Stolen Bike

Last minute chores include fertilizing my plants.

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

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

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

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

“Is it yours?” the other asked.

“It’s not yours.” I retorted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?"

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

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

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

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

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

On Saturday

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Intruder II

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

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

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

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

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

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

Intruder One

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

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

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

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

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

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

Habits

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s November 11, 2008. I served.

Don't Ask

If not politics, then pop-culture?

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

The Orphans

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

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

My Parade

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Smooshed

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

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

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

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

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

Wha'chya Lookin' At

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

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

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

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

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

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

Three Pieces

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

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

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

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

One Day Left

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

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

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

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

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

Cover Up

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

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

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

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

Trick or Treat

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Morning After Rain

An American Creed

For Halloween I intended to write about being scared, but this morning I found this on Dave Ramsey's site. Lots of junk floating around the Internet at the moment. How about spreading this around?

I Do Not Choose to Be a Common Man. It is my right to be uncommon—if I can. I seek opportunity—not security. I do not wish to be a kept citizen, humbled and dulled by having the state look after me. I want to take the calculated risk; to dream and to build, to fail and to succeed.I refuse to barter incentive for a dole. I prefer the challenges of life to the guaranteed existence; the thrill of fulfillment to the stale calm of utopia.I will not trade freedom for beneficence nor my dignity for a handout. I will never cower before any master nor bend to any threat. It is my heritage to stand erect, proud and unafraid; to think and act for myself, enjoy the benefit of my creations and to face the world boldly and say, “This I have done.”

By Dean Alfange

Originally published in This Week Magazine.Later printed in The Reader’s Digest, October 1952 and January 1954.The Honorable Dean Alfange was an American statesman born December 2, 1899, in Constantinople (now Istanbul). He was raised in upstate New York. He served in the U.S. Army during World War I and attended Hamilton College, graduating in the class of 1922.

Dead Cat

It's difficult to dig a hole in Hawaii, even the simplest of holes. The earth composed of bits of lava, doesn’t yield easily to the bite of a shovel. The blade grinds into the rock, scarping metal against once molten earth. Digging is as slow and unrewarding as chewing a piece of gristle at a dinner party.

In my back yard, my piece of real estate is a tiny concrete slab encircled with a narrow strip of dirt where the areca palms and ti plants push their roots into the mixture of lava shards and course dirt. Roots are shallow. There is no place for a grave, even if I could manage to dig one. And surprisingly in these conditions, I own a shovel.

This morning I found a dead cat at the entrance of the condo complex. Someone hit it as it crossed the street. I assume that some else removed the calico from the asphalt and laid it near the complex's entrance sign. It looked like it was sleeping, stretched out in the sun like a cat would do.

I knew the cat, a mother of four surviving young cats. The feral colony lives across the street in a vacant lot, near the ocean. In the evening when I go to see the sunset, the cats are out on the rocks eating what someone has put out for them. I found all four perched on the rock in anticipation of their dinner. Mother, a bit more guarded, crouched under a papaya tree.

When I see these cats I think of Phoenix and Diablo and how much I miss them. My heart sank when I saw her this morning. I don’t know why she left the protection of the bushes in a place where no dogs run loose, no hawks cruise the sky and her only competitor for rats is a mongoose.

When I got back to my condo, the sprinkler system was watering my plants. I called the office to inform them of the dead cat.

Thought Of The Week

Whenever I meet a panhandler, or see one standing at an intersection with that ubiquitous sign “homeless Vet - God Bless You” I rarely give any money. If I got it, I’ll give them food. Why is that? The handout will be used for a specific purpose. I control what I give so the donation is not unwisely used. Alcohol or drugs come to mind.

One would think if you had the gall to ask for $700 billion under the pretense of saving the economy from epic disaster that you would have a concrete plan, beside given tax breaks to wooden arrow makers. And if you had to have the $700 billion by "the end of the week" to divert such a disaster, one would think that three weeks later some money would have been “spent”.

Nope. To date, nothing spent. The original plan was to buy toxic mortgages, but then the plan changed to buy stock in banks. And now we find out that those banks may 1. sit on the money or 2. pay out bonuses or 3. buy other banks.

Brother, can you give me a plan or shoot me with a wooden arrow?

Manta Ray

Just after sundown I entered the waters of Keauhou Bay. It was not the first time I had been in the water after dark fell across the ocean. I remembered the nights under a full moon. I dove off the Cosmic Muffin into the blackness of the lagoon at Nukuoro, a tiny atoll in the middle of nowhere. For a person who doesn’t like to swim in the ocean, it was a big deal. Last night, like a fish in a school, I felt insecurely protected. More isn’t necessarily merrier, but if that bigger fish was going to get me, he’d have forty other tasty snacks to chose. Odds were in my favor, I insanely reasoned.

Related to the shark, the manta ray is a fish that cruises the waters with the grace of angels descended from heaven. I had occasion to go belly to belly with one that made me look awfully small and feel very vulnerable. The giant rose from the depths, mouth gaped so I could look into the wide hatch, big enough to swallow me. I clutched the floating ring and bobbed in the choppy waves, spread eagle on the surface. Just before the manta reached me, in slow motion he rolled over exposing five pairs of gills on the white underside. His belly splattered with a pattern of black marks as distinctive to him as my figure prints are to me was less than three feet away from my belly. An experience almost too surreal.

Such a large fish, a harmless fish. I’ve seen them before. My first encounter with a ray was on Maui, back in the ‘70’s. The huge winged animal flew slowly below me. At the time, I didn’t know they ate plankton and saw me as nothing more than a sea turtle without a shell. I saw him as a prehistoric creature the Land Before Time left behind. Since then I’ve encountered hundreds of rays, mostly in Florida. Those pesky types with barbs lurk in the sand waiting for the unsuspecting tourist's misstep.

