Volcano National Park

They sat at the curb waiting for my arrival. The Expedition handled eight, but we were nine – seven of them, Dad and me. I told them to bring sleeping bags, towels and warm clothes. When I saw the amount of luggage I never thought we would get it into the small storage space behind the third row of seats. Or if we got the luggage stowed, the kids would be left behind. Surprisingly, everything fit.

Off to Volcanoes National Park, a short 30 miles south of the Hilo Airport.

Promotional literature gives the impression that a tourist will witness earth being born as red lava flows from the depth of the planet. No such thing. Yes, there is lava, but... Three years ago, I hiked four miles over black sun baked barren lave fields to see the red glow of hot rock. The red glow was as impressive as the hot burners on a George Foreman grill. But I saw it and felt the heat, a few degrees hotter than the surrounding terrain. If I had a hot dog I would have cooked it.

Presently, lava flows on state land, not in the park; therefore, it isn't accessible to the public. Only by air can you see the red lava, and I am going to assume it is not flowing. Nothing is reaching the ocean at this time. However, Kilauea is spewing so much noxious sulfur fumes that the road around the crater is closed, and at times, the visitor center and museum are also closed. The rangers are conducting no outside activities.

I was disappointed that my Brazilian friends would not be able to see Hawaii growing at their feet. Nevertheless we made the most of the day, the highlight being the walk through the lava tube.

We made South Point just before sundown. They asked me what was there and I said, “Nothing really.” Not even a sign that identifies it as the most southern place in the US. I had to explain the words most southern. The sunset was spectacular.

It is a dark and windy road home. Dad was nodding off. After all, we had been up since 5 am in order to drive to Hilo and pick up the Expedition at Harper Rentals and be at the airport by 9:50. We had time to that morning so I showed him David and Kate’s fourteen acre spread and we bought sandwiches for lunch, thus avoiding the snack bar prices at the Kilauea Lodge.

We arrived at my condo. they tumbled out of the vehicle and rallied to unload the gear. We cooked three pizza, exchanged photos, put together a morning departure time to Mauna Kea and went to sleep.

Reminded me of Micronesia. Everyone sleeping on the floor. Except me and Dad.

An Experience

The light rays rose over the Kohala Mountains and spilled over the Waimea Valley. In the distance sat Mauna Kea, without a cloud on the summit. The December snows glared like a white blank canvas, empty of detail, places where God had forgotten to paint. The Bee Gee lyrics “How deep is your love, I really need to know” played on the stereo mixed with the excited conversations of seven young Brazilians. I commanded the Ford Expedition, driving the behemoth vehicle through old lava fields far above the coast line, where a rich blue collided with the black lava in an explosion of foaming white.

We were headed to the tallest mountain on earth. Destination: Summit of Mauna Kea. Purpose: to play in it, to slide on it, to rolling in it, to touch it, to throw it, to examine it, and to eat it. It – snow. They had never seen It before. And back home in New York eleven inches of It was falling in Saratoga. Last week I invited the Brazilians to come to The Big Island.

In December they came to Maui, to work and study as part of their college education and a International YMCA counselor program. Their parents loaned them the funds, but to reimburse the money they worked with an entertainment company setting up banquets – everything from ironing the linens to staging.

Amanda and Woody came first, as reconnoiters and negotiated a deal for a place to live and a car. They resourcefully supplemented their needs by perusing garage sales. Budgets were tight.. Early hours and long days. For three months they tried to get to the Big Island. Tickets were too expensive and it was impossible to rent a car since they were all under twenty. It looked like the opportunity would slip away, until we met on the snorkel boat. With only five days left on Hawaii before they had to return to their classes in Brazil to become engineers, teachers and doctors, they came to the Big Island.

When I was in the Peace Corps I had such a privilege to work and become friends with many fine young Americans, fresh out of college. Their enthusiasm, work ethic, and raw optimism left me with no doubts that America’s future would some day be in good hands. After being with the Brazilians for two days I know Brazil’s future is just as bright living up to its motto – order and progress.

The Brazilians Are Coming

The next two days will be hectic, but Im looking forward to hosting seven students from Brazil. Stay tuned. They arrive in Hilo tomorrow morning. First destination - after renting a 4WD - the volanco.

Blinded

Never turn your back on the ocean. I know this. So I didn’t. The wave rolled in and crashed over the lava rocks. It surged higher than the rest filling the secret pool I had been looking for this morning. I expected to get wet, but the wave was bigger than I expected. I got drenched. Small wonder I wasn’t knocked off my feet and into the pool, which was about six feet deep. I tasted the salt of the ocean on my lips and before I could focus my sight on my predicament I knew I had lost my glasses.

I couldn’t believe I had done such a stupid tourist thing. And I wasn’t positive my glasses were even at the bottom. A shadow float by. A fish I presumed. Nothing but a blurry shape. If I couldn’t see if was a fish, how would I find my glasses? My six hundred plus dollar glasses after insurance.

