Mountains and Islands

   I had a job interview for a marketing specialist position on Monday, with a follow-up assignment sent via email to provide a graphic and a writing sample on Tuesday. This second step seemed like a positive thing to me, like a second interview. So there I am, Tuesday afternoon, feeling pretty good about the interview and the samples I sent that morning. The Doctor Dog and I are cruising up the road for an afternoon walk, feeling light of foot and generally good, when we hear a familiar sound. There's no mistaking the distinct bumble of my neighbor's Anthurium-red BMW with the black rag top and miscreant muffler. It closes in on us fast, prompting us to step aside and into the grass along the non-shoulder of our one-lane road. Her window is down when she reaches us.    "You didn't play tennis Monday, did you?" she asks. It's a weird question, since I play with her.    "Nope. Had a job interview."    "Oh yeah? Where?"    "At a loca...

Some people collect Hummels. Others like stamps, or coins or those commemorative spoons from places they visit around the world. For me, it's college degrees. The next one will have to wait a few years, however, since I am fresh out of cash. Time to go earn some. The mission, which I have no choice but to accept, is to find a job. This, I believe, will prove more challenging than earning any degree. The competition is keen. The pickings, slim. I've applied on the island for positions ranging from Seasonal Cookie Dipper to Marketing Specialist, and if that goat herder opening appears again the paper, I'll go for that, too. I like goats.  I'm happy to be home for now with my husband and dog and adorable kitties, and yet, more often than not, my head is elsewhere. To be specific, it's in Colorado, or Alaska. "There is no hope for the satisfied man." So states the motto of The Denver Post. If this applies to middle-aged women, too, then I am about as friggin...

Yes, I know. I've been remiss with the blog. Shoveling sawdust and vole poop will do that to a writer. It's been nearly two weeks since my arrival in Gunnison and I should be ready to go home. Instead, I don't want to leave. The house is clean, or clean enough. It meets our standards, anyway, which have plummeted in recent years to about the level of limbo bars for cockroaches. The plumbing works now -- mostly. The grass looks like a bad haircut. But it's still a way cool house, in a groovy town, and I want to stay. My friend Brian said it best in quoting the theme from Cheers on my Facebook page recently: "You wanna go where everybody knows your name." Lots of people know me here, and I know lots of people, and we've been genuinely glad to see each other these past days, in coffee shops, at their houses for dinner, on the sidewalk, at the market or the hardware store. Everywhere I go. Everywhere. And the people I've encountered who I don't know?...

My mother once tried to punish me by sending me to my room.  I must have done something pretty bad to warrant such a sentence, though I don't recall now what that was. She probably does. My mom's like an elephant. She rarely forgets anything, and if she does, she'll makes up something even better that quickly becomes the standard family truth. On that day, furious, she escorted me through the door of my room with a stern point of the finger, then pulled the door closed with a firm click. Two hours later, she returned. "You can come out now," she said. "That's OK," I said, smiling. She peered in to see that I'd set up all my stuffed animals around the bed. It was a theater-in-the-round and I was having a grand time enacting some sort of play for them. She laughed, shook her head and headed down the hall. Children without siblings learn early and well to entertain themselves. We are our own best audiences. My buddy Janine and I -- she, too, was...

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. ...

Last week, 60 Minutes aired a segment on child farm labor. Yes, it still exists in America and it's still legal. Kids do it to help their families. They're strong, these kids, resilient. They work hard and make the best of those long, hot days. But ask any of them, as the 60 Minutes reporter did, and they'll tell you they don't want to do it forever. They plan to graduate high school, go to college, make a better life for themselves and their children. When I was a kid, I worked as a farm laborer, too. No one forced me and I did not do it to help my family. I did it because many of my classmates were doing it, and because my parents had done it as children, and their parents before them.  I did it for cash, for a pair of Levis and a Nishiki 12 speed bicycle. It was tedious, dirty work, but like today's farm worker kids, we made the best of it, picking to the rhythm of transistor radios tuned to the same, top 40 station. Backaches and sunburns aside, I have fond mem...

She was the world's most brilliant, brave, mischievous, and beautiful border collie in the history of the universe. Hopps made us smile every day of her life. She came to us from friends who adopted her from the Denver Dumb Friends League. She had been abused as a pup and was shy then, afraid of anything with a long handle, scared of belts and loud noises. Our friends loved her, but with a fledgling business and a baby on the way, they had little time for. We fell for her instantly that weekend they came to visit, and when they asked if we'd be willing to take her, we said, in unison and without hesitation, "Sure!" Hopps transformed from city pooch to country girl and quickly became the happiest dog in the world. Now, free from old age and disease, she can shag tennis balls all day long.  "Hello, Hoppsy," my father says, as though he's been expecting her. He sits on the tailgate of his long-bed '65 Chevy, Crawford, our English shepherd, content ...