Four mantas came to the lights that attracted the food source, a cloud of plankton. The manta fed while people from all over the world floated on the surface. For close to an hour I watched a slow ballet, as the manta swam beneath me. Despite forty other people clutching the flotation ring, it was easy to be absorbed in the watery environment. The mask’s field of vision kept the arms and legs of the other humans out of my site. Except for the Sheraton’s night club music blasting Love Shak the world thirty feet on shore might have disappeared.

But I am a warm blooded animal and my wet suit can only keep me warm for so long. I hoped to be one of the last ones back on the boat. It mercilessly tossed in the swells. The familiar queasiness came to my head. I sucked down two cups of hot vegetable broth and two plain rolls, choosing blandness as my source of warmth. Why on earth I have this desire to sail to the South Pacific is a mystery, one as mysterious as the naked beauty of the manta ray.

Manta photo by Stephen Wong-stephenwong.com

America's Past

I had to get the pain over with and was surprised to see others doing the same, but couldn’t tell if they were experiencing the same emotions. Probably not. This is Obama Country where we ask what can the country do for you? Eliminate your "no taxes paid anyway"? Give you some of the other guy’s money? Spread with wealth around? Or how about assign you a doctor? Or just make sure your neighbor doesn’t get ahead? After all, his progress must come from the sacrifices you made, not his blood sweat and tears. That wouldn’t be right now, would it?

Sign me up Karl… Oh, I mean Barack.

Yes, I voted early. Maybe I can vote often. I heard Acorn is signing people up.

Now let’s focus on the real concerns. World Series! Except, we wouldn't want to hurt anyone's feelings, so let's just say both teams win. Yeah.

Color

Bad Investment?

At 6 am, the rain woke me instead of the singing forest frogs on my cell phone’s alarm. It poured. I went to check on my bike. I wasn’t sure if the front tire was under the cover of the lanai. I was glad I had turned my cell phone off. My normal 5 am grogginess might not have alerted me to the heavy clouds before I set out for my run. I would have gotten drenched.

Instead, I noticed the pulled ham string. I can’t figure out how I did that. Too much running, biking and swimming. I can’t afford to abuse the body too much, as it is the only motor I got to get around town.

I left the water heater on this morning and took a long shower massaging the back of my leg.

Low on papayas, I rode off to the farmer’s market. After church tomorrow I’ll grind up the hill to Safeway to restock the refrigerator with dairy. The hill is getting easier.

It’s been almost three weeks since I’ve been on island and I have yet hit Lava Java. I figured the money I’m saving can be put to better use. Like buying ice cream from the deli across the street. One latte from the coffee shop is worth a pint of Häagen Dazs, which I could down in one sitting, but I’ve restrained my consumption. Pint can last two day. At least so far.

Now that I’m biking everywhere, gas prices on the island are sinking faster than a dead body tossed over board. The fall has actually shocked me. Poor OPEC dudes. When I arrived the price on the street in downtown Kona was $4.27. (It was $4.10 in May and I have no idea how high it got this summer.) Everyday the prices change. Reminds me of when Katrina struck, only in reverse. I thought the prices would hit $4.00 back then. Yesterday I actually saw the guy change the price. He was out in the middle of the afternoon with that long pole changing $3.87 to $3.77. And this morning the price was $3.65. Crap, that was what I paid in New York just before I came out here. Makes me wonder if I didn’t accidentally buy oil stock a few weeks ago.

PuffBall

I don't know what happened to this monster spore maker. About a month ago it grew just down the road from Dad's house. We were on our way to church when I spotted it. I backed the car up to take a second look at what I first thought was a lost soccerball. "Dad, look at the size of that thing."

I later came back to take a photo. From this picture you can't fully appreciate the size of this mushroom. Actually, larger than a soccerball.

I haven't seen one this large since I was a kid. They were all over Grey's backyard. When Mike mowed the yard he'd go around them until they died. Then he'd run over the mushrooms sending thick clouds of spores into the sky. No wonder the yard was full of them.

Makes me cough just thinking about it.

Flat Tire

I’m better than most when it comes to wasting a good day. I’ve avoided the computer even though I have an idea for another chapter in The Kayak. My timeline in the book needs work and last night at the sun down, I might have put an idea in place. This might make you think I’m writing. Not really, but at least I’m thinking.

Since I wasn’t pecking away, the void needed to be filled. The room screen got my attention. I began construction last week. Not having a square turned the project into a tedious exercise of measure, measure and measure again. And without a third hand, things slipped around just enough. After more success on the second of the three screens I decided to disassemble the first. It drifted off to one side, just a hair. I bought a square, but it remained lopsided. To eyeball it, without a reference, it didn’t look off, but aligned with the other two… well, if the accuracy involved getting a man on the moon, the poor guy would end up in deep space. This discouraged me enough to let the frames lie on the office floor until I needed a good distraction from writing.

There went the day, sanding and staining and yep, that first one now with a few extra holes is still not right.

I found a writers group and considered attending. It was in south Kona, but I wasn’t up to the nine mile mostly uphill ride to the book store. Sure the ride would have been good for me, leaving me sweaty, tired and fretting about the ride back down the mountain. I'd never enjoy the session. I even considered taking a taxi to the meeting and then riding back. They will be there next week. After all, I haven’t been pushed by a fellow writer since February. Why now when I’ll be back off island in a month. Just another way of wasting time.

But as I fooled around with the stain I noticed a huge thorn sticking out of my rear bike tire. When I yanked it out I heard the tiniest whoosh sound. The tire a little softer than the front got even softer as the afternoon wore on. Good thing I didn't go trudging off to the meeting.