Two local men, who had been standing near the shore heard me yell to Dad I had lost my glasses. They strolled over and scanned the pool. “What color are they?”
“ They are clear, frameless.” How many times had I searched my apartment looking for the damn things, unable to see them sitting on the table unless my face was only a couple feet away. Now the nearly invisible specs lay on the bottom of some swimming hole among the spiny sea urchins. Or maybe they fell to the other side. I tried to remember how the wave hit me. Which way had I turned?

I needed an optical mask, snorkel and fins and a couple of hours to scour the bottom. If I was lucky I’d find them and maybe if I was even luckier they wouldn’t be damaged.

One guy volunteered to get his mask, but I later learned he trotted off to his massage appointment. Christopher a lanky fellow with long red hair and surfer trunks to match that barely clung to his hips took a long drag off his cigarette before offering to help. He seemed reluctant to get wet, but might have been more inclined not to want to chase his morning beer with sea water. I told the gathered men I’d be back after I got my mask and I trudged up the hill to Boss Frog.

Boss Frog was just up the street and since I had been snorkeling two days ago I knew the 3.5 optical correction would give me a clear enough vision that I could spot an octopus camouflaged in the sea bottom waterscape. Maybe I could run around with a dive mask on for the next week. Picture me driving a car…

Still dripping we, I stood in the door way of the surf store, reluctant to walk in. The young man behind the counter said, “We get that all the time?” and waved me in. What? People looking like drowned rats in street clothes?

“Do you want to rent them for the day or for the week?”

“I just need to find my glasses. Hopefully, just for fifteen minutes.”
“Twenty four hour minimum.” I could tell by his look he thought I was crazy and the chances of finding them were slim. Ka-ching! Minus glasses and minus 10 bucks.

I trudged back down the road toting my blue bag filled with snorkeling gear. It was a little after 9 am and I wanted to be buying papaya at the local farmer’s market. Not this. And if I don’t find them? I didn’t want to think of my options. I had an old pair of contacts that could keep me from being declared legally blind, but I couldn’t remember when I wore them last. Eye infections?

I concocted a plan. I could get those guys to go into the water and look…maybe offer a finder’s fee. Yes, that is worth it. $50. The more people searching, the better. It’s a lot cheaper than buying new glasses, going without glasses for a couple of weeks, or spending the next five hours in an exhaustive search than could prove fruitless, frustrating and make me evil!

Only Christopher was there. “I think I found them.” His manner was so matter of fact, you would have thought he found my socks.

“Serious?” I nearly jumped in excitement.

I followed him to the edge of the pool, watching my step and keeping an eye on the surf. I couldn’t recall any other waves breaking over the lava as high as the one that hit me. I hopelessly stared into the water.

“There.” He pointed to a blurry location on the floor about three feet from the wall. Hell, I couldn’t see an anchor if it had been sitting there. I sat down and dropped my feet into the water. It was just that two to three feet drop in altitude that made it possible for me to see a straight stick-like feature below the surface.

“You mean sort of down that hole-like thing?” not too sure is I was seeing anything but a stick.
“Yeah,” he nodded.

“It looks different than anything else down there.”

I prepared my mask and was about to spit in it when I heard Christopher say, “Well, it is only a cigarette butt.” One last drag, flung it into the open sea and he jumped into the pool, smoked-filled lungs and all.

A few seconds later my glasses sat on my nose. I never bothered to wipe to water off them.

Shortly after I returned the mask to Boss Frog and got a refund for not even using the gear, I went back to the pool with fifty bucks in hand. Instead of just finding just Christopher four other guys were sitting around the rock wall. I nodded to Christopher so I could discretely hand him the money, but it wasn’t any secret.

“So those are 600 dollar glasses?” the toothless Filipino asked. “Nice specs.”

I handed my hero the cash. “I’ll share the money with all the fellows,” Christopher said.

“Well, just don’t get too ripped before the day is over.”

They all laughed.

I went back my condo and suggested to Dad that the rest of the day should have less drama. We went shopping for a waste paper basket for the bathroom.

Snorkle Trip

My whale photo. I need a better camera! Or a quicker finger.

Destination, Molokini.
Best part of the trip. Six students from Brazil. What a great group of kids.
On board lunch? Noodles.

Dad's dream vacation. Amanda mugs it up with Dad.
Matthew and friend munch on hamburgers after a morning of chasing fish and turtles.

Oh, yes, my dream vacation.

After a long morning on the water, I think we all felt a little tired.

Lanai

Weather held only what is expected in paradise - sunshine. The channels between the islands have been flat with rolling swells that flow as smooth as a hula’s story, perfect for whale-sightings on a morning ferry ride to Lanai.

Tourist fingers stretched out pointing to the dark backs of the humpbacks that broke the ice blue waters. Excited frenzy hung on the rails when white puffs drifted in the light winds before dissipating. "Where?" Ah, another whale missed. I caught a small whale breach and another slap its tail at least seven times before doing a head pop, checking to see if we were watching his antics.


Dad and I hiked the remote Jeep trail attempting to make the lookout to see panoramic views of Maui and Molokai rising gently from the horizon. Except we never made it. After wandering down a muddy trail to a gulch filled with Eucalyptus Trees, we stopped for chicken sandwiches I packed the night before. Several mountain bikers were surprised to see two people sitting along the side of the trail. The place seemed quite remote and far from civilization. Then two hikers came up from around the corner and suddenly nine people were clustered in the middle of a two lane Jeep trail. Fortunately, no Jeeps came careening around the bend.

