were thinking of you.

To Serve

He said, “Let’s pray about it.”

I wondered if I held my flinch. I know I flinched on the inside. Praying is not one of my talents. Yes, I pray. I start conversations with God all the time. Before I go to sleep, I read the Bible and remember certain people in my prayers. Say thanks and praise God for all my blessings and fortune. I think of at least one event or thought of the day were I connected with God. Write it down.

But when Hal suggested we pray about conducting a Financial Peace University class at the church I flinched. I went to the 9:30 service thinking, “If I wanted to pray about something, I’d pray for something I want.” Like a pony.

Of course, I volunteered to teach the class. Worked up the nerve to do so. Or maybe had enough “conversations” with God about it. Got hit in the head with a few messages from the pulpit. Decided I could give to the church this way.

Now I have to pray about it. Guess, that was what I had been doing all along, so I wondered why we had to pray some more.

Wait.

Fresh Water Jellies

Here is an interesting link to a site about fresh water jellyfish. A friend of mine told me she had them in her pond...in New York. I looked up the site and discovered they are also in Lake George. Just another reason why I swim in a pool.

Ugh

I hadn’t been to the waterfront Tarpon Springs in a couple of months. It was early Saturday morning. Since the snowbirds and tourist haven’t returned in full bloom to the tiny Greek community it is still possible to wander aimlessly back and forth across the street and not get hit by a car. I had a mission of sorts: look for a wedding present, a Halloween costume and Christmas presents. Since I am not a shopper I’d combine the task into one recon to gift shops.

I had more success finding Halloween costumes if I wanted to be a Greek fisherman, gypsy or belly dancer.My stomach flab dances quite nicely on its own so I passed on the belly dancer and opted to let Nancy cover me with the Halloween costume needed for a wedding at the end of October. Yup, a wedding. I got a few Christmas ideas but didn’t have much luck with the wedding gift. But when Tina Caros gets married in May, well I’m loaded with ideas.

The stroll up and down the street and all that poking in and out of the shops, smiling at store clerks who for the most part were disinterested in engaging in conversation or commerce left me hungry. Time for Santorini’s a Greek restaurant on the Anclote River. I had in mind a Greek salad, but when the menu came I remembered a wonderful creation call Pasa Dava, a lamb dish. however, I wasn’t that hungry so I selected the Greek grouper sandwich.

Delicious, except before I got home my stomach was under revolt and the head didn't feel none too good either. Maybe it was the tartar sauce.

As I sat on the table overlooking the water I thought a lot about my life. (How many times have I sat looking at the surface of water and lost myself in thought?)The pondering was most likely spawned by the death of Murphy Lipai. Pohnpei and Peace Corps seemed so far way. I wanted to go back there for the first time since leaving but can't cough up $2700 for the airfare.

I picked up the salt and pepper shakers—both products imported from Greece. How come Micronesia doesn’t do this? How come I don’t do it? Suddenly I was thinking like a business person again, something I haven’t done in sometime. I liked it.

Too bad David, my business partner, doesn’t read my blogs…he is going to miss the opportunity of my weakness and the chance to lure me back to the real world.

Had to be the food, the bathroom is calling. It is a good reality check. Remember my first three months in Micronesia...daily diarrhea.

Murphy Lipai

To use absolutes is often too exaggerate, but in this case there is no exaggeration. Everyone knew Murphy Lipai and Murphy Lipai knew everyone. At least on Pohnpei, an island of 30,000 in the Western Pacific in a country known as The Federated States of Micronesia. He was my Mwoakillese host father, Pahpa. This afternoon, I learned that he had a heart attack and passed away. I cried and felt so far away from my family.

Memories rush over me as I wept for a man a few years older than me, but nevertheless my father. The care he and his wife, Marianna, gave me while I was a Peace Corps Volunteer was no less than what any parent would give their own child. Mom once told me that she believed if any of her kids came to America they would be treated the same way.

Some memories were poignant, others ordinary, but each special. In January 2004, Murphy came to the Peace Corps office, looking for me. My first family could no longer host me and I wanted to stay in the Mwoakillese community on Sokehs. After a couple of weeks trying to find another family without much success, I thought I would have to move to another village. Murphy asked if I would stay with his family. I forever became part of the Lipai family.