This was good news. When I purchased the tools to change a tire on the road, I imagined the mishap would occur around high noon out on some lava field and I wouldn’t have a drop of water on me. Stinking hot with not a bit of shade, the vultures would soon gather to watch me I labor with the flat tire.

On several occasions I have had flats. Very memorable experiences. All left me stranded. Don Haney rescued me twice. But now I’m riding alone and have not cultivated a network of those who might come chasing after me.

Lucky me, I “practiced” changing and fixing a flat tire in the comforts of my own lanai. It went well. Today’s self-adhesive patches sure beat those thick, rubber, cut-to-size patches and that noxious glue of the old days. Okay, now you know how long it has been since I personally repaired a flat tire. Despite being easier than I expected, I don’t look forward to the day I have to fix one on the side of the road, hunched over the wheel, sweat rolling down my face, and the sun pounding on my back. It’s a good reason to get to know some people in Kona.

Collapsing World

The other evening I was across the street waiting for the sun to go down. It isn’t quite the same thing as watching the sun set because more times than not the clouds on the horizon obscure the red ball’s plunge into the Pacific Ocean. It looked promising this particular night as the day had been unusually clear of clouds and the volcano’s vog.

I’ve been coming to this place which is on private property every night. I did the same thing back in April and May. I figured it’d be just a matter of time before someone would approach me, suspecting me of trespassing. This was the night.

Because of his clean pressed shorts and Hawaiian patterned shirt, I assumed he belonged with the lady who had two precocious children who stood on the sea wall yelling at the breakers as the surf roared over the rocks. I didn’t invest more than the two seconds to make that assumption when he sat down three lawn chairs away. He said nothing and since I didn’t want to get involved in any conversations with anyone who lived there, I didn’t acknowledge his presence. But he caught my eye when I looked down the rocky shore line at the three local fisherman casting their lines into the waves.

“Where are you visiting from?” He asked.

“I live here.” Oh, God, I’m going to get into a conversation. I looked around for the lady with the two kids. No where.

He looked surprised. “I thought I had seen you before, but not in awhile.”

I guessed it begged for an explanation. “I spent the summer in New York. Actually, I’m poaching. I live across the street.”

He laughed. “Well, if anyone ever tries to chase you out of here and they will, tell them you are with me. I’m Robert and I am the president of the property association.”

Busted. I apologized for any problems my presence had caused. “I use to go over there.” I pointed to the group of seedy characters gathered on the other side of the property wall, near the fishermen. It was a public access point to the ocean were local color hung out. When they weren’t busy tossing around a football, they were tossing each other into a sea pool. “But they are a little too sketchy for me.”

We engaged in some additional small talk. I figured I had to be polite now that I have permission to be there. Robert wanted to know where in NY I spent the summer.

“Saratoga.”

“Saratoga Springs," Robert corrected.

“That’s right. You know it?” I waited for him to tell me he had been to the race track.

“Nice place. I use to live on Loughberry Road. Remember when the Vichy bottling plant burned down?"

“You are kidding me. Small world.”

“Yeah. My father worked for the paper before taking a Gannett job in Newburg.

“Your father worked at the paper?” I asked. This was unbelievable.

“The Saratogian.”

“My Dad did too. A printer for 33 years.” I looked out across the ocean expecting to see the small world collapse. Maybe someone planted a Candid Camera in a palm tree.

It turned out Robert had also spent twenty years in Santa Cruz. I was tempted to ask if he knew the captain of the Cosmic Muffin. But that seemed too weird. Instead I asked, “Um. You’re not a sailor, are you?”

“No, Powerboats.” He said.

Thank God.

Library Card

Yes, I got it, but the librarian wasn't there. Rats. Or maybe that was good, because the assistant at the front desk said she wasn't going to charge me for a replacement card. Saved ten dollars. But she told me not to lose this one.

At some point I'll change my cell phone's area code, but that means a lot of documentation has to change and I'm not ready to embark on that project. Besides, I have too many books for sale that have the Tennessee Vols 865 area code.

I’m Kama'aina

I didn’t want a Hawaiian driver’s license. I hated to depart with the one from Tennessee. It was still good for another nine months. When I renewed that one, I was headed to the Peace Corps. But I want a Hawaiian library card and without proof of residency in the form of a license, state ID or local bank statement, I’m unable to get one. I’ve already been through this with the librarian. It doesn’t matter that I am registered to vote in Hawaii. Strange how I can vote here in the national election, but damned if I can’t check out a book.

I took a cursory look in the mirror before I left my condo. That photo is something I got to live with until 2015. I fussed with my hair just a little. I don’t have a hair drier. I need a cut. There’s no make up in the bathroom and the best I thing I can wear is a clean blue t-shirt. I arrived a little after 8 AM and already there were several people in line. Back in April when I tried to get a license but didn’t have my Social Security card, I procured an application so that was already completed. In the tiny office, manned with just two clerks, the line efficiently moved along.

“Are those the glasses you use for driving?”

“Oh yes.”
Pointing to the machine that looks like a microscope, she said, “Okay, look in there and identity any three of the twelve signs.”

I took the first three. “A speed limit sign 35MPH, a pedestrian crossing and a divided highway ahead.”

“What about number nine?”

“The familiar eight-sided stop sign.” I peered over the lenses of the machine and smirked at the teller. She smiled back. I should've said octagon.

I adequately read out loud the numbers on line six and passed my vision test. The clerk handed me a 30 question test, with an answer sheet and told me I could miss six out of the thirty questions. The first question was about the number of days I had to notify the department of an address change and whether I inform them by mail, in person or by phone. I tried not to panic. Maybe I should have studied, thinking of that time I spent with my best friend Barbara on the beach in North Carolina cramming for the test. When was that? 1987? Let’s use a little logic here. Once done, I refused to check my work and almost paid for it. I pass the test by the skin of my teeth.

