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 that?" I ask. "Seriously, how would I ever conjure the image of Toni Braxton from that question?"
"I don't know," he says. I am stunned to complete silence. I shake my head. Blink.
"Why do I care if Toni Braxton declared bankruptcy?"
"I don't know. I don't even know who she is," he says. He-e-e-e-lp me!
The pigs are back. Of course, like an old fashioned love song, they're never really gone. A few nights ago, sitting on the same lanai at 7 p.m., a shotgun blasted out through the darkness. I jumped. Ron came running. "What the..." Dogs barked. cats ran for cover, except for Abby, who looked at me with a half squint expression from his chair as if to ask, "Is that something? I'll be worried if you are." The gunfire around this neighborhood makes me think sometimes I've actually moved to Gangland, U.S.A. and the state of Hawaii has hired Hollywood set designers to make us believe otherwise.
On Tuesday, we found two baby coffee trees unearthed, holes dug with such neatness and precision you'd think they used a shovel, seedlings lying traumatized but otherwise unharmed on their sides. Pigs aren't normally so considerate, more often opting to trample and snap everything in their path. Their piggy tracks were everywhere, so there was no denying the culprits. It was the one little patch of new planting without a fence. We had taken a chance with that, we knew, and the gamble cost us. We replanted and placed wiring at the base of each tree, our best, quickest way to deter the detestable omnivores. Ron is now on regular PP (Pig Patrol) every morning and evening. Meanwhile I stand, or rather sit guard from lanai.
A hui hou. Aloha!
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