Losing It In Tandem

Guest post by Daniel T Hylton

I am shocked - shocked! - to know that I am sixty years old. And my lovely wife, though she doesn't look it, is fifty-nine, for crying out loud.

Wasn't it just last week that we were teen-aged lovers, standing beneath the lilacs in front of her father's house, stealing kisses as her brothers made the porch light flicker?

Alas - no, we are no longer so young.  But, really; how did sixty get here so fast?

This year, I was made to know my age, like it or not.  Back in March, three days before my sixtieth birthday, I was squatting down, watching my grandson play a game on his bedroom floor.  My legs began to ache, so I stood up - too quickly.  I blacked out and over I went, performing an exquisite face-plant on the carpet, breaking my nose, three teeth, my jaw in two places, and my skull in one.  These fractures, though of a hairline nature and consequently inoperable, nonetheless allowed an infection in which temporarily ruined my health and destroyed nearly all of 2014 for me.  I have never been so sick for so long in the whole course of my life.  Sixty, apparently, for me, anyway, arrived like an out-of-control locomotive.

Now, my lovely wife has never had a good memory, nor an ability to manage time.  These aren't new developments, no product of age; they were true when I met her - and she was seventeen at the time.  So, I always figured that if she started to slip mentally, I might not notice, at least for a while.  What concerns me now is that I might not notice her starting to lose it because I'm beginning to slip.

I have always possessed a great, precise, and wonderfully dependable memory.  Don't take my word for it; ask anyone that knows me.  It's been a blessing throughout my life.  Now, however, I'm a bit concerned.  Here; allow me to illustrate with a story which is, sadly, true.  A few months ago.....

In July, we went to a family reunion which was held at a large hotel in Nevada.  Karen and I stayed in the "new part" of the hotel, a section that had recently been added on to the main building.  Because of this we were required to take two different elevators in order to get to our room which was on the fourth floor, one from the lobby in the "old part" up to the second floor where we would then angle around a corner and board a second elevator to go on up to our room.

In my defense, it must be noted that both hallways - the one on the second floor, and ours, up on the fourth, look exactly alike, same carpet, same mirrors, same paintings, same everything.  Bear that in mind, if you would.  Besides that, remember, I had just busted my head on the bedroom floor a scant four months earlier.

One morning, Dad and Mom wanted to meet their children in the coffee shop by the lobby for donuts and hot beverages.  Karen, who had worked very hard right up to the moment we left on the trip, was given leave to sleep in while I went down to join my parents, brothers, and sisters.

We visited, laughed, and talked while consuming way too many donuts and enjoying cappuccinos, lattes, and the like.  Finally, after a couple of hours, I decided to go up and retrieve my lovely wife so that we might begin the day's festivities.

I got on the elevator, went up to the second floor and, still chuckling at my older brother's anecdotes, slipped off the elevator and went down the hall to "our" room.

Now, we were in room 4017.  Leaving the elevator, forgetting to angle around the corner, I went straight down the look-alike hall to the look-alike door of 2017, pulled out my room card and then stared in disbelief at the key slot to our room.

There was a blue "guest has checked out, please clean" tab stuck into it.

Well, more than a bit annoyed, I indignantly yanked that sucker out and slid in my room card. 

Nothing happened.  No green light telling me to go on in.  Nothing but red. 

Even more annoyed, I knocked, calling for Karen to answer.

Nothing.

Knocked again.  Harder.  Yelled again.  Louder.

Tried the key card again.

Nothing.  

Knocked again.  Yelled again.  No answer.

I was really annoyed now - and a bit worried.  The whole situation was beginning to get me rattled.  

I mean, locked out of my room, sign says we've checked out, my wife won't answer.  

What's Going On?

I was rapidly climbing the emotional scale toward high dudgeon.  I looked around.  Two doors away, one of the ladies that do housekeeping was standing by her cart, frowning at my display of distress.

"My wife is in there - we haven't checked out!"  I told her, too loudly.  In my irritation, I waved the blue tab at her.  "This thing is wrong!  We have not checked out!"

Her frown deepened.  She tried to explain to me that such matters weren't really in her purview - and that I needed to go down to the front desk to straighten it out.