She gave me my corrected test and asked me to review it. Good move Hawaii. I would have argued one question, the pedestrian crossing sign I identified in the eye exam. It really is a school crossing sign. Aren’t these little kids pedestrians? Oh well. If I go for the motorcycle license I definitely will study.

My photo came out very nicely. How can anyone not have a good photo when you are asked to look at Stitch, the stuffed alien of the Lilo and Stitch movie? Too make matters even better by the time it's transferred onto the license, the image is softened to a nice blur which erases all those wrinkles. I look twenty years younger. I recommend any time you are in Hawaii, get yourself a drivers license.

“If everything is correct, you can take it and go.” After putting my license into my wallet, Iwent outside, jumped on my bike and rode home.

Library is tomorrow. Place is closed on Mondays.

Succineas

The sprinkler system, left unattended for the past six months, occasionally if not mysteriously falls asleep on the job. What it has been doing in my absence, I can’t say. Without any reasonable explanation, (yeah I have replaced the batteries), the LED face disappears and the whole system become dysfunctional. I’ve yet to hear the little jets squirt any water on my Areca Palms and Ti plants. Fortunately, it has rained a couple of days and I have taken the hose to the plants.

I’ve reset the timer while the display had been visible, only to discover the display vanished some time later. A few wraps upside the box yielded no results. This morning, finding a visible readout, I reset the clock, which was never correct after the gismo had its nap, and programmed the watering to being ten minutes later at 9 AM, under my watchful eye. This was a more reasonable hour than 5 AM, when I am either sleeping, experiencing a hot flash or running down Alii Drive.

The system obediently responded to the programming. For ten minutes my little hedge row of palms and ti, and the unrelenting herd of snails showered in the tiny spray that encircles the slab of concrete outside of my lanai.

Yes, herd of snails. I’ve done a little research and I am pretty sure they are not the endangered singing tree snail of Hawaii. I found a half pound of the slugs nested together like snakes in a tomb of an Indiana Jones movie. Okay there was no hissing. When I find one or two I unceremoniously fling them over the fence into the road where the stubby little creatures meet their demise. But on this occasion, I was staring at the equivalent meal-size portion of a Burger King Whopper. Thinking the volume of snail goo would cause an accident, I put them in a bag and threw them in the rubbish, as we call it here in Hawaii.

Are these things edible? I thought about the snails I was bullied into eating in Paris. I was glad no one else wanted to sample my appetizers, for they were so delicious that now whenever I’m in Paris I order them.

It is one thing to say you like a juicy Filet Mignon and quite another to stand in the pasture next to a cow and contemplate the chore of obtaining that piece of flesh to slap on the back yard barbeque. Snails on the plate that came from behind a double swinging door to some French kitchen, are not the same thing as an entangled mass of Snot with Hats plucked from the damp ground.

Photos: my arecas and ti, taken six months apart. Maybe next year I'll have the fence covered.

Who Cares About Joe?

Let's not get distracted from the issue. Joe the Plumber is not the issue. The issue is not what Joe does, what taxes he didn’t pay, what union he didn’t join, what license he doesn’t have. The scrutiny of politics has gotten so bad that any good and competent person must be crazy to run for office. Let's look at Sarah Palin. Now an ordinary citizen can't ask a simple question. Why, because the answer is scary.

The issue is that Joe makes more than $250,000. Left-wing liberalism (Obama) thinks you make too much money. Obama don’t want you to make that much money. (How much money is too much?)

Obama says he doesn't want to punish Joe, but he must. That's his religion to take your wealth away from you. So he is going to take that money you earned (higher taxes) and spread it around by inefficiently siphoning it through the government system. Thanks Joe.

If you don’t believe this, then vote Obama. And I’ll wait for the check in the mail, because as a writer, I have earned far, far less than $250,000. Or easier yet, just send me your money. Meanwhile, ask yourself why the media focuses on Joe the Plumber? Maybe because they don't want you to know what Obama said to Joe. Swish, swish, brush it away.

The beautiful thing is that we should all be poor. It's not about trickle down economics. It’s bubble up poverty. There isn’t a policy on the left that will aid the much distressed economy to turn around. Have you heard any of them say as much? Of course not. It's always about wealth rearrangement.

Send your big fat checks ASAP. I got a property tax bill due this month. If you believe what I said, you should tell me to get off my butt and get a job.

Life On A Bike

Somewhere between here and there is a Bose Radio, two refinished boxes and the cushion covers I sewed for the wicker chair. Although the post mistress (Is there another name for that job?) said the packages were expected to arrive Oct 6, I knew better. I’ve lived on the Big Island before. Plan on as long as six weeks for parcel. Trouble with that plan is that instead of using Styrofoam peanuts to pack my stuff I used my clothes. My on island wardrobe consisted of a couple of t-shirts, a pair of shorts and some underwear, stuff I had left on the island back in May. Not being a slave to fashion and having access to a washer and dryer, I’m not hurting unless some good looking guy invites me out for dinner. However, I would like to have my sports bras and swim suit so I can turn my 5 am walks into trots to the Kailua Pier. And I’d like to do some laps in the community pool. If the packages don’t arrive soon I probably break down when the new Sports Authority opens Oct 17th. I hate to spend the money, but…

I’ve made an appointment to tune up my Cannondale mountain bike. At least UPS got it here when they said they would, albeit dinged and damaged. In the days gone by, I would have fiddled with it myself. As a teen I’d tweak the gears on my Schwinn Varsity, the first ten speed in the neighborhood. In those days I had aspirations of riding coast to coast. Instead I joined the Army (that deviation has an untold story) and took it to Ft. Monmouth, New Jersey where it was promptly stolen despite being under lock and key. Because it was responsibly secured, the Army gave my $73.50 for it. Once I got to Alaska I rolled the money into a Schwinn Paramount, a gem of a bike I still have. Classic.

