Mountains and Islands

Christmastime in Hawaii! People have snapped up the sashimi -grade tuna and poke like mad, like usual. There's a shortage this year, which has put a damper on tradition. The fishery has been closed on big eye tuna to long liners. People will be stuck with less traditional fare this year like marlin or ham or turkey or tofurkey . Besides tuna, there's also the annual holiday run on bamboo. It is Japanese custom to create a tiered, bamboo vase for the new year. Bamboo brings luck and prosperity. I'm surrounded by it, or at least I drive through a thicket of it nearly every day. So far, the luck and prosperity have been slow in coming. That said, it's Christmas and people are want to believe. So they ravage local bamboo forest, whacking it with gusto along the road's edge. Nobody cares much. It grows back quickly. Mochi pounding is another New Year's ritual. Rice is pulverized in giant mortar bowls into fine flour. This is accomplished with great

A friend of mine went to the unemployment office in Hilo Friday morning to file her claim. It seems everyone's out of work these days. I have three friends here with whom I actually hang out on occasion, and of the four of us, three are on the skids. Of course, that could be a testament to the company I keep. Considering that I'm one of the three, however, it could also be a testament to the company they keep. Anyway, when she arrived, she found the office closed. That's right. The unemployment office has been furloughed on Fridays. There is a great ad in the Help Wanted section of the Hilo Tribune-Herald this week for a Goat Herder. There was also one looking for fruit packers and another from a diner seeking dishwashers. There's the omnipresent local search for an astronomer with a PhD in Astrophysics and at least 10 years experience in black hole research. There's always that, what with all those big, bad-ass telescopes on our mountain. Otherwise, t

It was a slow day at the tutor's desk. Shopping was a drag. The highlight of my town trip today was a bumper sticker that read: Militant Agnostic: I'm not sure and neither are you It's funny, in a heady, heretical sort of way, right? Then later, walking on campus, I spotted a young woman, so brave in her political incorrectness, sporting a t-shirt that said, Fearless Haole . Fearless Hawaiian and Hawaiian Pride are emblazoned on windshields and chests and biceps everywhere you look. There are Fearless Filipinos and Fearless Potagees . Never have I seen a Fearless Haole . I thought about getting a Fearless Norwegian-Irish-German-Scots Irish-Native American-poi dog- whatevah decal, but couldn't see where that might fit. No, the back of my pants is not an option. That would require removal of my Wide Load sign and endanger everyone. The Eddie went today. That's the Eddie Aikau Invitational big wave surfing competition. Eddie was a renowned big wave ride

Check out this story. Really, just click on the link. I know you'll marvel at what you read. What does Forrest Gump say? Stupid is as stupid does? Next time I find myself lying on the road in the middle of a dark night with my head on the white shoulder line, I hope no good Samaritan calls the cops to help me out. This happened within walking distance of my house. You've heard the expression 'brain drain?' I think the intellectual contents of this rainforest sink we call Glenwood has long been circling. This morning we had a bit of a scare. Our neighbor John took a tumble into the bushes right across from the end of our driveway. John wears a leg brace and has only one functioning arm, so he could not get up. My dog Doc barked ferociously, sounding the panic alarm. He knows John and watches for him to deliver our paper every morning. Touser , the neighbor's crazy terrier, yapped too. Good dogs! Who knows how long John may have languished there in t

What a nice, low-key Thanksgiving. It didn't rain and while the sun was not blazing, it felt nice to dry off. We've enjoyed some cooler weather of late. Around here, that's an overall dip of about five degrees across the low-high graph. It's enough to have silenced the coquis. All's quiet now in the mauka (toward the mountain) rainforest, except for the geckos and a few winged insects that make buzzy noises. I didn't mind the coquis so much, since we had so few of them. The few will not likely become millions up here, as it has at lower elevations on the island. Of course, there is that whole global warming phenomenon to consider. We spent much of the late morning and early afternoon indoors cooking, or at least I did, so it might as well have rained, though I'm not complaining that it didn't. No way. What took hours to cook was devoured in a flash, a fury of forkfuls stuffing our pie holes. We have some leftovers, sure, and pie too, with whippe

