There was high drama at the Volcano Farmers' Market yesterday morning. I was half way along the sidewalk between the covered skate park and the main Cooper Center building, en-route to the gravel parking lot where I'd wedged my car. I plodded along, my green, re-use bag in one hand, celery stocks and carrot tops sticking up over the top, my coffee in the other, styro-cup lifted and in mid-sip, walking and drinking, drinking and walking. I might have been humming. It was a nice day, perfect for multi-tasking. Suddenly, I heard a great thump and turned to see the aftermath of a spectacular crash. A woman had stubbed her sandaled toe and fallen - splat - face first onto the pavement. Her nose was gushing blood and a quail's egg had swollen beneath her right eyebrow. I dropped my bag and ran to help, as did a young man who had also been nearby and heard impact. I helped her sit up, then instructed him to go find some tissues or towels. Others gathered. I sent one to find the woman's husband. Another said there was a nurse on duty doing free blood pressure screenings, so I sent her to grab said medical professional and drag her back to the scene. Somehow, I had become the director of this mishap. Paper towels arrived, and I coached the woman to pinch them onto her nose. She'd hold it there for a moment, then peel back the sticky paper to sneak a peek at the blood, which looked way worse than it was because the paper towels were white, and because a little blood always looks worse than it is. "Keep the pressure on," I said, hoping that the flow would stop soon and that by not looking at it so much, she might be less freaked. The nurse arrived, checked her for concussion, then advised that her husband take her directly to the emergency room, just to makes sure her head injury wasn't serious. Whew! It was encouraging to see so many people stop to help, and so many more ask if we needed anything else. It seems there are oodles of nice people in Volcano Village.
It was a beautiful morning, so after than, I went to the park for a jog (not to be confused with a run). My route took me around the Kilauea Military Camp's outer loop, then uphill to Jagger Museum and back. It was a killer, especially that last pitch. Still, I thought, not bad for a pudgy woman who's just chiseled another year deeper into her second half-century.
This morning, en-route to my tutor's gig, I punched buttons on the radio as usual, trying to find a song I liked. It's not easy here. First I landed on, I like fish and poi, I'm a big boy.... Yuck. Then there was, If I was invisible... Yuck twice! (Sorry, Claymates.) Besides cheesy songs, I kept catching the ends of news reports on the nasty divorce of Frank McCourt. I thought, "Shite! Can they do that to a dead man? Why won't they let the poor lad rest in peace? He did die, didn't he?" Click. I love my huli huli chicken, baby! Gag! His ex-wife wants a million dollars a month. "Shite!" This time, I say it out loud. To other motorists, I must have looked like some crazy haole woman, talking to herself, hand slapping the wheel, swearing in an Irish accent to no one in the passenger seat. "I knew he sold a lot of books, but shite!" All day, I was thinking of THEE Frank McCourt, the Pulitzer Prize winning author of Angela's Ashes. When I got home, I did a quick google search and learned that the news reports were referring to anOTHER Frank McCourt, a rich one who owns the L.A. Dodgers. I now realize the error of my geekish, if literarily influence ways. What a maroon!
I made a crock of chili last night. We're having leftovers again tonight. If I don't say so myself, that's some good shite. A crock o' shite!
A hui hou! Aloha!