At the Bike Works I armed myself with a spare inner tube, a set of tire changing tools, a patch kit and a CO2 cartridge. I purchased a little seat bag to carry my supplies, insurance I hope I never need. Now I can roam the back alleys of Kona and not worry too much about a flat tire. That is if I have the patience to change one.

I set out on my first shopping excursion once my gears were all aligned and falling smoothly into place. I wish the same could be said for me. My ass was sore from the previous day’s ride and the hill to Safeway and Walmart appeared pretty tall in the noon day sun. I made it up there without dismounting and pushing.

I learned that two quarts of yogurt and 32 ounces of cottage cheese, along with five papaya, three tomatoes, a hunking avocado and a bunch of bananas is a bit heavy when added to a back pack containing a locking cable.

No Solicitation Rules

Condo living is all about rules, but ten year old AJ Albert was on a mission. He appeared at my wide open front door soliciting money for the Kahakai Elementary School. Despite the rule violation and a concern for creating a reputation in the complex, when it comes to kids and their personal causes, I'm a sucker.

I invited the little fifth grader to come in. Like a polite Hawaiian boy, he kicked off his slippers before he entered. I grilled him about his fundraising, while I reviewed his paper work. I feared I might have an emerging Obama on my hands and wanted to nip his reallocation of my resources to his pocket in the bud. However, his credentials seemed in order. I scribbled the name of his school and his teacher on a scrap piece of paper.

“Where do you live, AJ?” I asked.

“Building N,” he replied. In a large complex of buildings that runs twice through the alphabet twice by doubling the letters up, the residents understand that a letter is as good as a GPS coordinate. For example, I live in A103. That’s the first building, first floor, third unit from the right.

When I asked him where the school was located, AJ gave precise directions all without the use of street names, which was more than I expected from the boy who gave clipped answers to all my other questions. This was useful information as Kahakai Elementary is the location of my polling place, and I had no idea where it was. AJ added he took the bus to school.

AJ’s school is having a small race next weekend. A class triathlon. The money was for equipment. "You going to race?"

He thought for a couple of seconds. "Umm, I don't know."

I guess a ten year old doesn’t need to train. They just show up and do it.

I wrote my name down on his log sheet and stuffed two dollars into his manila envelop. That was all I had after dropping a few dollars in the bucket at church that morning. “Anyone ask you as many questions as I did?”

He shrugged as if to save me the embarrassment, “Not really.”

Well, maybe he’ll spread the word that the crazy lady in A103 asks too many questions and then doesn’t give that much. Not worth your time. Hey, some money is better than no money. That's going to be my reputation. Maybe I should have given him a cookie.

Water Station

With another eighteen miles to go, an Iron Man participant grabs a soaking wet sponge and douses himself with water before gulping a two cups of GatorAde.

By mid afternoon, 12 hours after the race started, the participants passing through the water station were moving slower and growing older. Most family members and supporters were waiting back at the transition area, finish line. Out here, in front of my condo, they needed “Rah-Rah, Go Team” cheering. David and I took up the call.

Perched on my fence for a good view, I used my camera’s telephoto lens to spot runners’ numbers as they came to the water station on Alii Drive. I called the number out to David who looked up the participant’s name, age and hometown in the Iron Man program guide.
When the runners passed my condo we’d yell out their name. Exhausted sweaty faces, cast downward suddenly looked up, surprised to hear their names called out. Each runner wondered, “who knows me?” Of course they didn't know us, but their tired faces turned all smiles as we gave them the thumbs up, yelled words of encouragement and told them we’d leave the light on.

We’d sang Oh, Canada for our friends from the land of the Maple Leaf. David yelled out in Spanish for those who came from South America. And we just did our best not to botch the names of the Japanese runners. With participants from 46 countries, we were a little limited on cheer, but a name is universally appreciated.

We recognized the home town runners from Kona and from the state of Hawaii. We tried to acknowledge the state when we remembered the motto or nickname.

Unfortunately after a 2.6 mile swim and 112 mile bike ride, some of the runners, just two miles into the marathon, were already totally out of it. They never heard us shout out.

Cheese Cutter

My cousin David and his wife Kate, here for IronMan, brought their organics with them. Totally, organic. Mi casa es su casa and they made my place their little hacienda. In doing so, they discovered that my kitchen is a few utensils short of gourmet. Small in size and limited on gadgets.

While scouting the contents of my cupboards, David asked, “You got a can opener?”

"Sure", I replied rummaging around the kitchen drawer. Just where is that thing? I would have sworn I did. After all, Dad was sick in February and I gave him a bowl of chicken noodle soup. How’d I open that? No such luck.

“Do you have a strainer for the pasta?” Kate asked preparing noodles for dinner.

“Ahh, nope.”

“A cheese grater, maybe?”

“That I got.” I proudly produced one I had shipped over in April.

“I know better than to ask for a cheese cutter.”

“That’s right, Cuz.”

And Kate never asked for a potato peeler when she scrapped the horse carrots, as she calls them.

Before they left David asked me if I could use anything. Sort of like a house warming gift. I looked at the living room wall with the inherited portrait of a young Hawaiian women holding a bunch of anthuriums. Every hotel room on the island has a similar poster. “I could use a big screen TV.”

“How about the box that a big screen TV comes in?”

“That’ll do.”

I said good-bye to my Other Side Cousins Sunday afternoon. I turned my attention to laundry and was sitting on the lanai reading the paper when I heard the monster 2500 Ram diesel truck pull into my parking stall. They returned bearing gifts.