We made good time, even caught a ride from a local who offered to take us to the trail head. We were marching up Cemetery Road, looking like two out-of-place tourist, map in hand.
Richey Carlos, a Filipino whose ancestry was peppered with every North American tribe imaginable was now about to offer his children pure native Hawaiian blood. He claimed his third wife’s lineage descended from the first Maui family to come to Lanai to work the island’s ranch.

Our turn-around-time of 1PM came up quickly, but I calculated we needed an hour and a half walk to the lodge where Clara and David relaxed in the lobby of a beautiful five star hotel. Then I realized we were hiking parallel to the golf course. It seemed silly to walk all the way around the course, the cemetery, the stables and then some, so I suggested we shortcut through the plush greens.


Being careful not to get plunked by the way-too-serious golfers who paid way-too-much to chase little white balls, we “played through” the 11th and 10th holes and found the cart path that lead down to the club house, a steep drop through a forest of Notfolk Pines large enough to replace the mask on Captain Cook’s ship.

The short cut saved a good half hour,leaving plenty of time to walk into town and grab an a scoop of chocolate and butter almond ice cream before shuttling to the lower hotel where we wandered to the beach and eventually to the ferry back to Maui.

Whales

We came here to see the whales.

Whale Quest was happening in Kapalua at the Ritz. The expo was a unique opportunity to meet world renown researches and writers from leading scientific and educational institutions. Or bid on a National Geographic Expedition trip to Antarctica. Market value was $20,000. Minimum bid was $15,000. I didn’t bid, but boy I would love to go.

On The Beach

"What is the worst thing you’ll run into?"

"Where?" I asked.

"In the bushes. In New York, you have to worry about the snakes."

Dad had gone after a plastic bag that had gotten away from him. It went tripping over the sandy beaches of Kailua before disappearing over the dunes. He fished the bag out of the bushes.

"Oh, I don’t know Dad. Maybe just the spiders and the homeless."

Dad wanted me to take a photo of his shadow. I couldn’t figure out why.

“My shadow still looks like it is nineteen.”

Tourist

If you visit Paris, you go to the Eiffel Tower. If in Seattle, the Space Needle and New York City calls with the Empire State Building. It is the tourist thing to do.

Tourist swarm the sandy beaches of Waikiki. From the warm waters and their reclines on the hotel verandas, Diamond Head beckons them to come for a short hike on a narrow trail. To see the view. To spot their hotel.

It is only a short 561 feet up from the parking lot which sits in the floor of the Le’ahi Crater.

The little trail begins on the street and trickles up the road that leads to the parking lot, where tourist don ball caps, take off their shirts and slather on sun screen for the short trek. At first trekkers are nicely strung out along a paved trail resembling a sidewalk in Anywhere, USA. Three tourist here. A solo hiker here.

Destination – the summit. As the trail narrows, leaving the pavement behind, it rises to the bunkers built along the rim in 1915.

The tourist treks a thin path that begins to choke when those with less stamina slow their pace, take in a view, dab sweat from their brow. Those descending compete with those who are ascending for the uneven footing along the narrow trail. As the climb up the first set of stairs begins people begin to stack up. 74 stairs lead to the first tunnel, a small dark 225 foot passage through lava. People pause to catch their breath.

Ants. Like an ant trail leading to the crumbs on a counter top, or to the bowels of a kitchen cabinet, the clog of humanity threads its way to the ultimate sugar cube – the view of Waikiki. But first another set of stairs. 99. Next a 54 metal spiral staircase to emerge in a bunker before the tourist is released to the summit. Tight quarters with too many people. I tried hard to ignore the swarm.

Sometimes traveling with Dad is like traveling with a mini-celeb. Wearing his Battle of the Bulge hat attracts attention, but so does the little gray haired man who doesn’t seem to be puffing any more than the average climber. In fact, he seemed less winded than some, although his climb to the summit was at a slower pace.

When we reached the top, a woman who had seen us at the bottom exclaimed, “You made it.”

Several asked Dad how old. Eighty-four got a small round of applause. And so did the fact that he was a WWII vet.

Minus 9

So cold it makes the snow squeek underfoot. Need I say anymore about going to Hawaii? After shoveling the driveway twice yesterday and scraping, or was that hacking, the ice off the windshield on the Jeep, I’m ready to go. I put the Jeep in the garage before leaving this morning and could not get the key out of the ignition. Frozen. Got out the hair dryer to blast the switch with warm air. Yes, do I need to say any more?

10 AM flight to my favorite airport, Newark. Yipee!

Snow Before Hawaii

Paroxysmal Atrial Tachycardia

It looks like this.

The name may escape you, but it's a condition that's estimated to affect as much as 40 percent of the U.S. population. And if you're among them, its an experience you'll never forget: Your heart rate suddenly shoots upward to 220 beats a minute, and it feels like it won't slow down. You feel flushed and have body chills. You may also feel nauseated and dizzy.