This only heightened my sense of confusion and worry.

"No!"  I yelled.  "Listen to me!  My wife is in that room!  We have not checked out!"  

Way too loud.

Her eyes widened and she slipped back into the room she had been cleaning.  And shut the door.  And threw the safety bolt.

Just then, I remembered my cell phone.  I whipped it out and dialed Karen's cell.  And - thank God - she answered.

"Honey - open the door!"  I told her.  "I'm right outside and my key card won't work."

"Okay," she replied.  "I'll be right out."

Relieved, I hung up and waited expectantly by the door.

Nothing.

Minutes passed.  Where was she?  What in the world could she be doing?

What in Heaven's name is going on?

While once more rapping my by-now severely bruised knuckles yet again upon the door, yelling for Karen to Open Up, For Crying Out Loud - my eye fell upon the number, and, at last, my brain flipped over and slid into its proper slot.  

Crap, I thought, crap.  What an idiot - and an obnoxious one, to boot.

Glancing guiltily toward the room that sheltered the terrified housekeeper, I skulked down the hall, slunk around the corner, and took the elevator up to the fourth floor.

Where my key card, unsurprisingly, worked.

Karen was safely inside, sitting on the bed, looking up at me as I came in with what can only be described as an exceedingly puzzled expression on her pretty face.  I swear, at that moment, she looked like she was hearing the Twilight Zone theme song blaring loudly and insistently in her head. 

"I opened the door," she said.  "Where did you go?"

"I was in the wrong hallway," I explained.  "Why didn't you call me back on my cell?"

She blinked.  "The wrong hallway?"

"Yeah, I got off the elevator on 2 and, you know how the halls all look the same, and I forgot that I had to get on another to come up to 4, and, anyway - why didn't you call me back?"

She stared at me for a moment longer, still trying to process my explanation, and then frowned down at the cellphone in her hand.

"Because I couldn't remember Nevada's area code," she said.

I stared back at her and felt my residual frustration evaporate and a grin take possession and spread out over my features.  "Honey," I replied gently, "our phones are not from Nevada.  They're from Texas - like us.  Besides, all you have to do is activate the one that says 'Daniel'."

"Oh," she said, then.  "Yeah."

When it finally dawned on the both of us what had just happened, well, we laughed, and laughed, and laughed, and.....

"We can never tell anyone," she giggled, wiping her eyes.

"I know."

She grew serious then.  "No - I mean you can never tell anyone - okay?"

"Okay," I agreed.

And I won't, either, as long as my memory holds.

Bring Back the Joy - guest post by Valencia Bowman

We can all relate to this one. At one time or another, we have all felt like the Grinch or Ebenezer Scrooge.

I am very honored to introduce my big sister Vinca for this guest post. May she inspire you as much as she did me.

It's that special time of year- that time of year when you look askance at your neighbor's gaudy decorations, and complain that they brighten your bedroom too much at night; when you swear at the driver who starts backing up at the mall without checking to see if there's a car already in motion; when you go to the mall to find that one extra gift for your kids that you just know they'll love; when you snap at those same kids that "I'll get the decorations out tomorrow, ok?!"- and then you watch their bright little faces fall, and they leave the room because they don't want to be a bother.

Wait...what? Are we talking about the Christmas season? When did this time of year become a time of stress, pressure, anxiety, anger and impatience? When did we stop feeling joy, and hope, and peace? Perhaps a better question would be: Why? In our society today, there are fewer people who go to Mass, or a special church service of some sort, on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day. I know several families who celebrate Christmas without believing in the Christ Child whose birthday it is. To many, it's a season to give, and get, expensive gifts; to join in the whirlwind of parties; to add to the clutter of our overflowing lives. We have taken Christ out of Christmas. As a result, we have taken the joy, hope and peace out of the season.