Yep, I now own a cheese cutter. I do have a honking piece of cheese in the refrigerator.

Settle In

The first week in Kona, Hawaii has been crazy busy. I rented a car to make the pilgrimage to Costco where I stocked up on salmon, tamales and the ever-haunting king size container of mixed nuts. (I’ve been tossing the filberts to the mongoose lurking in the back yard, but the birds are beating him to the stash.) I registered for a Safeway a membership card and I picked up two quart-size yogurts – two for eight dollars. At Home Depot I culled through the fir one by twos for construction of a divider screen to hide the air conditioner. It would be easier to get rid of the unit, but there will be days that I might break down and use the thing. Meanwhile, the divider will block the view of the hefty appliance that sits in the living room. While cruising the store aisles I picked up some wood stain and finish, a paint brush and sandpaper. Project ready!

All these construction supplies and tools previously purchased has left little room in the small storage closet on the lanai for my bike, which UPS managed to ding up. Despite careful packing, reinforcement of the box and covering the sprocket, Big Brown delivered a damaged box with the bike’s gear teeth gnashing through a wide hole. It looked like an angry shark tried to escape. The skewer was bent and half the quick release was missing. It cost $8.00 to fix but the scrapped paint on the frame will be a permanent reminder that UPS Shipping sucks.

I needed to rent the car after three days. I planned to throw my bike in the back seat and ride back into town, but my Hilo-side Cuz' came over to the Kona-side to volunteer for Ironman duties. 4000 people are needed to support 1800 athletes participating in a grueling triathlon – 2.4-mile swim, 112-mile bike ride and 26.2-mile run. (Makes my 60 pool laps, and 4 mile trots look embarrassing, except for the fact I can.) On Thursday, Cousin David and his wife Kate coordinated their arrival to meet me at the airport. Considering it was 108 on Saturday out at the Energy Lab, I avoided the 10 mile ride.

Now I am relying on my bike to motor around town. This sets my ass in the chair in from of my new desk. Time to write.

Salt on the Rim

“I need to see some ID.”

Some ID? How much? My passport, NY State Non-driver ID, Tennessee license, Social Security card. How about my Saratoga Springs Library card? Birth Certificate? She’s just doing her job. I smirked and released a little laugh, but reached for my wallet.

“I’m sorry,” the waitress, an Asian women wearing a floral shirt, said.

“No problem. You’re not the first person who asked me for it.” It was mid-afternoon, but the airport lounge was packed with travelers corralled into the front section of the bar. The back tables had been barricaded off with a rope drooped from three chairs. Huge flat screen high definition TVs filled the dimly lit room with Vikings and Saints. Monday Night Football at three in the afternoon, Honolulu time.

The old rules for flying don’t apply to the surviving competitor airlines that shuttle passengers between the Hawaiian islands.

“It will be $50.00 to change to an earlier flight,” the service counter agent for Hawaiian Airlines said.

“I can buy a nice meal for that price.” I ordered a sliced tomato topped with thick mozzarella cheese drizzled with a vinegar and oil dressing. On the side, a ciabatti that soon would turn rock hard after being zapped in a microwave. I hunkered down for the five hours layover.

“And a margarita on the rocks with salt on the rim. Make that top shelf,” I added.

“I’ll see what I can do.” She gave me a slight bow and hurried off, but soon returned to verify I was of the drinking age. Either that or she wanted to confirm I was Valerie Perez, the author of The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin. NOT.

The margarita went down as easily as the penalty flags were falling in favor of the Vikings. I killed the two hours it took the New Orleans team to make the first two quarters look like a high school scrimmage. At the half, I wandered downstairs to the Japanese gardens and found the pagoda with a vacant bench. Surrounded by mottled Koi, I stretched out on the concrete bench. The sun had already disappeared behind the buildings. Fourteen hours of travel behind me, six time zones away from where I started and a touch of tequila made it easy to fall asleep.

The stiff neck woke me. I slowly nudged my head off the backpack, working the kinks loose from my neck. I’ll pay for that. My flight was scheduled to leave within the hour so slung my camera bag over my shoulder and set off to the far end of the airport. Estimated arrival time in Kona - 8:30 PM.

That was a week ago. What the heck have I been doing?

Re-Do?

Considering how the “bailout” was suppose to be just that and how the stock market has “responded” since it was signed into LAW, don’t you think we should stop payment on the $700 billion for services not delivered?

I'm going to be pretty darn upset if I have to go out and get a real job at a time when nobody can find one. "Retirement" is going to suck for many Boomers.

Putting Away Summer

This weekend, Dad packed away with air conditioners that were harnessed during one hot week in June. And in the afternoon of one brisk, but sunny Saturday we covered the RV that made one quick trip around the block to test a new battery and a short drive to the garage to get the annual inspection. We spent more time blasting dead mouse stink out of the Rig this week than the entire summer. Before Dad threw the tarp over the carriage, I swabbed the roof of tree pitch and dead leaves. From my perch I listened to short tempered blue jays squabble over the sumac berries. Chipmunks, their tiny mouths packed so full of nuts and seeds look like they just returned from a painful trip to the dentist. From one dead tree branch to another woodpeckers harvested the last of the seasons insects.

During a walk around the block before escaping from what is inevitable – winter – I pulled the hood of my sweat shirt over my head. A raid on the neighbor’s raspberry patch where the occasional bumble bee drifted searching for nectar yielded a few berries summer forgot. In the brush behind Grey’s barn, a tangle of wild grapes offered a flavorful spike on my tongue, and a memory of afternoons after school drinking in the long rays before the Hadadorn’s Mountain enhaled the last warm breath from the air. Only then would I come home with a blue tongue and stained fingers.