Right now, it's not raining. The early morning was glorious. I zipped up hill to the Volcano Farmers' Market, which has become a hangout of sorts for me on Sundays. The air was cool enough to justify my long pants and sleeves, like early autumn in the Great Pacific Northwest. The place was packed. It's always busy, but today was especially so, a hive pulsing with busy bee activity. The sticky bun lady ran out of sticky buns by 7:30. I arrived at 7:35, so had to settle for cherry turnovers. Not a bad concession. I'm suppose to be writing. I have two vague story prompts rattling around inside my head, ideas that are products of my memory and life. I want to write these stories. I do. I'm also scared to death of both of them. I'm a big chicken. There's a reason I don't write non-fiction. It takes cojones and, truth be told, I ain't got any. Never did. I'll ski the headwall at Crested Butte, but truthful writing, even in the form

The fun just keeps coming here with mom on the rock. On Sunday, we shopped for swim suits. A Phillips screw driver hammered into my ear would have been more enjoyable. Once I'd exhausted all the likely contenders (none of which I purchased), we moved on to jog bras. Much easier. There were a few alternative styles I'd never tried before and, having taken up residence in the fitting room and feeling quite cozy in there, I opted to try them on. Mom ferried them to me from the rack. She passed one through the door that looked a little small. Idiot that I am, I tugged it on anyway, trusting that she'd chosen the right size, never thinking to check it before donning the dud. Jeepers ! I thought I was going to need the jaws of life to get the thing off. Some serious jumping was required to gather enough momentum to break free. Anyone who's ever tried to remove a really sweaty one knows what I mean. Just then, she arrived at the door with several more. "Here,&qu

Mom and I busted up the highway today. We cruised to Tom the Baker's to eat malasadas the size of Volkswagen's , then yonder on to Hawi and Kapa'au . There, we hung with the spirit of King Kamehameha and looked at some pretty Pololu Valley scenery. Lunch was nice at Bamboo. We caught a fantastic, Rose Festival rival of a parade along Ali'i Drive in Kailua - Kona . That's a wee exaggeration . It was a modest, fun, community affair. No roses. But there were kids on trikes, Knights of Columbus wearing fuzzy hats and school children dressed as pirates. It's Kona Coffee Festival week here on the west side, so they're celebrating the bean. It's actually a seed, from a fruit. They're celebrating none-the-less. Curry at Thai Rin was yummy. So were the Haagen - Dazs bars we grabbed at the gift store and are now digesting, tired, warm and happy, in our free upgraded, ocean-front room. It's been a hoot of day. Stellar. Mom's watch

My BFF Lisa ( Best Fairbanks Friend) challenged me in a recent email to use the word horticulture in a sentence. How's this: You can lead a horticulture, but you can't make her appreciate it. Lisa also mentioned someone famous named Dorothy Parker . Famous to most people that is, but not to me, literary dilettante that I am. So I looked her up and now vow (brown cow) to read her stuff. She sounds funny, like someone I'd have liked to jaw with over a latte. Too bad she's already punted the pail as they say. Well, that's how I say it. The groggy doggy Doctor dog and I made our way to the vet for a clean bill of health yesterday without too much trauma. I may now be deaf in my right ear from his high decibel whining, but otherwise we're fine. He's eleven years old now and needs an extra oomph to jump onto the bed these days, not to mention a ramp to get into the truck. He's also still a Satan -possessed psycho mutt, but otherwise sweet and sprig

It's a sad state of affairs in Hawaii. Here, in the birthplace of our president - a walking example of what a good education can do for you if you apply yourself - kids are being shortchanged big time. The teachers union has agreed and the legislature sanctioned something called furlough Fridays. Public schools in hawaii are now closed on Fridays and remain so for the next 12 weeks of school. It's unclear now whether the kids will attend the requisite number of days required for federal funding under No Child Left Behind. Many have asked why the teachers can't just take the pay cut they agreed to and still work those Fridays. That's what people who work for private industry are doing these days. (Those lucky enough to still be working anyway.) The teachers make an eloquent argument. You wouldn't ask a lawyer or doctor or accountant or other professional to work days for free, they say. We too are professionals, they argue, and should not be expected to d