A few years ago, I was looking at the newly developed pictures of Christmas morning (back when you had to wait to see if the photos turned out). And there was the picture I take every Christmas Eve- the picture of the tree after Santa has visited, the stockings are filled, and the last toy has been assembled. The tree was worthy of a Macy's window display, with piles of presents beautifully wrapped and stacked under a perfectly decorated tree. I gazed on this picture in shock, and began asking myself some questions. Was the pile of goodies under the tree really that big? Did my children really get that much stuff? Then the big question: Did my children really need that much stuff? That was the year I vowed to cut back- to not buy every little thing I found on clearance that one of them might love, to not buy every item on their Christmas list, to give more to those who are actually in need. That's all well and good, and our family has done pretty well on the present side of things, but then there's the "Time" issue. And that's where I've failed.

This time of year, it's hard to say no to all those little gatherings that people have. It's only natural to want to join with your friends in making merry during what should be a joyful season. But before you know it, your calendar is full, and you are stressed. After all, you really should bring the host or hostess a gift- something not too lavish, but quite possibly more than you can really afford. So you go, and go, and go. By the time Christmas day rolls around, you're too exhausted to enjoy it. I used to love Christmas time. I couldn't wait to get my tree up. I couldn't wait to start baking, and wrapping, and decorating. You can read about my feelings here: Christmas in February...or March...why not April? . But now? Well, now I work a full time job, and I'm tired. My weekends, and many of my weekday evenings, are booked until after the New Year. That person at the beginning of this post snapping at her child that she would get out the decorations tomorrow? That was me, snapping at my daughter just last evening, as I rushed to get dinner done before I ran out to choir practice. That was my daughter whose face fell as she left the room with tears in her eyes because she didn't want to be in the way. It was my daughter who went to bed before I got home, leaving an undecorated tree in the living room. And I'm sitting here wondering when things changed. When did I lose my joy?

When I think back to my childhood, I remember the joy of celebrating Christmas- the smell of cinnamon and vanilla, the lights and ornaments on the tree, the books that Papa read aloud, and the nativity story from Luke that brought a hush of reverence to our home-not really the presents, or the parties, or the concerts. Our family struggled to make ends meet, and we frequently went without more than one present apiece under the tree. But there was joy, and hope, and peace. Joy in being together, hope for a brighter future, and peace in knowing that come what may, we had each other. What presents we got were nice, and I always enjoyed singing in the various concerts. We rarely celebrated the Christmas season with others while I lived at home, though my parents were able to host Christmas parties as their children left the nest and their finances eased. Most years, it was just the 6 of us, and we each might only have had one present, but it was enough to just be together in a house full of love.

And maybe that's the key: it was enough. There’s a pearl of wisdom that I try to remember throughout the year- Enough is as good as a feast. The gist of it is, that if you have enough, just enough- enough clothing, enough food, enough money- then it's as good as having an overabundance of those same things. I do a pretty decent job for much of the year. Indeed, many of us try to live that way throughout 11 months of the year- content with our lives, and with what we have. Then Thanksgiving comes, with Christmas looming large on the horizon, and it's suddenly a race to get the best deal on this year's hot new toy, or that new gaming system that must be better than the 2 year old system we have at home. We fill our calendars with parties, caroling, concerts, and events of one sort or another. We buy gifts, and give them to our families and friends, even when we can’t afford it. We send hundreds of cards to people that we don’t think about the rest of the year. And we do more than is possible for one human to do and remain sane.

So maybe it's time to say no. No, I appreciate the invitation, but I really can't fit in one more party. No, I really can't bake a cake for your event, though I'm honored that you asked. No, I'm not giving up another evening when I could be sitting home with my daughter, my teenage sons, and my husband, sipping wine, decorating and admiring our tree. My children are growing up so fast, and I don't want to be the one responsible for killing their joy in this blessed season of Christmas. So, no, thank you, I'm not going anywhere this weekend. I believe I have a date with a blond-haired, blue-eyed angel who needs her joy restored. You'll find me sitting in front of a lit tree by the fireplace, snuggling with my husband, sipping wine, and watching the twinkling lights sparkle in my children's eyes.  

My wish for each and every one of you is that you take the time to nurture your family’s joy. Read the Gospel of Luke, and treasure the wonder of knowing that this tiny baby whose birthday we are celebrating is the Savior of all. Look at Christmas through the eyes of your children or grandchildren, and remember what it was like to think of Christmas as a Season of Blessings- of Joy, and Hope, and Peace. Peace be with you all. Happy Christmas!

