Skip to main content

Bored cats playing in the house














No self-respecting cat can resist a box. Lucy is no exception. If she's not in a box, she's sneaking into cupboards or closets. She is quite the little explorer.
Today at work a man came in to ask for the key to the lua. Clearly he was a local. One test of a person's knowledge of the islands is whether or not he or she knows the difference between a lua and a luau. A luau is a feast. The lua is where you go sometime after the feast.
We are experience substantial rain lately. Or, as they say locally, "We get plenny da kine ua."
Not much is new. It's been raining so much and so hard we haven't even considered any yard work in weeks. The coffee trees are still doing well and the vegetable garden is protected by our Puna Style greenhouses. It's somewhat treacherous just getting to town and back. Yesterday, I actually slowed down to about 20 mpg along one stretch when the rain was coming down so hard I couldn't see much of anything in front of the hood. Shoots. I could hardly see the hood itself.
Today was slow at the wine factory, so I came home a couple of hours early. That's OK. I collected my first paycheck for freelancing writing today. CHACHING!
I'm reading a great book entitled, "Moloka'i" by Alan Brennart. It's the story of a young girl who contracts Hansen's Disease (leprosy) and is sent to the leper colony at Kalaupapa on the island of Moloka'i. She is sent at age 7, ripped away from her family. This happens in 1893, the same year as the overthrow of Queen Lili'uokalani and the Hawaiian monarchy by US businessmen, aided by the Marines. The author weaves bits of history into the girl's story.
I feel a trip to Kona coming on. My bones are complaining of vitamin D deficiency. Gotta to find some sunshine!
A hui hou. Aloha!

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Mom

This is my beautiful mom. She died last Sunday. For those who knew her, my heart breaks with you. For those who did not, here's an introduction to the best confidante, role model and mother a girl could hope for in life. This is the obituary I'd planned to submit to the local paper, but have opted instead to publish here. Obituary: Beverly Todd Bev -- my mom -- was a longtime caregiver, advocate, and dear friend to countless elderly in South Salem. Hers was a kind and generous spirit. She devoted much of her life to the welfare of others, giving wholly of herself and doing so always with great affection and humor. She was born Beverly Marie Steinberger in Silverton, July 23, 1938, the first child and only daughter of Art and Marie Steinberger. Her brothers called her Bevvy Buns, a nickname she grew fond of and wore proudly within the family circle as an adult. Bev attended St. Paul’s Elementary School in Silverton, Silverton High School and Marylhurst Co...

Back at it

It's been some time since I've written. My mom died in February, and I haven't had the gumption to write much, other than a couple of feature stories for the paper and the occasional pithy email to a friend. Tonight, sitting in my favorite burger joint with a pile of fries in front of me, I dunk them into a deep pool of ketchup mixed with a hot sauce. That's how Mom liked 'em. My burger? The Spicy Hawaiian, a nod to my 808 connections. It's a brilliant combination of peppers and pineapple, a favorite on the Power Stop menu. I'm sure she'd have loved it, too. There's a bubbly beer with a lime in it. That's not a homage to anything. I just like beer. These past months, I've done little but work, search and apply for jobs. Two rejection letters have landed in my email this week. Search-and-apply has become a futile obsession. It's time for a break, at least until I hear back from all those applications still floating around out there. I am...

Small town observations

Every day at noon, a siren blares from atop the city government building in Gunnison. Each time I hear it, I want to shout, “Yabba dabba doo!” even though it’s nowhere near happy hour. I’ve blurted this once or twice, only to elicit blank stares in response. Am I that old? Doesn’t anyone remember the The Flintstones? I hear that horn and imagine Fred sliding down the long neck of his gravel-quarry dino-dozer (which, thanks to Jurassic Park and the miracle of Google we all recognize now as riojasaurus). Quitting time! Fred flees, his fleet feet slapping toward a rack o’ ribs and a night of good times with Wilma, Barney, Betty and Dino. That’s Dino the dino, pronounced Deeno the dyno. Think that’s delusional? Another day, walking downtown near the source of the noontime wale, it struck me, a revelation it was, that the ramp up to full blast sounds just like the introduction to Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue, only this is a mega-air-raid, civil-defense siren solo rather than a clarinet, whic...