Yesterday, we borrowed a neighbor's expandable ladder and schlepped it across the road. I toted the front end - or at least walked in front, for who knew which end was really which - and Ron carried the back. We stretched and leaned it against the gutter. I ascended, the aluminum steps and rails stiff and unyielding under my feet and hands. I liked that. My pockets were stuffed with tools and my head with plans to take down the tilting antenna. It sagged at a precarious angle, ready to tumble. We decided it would be best to remove it before it fell and impaled someone. Like me, for example. Rusty, yes, but the bracket was still stronger than I or the screwdriver or wrench or hammer or whatever else I held in my wimpy little hands. I grunted. It was no use. "Shoots," as they say here in paradise. The bolts were fused with chunks rusted away, so I couldn't get a grip. We hoisted up the reciprocal saw fitted with a hack blade and I cut the thing into manag

One of the best things about shopping at Costco is the samples. At the end of almost every aisle, you'll find a cheerful, apron-clad, white-hatted person - usually a woman - doling out some goodie or other; a new juice in tiny paper cups, a slice of some new smoked ham on a cracker, a bite-sized hunk of granola bar. Sadly, it was one of those very offerings yesterday, there within those hallowed warehouse halls, that sparked a pang of internal angst regarding the level of laziness to which we as a species have fallen. One of the women had placed pieces of something from a box into small, wavy-edged cupcake papers. Upon closer inspection, I saw that the something was wedges of hard boiled egg! These were prepackaged hard boiled eggs. Eggs already hard boiled FOR YOU. Each one is individually wrapped inside the box. I'm still reeling. It was good to get out of the rain for the day, eat a fresh malasada and some cheap-but-OK-for-the-price sushi. Other than the eggs and

October 1 marks the start of the wet season here in Hawaii. Oh goodie. Here in beautiful Glenwood, mud capital of the Pacific, we received 107.46 inches by month's end August. Stats for September aren't in yet, but today's deluges (there were several), should put us well on our way to a fat, 200-inch year. Did you know that algae can grow on car paint? Mold too. Our cars don't get dirty in the traditional sense here. They just grow creeping, slimy plant and animal life. Ferns sprout from the house gutters. As I drove home from tutoring this afternoon, squinting through the water-logged windshield, I cranked the volume to hear the radio over the din of the fast, fwap fwap of the wiper blades. Some cheesy song played, lamenting the crooner's location somewhere on the cold, snowy mainland. She longed melodically for sunny Hawaii. I wanted to poke out the dial, to jab it with the point of my enormous, still dripping unbrella, but I was driving. To grasp the

Speed bumps. You know them, those jolting bars of raised blacktop placed across roadways or in parking lots to control drivers' speed. Today, I traveled a long, lonely road to my pal Steve's farm. He wants me to write some copy for his new website. I've been buying his jams and jellies for a couple of years now. Anyway, I couldn't help but noticing the placards warning motorists along the way of those sharp rises in the pavement. Diamond shaped and yellow, they look like yield signs but say, "speed hump." That's what they call them here. Speed humps. What an image. There are some in things in life that should not be rushed and humping is one of them. Steve has tiny dogs that dart around in front of the car as you pull in through his gate. I stopped, of course, for fear of hitting them, and the gate closed on my car door. It's a thrash and bash mobile, so no harm was done. He waved me in, shouting, "Don't worry. They're fast.

The tradewinds are dead, dead, dead this morning and the vog , like Old Man River, just keeps on rollin ' alo -o-o- ong . Our zucchini leaves will be fried before noon. Cilantro? Fugettaboutit ! It's history. Lettuce? No chance. On Saturday night, Ron was watching something on the History channel while I was, as always, parked on the couch, legs crossed Indian style as we used to say (though I'm sure that's no longer PC) with my laptop, believe it or not, on my lap. The announcer made a reference to Casanova . Ron rose from his spot and headed to the kitchen to get himself a beer. This was an anomaly , since that's typically my job. He stopped en route , right in front of me, and stuck his gut out as far as he could, swaying his back just a bit for added effect. I looked up. "What do you think? Could I be a Casanova ?" he asked, a goofy grin plastered just below the mustache. "Maybe a casse role ," I said. Yeah, it was hilarious