It's basically a temporary internal "electrical malfunction" that throws the heart's pacemaking system out of sync, causing instantaneous rapid heartbeat and the sudden release of adrenaline.

Seldom life-threatening.

For me, it has been going on for six weeks. Happens when I eat or swallow something. Causes me to get light headed and dizzy. Must decide to just put up with it or begin to take beta blockers.

Hero

The Friday before last, I was in New Orleans. The beginning of Mardi Gras weekend. Parades had been meandering through the streets of the city since the Twelfth Nite and the weekend promised more as the city headed into the final festive weekend before the Fat Tuesday blow out.

But there was one parade that should not have happened.

New Orleans motorcycle police officers saluted as bagpipe player who lead the funeral procession for police office Nicola Cotton. The hearse passed the 6th District police station where the officer volunteered to serve after graduating from police academy two years earlier.

Young Cotton grew up there. She knew the neighborhood and often peeled small bills from her pocket to give to the homeless. This was where she worked, where she lived and where she died when one homeless man with a mental illness took her life.

To the city, Nicola Cotton was a hero. She was a hero whose parade came too soon.

Learning a New Skill

When I iron a shirt (quit laughing), I start with the yoke and collar. Then I press out the sleeves. Once that is done I begin working around the body starting with the right side of the front. That is the step by step process, but it doesn’t explain the temperature of the iron, use of stream or dry, the fact that the tip of the iron is hotter than the heel, whether the board is faced to the left or right, how much pressure to use, how to handled the buttons, the trick of keeping the cord out of the way and many more little tips that for years I took for granted.

When I was a kid ironing happened on Saturday. First the clothes had to be sprinkled with water. Yes, the days before stream and spray irons but after the day of laying the cast iron in the fireplace - hell I ain't that old.

When I joined the Army I was amused by the number of young women who didn't know how to iron their uniforms. I even had a Drill Sergeant comment that once we left basic training most of us would end up ironing only the front part of our shirts leaving the rest of the shirt to hide under the dress uniform jacket. I never fell into that league.

This morning Dad asked me to show him how to iron a shirt he planned to wear in Hawaii. While demonstrating this skill I asked him if he ever ironed. I suspected not, Mom pressed his shirts.

At 84, my father learned how to iron a shirt. Wonder what I will learn when I’m eighty-four.

40 Million

I’d be a little upset if I spent forty million dollars on a campaign for the presidency, only to go home empty handed seventy-two hours after Super Tuesday. After all, I vowed not to send out Christmas cards next year after spending $43.00 on postage and only to get 20 cards.

I’ll get over it.

Arrival

If the worst part of executing my move was to leave a box in Tennessee that should have come to New York, then I did well.

I’m missing two pairs of jeans and a river driver shirt, at least that is what I am aware of. I noticed the jeans because I’ve been running around in the same pair since I left Florida on Monday. Not really that bad, except I was cleaning gutters at the apartments after a hard rain and got a bit muddy.

I hadn’t been home an hour when I got a load of laundry done and started looking for my jeans. Couldn’t find them in any of the nine boxes I unloaded from the Jeep. I am assuming I put the box in storage in Tennessee when I unloaded the U-Haul. Despite marking boxes with TN and NY to indicate their destinations and keeping NY boxes in the Jeep and TN boxes in the trailer...well, something went wrong. Not terribly wrong, but will need to pick up another pair in town tomorrow after my doctor’s appointment.

Weather Run

Woke up with a head cold. Crap! The last time I went to Hawaii with Dad, I had a cold. This so sucks. Ear ache too. Fortunately, I have a doctor’s appointment Friday morning, should I live so long.

Left Tennessee ahead of the weather and raced up Interstate 81 an hour ahead of the cold front. Sunrise over the Smokies was spectacular, and the rain caught me briefly in Maryland. Ten minutes after I unloaded the cats in Harrisburg, PA and got all my junk inside, it started to rain. Beautiful.

Rest stop. It was so warm, I decided to eat some ice cream to sooth my sore throat. Diablo gets to lick the stick.

Typhoon Tuesday

I made it home to Tennessee to vote. That wasn't planned. It just happened. Voted early for Huckabee. And he takes Tennessee. Nobody ever asked me.

My question is, what happens tomorrow? After the Super Bowl and Super Tuesday, what have we got to look forward to? Wipe out Wednesday?

By the Numbers

Packed and on the road by 3:39 AM.

First stop Exit 1 in Georgia.

Almost 7AM and the sun isn't up yet.

Gas $2.89. Cheapest is $2.75 in North Georgia. Crap, my tank is full.

400 miles by 10:39AM. Making good time.

Exit 378, I realized how much I am going to miss Bob.

12:05PM. Relay message that the carpet cleaners are going to be 30 minutes late. I'm north of Atlanta.

1.75 inches of rain in Knoxville. What drought? Drive through Knoxville with one eye closed. Too scary! Slow down to 35 MPH.

5 car pile up on I-40 going east. Its happens behind me.

4:25PM Two good cats sitting on the double beds in the Comfort Suites, Morristown, Tennessee. They got this routine down.

