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.