We were on our way to town the other day - we needed beer and wanted papayas - listening to that venerable radio news source, NPR. They're professional. They're knowledgeable. Master journalists. The two anchors talked about the exploits of a firm owned by Blackwater , the company doing work in Iraq. I'll admit I tuned out for a moment, mentally that is, my mind somewhere far away. As I stared through the window, the woman's voice faded, to become vague and distant, obscured by the whir of passing trucks with over-sized mud tires. Then, a single word wrangled my attention away from the buzz of traffic, the passing foliage, the dashboard squeaks. "Did she just say, ' subsiderary ?'" I asked. "Yes, I think she did," Ron said. "Un-f#$@%^ believable," I said. I didn't say that out loud of course, because that would be crude and classless, but I thought it. OK maybe I said it. The male voice followed, using the same w

When I told Ron I would become a writing tutor, he said that was impossible, since I'm not English. (I have so rubbed off on this guy.) Together, students and I hammer home thesis statements and smooth paragraph transitions. We identify possessives and the need for those pesky apostrophes that go with them. We ensure proper tense and article usage, fix sentence fragments and run-ons; you get the picture. It's satisfying to see the lights come on when they recognize the errors themselves and craft fine sentences right before my eyes. There is, however, a dark side to the tutoring trade, a sordid element, a seedy underbelly. On Thursday afternoon, a girl approached the desk while I was working with another student. She waved a paper in front of me, interrupting our session. I recognized the form. Some lower level English course instructors require that students review each assignment with a tutor. The tutor checks off each element reviewed, then initials the sheet. &

I am standing at the kitchen sink washing dishes when I hear Ron get up from his nap.   "What do you want for dinner tonight?"  He asks.  This is the first and most important question we address most days. "I don't know.  Anything," I say.  This is my customary answer.  (It's our version of, What do you want to do?  I don't know.  What do you want to do? )   "We can have that masala sauce we bought the other day with some chicken and stir-fry vegetables," he says. "We have stir fry vegetables?" I confirm.  "Yep.  I bought some," he says.   "Sounds good to me," I say.  "Are you getting up?" I ask, dishes rumbling in the sink. "No. I just had to pee," he says.  (Are you riveted yet?  I swear to Pele, this is how boring we really are.) "OK. Have a nice nappy," I say.  That's what we call it.  A nappy.  I resume with the dishes. Left to my own, inner mental devices, it's

Adventure!  That's what my buddy Kathie and I had today.  We traveled to Kaimu, to The Kalapana Cafe.  It may well be the best burger you can get on this island.  The end of the road was quiet.  There were a few monks with shaved heads milling about in loud, yellow and orange robes. One girl in a bikini advertised the perils of mis-stepping on the lava when so clad, a nice strawberry on her thigh and a bleeding knee.  A few tourists, a local or two.  A dog curled up in the corner by our table.  We disturbed her nap when we sat down, so she sauntered over to another, unoccupied corner.  Papayas were ripening on the trees that grew out of the gravel adjacent to the place.  Coconut palms, noni and mango trees lined the parking lot. Kalapana Cafe may be the only burger joint in the world with outdoor seating and fresh orchids to accent each table.  We ate a satisfying, all-American lunch, then meandered out onto the pahoehoe ourselves, not wearing bikinis, thankful for red cinder dus

Ah blissful ignorance!  A year ago, I had no problem launching into a new project, typing away for hours on end, tiny springs in my fingers, a story teller telling a story, welling with confidence.  No misgivings.  No reticence.  I was good and I knew it.  I had been accepted to a program, goll - dernit and my mother and friends had been telling me I was awesome for half a century.  Now, I know better.  I have been trained to recognize crap when I read it, and when I write it.  I can still spend hours piling words onto a page, only to see them for what they are; a rambling, aimless heap of dung.  There's no story in this effort and there may never be.  It's words, sentences, paragraphs, lying around haphazard, like Jenga blocks after somebody gets cocky and pulls too hard, or too slow, and the tower crumbles.  Some of the sentences are good, no doubt, but it will take Herculean effort and no small amount of luck to assemble and re-write it all into something readable.   So