Realize I have less than four hundred dollars worth of crap in the U-Haul, if you don't count my bike. Cost $403 plus tax to rent the damn thing. Should have put the bike on the roof and left the chair by the side of the road.

Nothing Easy

It must be human nature to stare at those things that are deformed, disfigured, scarred or otherwise twisted out of shape. This explains car wreck rubbernecks and the uncomfortable uneasiness that falls upon a person unfamiliar with someone with a severe disability. We want to stare, if to reflect, to understand, to imagine…

So I was drawn to see the backside of New Orleans. And I felt as if I was impolitely gawking at a tragedy that can't go away. Was this America? And I know I didn’t see the worst.

In the early morning glow of dawn I sought the bleak streets. But when I walked the streets in the French Quarter and had some degenerate ask me to....well, I decided to head back to the airport.

1978

The last time I was in the Sportsman's Paradise the Grammys awarded the Eagles Record of the Year for Hotel California. Thirty years ago. In Louisiana a call from a phone booth was just a nickel. Now I’m feeling old. Could Superman even find a phone booth anymore?

I am in Harahan, Louisiana a ‘burb west of downtown New Orleans and off the eye sore corridor named Airline Highway. The hand of Katrina had nothing to do with the run down look. This is Louisiana. It was this way before Katrina. Also known as Route 61, it’s a pipeline of cars running more east and west, but nevertheless named north and south. I took a wrong turn out of the airport and went two and a half miles toward Mississippi before I felt I had erred in my ways. No sun, no direction. I will forever be lost in New Orleans, a providence similarly shared in Cleveland when on my first trip there an overcast day caused me to lose my orientation. Once I get turned around it is hard to recalibrate.

I profess that the best thing about Louisiana is the sign that says “Welcome to Texas.” I spent eighteen months here in the seventies. Fresh from Alaska, I got acquainted with the state just outside of Ft. Polk. There was the distinct smell of paper mill, and never has there been a place where more cockroaches fell on my head than in DeRidder. So many that the roaches in Micronesia look like an endangered species.

In 1978, it took twenty dollars to fill the gas tank in the Dodge B200 van. Gas prices had rocketed to forty eight cents a gallon. We bought the van new in January 1977 and had 12000 miles on it by April. I saw that sign welcoming me to Texas quite often. God, I hated this place.

I’m not exactly back. I’m just outside New Orleans on Mardi Gras weekend. I’m not too interested in mingling with revelers, but I would love to see the destitution of Katrina.

Last Sail

It was blowing hard this afternoon. And freezing too. Fortunately, I was dressed for the wind and we took the boat out to Anclote Key, cruising back and forth enjoying scaring the crap out of each other as the boat keeled over. When we tried to skirt between the key and a sandbar, the boat scrapped bottom. That was a yucky sound. At first, I thought we hit a manatee.

Never got sick.

And another smooth landing.

So ends sailing in Florida.

The Tarpon Springs Writers Group

Here's the gang I have been hanging with throughout the year.
Vicki, Connie, Lloyd (Captain Jack), Bob, Laura, Pat, Alex, David, Suzanne, Elizabeth, Mike(Captain of Capt's Lady), Lee, Sonja, Abe and Sali.

For their input and critique, I owe them a lot.

More than Fur Balls

In preparation to vacate the condo, I’ve done as much pre-cleaning as possible. For example, since I don't anticipate using the oven or stove, I've cleaned that and it should stay clean. I shook out the bathroom rugs, ran them through the washer and hung them out to dry. That took two days.

I had a few errands to run in the morning. Before leaving I removed the trash from under the kitchen sink, but got distracted and accidentally left it in the kitchen. Inside the bag I had tossed a quarter of a sub sandwich with salami and hot peppers, a left over from last week’s sailing.

Meal time for the cats. After gorging on the meat, cheese, lettuce and other green things they vomited the undigested food all over the clean bathroom rugs.

Neither cat looked worse for the wear. Both patiently waited in the kitchen for their lunch all bright-eyed, sitting near their food bowls as innocent as angels. They watched me pick up little pieces of paper bag and sandwich wrappings scattered about the living room and clean up the soggy mess in the bathroom.

Lighter

In an effort to push myself away from the edge, I did some housekeeping this evening. That is, I went through my cell phone and erased old phone numbers. Some were pretty innocuous, reminders of events more than the people – Heith, the guy who fixed my fuel pump in North Carolina, or Carol, the lady who helped me clean a nasty apartment after I kicked out one of my tenants. Some numbers were old business contacts from my days with Design Management. Yes, how many years ago was that? A couple numbers I had acquired in Hawaii - previous landlords, real estate agents and the like. I even had numbers for two talk show hosts. Gone, all gone.

There were a few names with numbers I couldn’t recall. The other day I called Mary, asked if I could sleep on her couch if my job went beyond midnight since I had a 5 am assignment the following morning. Turns out I have no idea who I left that message with. The Mary I intended to call was listed under a single letter – L, an abbreviation for her roommate. Obviously, a bad filing system. Fortunately, I didn’t have to sleep on anyone’s couch. I erased the mystery Mary and then wiped out all the supervisors and team leaders with RGIS, the company I had been working for. Mary and Lori are still listed under L.

