I'll Tumble for ya, I'll tumble for ya....

They love each other like typical siblings. One minute they're all cuddly, like this. The next, their initiating body slams and chomping on each others' jugulars.

I had a bit of a start the other day. It happened in the laundry room. I say this like it's some far-away wing of my vast mansion. It's a small offshoot from the kitchen. Stooped over the edge of my top loader, I gripped and tugged at wet sheets that were wrung tight and smashed against the sidewalls inside the washer's basin, listening to Jack Johnson in the background, wondering, "Where'd all the good people go?" just like Jack, relishing the mindlessness of my chore. Once the wad was free, I hurled it into the open dryer, slammed the door, set the timer and pushed the button. At first tumble, I heard a loud thud and wondered if the dryer, like all my other appliances, was about to expire. A few more bumps had me worried. You can see where this is going, right? I opened the door and our flew Harley, dazed. Poor baby! I scooped him up, checked him over, heard him purring like a Cummins diesel, decided he was fine and set him free. Crisis averted. I hadn't seen or heard him come into the room, let alone jump in. They can be stealthy that way, like B-2 Spirit bombers with whiskers. Kitties. They keep me on my toes. I thought I was being diligent, checking all cupboards with open doors before closing them, scanning the car after bringing in the groceries to be sure no felines had gone exploring through the interior. Looks like I've got to step it up a notch. The good news is that he's now afraid of the machine and darts away like a goosed Cheetah when it starts.

As we all know, Roses like rain. This one is growing in a pot that I largely ignore, sitting in my driveway. Pretty, huh?

A hui hou. Aloha!

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Born and bred

The creature stared at me, wide-eyed through the florescent glare, Saran Wrap stretched tight across its broad back. Alone in the seafood cooler, he was the only one of his kind, there among the farmed, color-added Atlantic salmon and mud-flavored tilapia, perched on a blue foam tray, legs tucked 'round him like a comfy kitten. He didn't blink. He was dead, red, cooked and chilled, ready to eat. Such a find is rare in the City Market fish department in Gunnison, Colorado. What if nobody takes him home? I thought. This beautiful animal will have died needlessly, ripped from his home, family and friends (Dory, Nemo, Crush and Gill?) only to be tossed in the trash when his expiration date came and went. I lifted him for closer inspection, checked that date, felt the heft of him, scanned his surface for cracks and blemishes. The creature was perfect. I lowered him back into the cooler, nodded farewell, turned to walk away, took one step, and stopped. Shoppers strolled past, stud

Fruity booty

It was a long drive from Glenwood to the northern tip of the island -- three hours -- so for sustenance, we stopped at Baker Tom's for malasadas on the way. My pal Kathy and I were headed to Kapa'au for a hike, one we'd read about in the local newspaper. The couple who run Baker Tom's (not sure if the husband is actually Tom or not) are delightful, with enduring stamina. They're as old as radio, yet they're always on duty, ready to serve behind the counter, as they have for many years, frying, baking, brewing and smiling, there in Papaikou , gateway to the Hamakua Coast. The malasadas are enormous, cheap and delicious, the coffee OK, the tourists all happy to have discovered this place, buzzing with sugar and caffeine. They make a killer pumpkin cheesecake at Baker Tom's, too. It's always a pleasant stop. Ahapua'a . It's a Hawaiian land division, usually a strip or wedge, stretching from mountain to sea. Hawaiians lived in villages wit

On Tennis and Writing and Being Too Nice

I've recently been recruited to play tennis for a local 4.0 ladies tennis league team, referred to as either "Team Debbie" for the nice woman who manages us, or "Have Fun," which is our pre-match chant. We're still looking for a proper name. But we do have fun, despite getting creamed most outings. Last Saturday, we played in the Edith Kanakaole Tennis Stadium in Hilo. Good thing, too, since outside it was pouring, complete with thunder and lightning. It's a substantial structure, covered, yet open all around, most famous for hosting the annual Merrie Monarch Hula Festival in April. It was about 85 degrees outside and 100 percent humidity, air so thick it took three sucks of my albuterol inhaler just to breath. Several of us arrived early to warm up, but after twenty minutes' steady rallying with my teammate, Keiko, the human backboard, I was drenched. I played doubles with a nice, extremely fit and excellent ground-stroker named Cynthia from Pahoa.

Mountains and Islands

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