 

 

Be Love - guest post by Laney Smith

This is quite beautiful, and a wonderful post with which to begin November, that month of Thanksgiving.

It gives me great pleasure to introduce Laney.


I remember Papa telling stories about the "forgotten ones" overseas. Children with cleft pallets, mental handicaps and deformities dropped at the orphanage door step or left in trash bins. It was as if someone had told the parents that they should be disgusted and ashamed at the sight of such a child. Papa had come the winter prior, traveling all over Kyrgyzstan to sing and play his guitar. He would tell me stories of his fingers nearly freezing off and how funny it was when someone would ask for his autograph. But what he mentioned most were stories of the children that he had to leave behind in the places that they didn't deserve to be.

Growing up in church I got used to hearing missionaries speak of poverty, starvation, and the "less fortunate". I saw commercials begging for donations contributing to the child with the swollen stomach and flies on his face. The phrase "there are starving children in Africa," was common among the parents attempting to creativly get their stubborn kid to eat his green beans. In my mind this was a problem that I couldn't fix in a sad movie that I could turn off and forget about. Their reality and mine had never touched.

I've always had an unquenchable thirst to keep moving. It seems like Papa and I share this desire to see everything there is to see; to understand how others live. When I was younger, friends of ours decided to move overseas as missionaries. Somehow, I came to the conclusion that traveling halfway across the world was the next logical step in my life. Even though I was just 14 at the time, It really didn't take that long for my parents to agree because they saw my passion and understood.

The unsightly two story building should have been condemned with its rooms smelling of urine and roaches scattering up the rotting walls. The blank response of the children upon my arrival seemed to say they didn't understand my look of shock at the sight of them playing on the dirt floor. Were all orphanages like this? Two or three hand me raggedy toys for each room, overcrowded and undermanaged. It was hard to find anyone that looked after the children, because there weren't many.

The moment I stepped through the door, I had touched my new reality. It was almost as if all the commercials and stories I had heard in the past hit me at once, and the sorrow I felt was more than I ever had. After that day I couldn't stop coming back. I began to visit the orphanage often, and dread the day I would have to leave. I played with the most wonderful children I think I will ever meet; showing love and affection they rarely received, singing songs in a language I didn't understand.

Early on at the orphanage, I met a six-year-old girl named Vica, who became my best friend. She gave me the name "Solnyshka" because she said "I make the room sunny". Almost every morning for four months she would go with me to pick flowers by the road while we learned a little of each other's languages. Even with the language barrier, we connected in a way that seemed as though we filled a void in each other's lives - her desire to be cared about, my desire to care for someone.

In the summer the family and others I stayed with coached baseball for the kids at the orphanage and the villages surrounding. Vica was too young to play baseball, but as I would coach with much animation, I would often look over at the sidelines to see her with a smile on her face, mimicking all the movements I made.

I will never forget the day before I left when I took Vica out for a walk. As I tried to explain my departure in broken Russian, she only understood that I was abandoning her and that she would probably never see me again. A friend of mine stepped in to let her know that I cared about her and loved her very much. He told her that I wasn't allowed to stay any longer, but I wanted to. Having all that said, the goodbye was just as hard, but she understood and gave me the last hug while thanking me for being her new big sister.

When I left she told me to write, so I did, but she never responded. I pray that she was adopted, because it scares me to think of anything else for her, the six-year-old girl who taught me so much about myself and my life. She showed me that it didn't matter that I was young, inexperienced, and that I had a serious language barrier. I could show love, and be love to someone who so desperately needed it. To me that is the most beautiful thing, to be love in someone's reality.

Happy Halloween! and a break from routine

The next posts here are going to be from two very special guest writers...though, honestly, I don't really think of my dad as a guest writer anymore. His posts are always hugely popular, and he will soon publish the fourth book in his Kelven's Riddle series. I like to think of him as the co-writer and mentor of this blog. The other guest will be a surprise, someone new to you.

At any rate I'm taking a break, and I know you'll enjoy it. I'm leaving you in good hands.