I erased old tenants and tenants’ mothers.

Some numbers belonged to people who I barely knew – the guy at the West Marine Store who thought I was cute and was at least twenty years younger, the broker in Honolulu who always seemed too busy, a high school classmate (we did dance up a storm six years ago, but that was it), etc… While none of the numbers belonged to any guys picked up in a bar, that’s the picture of the rest of the numbers I erased.

Yep, moving away from the edge. The phone isn’t any lighter for my effort, but I am. Now for my email…

Last Week

I was thinking about all the stuff I didn’t do while I was in Florida this past year. Things like go see the mermaids at Weeki Wachee Springs, the mouse in Orlando and the school teachers in Sarasota. With only seven days left in Tarpon Springs, I have run out of time, especially when I have to be in New Orleans on Friday.

My last inventory assignment is tonight. I got called in four hours early. I assume the job will be a bear, much like last Saturday night when I worked until 2 AM recounting racks long after the rookies left. (How you can have four stacks of jeans with eight pairs in each pile and not know that totals 32 is beyond me?) After four months I’m considered a seasoned pro in a profession with high turn over.

I’ve said good bye to my three writers groups, the staff at church and a few people at work. It’s like closing down the circus. Everyone enjoyed the show, glad you came to town, but life continues long after the bear with the tutu leaves town.

Why the heck am I leaving such a great place? Sure the weather has been a little too cold for me, but it ain’t New York. The past year was about learning to make a commitment and to quit living out of a box. After nearly three years of doing so, it was hard to sign my name on the dotted line and say, “Okay, I’ll live here for a year.” Guess I got beyond that when I bought a condo in Hawaii. But honestly, it still churns my stomach.

I imagined sequestering myself in the condo for a year, pounding the keys on my lap top as I created my novel. Pieces of the book fell into place, but I backtracked several times as I learned more from my writers groups. Ah, those writers groups. Unexpected treasures.

I ventured out and found support and friends at church, the health club, in the condos and work. I got connected...even found a couple of guys.

And there were the Terbushes. Bob and Angie. Chuck and Susan.

With friends, writing, writers groups, kayaking, sailing, running, roller blading, swimming, and that crazy part-time job who had time for mermaids, mice and school teachers?

I really should have seen the school teachers.

Odd Unity

This morning, a friend emailed that his father passed away on December 8. He lost his mother fifteen months earlier, just three days before my mom died. He shared his father’s eulogy which brought tears to my heart.

Since Mom died, two close friends have lost their mothers. Each time my heart tore open a little more, yet in a way, it healed a bit more too. There has been a closer identification with those who have experienced this loss. While I have known others to lose their mothers before I lost my own, I have only been able to acknowledge their loss, never capable of comprehending the emptiness.

Now I truly identify with the grief that seeps into the soul. It never leaves. It isn’t debilitating, but it can be a heavy load that keeps each future second in perspective.

In some odd way, I created my own private club, comprised of those who lost their mothers since I lost mine. Maybe I belong to the clubs of those who lost their mothers before me, gaining membership after I lost Mom.

Disturbance

Below the surface a dolphin is rounding up his dinner. This guy was huge. When he shot past the dock I was amazed at his size, speed, agility and power. I saw him come to the surface with a fish in his mouth!

Getting hit by one of these creatures would kill you.

Stand up Comedy

I’ve fantasized about doing a little stand up comedy routine, but I felt I could never write anything as sophisticated and laugh worthy as Rita Rudner who I admire. But last night at the East Lake Library I had them laughing for fifteen minutes as I delivered my self-publishing stores. I shared the stage with three other authors, all self-published at the monthly Author’s Showcase.

Of course, I plugged the Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin and in the end I sold two books and gave one away to Pat and Alex, a dear elderly couple from Peru who attend the Tarpon Springs Writers Group on Fridays. Several people commented that I should be making a circuit of women’s groups and engaging in other speaking events.

Most liked was the line about my niche target market, a market so small no large publisher would pick up my book. I estimated the target - defined as menopausal women who do crazy things such as sailing across the ocean in a boat with no bathroom - at no larger than forty-seven. Two were in the audience.

A few asked what happened to the captain. I got to smile.

Sailing Part II

There were a few white caps on the bay and occasionally enough breeze to cause me to ask the captain if he was scared. I was when I had the helm and the tiny boat keeled over enough to bring a bit of water onto the deck. If he had the helm, I wasn’t afraid. I just didn’t want to be the one to tip the boat over. Water temperatures are now 59 degrees. Too damn cold for an accident and I happened to carry my wallet in my hip pocket. Wouldn’t want my proof of car insurance to get soaked.

I brought the Capt’s lady in for the second time, negotiating the canal’s channel to the dock while Captain Mike tied down the sails and secured the cover. Before reaching the dock, I cut the motor and glided the boat in for a perfect landing missing the multi-thousand dollar speed boat moored along side. “Whatever you do, don’t hit that boat.” The captain warned. No worries.




Next scheduled trip, Friday, although it is suppose to be breezy it will only be 66 degrees.

Cha-ching!