Four miles in 45 minutes, 12 seconds today on the guinea pig wheel, aka the treadmill.  Woohoo!  My sneakers were like tiny rockets, flames blasting from their heels.  Smoke billowed up from the rubber conveyor.  Smokin'!   As it turns out, I lost three pounds at the residency.  Makes me rethink my diet strategy.  Move over Jenny Craig.  Outa the way Weight Watchers.  No exercise, extreme sleep deprivation, college cafeteria food, tables sprinkled with mini-candy bars, occasional cookies, plenty of carrot cake and ample amounts of alcohol consumed well into the wee hours - that's the ticket. Follow that with a train ride and three days eating hunks of halibut as big as your head, wash them down with heavy ale and those pounds just melt away.   As I read the job postings for English Composition and Creative Writing instructors at colleges across the country, I can't help notice one glaring element they all have in common; college teaching experience required.  I have teachin

Ron and I took a quick trip to town for out third fleecing of the week by Hilo grocers.  We were out of TP and diesel for the convertible (aka the tractor) and needed tofu for the stir fry he wants to make tonight, so we loaded the trash and the reusable shopping bags into the car and headed for town.  Stopping at the Glenwood transfer station to unload the trunk of rubbish (no trash service here, folks) we proceeded on to an otherwise uneventful if hot, muggy and wallet-emptying sojourn.  Our highlight came in the form of a woman, older than Delaware, walking at the speed of frozen syrup, out of the store and along the sidewalk as we walked in.  She was wearing an orange and yellow flowered smock, black and white checkered capris and a floppy hat that seemed to weigh her head down on one side, cocking it to the left.  She passed us and was just far enough to be out of earshot when Ron said,  "Now that's an outfit." He leaned toward me as he said it, talking out of the s

There's a tiny rash under my left nostril that's been bugging me for weeks now, so I traveled the coast to Honoka'a Town to see the doctor.  He gave it his best guess, shrugged, prescribed some ointment and sent me on my merry way.  I expected the journey to be rainy and it was, but only in short, bursts and squalls.  For the most part, it was nice.  No big surf in the ocean. No great gale force winds. It was just a day, and a descent one at that.  Felecia has fizzled and veered northward toward O'ahu and Maui.    Tex Fine Foods provided lunch; kalua cabbage wrap, sweet potato chips and a malasada to bring home for dessert later on tonight.  Love Tex.   The island seems quiet these days.  Maybe it's because the prospect of the now dwindled storm put a damper on things.  Maybe tourism is down a little more again this month.  Traffic was light along the highway.  Tex was not so busy.  Service was fast. I had the radio tuned to a local radio station as I headed back th

I don't like hurricanes.  I don't like the threat of hurricanes.  I'm not keen on tropical storms, either.  That's what they say Felicia will be when it finally comes a knockin .'  Right now, however, she's classified as category four, which is no slight breeze.  Felecia is approaching from the southeast, which means it will hit our island first.  Now, if you look at a globe, you can see that the Hawaiian Islands, the most isolated archipelago on earth, is but a speck on the vast Pacific Ocean.  You'd think the odds of us being hit by a hurricane are roughly the same as someone winning the Powerball lottery.  The thing is, someone always eventually wins that lottery, even at a bajillion to one.  So too do hurricanes, given enough shots at it, eventually hit these islands.  The last big hit was Iniki , which nearly wiped Kauai off the planet We've had a few near misses since then.  There are no hurricanes in Colorado.  I'll take my chances with a n

Charlie the chicken.  I've taken to calling him Chuck instead.  Charlie rhymes with Harley, which is one of the cat's names.  Chuck rhymes with cluck which is what roosters do.  They also crow.  Roosters crow at dawn, of course.  They belt it out whenever they hear other roosters crowing from however far away.  They crow if a car speeds by or a bird sings in a nearby tree of a bee buzzes overhead or for whatever the hell reason and whenever they jolly well feel like it.  Ron finds this endearing.  He has already told me at least a dozen times not to get too attached. "They don't live very long, you know," he says. "He's a rooster," I say.  "I'm just sayin'," he says.  "I wouldn't get too attached." "He has a tiny head and an enormous body by comparison and he poops on the driveway and crows all damn day," I say. "He's a good boy," Ron says.  "He seems to like bananas." "He&#