"Little darlin', it seems like years since it's been clear..." George Harrison After eleven -- count 'em, cause I do -- yes, eleven days of all-day rain with intermittent downpours and deluges, yesterday was glorious. Now, you might think that one good thing about a string of foul-weather days is that a person would appreciate the sunshine even more when it finally breaks through to lighten a dismal world. But I'll marvel at a sunny Thursday even if Wednesday was also fabulous. Maybe that has something to do with growing up in the great, if gray and drizzly Pacific Northwest. But it's a bona fide, documented, irrefutable fact that I would never take a sunny day for granted, even if it were sunny every friggin' day of the year. I wouldn't. Really. No way. Hoppsy wasn't feeling her best, so we hobbled to the yard to sit under the kukui nut tree, she in the grass, me in my shaky, rusty lawn chair. The kitties all gathered 'round. I didn...

There's never been a cat so indulged or more loved. She was our Lucy, our favorite (but don't tell the others) and we've been spoiling her for years. Yesterday, we made the wrenching decision to let her go. The inoperable tumor on her nose had grown furious and was making her miserable despite extra doses of pain medication. Today, our hearts are broken for the loss of our beautiful, bossy girl. We buried her at the base of the koa tree that angles out from the roof of the house. We might have trimmed it years ago for the leaves it sheds into the gutter. But she climbed it every day to bask in the sun on the roof, or to curl up under the eves when it rained. She climbed it before losing her sight, and after, too. It's Lucy's tree, as it is her house. We're just fortunate she liked us enough to let us live here with her. We stay on as caretakers in her absence. Lucy is with Grandpa now, and her doggy-sister Crawford. I'm sure there's also a 24-hour all...

My friend Kathy and I were lamenting the other day how expensive it is to exist these days, let alone stay healthy, especially as a middle-aged human, with or without medical insurance. She has been nursing an injured, worn-out shoulder, diligent with ice, stretching and rotator cuff exercises, but  knows it will need surgery to fix properly, something she can't afford. She was with me when I broke my tooth. "Shit. There's another two grand, just like that! What's next?" I said. "I know what you mean. It's like you're afraid to move because something might break and you can't afford to fix it," she said. I laughed, but truer words were never spoken. I recently had minor surgery, a nether-regionectomy and gynecological spelunking as I like to call it. The medical staff at North Hawaii Community Hospital liked my description of the procedure and seemed amenable to changing its official name to exactly that, an NRGS for short. Prior to the ...

WANTED: Experienced cat owner in between pets, or maybe with one but no more, to take on the challenge of socializing a stray-feral cat. I have befriended him at the expense of my other pets, all of whom are "special needs" as they say: blind, elderly, infirm. Our new friend was badly injured when he came to us and is now on the mend. But his social skills need work. He is fearful and combative one minute, sweet the next. But he will, with a few week's patience, make a nice companion for the right person.       Here's the story: The Black Cat. We've taken to calling him BC. He's medium bushy with Simple Green eyes.  BC has been a fixture in the neighborhood for years. Everybody knows him, and his range has extended along more than a half a mile of our road. When he'd visit our house, he'd sneak in through the back door to snatch a bite from our cats' food table. If one of us saw him, or he saw us, he'd blast away in a blur so fast you'd ...

He's a feral cat, scraggly, scruffy, scrappy, bushy black with emerald green eyes. Black Kitty has been coming around for the past couple years. Sometimes, he disappears for weeks or even months at a time, and just when we're sure he's gone for good, he shows up again, battered and hungry. Our house is a good place to hang if you're a cat; it's safe, with comfy places to get out of the elements, people who talk softly and feed you when you meow at them. Recently, he returned after a three week absence, a scabby patch of missing fur on his head and an injured front right paw. I've gotten close enough to touch him once, this morning, for the first time. Until today, he's always darted away at the slightest move in his direction.  He's not aggressive and the other kitties don't seem to mind him. Even Doc has gotten used to him and has stopped barking to chase him away. So we feed him when we see him. The last few nights, he's curled up to sleep on t...

The best thing about rants, at least among the civilized, is that someone smart always makes a valid point to the contrary. My fellow University of Alaska Anchorage classmate, Wendy, directed me to this column, written recently for the New York Times by a writer I admire, Lorrie Moore . She's on both sides of editing Twain issue, and for good reason, posing the notion that maybe Mark Twain was never intended to be children's literature and that that is the problem. Give it a read, then tell me what you think, if you're so inclined. It was Flannery O'Connor who said, "The fact is that anybody who has survived his childhood has enough information to last him the rest of his days."  No matter how idyllic one's childhood, no matter how hard grown ups try to protect their young charges, trauma happens, sometimes the likes of which no child should endure. Stories that reflect this are often the fodder for great literature, stories not necessarily suitable for y...