Murphy Lipai was a patriarch in every sense of the word. He gave respect and rightly earned it in return. A community leader he was involved in the local government on Pohnpei, in his community and on his native island of Mwoakil. He spoke often of his concern for the future of the large youth population that were at risk of losing their traditions and language, and had limited educational and employment opportunities. He envisioned a future, but saw the youth without focus, lost and bored. He expressed a concern for the corruption of traditional, elected and business leaders, yet he worked with all parties, believing it would yield a better life for all Micronesians. He was a minister. He delivered sermons in the local language I could never understand, but like a little kid I was so proud of my father standing behind the pulpit. Unlike many Micronesians he had a job and went to work, yet he gathered food from his land. He’d carry home papaya and bananas in one hand and a machete in the other. In the back yard he grew yams. But unlike many, he didn’t raise pigs.

Each morning he would wipe the dust and grime off the hood of his new Ford pickup. The meticulous care for the car was unusual, in a country that couldn’t seem to sustain anything on its own. But Murphy was like that—different than most. Murphy drove me to work most mornings and we talked about politics, religion, his family and his plans.

A tall skinny man (the whole family was skinny), he realized the importance of education even in a country where subsistence living was the way of life. His sons and daughters went to college or joined the US Army. At his passing only he and his wife remained in Micronesia, the rest had come to America.

He planned to retire in a couple of years, build a new house and start his own business. He and his wife would visit America, but he was a man of the land that sits in the middle of the ocean, a Micronesian who gave tomorrow to his family while he stayed on his land and kept the traditions.

There is a forty day funeral in Micronesia I wish I could attend.

Not Volkswagens

Finally, something worth writing about. I wasn’t going to waste anytime on them, but I couldn’t resist.

I had left the Jeep windows open (nothing to steal inside and once a thief saw the odometer reading over 320,000 miles, he wouldn’t steal the Jeep either) when I stopped at Publix for a quart of milk and a loaf of bread. Not really.

I must have been distracted by the Hispanic man who thought I was going to run over him or maybe it was the young guy wearing shorts and work boots while sitting on the curb in the handicap zone smoking a cigarette. Either reason, I didn’t notice. But I wasn’t distracted when I came out of the store with my bananas apples, milk and cream.

It was hard not to notice them. They were definitely back, but I would swear they only appear in the spring to splatter the front grille of cars from Daytona to Tarpon with their bodies.

Love Bugs, flying insects consisting of wings and sex organs. They are seen only when copulating. And they fly when they copulate landing indiscriminately on your head, your arms, your pants…

I carried six couples into the Jeep as I frantically jammed the key into the ignition to roll up the power windows. They were on the inside of the windshield, the front seat, the back seat and I didn’t look, but I bet they were in the back cargo area. I dared not yell in frustration for fear one would be sucked down the esophagus.

Feeling itchy? Yeah, me too.

Don't Forget

The initial numbers are indelible: 8:46 a.m. and 9:02 a.m. Time the burning towers stood: 56 minutes and 102 minutes. Time they took to fall: 12 seconds.

Total number killed in attacks (official figure as of 9/5/02): 2,819

Number of firefighters and paramedics killed: 343

Number of NYPD officers: 23

Number of Port Authority police officers: 37

Number of WTC companies that lost people: 60

Number of employees who died in Tower One: 1,402

Number of employees who died in Tower Two: 614

Number of employees lost at Cantor Fitzgerald: 658


Number of nations whose citizens were killed in attacks: 115

Ratio of men to women who died: 3:1

Age of the greatest number who died: between 35 and 39

Bodies found "intact": 289

Body parts found: 19,858

Number of families who got no remains: 1,717

Estimated units of blood donated to the New York Blood Center: 36,000

Total units of donated blood actually used: 258

Number of people who lost a spouse or partner in the attacks: 1,609

Estimated number of children who lost a parent: 3,051

Percentage of Americans who knew someone hurt or killed in the attacks: 20

FDNY retirements, January–July 2001: 274

FDNY retirements, January–July 2002: 661

Number of firefighters on leave for respiratory problems by January 2002: 300

Number of funerals attended by Rudy Giuliani in 2001: 200

Number of FDNY vehicles destroyed: 98

Tons of debris removed from site: 1,506,124

Days fires continued to burn after the attack: 99

Jobs lost in New York owing to the attacks: 146,100

Days the New York Stock Exchange was closed: 6

Point drop in the Dow Jones industrial average when the NYSE reopened: 684.81

Percentage increase in Peace Corps applications from 2001 to 2002: 40

Percentage increase in CIA applications from 2001 to 2002: 50

Estimated number of New Yorkers suffering from post-traumatic-stress disorder as a result of 9/11: 422,000

Tuesday

Do not forget. It is not over.