It’s the color that spins yesterday in my head. Apricot, pumpkin and carrot. Plum, eggplant and beet. Cinnamon, nutmeg and mustard. But this year, like the economy, the feast is leaner. Even the trees that traditionally display God’s brilliance – the maples at the far end of Parkhurst Road – have yielded to a wet and cool summer.

Boys In The Band

The smooth voice of Tim McGraw tinged through the cheap speakers of the salon at MasterCuts compliments of a country station out of Corinth, New York. Since half of this one horse town burned to the ground back in February, I thought it odd that they even had a radio station. But then the town had two Stewart’s convenient shops until the fire.

My hairstylist asked if I listened to country. “Use to,” I replied. I watched her reflection in the mirror. She concentrated on the torture inflicted on my scalp as she pulled my hair through the tiny holes in the cap. I confessed that I didn’t listen to much music. These days I can’t tell you what group has the latest hit, what the current trends are, and when some celeb shows up on the front cover of a checkout counter tabloid, I don’t have a clue who it is unless it's the tired old face of OJ Simpson trudging off to jail.

When I joined the Peace Corps, I listened to CDs of my “in the day” favorites. That, by the way, didn’t include medleys from Men at Work. I never made the transition to I-Pods or MP3 players. In my Jeep, all presets are on talk radio, Christian Rock or, I confess, NPR, but only so I can enjoy those crazy Magliozzi Brothers of Car Talk fame.

Coincidentally on the same day I confessed my musical abstention I received a head’s up that the Gordon Stone Band was playing at the Parting Glass in Saratoga Springs, New York.

The first time I heard the Gordon Stone Band I had been in Bourne, Massachusetts. It was August 2006 and I had just started out on my book tour for The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin in Mom and Dad’s RV. Camped on the banks of the Cape Cod Canal, I was determined to meet as many people as possible on the East Coast. My attempt to promote the book.

That evening I sat on a park bench and absorbed a New England summer listening to the sweet bluegrass tunes. It wasn’t your ridge- running Tennessee pickin’ bluegrass. Combine a unique flavor of hip-cat Jazz, with a tangy taste of the islands, a dash of an Irish toe tapping jig and a sweet aroma of Vermont mountain air. No, I won’t even pretend to be a music reviewer, but these boys are good.

New to the group since I last saw them at the Albany Tulip Festival in 2007 is Sean Preece, on drums and percussion. Sean brings an electric enthusiasm to the instrumentals of Gordon Stone and Jon McCartan. His pure, unadulterated freedom makes him just about as fun to watch as to listen to. Totally uninhibited Sean is as animated as a cartoon character with facial expressions as wide ranging as his talent. Next to the youthful veteran trance of Jon McCartan on bass, who is a mere year older, Sean is as different as a running brook is to an ocean wave. Gordon Stone attracts God-given talented youth with good heads on their shoulders. Sean is as a humble as any well-groomed-newly-called up pitcher to the big leagues for the October Classic.

If you find yourself in the Vermont taking in the fall colors, or the ice-blue ski slopes on a crystal day be sure to check out their website to find a local venue. You won’t be disappointed. For me, I’m taking this music to Kona, Hawaii next week.

All the best to the Boys in the Band and to Deb, one proud Mom.

Debate

Here’s my theory. In order to have a rookie candidate blindside the opponent send her out on a couple of interviews to purposely look weak, confused and unprepared. Soften up the bias media and let the competition drop his guard. Take a very biased moderator and you got planned ambush. She’ll come out smelling like a rose, looking like a killer, and no one is going to second guess Sarah Palin’s being a heart beat away from the Presidency.

It's An Emergency!

If it was such a freaking emergency, why did all this garbage get into the Emergency Economic Stablization Act of 2008? If we had a credit problem, how do all these add-on provisions help? The answer - it doesn't. They tack these on to sweeten the pot for the vote in the House. Yep, you can put lipstick on a pig and pork in a bill, and it still isn't a luau. No wonder Muslims don't mess with swine.

Sorry for turning my blog into a political vent, but this stuff is impacting me. My head is about to explode and I haven't been able to get through to my representative. See the last line. I think I am a tax indifferent party.