A few bits of recent news have got me riled and not just a little heartsick. Some jackass (I will not glorify him by inserting his name into this blog), in the interest of political correctness and to protect the delicate sensibilities of American children, has taken it upon himself to change one of the greatest, most important works of American literature ever written. He's published his own version of Huckleberry Finn , deleting all reference to the N-word and replacing it with the word slave . How can this happen? How is it legal? It's not his novel to change. The word was widely spoken in Mark Twain's time and was arguably more derogatory then than it is now, which is why Twain used it and why it's the right word for the story. God forbid our kids would be encouraged to think and to question, and that parents might provide some guidance, and that teachers might actually teach. Regardless of the educational implications, it's reprehensible that someone would and...

There's a saying, issued forth by civil defense here on Hawaii Island whenever flash flood warnings are issued: Turn around, don't drown.  They've been warning of this for days. It's finally here. It's a funny thing about rain, especially for those who live in the Southwest, that is, there's never enough of it, except when there's too much of it. For what it's worth, it's raining here too, messing up vacations, overrunning sewer systems in Honolulu just like it does in L.A.  As the toads frolic, I send you this Christmas poem. Let it Rain (Sung to the tune of Let it Snow) Oh the weather outside is raining, and this glass of wine I’m draining, the tourists are mad, you bet, they’re all wet, they’re all wet, they’re all wet... Oh the sky looks like it’s melting, as the rain, the roof is pelting, the trickling stream's a-rush, think I’ll just sit inside on my tush... When I finally venture out, don’t you know, I’m gonna get soaked, ...

Yesterday morning, as the dirty oil from my car was being drained and replaced with fresh, I walked the mile or so from Goodyear on Kilauea Ave., to Island Naturals, where they have brown rice salmon musubis that aren't all that tasty but are filling and healthy for the price. Midway along my route, near Cafe 100, the tsunami warning sirens revved, then blared.  Had there been an earthquake somewhere around the Pacific Rim? I strained to recall, then remembered that they test the sirens on the first of every month. I'd thought they were limited to the big, yellow towers along the shoreline, but as I walked Kilauea, no towers in sight, the wale literally felt as though it was right over my head. I looked up to see, if that makes any sense, like you can see sound, and realized there were visually discrete speakers mounted on every other power pole along my route.  The blasting lasted for close to 10 minutes, which seemed excessive for a drill, and when it finally died down,...

Hope you've all gotten your flu and ammonia shots this season. That's how someone describe their vaccinations to me the other day.  My own, well educated husband used the word, "upsurp" just yesterday, as in, "The upstart could upsurp the reigning power." "Upsurp is not a word," I said. "What is it then?" he asked. "Usurp. The word is usurp." "Oh, well, whatever," he said. You say pneumonia and I'll say ammonia. You say upsurp and I'll say usurp. Pneumonia, ammonia, upsurp, usurp. Let's call the whole thing off!  It was nice just long enough this morning for us to borrow the neighbor's ultra-long ladder and send our  fearless neighbor up to clear out the grass and leaves clogging the gutters. Young Joe trod the roof like a pro, with the balance of an athlete and the belief in immortality and desperation to earn $20 only an 18 year-old possesses. What a nice kid.   When visiting our neighbor, Leona...

Here's the link to my flash fiction story, entitled, The Lemming Sisters.   Happy reading! http://www.hobopancakes.com/animalania4.html Oh, and if you like this and want to support this funny little humor ezine, check out their merchandise. The t-shirts are cute!

Today was pineapple pickin' day. Ron wanted a photo of me with the fruit, in front of some other fruit, to tout his pineapple growing prowess. Never mind that we've harvested maybe 4 pineapples in the five years we've been here. "You can't grow pineapples in Glenwood," says our neighbor Leonard. Whatever Leonard says we can't grow, Ron sets out to prove him wrong. This, I must admit, is our best pineapple yet, twice as big as any we've whacked before and twice as sweet. I attribute this to the unusual amount of sunshine we've had with this year's drought and to uncharacteristic patience, waiting, waiting, waiting, until the thing was actually ripe before picking it, something we've rushed with our previous harvests. For those who may not know, the pineapple belongs to the bromeliad family. Riveting, huh? That's a lemon tree behind me. Here's the big news.  A far-from-literary cyber-rag has written to say, "We love your stor...

My husband pads down the hallway in his slippers, thumps muffled by the soft soles of his L.L. Beans. He arrives at the lanai, where I sit with my coffee and laptop, working (checking emails and Facebook ). He's got the paper in his hands and a grin on his face. "Guess who just filed for bankruptcy?" he asks. Maybe it's Donald Trump again, or one of those famous TV investment advisor like Jim Cramer or Dave Ramsey or Suze Ormand . Maybe it's Sarah Palin or Christine O'Donnell. It could be one of those greedy bankers or mortgage brokers responsible for the real estate bubble and subsequent economic collapse, maybe an AIG , Countrywide or Haliburton executive, or maybe it's Dick Cheney, somebody who either knows better or deserves it, someone big, rich and in the spotlight. I'm intrigued. "I don't know. Who?" I ask. "Toni Braxton ," he says. A few seconds pass. I don't know what to say. "How would I ever guess th...