Mountains and Islands

Do you have a favorite Christmas memory? I revisit mine every Christmas morning, and each time, it reminds me what great parents I had, a childhood charmed. As it turns out, or at least as I turned out (not so terrible, if I don't say so myself), modest indulgence of one's children doesn't ruin them. I was a one-big-thing kind of kid. Many of my friends produced annual litanies of Christmas wants, long lists for Santa well beyond the believing years. My style was to hold out for a single, impossible gift. "What do you want for Christmas this year?" Mom would ask. "All I want is _______________." When I was seven it was a horse, of course. "Where are we going to keep him?" Mom asked. "In the garage?" My second-grade brain imagined that as not such a bad place for a horse to live, and dad would no longer have to mow the lawn and we never parked the cars in there anyway and I'd take care of him, I promised. Each Christmas the

I work at a bank. When I relayed this tidbit to my buddy Rich, he asked, "Couldn't you find something more ethical? Wasn't the mafia hiring in your area?" Yes, banks are evil. But repugnance comes in degrees, morality in shades of gray. My bank, the one from which I now collect an arguably honorable paycheck, is better than most; it accepted no TARP bailout money and enjoys pretty high ratings for customer service. I can live with that. But if somebody makes me an offer I can't refuse...  Most days, it's busy enough. I'm either helping customers with financial transactions, reading up on riveting new banking regulations and internal bank policies and procedures, filing, counting, organizing, sanitizing my hands for handling all that filthy money. But there are occasional lulls, during which a mind like mine is wont to wander. Today, on one such occasion, I was struck with snippets of self-amusing, cliché-riddled bank humor. Hi. I'm Penny. Wanna meet

Ron called the other day to say he'd roasted the last of our coffee for this year and it's already sold. "That's great," I said. "It has an oriental flavor," he said. "What does?" "Our coffee. That's what they said." "That's what who said?" "The people who roasted it. That's how they think we should market it." "So, our coffee tastes like shoyu and mono sodium glutamate?" At this, he lost it, cracking up, laughing so hard I had to hold the phone away from my ear. Picture red cheeks, tears of hilarity. Ron collected himself with a signature, exaggerated sign, and said, "Good one, sweetie. I think they though it was kind of floral, like jasmine or something." Our coffee is mellow and naturally sweet, but otherwise, it tastes like coffee. Really good coffee. Exceptional coffee. No bitterness. No bite. Smooth. Not jasmine or lotus or cherry blossom. Not salty, or sweet and sour.

It feels good to work, to have my feet aching when I get home at night. My cash drawer has balanced three days straight, and I'm told that's exceptional for a greenhorn teller. Actually, we're not called tellers anymore. We're customer service representatives. The money's nice, but the real value of work goes beyond the paycheck. It comes from knowing you've done something well, something that others value, and that people are counting on you to do. Whether you show up every day matters. There are jobs I'd rather have, those for which I may be better suited, and maybe I'll land one of those someday, but I'm not terrible at this one, and I don't hate it either. People expect their money to be handled with care, and that's what I do. From a writer's perspective, there is plenty of good story material to be had in a bank, I can feel it. My pal, Mike Ritchey, now a student of writing at Portland State with his own fine blog entitled, Retire

Pay attention when you're chopping vegetables, and never grow too confident of your knife skills. I didn't even feel it at first. The tip of my left index finger, a little chunk, was inadvertently included in the pile of diced peppers and onions on the cutting board this morning, scraped into the saute pan in preparation of a killer breakfast burrito. A few minutes later, it started to bleed. And hurt. Wounded, I called my rainforest-bound husband to whine a little. He told me the belt on the drier drum had slipped off again. In the process of taking the contraption apart to get into the guts of the machine and fix it, he lifted the top panel. Somehow, he thought there was a notch or catch or latch or something that holds it up. There isn't. The heavy, sharp-edged slab o' metal slammed down onto the back of his knuckles. Ouch! My culinary mishap seemed suddenly miniscule. My finger was, and is fine. Life is so often a matter of perspective. Day one at the bank went

Here's something you may not know about me. I'm a sucker for guys with big, brown eyes. The other day, I spotted the handsome fellow on the far right of this impressive trio for the first time and, I must admit, I was smitten. "Nice rack," I said. He seemed to appreciate the compliment. The next day this five-point buck was accompanied by a four-point buddy. The day after that, the day of this photo, there were three. Since then, I've witnessed these musketeers several times near the big, Colorado blue spruce in the southwest corner of my yard. Sometimes, the two smaller ones lower their heads and lock horns, but not fiercely. It's as though they're going through the motions because it's expected of them, but really they'd rather break out the cigars and play a friendly game of poker or something. Hang out here, guys, and you're safe from the camo-clad, neon-hatted crowd milling around this time of year. Of course, a sage, five point

I have arrived in the land of the immortal tractor, a place where the cattle are hearty and the grass will not need mowing for another seven months. The sun is bright, the nights are cold and the magpies are feisty. When I'm in Hawaii, I miss this place. Now that I'm here, I miss the island.  As it turns out, I missed a classic Hawaii day today. Some weeks ago, Ron and I disassembled an old, dead dehumidifier to see if we might recycled the innards rather than throw it all into the rubbish, since there's no practical way to dispose of stuff like that on the island. There was some copper tubing inside, plus other metals. We're constantly hearing about copper thieves in the islands, so we figured it must be worth something. He took the contraption to Reynolds Recycling in Hilo yesterday. The scene goes something like this: Ron pulls in and after waiting for a few minutes, an employee asks if he can please move his car. The man signals Ron to back up, stands behind t

     When we first moved to the Big Island, jobs were scarce. That hasn't changed, except to get worse. I know that's true everywhere, but Hawaii Island has long been notorious for its dearth of decent paying employment, unless you're an astronomer or work for the government. It's a challenging place to start a business, too, more expensive and arduous than any place in the nation. If you want to be an entrepreneur here, you've really got to want it. Perseverance and plenty of capital is crucial, for it's more likely to take years than months to acquire all the permits and open the doors. I can think of three large, empty buildings -- two new and one restored historic site -- sitting empty right now, waiting to open their doors for business. It's disheartening how many people who live on the windward side make the three-hour drive to work the upscale resorts of Kona and Waikaloa (a.k.a. Haolewood) on the leeward (west) side. One of my neighbors, just up the

Smaller in diameter that a dime and cute as can be, the coqui frog is nonetheless much maligned here on Hawaii Island. Many view the little buggahs as disruptors of the peace, invaders who have turned our once quiet evenings riotous. By contrast, the bitty frogs are much beloved in their native Puerto Rico, and threatened there as a species. But they thrive here, the first of them having arrived as stow-aways on imported plants sometime in the 90s. Named for their sound -- coQUI, coQUI -- only the males sing, and only after dark. During the day, the frogs are quiet. For a time, it was all out war against the frogs. The county advocated and supplied a variety of chemical sprays -- caffeine, citric acid, hydrated lime -- with huge promotional campaigns aimed at eradication. They're still here, more than ever and in the Puna and Hilo districts here in The Big Island, it would appear that, for lack of funding in these austere times and a waning of the will to murder the little beasts,

   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