I don’t want to count my chickens before they hatch, but the blessings are already rolling in. Client called today and asked for outplacement for fifty-five people in New Orleans. That should bring a cash infusion to the tune of nearly seven grand after taxes, expenses and tithe.

But the blessings are just beginning. For the past two years I have had a tear in my fabric of my soul that I couldn’t mend. The relationship ended badly. We were not meant for each other and abruptly ended our contact on some ugly terms. It has bugged the shit out of me for all these months. I’ve regretted it. I have forgiven him, but that was only half the equation. I needed to ask for his forgiveness. It wouldn't matter if he gave it. I just had to ask. I prayed for the opportunity, but had little faith I would ever have the chance.

Last Sunday, I asked God to get him out of my head. My friend Rob once told me you had to be careful for what you pray for. Out of the blue on Monday I sat staring at my email in box, afraid to open an email from him. Contained within, blessing number two. I asked. He forgave.

My heart filled to the brim with healing. I’m on the mend. And God works in amazing and unexplainable ways.

Woohoo.

Oh yeah, the two tenants who had not paid their rent, ponied up today. I was down to my last two hundred with thirteen days of the month left!

Guaranteed

Since I have volunteered to work days and nights and I have been doing both, I haven’t had much time for writing. If I’m not working, or traveling to or from the job sites, or sleeping on strangers’ couches (actually, they were angels) or spending the hours between jobs at a friend’s condo in St. Pete to avoid traveling 50 miles back and forth to work (which turned out to be just what I needed as we later went roller-blading and then he treated me to dinner), I’m tiding up those loose ends so I can depart Florida…buy cat food, get condo insurance, order a u-haul, clean the kitchen….

Last Sunday my church gave a 100% money back guarantee on your tithe. On a contract, sort of speak, you were to sign God’s Guarantee to give 10% of your income for a 90 day period and each time you receive your paycheck take out 10% for the Lord and give it to First Christian Church. If not blessed within those ninety days, or if it causes financial hardship, or if the decision was a mistake, the church will refund the money.

“Bring the whole tithe into the storehouse, that there may be food in my house. Test me in this, says the Lord Almighty. "And see if I will not throw open the flood gates of heaven and pour out so much blessing that you will not have room enough for it.” Malachi 3:10

There aren’t many times God says, “test me.” But here is one.

Recognizing God’s ownership and my stewardship, and wanting the blessings promised, I chose to accept God’s Guarantee challenge.

After all, I’m working for no good reason except to have some money for Europe in May. Since I don’t need it, I can give 10% and with a guarantee to have “so much blessings you won’t have room for it”…what the heck.

Will keep you posted. Meanwhile, I’m going to take a nap.

Blink, Blink

Toad blinked first. And not only once but twice. One year, eleven months and two days. Hasn't changed a bit. As arrogant, self-centered and anal as ever. With National Toad Day around the corner, the Toad will fit right in.

Oh, I so had to say that.

Too funny.

Sailing

Three weeks before I leave Florida I get asked to crew onboard Capt's Lady.

I told you a year that starts onboard a boat is going to be a good one!

Cold Snap

Ice in the bird feeders. Frost on the strawberries. Rumors of snow flurries in Daytona.
How cold does it get in Hawaii? Not this damn cold unless you are watching a sunrise on Haleakalau or a sunset on Mauna Kea. Either way, a quick descent in a matter of within the hour you can dip your toes in the warm ocean waters, look back up the mountains and marvel at the change in temperature. Here in Florida we look forward to the seventies by the weekend. It is a long wait.

Meanwhile, I should be working on my taxes. Instead, I’m packing a few boxes. Media mail. Destination. The Big Island. Every box reminds me of shipping stuff from Micronesia and Majuro and later from Hawaii back to the mainland. I should have never left. But then, I'd probably be waitressing at Java Lava coffee shop. Instead, I get to postpone that experience until later.

Dad gave me a calendar of America, a small supplement to Reader’s Digest. Each month splashed with beauty, but it wasn’t the steep forested slopes and brilliant blue waters of the six-mile wide Crater Lake formed by the fiery eruption and collapse of Mazama almost 70,000 years ago, nor the Tahquamenon Falls of Upper Michigan, nor the somber site of Burnside Bridge on the tranquil afternoon where once 23,000 Union and Confederate soldiers died in a twelve hour battle that grabbed my heart. I turned the pages and saw a sea of red poppies, a cascading water fall in West Virginia, the stubby coast of Maine’s shoreline, and golden rays of sunlight beneath thickening clouds of Mt. Katahdin.

Then my eyes landed on June. I felt what I saw. A valley of mist touched by a rainbow. It is Hawaii. And I feel to be there.

Finding Things

On my “ To Do” List I have many things… to do. This month will be busy between closing on the condo, organizing my move out of Florida andcleaning up my messes and various projects I’ve scatter about the country and in my mind. There isn’t a better time to get started than on a cold and blustery day, the third day of January 2008.

This morning, I expected to wrangle up my tax documents and other scraps of paper that say I made this and spent that on things I do for a living – writing and land lording. No consulting in 2007. Except there are a million other projects to distract my short attention even if these tasks are neatly lined up in order of priority on my computer screen.