Welcome Home Committee

A few months ago, Diablo got a hold of the sizeable black snake that had been slithering outside, occasionally stopping on the concrete walk beneath the two cats' noses, but safely on the opposite side of the screened porch. Diablo’s reaction to this languid teasing was to drop into the hunting position while Phoenix, always the wiser of the two felines, flattened her ears and took more of a defensive posture.

One afternoon I let Diablo out for a supervised gecko patrol. Lounging beside the dock while she snooped under the bushes looking for GEICO representatives, my attention to her hunt relaxed until she took off after something. I figured it was a fat lizard. It turned out to be the black snake hell bent on escaping the fanged tabby’s pursuit.

She managed to yank its tail before I could snag the leash she wore. When I pulled her out of the bush, she brought the serpent with her. Fortunately, she dropped it and it coiled up into a tight ball of scales. I’ll this fieriness from a cat who is scared to death of Dad’s garden hose.

As I unloaded the Jeep I met the snake on the front sidewalk. He struck a pose as quickly as I did. I suggested he turn tail which he finally did after I faked a “shoo” at him. But when I returned with baggage in hand piled to my chin, I caught him making his way through the grass on his originally intended course. Bold.

Sixty laps in the pool under the Florida sun. Meeting with Tarpon Springs Writers Group. Lunch at Danny K's...life is coming back. And the good news was I only gain half a pound.

Phase II

“What’s in the refrigerator?” I asked. I opened the door to find a half a bottle of fruit punch Powerade. In the nearly empty refrigerator the red drink appeared as bright as a South Boston tavern’s neon light advertising Budweiser. In a thin jar five Calamata olives gently floated in the dark brown liquid as I inspected the contents. I wondered if they were still good. What had I used them in? And remembered a lime chicken dish I prepare for an Italian themed neighborhood picnic. How many ago months was that? I wrinkled up my nose and tighten the lid as a precaution. Mental note:toss them out. But for now I returned the jar to the shelf.

Next to the olives was a container of raw hemp protein, a left over from one of my recent health kick projects. I’ll experiment with just about anything to remedy hot flashes. The powdery substance tasted nutty, but the green color had been hardly visually appealing when mixed with yogurt or sprinkled on cantaloupe. Beyond the usual staples of mustard, mayo, a tub of butter and a couple packets of ketchup there wasn’t much else.

The items reminded me of a life I had six weeks ago, but it seemed a lot longer than that. Time and distance seemed a little warped after my three day drive south from New York.

I was reentering my Florida life. The next six months. Looking around the condo, nothing had changed. Nothing seemed different in the neighborhood either, but I had not given it a close inspection. I had been focused on driving as safely as I could with two cats sensing something was up. After 1500 miles and three days in the car, they were smart enough to know that the last fifteen minutes of driving was more herky-jerky, and slower as I thread the Jeep through traffic lights, right and left turns and over speed bumps. Both were alert and on the prowl. By the time I pulled in front of the condo, Diablo was on my lap head down into the doorwell trying to push the door open with her head and ready to leap out.

I carried her to the condo door, and tossed her into the hall way asking, “Look familiar?” She jumped when she saw her reflection in the hallway mirror and I remembered her first experience in the condo six months ago. I had carried her into the bedroom and put her on the bed. When I returned with Phoenix she was frozen, staring at the intimidating tabby cat she saw in the full length mirror on the closet door. “Diablo it is you,” I explained stepping between her and her image to make the other cat disappear.

The place smelled like new carpet, just as it had back in February, a smell that became so familiar I couldn't detect it any longer. Now it was fresh again, but filled with memories of a simple life I left...writing, kaykaing, running and swimming. It comforted me and the cats. I settled them in with their litter box, food bowls and water dish. I’m back to what I left behind six weeks ago. I pulled out my computer and began to write.