Home. I learned on the way from the airport yesterday that Ron has endeared himself to the new neighbor by firing off shotgun blasts.  His objective in making such a racket was not to kill anything (although if the neighbor insists on being pissy, that could change).  It was instead to scare off the pig family that has chosen a spot near our water tank to nest, or burrow, or whatever pigs do to set up house.  Apparently, new neighbor guy likes to sleep during the day. He told Ron that shooting to scare them would do no good.  He insisted, and we've heard this before, that you have to kill them to get rid of them. Well, they're gone, probably to someplace quieter.  We were told we couldn't grow zucchini here too, but that was hogwash, pun intended.   Speaking of noise, we have a new critter, another interloper that Ron has named and feeds and calls, "good boy."  Charlie the chicken.  More specifically, Charlie the rooster.  He's pretty, but annoying.  His favor

No cookies were tossed this afternoon, by me or anyone else on board.  No turkey on sourdough with tomato, mayo, mustard and onion, either.  Star of the Northwest was spared, as was the plankton rich, puffin pocked sea. It's a miracle of modern medicine (bonine) and a testament to the tranquility of Reserection Bay.  The mellow ride held fast until we hit the open ocean, where the swell was met with a storm that rolled in.  I stayed on deck for most of the trip, pelted with cold rain and a brisk, chilly wind that helped keep the queasiness away.  Gail hung with me for shorter stretches, then went inside for beers and warmth.  Thank goodness I had on my Gorton's Fishstick-guy hat.   We saw eagles, stellar sea lions (on the rock in the middle of this photo), mountain goats, dahl porpoise, jelly fish, pink salmon and puffins.  The Kenai Fjords are grand, beautiful steep faces, craggy, rugged, stubbled with evergreens from timberline to the sea. Yesterday, we spent some time at the

I know that writers are lousy but enthusiastic dancers.  They are great huggers.  Some are good singers.  A few play guitars.  One, I hear, plays the oboe.  I play the ukulele.  Badly. Badly is an adverb and adverbs are for sissies.  Where was I?  Oh yes.  Writers.  They are adventurers and homebodies.  They are flirts and back-patters.  And huggers.  Did I mention that? It's true, especially at the end of a two week intensive residency.  They stand in awe of their colleagues' eloquence, wit, lyrical prowess and overall, kick ass wordsmithin.'  Writers are sensitive - especially poets.  They ache to tell stories. They tell them in verse. They tell them with prose.  It's what writers do. Besides dance badly, that is.  Shit.  Am I a sissy or what? Writers drink. Boy howdy can they drink.   Howdy!  Writers need encouragement.  We are fragile.  If you don't understand us, you'd do well to support us.  We do not need encouragement to drink, however, nor is prodding r

Last night, propped up, sleep deprived and feeling a little out of my element, I was about to bow out early from a party with my fellow writers here in the dorm.  It was fun, and I enjoyed chatting with individuals throughout the evening.  Truth be told however, I'm a little shy in certain situations.  Yeah, you read that right.  (Give me a break, all you knuckleheads who know me!)  Literary conversations with smart, well-read people slam home the fact that I should have spent less time watching Gilligan's Island re-runs or riding my bike or whacking fuzzy yellow balls or careening down mountainsides and more time as a thoughtful grown up with my schnoz poked into the pages of the classics.    I was poised to muster a graceful exit, to rise from my seat and bid everyone goodnight, when someone told a joke.  A joke.  They might as well have started passing around the coke tray.  All the world's a stage for a joke junkie.  I stayed, of course.  And all that stuff about bein

You wanna be where you can see, troubles are all the same, You wanna go where everybody knows your name.    (Theme from Cheers) I was driving through the mountains today, gawking at the 14ers along highway 285, feeling fine, soaking in the scenery, pondering how I might figure a way back to this place.  The radio faded, so I hit 'seek.'  The numbers fluttered, then landed on the first notes of Man in the Mirror .  I started snapping my fingers, singing along.   Gonna make a change, for once in my life... I got to ... It's gonna feel real good, gonna make a difference ... and burst into tears.  Shit! Did I mention that I had a lovely dinner with the Cress family at my/their house?  A steak as big as a tractor tire, but much tastier.  Of course, I've never eaten a tire, so I'm just assuming... On Tuesday afternoon, Dr. Gloria Beim delivered the stellar news: I have no arthritis in my hip.  None.  Nada.  Zippola.  Did I mention this already?  I ran out of ginko a while