I cleaned out the filing cabinet looking for gas and postage receipts. It is an art to throw away things once perceived of value or necessity – a flyer from the Adirondack Club, a membership application for the Tampa Sailing Club and several recipes, saved for whatever reason because the world knows I avoid cooking. I’m getting pretty good at tossing, because I have moved several times to less than permanent places in the last four years. Nevertheless, I accumulated my fair share of stuff during my stay in Tarpon Springs and I can ruthlessly discard.

While rooting around the cabinet I came across two things. The first, a photo of Mom and me. It was the last photo of us taken by Dad the morning I left on The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin Book Tour, about a month before she passed away. I have my arm around Mom. We are standing in the living room. I look like crap, she looks pretty good. The photo is not in focused and that makes the picture even more special.

If only I had known it was to be the last time I’d put my arm around my mother. The last time I’d see her standing, smiling, alive for the camera. It’s probably the last photo of Mom. Well, if I’d known, what would I have done? Hugged her again? Asked Dad to take another photo? Combed my hair? Not been so caviler about my departure?

Of course not. If I had known, I never would have left.

With the photo, I had tucked an article written by Larkin Warren. It is titled, “How to Grieve.” It appeared in AARP magazine, July and August 2007, page 55.

I don’t have permission to reprint it. I hope Mr. Warren and AARP don’t get huffy about sharing it. Obviously, it means a lot to me. After all, I ripped it out of the magazine and kept it and now when it's time to weed it out, … it makes the cut and I’m keeping it.

How to Grieve

“After the first death, there is no other,” wrote Dylan Thomas. That doesn’t mean the ones that come after won’t break your heart, but it’s the first that punches your soul’s passport. Welcome, fellow human, to a different country than the one you woke up to this morning. The air’s different here; so is the scenery. Your knees don’t work so well; in fact, you may want to fall to them.

For a precious little while you are allowed to be stunned into silence, or to shriek, or to talk—recounting stories of who he was, what she meant to you, and how it all came to an end. Tell those stories. Some people may try to enforce “The Rules”, to wit: Enough of This Drama Is Enough. Ignore them. Besides, if you treat yourself gently and take the time you need, someday soon you’ll hear the faint but steady voice of your own good sense. Play music you love, sit in the sunshine if you can find some, and if anyone offers you a hand, hold it. Let them feed the cat, too, because they want to be useful. If your good sense does not kick in on its own, help it along; scramble some eggs. It will feel strange at first. But if you pretend that scrambling eggs is normal, eventually it will become normal. Soon you can squeeze some orange juice, too.

For some of us the stay in this new country seems endless. But time passes, seasons change, and, truly, would those we grieve for want us to mope? Come with me, back into the world. We’ll return to this land someday, all too soon, but in the meantime the garden needs weeding, the bills need paying. Your other loved ones need you. And you, my sweet friend, you could use a shampoo.

I've noticed the days are getting longer too.

“Man Overboard”

Good things can be expected from a New Year when it begins with a boat outing. I accepted the invitation to join Chuck and family onboard the Two Terbs. The cold front wasn’t expected to arrive until later tonight so I said yes.

The trip was a pleasant cruise down the Anclote River in search of wildlife – osprey, dolphin and manatee. I opted not to sit in the bow. Been there, done that. It’s windy and can be wet. Turned out the back end of the boat wasn’t much calmer or drier. I lost my brand new Java Lava hat and I confess I was freezing after getting doused with sea water. Teeth were chattering as we began the cruise home.

Since I was wet and I thought it prudent to keep the captain onboard when we ran aground, I slipped over the side. Reminded me of those times I watched Micronesians do the same thing in the shallow water inside the reef around the island of Pohnpei. Except the water is warmer and clearer, and the footing is soft white sand instead of some mysterious spongy dark goop.

I dragged the boat back into deeper waters, thinking African Queen. Chuck revved up the motor and we headed for the deeper waters of the river, while I checked to make sure I wasn’t covered in leeches. By then the idiot light indicating low oil came on.

Ah, boating. It is always an adventure.

Hi Bob!!
Last Three Photos by Susan Terbush

12:22

Silence.

The barrage of fireworks from the condo complex across the canal has concluded. It began about 8:30. Phoenix took the commotion calmly. Diablo retired to under the bed after witnessing a red and white rocket explode overhead. Stunned for a moment and she then slunk off as smoke drifted down the waterway like a thick cloud on a New England sea coast.

2008. Yes, twenty seconds ago it was 2000.

Last Day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


December 30, 2007

Hey Luggage Delivery Guy,

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

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

Be safe and have a great New Year!

Valerie Perez
376 Moorings Cove Drive

Author
The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin

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

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

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

American Chop Suey

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

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

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

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

I offer no recipes for either dish.

Christmas Day

Christmas Tree

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







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
















Robin and Darryl unpack the tree.












An ornament from 2001, commenorating 911.

Hostage

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kennedy

“Hey, Kennedy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Are you going home?"

"Yes, ma’am."

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

"Merry Christmas."

Yeah, it will be.

65,000,000

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

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

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

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

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

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