Skip to main content

Smelling good!

Ron swore he saw several pigs in the yard today. He said they were riding in an ark. Or maybe it was a canoe. I went for a walk with the poochies despite the rain. Actually, I did it to spite the rain. Like the rain cares. No need to give the dogs a bath this month. They got so soaked, they're now squeaky clean after a good drenching and a towel dry.

Not all wet dog smell is created equal. Each of mine has his or her own unique odor when dry. Each smells unique when wet, too. Fortunately for me, none of them are particularly funky. They all smell pretty good, wet or dry. Still, there's a bit of a damp-dog aura in the air right now. We'll fire up the wood stove in a little while, when it gets a little cooler, to add some smoldering guava smoke to the aroma mix. Then we'll cook dinner. It'll be a cacophony not of sound, but of smells.

There is no mist these days. No light drizzle. No spritzing. Just giant drops falling out of the sky in such great volume and with such velocity that we've pretty much maxed the volume out on the T.V. most nights just to hear what the characters are saying. Today's paper showed a picture of keiki riding the surf on their boogie boards. The "surf," however, was not in the ocean. The kids were riding on the torrent of water rushing down their neighborhood street. We've had 25 inches of rain since Feb. 1. At this rate, December's 47 inches will soon seem reasonable. We'll look back on January's 14 inches with great fondness; it will seem downright arid by comparison.

Now, I've actually seen it rain this hard many times in my life. I saw the water rise so fast in Denver once that, in the blink of an eye, intersections became impassible, the water instantly higher than the floorboards of 4x4s. That deluge dumped five inches of rain in a matter of minutes. It was exciting. But it ended just as quickly as it started. I've also experienced gloom and drizzle for days on end. I grew up in The Great Pacific Northwest after all and that's pretty much how winter goes there. As rainy as it seemed to me back in the day, my hometown averages only 45 inches per year. Shoots, brah. We're on track to get that much rain this week. Here in the islands, we get these funky, unstable air masses that do not pass through. Rather, they set up camp and make themselves comfortable. The clouds are constantly fed with moisture from the sea so they never seem to wring themselves dry. They just keep dumping their loads, day after day. Good thing this island is made mostly of porous lava rock. There's flooding, for sure, but it would be much worse virtually anywhere else.

Yesterday, we ventured out into the rain to pick up some stuffs and get gas. I went into the new Seven Eleven in Kurtistown just to check it out. I was impressed with how local it is. They are franchises, after all. I had heard that owners definitely cater to local tastes. Dey get da kine spam musubi an' giant sushi rolls l'dat. An' dey get taquitoes stuffed wit' potagee sausage an' egg. Whoa cuz! Goin' steal some da kine bidness from J. Hara Store right nex' doah. J. Hara is a venerable institution in the neighborhood, so it will survive. As local as the Seven Eleven might get, it'll never be as local as J. Hara.
A hui hou. Aloha!

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

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

General goofiness

I was driving home from an abbreviated shift at work last night when I turned on the radio and heard Bob Dylan singing Everybody Must Get Stoned .  I was reminded of a placard I once saw at a Dairy Queen in Colorado that read, Everybody Must Get Coned .  So it occurred to me, there navigating through the misty darkness, that with a slight modification, this could be a great slogan for a number if different businesses.  Here's my list. Telecommunications company: Everybody must get phoned . Cutlery shop and knife sharpening services: Everybody must get honed . Credit Union: Everybody must get loaned . Brothel: Everybody must get moaned. Winery: Everybody must get Rhoned . Fitness Center: Everybody must get toned . Local planning commission: Everybody must get zoned . Bio-research company: Everybody must get cloned. Doggy daycare: Everybody must get boned. Manufacturer of modern, unmanned spy planes: Everybody must get droned . Reader of corny mottoes and slogans listed on a chees

Re-writing Twain: Adendum

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