Phase two begins.

Tifton, Georgia

I’ve left behind the cooler temperatures of the North East and have driven south to slide under a hot heavy damp blanket of South Georgia. Tifton. The size of the phone book suggests a town of one horse, a boiled peanut stand and a factory outlet for towels and sheets. But at Exit 62 the double-laned road choked with tractor trailers and pick ups, lined with cheap chain hotels, gas stations, Americana fast food and the ubiquitous Wal-Mart, sprawls as an oasis of commerce for those who are just passing through. Could anyone live here?

This is day two of my long road trip to Florida. Traveling with cats is like getting your sea legs...a three day process. On day one the cats are shocked, and silently huddle in any little crack or crevasse, they can squeeze their little bodies into. On day two, they protest, wandering about, gazing out the windows, piling on my lap and for Phoenix yelling her head off. On day three, they settle in bored with watching telephone poles and white dotted line whiz by.

I've been juicing Phoenix up. Not an easy task.

Labor Day

It took me most of the morning to clean up all my project messes around the house, basement and garage. Rats, or something picked up the small bird skull and bill that I had left on the sill in the garage. Unbelievable. When I asked Dad if he had moved the skull, he said no, but he had found a dead chipmunk in the garage. No, he didn’t save the head for me. Well, one less thing to pack.

I cleaned paint brushes and dirt from a couple of pieces of wood I found interesting in shape. I packed up my books, some new and some old. Assembled an assortment of cat toys littered about the living room. Tossed a pile of dirty clothes in the washer. And wondered if I could get it all back into the Jeep.

Before going into town for some Vanilla Coke Zero and Saratoga Water for the trip, I snuck up on Phoenix, sleeping on Mom’s bed and injected her with 150 mil of solution. Pats on the back for the cat and for me. I hope I am so lucky at 4 AM when we launch for the voyage south. First day we hope to cover 825 miles to Bean Station. Yes, fourteen hours.
This afternoon, Dad and I hefted the kayak onto the car and headed to Moreau for a trial float around the lake. The boat appeared tight and sea worthy. We ended up ferrying two kids across the strait on the east shore when their adult companions were hell bent on crossing. I allowed one to paddle with Dad (not very often one gets to paddle a 70 year old boat) while I scoured the shore for driftwood. Found a huge spider. Huge.

This evening, I sat outside on the back steps and husked four ears of corn. Listened to a blue jay squabble in the bush. Heard the crickets chirp under the hedge. And watched a whisper of wind carry the day away to where the sun fell into the spruce, elm and butternut before dipping behind Hagadorn’s Mountain. Summer is over. Pool closed. Back to School.

Mt Joe

"Let's go to Mt. Joe," he said. And so we did, although I was a bit skeptical that Dad could make it up the 713 foot climb over .9 miles. Yes, not really a huge mountain, a mountain surrounded by the high peaks of the Adirondacks. Mt. Marcy a mere six miles away.
Nevertheless, on a crispy morning, we set off for the trailhead.

Unfortunately, so did a few hundred others, from US and Canada. Both countries are celebrating Labor Day and the parking lots were full. In order to begin a short hike, one had to take a long walk from the roadside about a mile down a hill...the only available parking, unless you were willing to wait for departing early bird hikers. We opted for this and twenty minutes later we were ready to begin the hike.

I let Dad set the pace. Drawing on my Outward Bound experience, I patiently fell in behind and took snaps. Many hikers, including a two year old "K-becker" passed us.
And the words of wisdom Dad offered, "You climb a mountain one step at a time," applied to every one who hoofed it to the summit.

Buck Mountain

After putting another coat of paint on the kayak, I headed up to Lake George's east shore and climbed Buck Mountain. A 2200 foot gain over 3.3 miles, it isn't a hard climb. Kept the pace for 1.5 hours to the summit. Beneath the canpoy of hardwoods and pines, it felt like fall. Tonight, the mercury is dipping to the forties. Flurries will be flying soon in the Big North Country. Time to head south.


Ra, I attempted to go down route 9 and ran into the same traffic problem we hit last weekend. After a U-turn, I had a chance to take a snap of MightMouse. I thought elephants were scared of mice.