TITLE I—ALTERNATIVE MINIMUM TAX RELIEF
Sec. 101. Extension of alternative minimum tax relief for nonrefundable personal credits.
Sec. 102. Extension of increased alternative minimum tax exemption amount.
Sec. 103. Increase of AMT refundable credit amount for individuals with longterm
unused credits for prior year minimum tax liability, etc.
TITLE II—EXTENSION OF INDIVIDUAL TAX PROVISIONS
Sec. 201. Deduction for State and local sales taxes.
Sec. 202. Deduction of qualified tuition and related expenses.
Sec. 203. Deduction for certain expenses of elementary and secondary school
teachers.
Sec. 204. Additional standard deduction for real property taxes for nonitemizers.
Sec. 205. Tax-free distributions from individual retirement plans for charitable
purposes.
Sec. 206. Treatment of certain dividends of regulated investment companies.
Sec. 207. Stock in RIC for purposes of determining estates of nonresidents not
citizens.
Sec. 208. Qualified investment entities.
TITLE III—EXTENSION OF BUSINESS TAX PROVISIONS
Sec. 301. Extension and modification of research credit.
Sec. 302. New markets tax credit.
Sec. 303. Subpart F exception for active financing income.
Sec. 304. Extension of look-thru rule for related controlled foreign corporations.
Sec. 305. Extension of 15-year straight-line cost recovery for qualified leasehold
improvements and qualified restaurant improvements; 15-year straight-line cost recovery for certain improvements to retail space.
Sec. 306. Modification of tax treatment of certain payments to controlling exempt organizations.
Sec. 307. Basis adjustment to stock of S corporations making charitable contributions of property.
Sec. 308. Increase in limit on cover over of rum excise tax to Puerto Rico and the Virgin Islands.
Sec. 309. Extension of economic development credit for American Samoa.
Sec. 310. Extension of mine rescue team training credit.
Sec. 311. Extension of election to expense advanced mine safety equipment.
Sec. 312. Deduction allowable with respect to income attributable to domestic production activities in Puerto Rico. ???
Sec. 313. Qualified zone academy bonds.
Sec. 314. Indian employment credit.
Sec. 315. Accelerated depreciation for business property on Indian reservations.
Sec. 316. Railroad track maintenance.
Sec. 317. Seven-year cost recovery period for motorsports racing track facility. I can't believe there isn't a pitch for horse racing by NYRA
Sec. 318. Expensing of environmental remediation costs.
Sec. 319. Extension of work opportunity tax credit for Hurricane Katrina employees. Enough already!
Sec. 320. Extension of increased rehabilitation credit for structures in the Gulf Opportunity Zone.
Sec. 321. Enhanced deduction for qualified computer contributions.
Sec. 322. Tax incentives for investment in the District of Columbia. Taking care of the "home front"
Sec. 323. Enhanced charitable deductions for contributions of food inventory.
Sec. 324. Extension of enhanced charitable deduction for contributions of book inventory. I've got 600 copies of The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin. Does that count?
Sec. 325. Extension and modification of duty suspension on wool products; wool research fund; wool duty refunds.
TITLE IV—EXTENSION OF TAX ADMINISTRATION PROVISIONS
Sec. 401. Permanent authority for undercover operations.
Sec. 402. Permanent authority for disclosure of information relating to terrorist activities.
TITLE V—ADDITIONAL TAX RELIEF AND OTHER TAX PROVISIONS
Subtitle A—General Provisions
Sec. 501. $8,500 income threshold used to calculate refundable portion of child tax credit.
Sec. 502. Provisions related to film and television productions.
Sec. 503. Exemption from excise tax for certain wooden arrows designed for use by children.
Sec. 504. Income averaging for amounts received in connection with the Exxon Valdez litigation.
Sec. 505. Certain farming business machinery and equipment treated as 5-year property.
Sec. 506. Modification of penalty on understatement of taxpayer’s liability by tax return preparer.
Subtitle B—Paul Wellstone and Pete Domenici Mental Health Parity and Addiction Equity Act of 2008 I'm going to need this one.
Sec. 511. Short title.
Sec. 512. Mental health parity.
TITLE VI—OTHER PROVISIONS
Sec. 601. Secure rural schools and community self-determination program.
Sec. 602. Transfer to abandoned mine reclamation fund.
TITLE VII—DISASTER RELIEF
Subtitle A—Heartland and Hurricane Ike Disaster Relief
Sec. 701. Short title.
Sec. 702. Temporary tax relief for areas damaged by 2008 Midwestern severe storms, tornados, and flooding.
Sec. 703. Reporting requirements relating to disaster relief contributions.
Sec. 704. Temporary tax-exempt bond financing and low-income housing tax relief for areas damaged by Hurricane Ike.
Subtitle B—National Disaster Relief
Sec. 706. Losses attributable to federally declared disasters.
Sec. 707. Expensing of Qualified Disaster Expenses.
Sec. 708. Net operating losses attributable to federally declared disasters.
Sec. 709. Waiver of certain mortgage revenue bond requirements following federally declared disasters.
Sec. 710. Special depreciation allowance for qualified disaster property.
Sec. 711. Increased expensing for qualified disaster assistance property.
Sec. 712. Coordination with Heartland disaster relief.
TITLE VIII—SPENDING REDUCTIONS AND APPROPRIATE REVENUE RAISERS FOR NEW TAX RELIEF POLICY
Sec. 801. Nonqualified deferred compensation from certain tax indifferent parties.

Wooden Arrow

The experienced archer usually has a good idea of what an arrow should be whether it's a piece of artwork, a tip of the hat to primitive construction, a simple unadorned arrow with pure function in mind, or a combination of these factors. Prices can range from $80/dozen for stock arrows to $300+/dozen for primitive arrows.

A majority of arrow buyers are more concerned with function over art. It makes sense to consider the type of shooting you expect to do and very little sense to head out and loose and break a set of $300 arrows! To this end you should supply yourself with arrows of sufficient quality that will eliminate the aspect of "equipment error" in developing your proficiency. With archery tackle well matched to itself and your stature, inconsistency is reduced to "pilot error" - at which point your questions along the way will have more direct pertinence to your actual technique.

I’m in the market for a good wooden arrow. Yes, I need an arrow to poke the pork (including wooden arrows) in the BailOut Bill passed by the Senate last night. I think we should all arm ourselves with a few good wooden arrows and put a siege on Congress. Boy, did we have the wool (yeah, that’s in the bill too) pulled over our eyes.

See the crap in this 451 page bill at http://money.cnn.com/2008/10/01/news/pdf/index.htm. But you probably don’t have time. Just like you don’t have the money. That is unless you are in the wooden arrow business.

Fire those arrows at your representative in the House this morning. Its our last hope.

Robin's Rose

This photo was taken this today. I also picked raspberries this morning after last night's fresh rain. When I went out to pick up the paper, the air had been rinsed clean, as clear as glass and oddly reminded me of Micronesia. Yes, it is the first day of October in Upstate New York.

Someone suggested I raise bean sprouts in my bathtub. La Choy. I bring this up for I was wondering what some one might do to earn money during a great depression. People have to eat and bean sprouts might be easy to grow, cheap to buy.

Study of Snook Kill Waterfall