But before I go, I wanted to share this pic:

That was my costume this year for my friend Kim's fabulous annual Halloween party. The dress was clearance, and the beautifully matched mask ($12) and simple gloves ($5) were both from Target. I pulled it all together by sheer luck the day before the party. My husband wore a beer boo t-shirt, something he hopes to do every year forever. Only when someone suggested he should have been the Phantom of the Opera, did I hit my head and bemoan my lack of vision. I probably couldn't have gotten him into that sexy little face mask and nice dress-shirt-plus-cape, but I wish I'd tried.

I also wanted you to know that I have been published again at Erma Bombeck Writers' Workshop. It's a Halloween post about a 13 year old who wants to give up tricks but not treats and about the wonderful big sis who takes her on her last candy hunt. Get over there and read it before the Jack-o-lanterns are beset by black mold, and your candy-induced guilt (hopefully the mature chocolate variety) has settled in.

To all my brave readers and their little spooks, I wish you a very happy Halloween!

Mini Cupcakes (recipe guest post by my friend Ignacia)

Pop-cake-like Mini Cupcakes

Ingredients

1. 3 eggs
2. ½ cup vegetable oil
3. 1-cup milk
4. 2/3-cup sugar
5. 1 ½ -cup flour
6. 1 Tbs baking power
7. ¾ cup 2 cocoa powder

You can substitute the cocoa for 2 Tbs vanilla extract OR 2 Tbs orange juice OR just skip it.

Mix and Pour

Mix the first 5 ingredients until they are dissolved (it is ok to over mix so you cannot be found guilty of using a mixer).

Add flour, baking powder and cocoa and mix until fairly smooth.

Pour into pan (I love silicone ones).

§  ¼ cup for cupcakes

§  1 Tbs for mini-cupcakes

Bake at 350 ºF

Cupcakes and layer cake: 20 minutes

Mini-cupcakes:  8 minutes (For mini cupcakes you do not need the pan; just use paper cups, wait until the oven is at 350ºF, pour the batter and put them in the oven quickly)

To make fun treats you can pop in Popsicle sticks (they seem safer than kebob sticks).

Decorate using you imagination
 

For the pictures I used vanilla frosting and one raisin for plain cake and frozen berries for chocolate cake.

For the base I used a shoebox lid cover in foil.

Blogger's note: These pictures are beautiful! My friend did a wonderful job, didn't she? Makes me hungry, though...

I want to say a big, big thank you to my dear friend Ignacia for contributing this post, especially since she knows I am way too lazy to do recipes in this blog (you know, all those pictures and all that cooking while trying to remember to take pictures). She even scouted out what recipes people search most often and came up with cupcakes. She's a good friend, mom and cook (a dynamic trio!), and I really hope she'll come back to inspire us again, not simply to eat, but to bake! Now, if you'll excuse me, I must go and drop by her house to see if any cupcakes are left...

Bon appetit!

Guest Post: The School Of Hard Knocks...and Cold Winters by Holly

I've been pestering my friend Holly to guest post for a while. She's funny, a talented artist and a traveler ( with kids in tow!). With her family she has hiked all over this great state of Arizona in which we live and has wandered outside the contiguous 48 states to explore Hawaii and Alaska. She and I are planning on taking a literary tour of England together; we'll live it up in honor of all the Dickens, Bronte and Austen nerds out there!

She has tales to tell. This one is about her grandfather, a WWII veteran. Enjoy and feel free to comment. Your comments are always appreciated, and Holly or I will respond.

 

It’s been a decade or so since my grandfather passed away, but the stories of his childhood, growing up an orphan in the early 1900’s, have a legendary status in my heart. Some of the stories are almost Dickensian to me, although his tales don’t always wrap up as neatly for the hero. It’s just hard to grasp that they are non-fiction when I look at the cushy, sheltered life that my children lead. William Shelden, along with his older sister and two brothers, was orphaned by the Spanish Flu epidemic that ravaged Philadelphia in 1918. He was six years old. Two faded black and white photographs of his parents were all that was left of them in his possession. He always kept them on his bureau, and I remember pondering these strangers as a child. His father was a mason, so the boys were sent to live at the Masonic Homes in Elizabethtown, Pennsylvania, a rural area of that state a few hours outside of Philadelphia. His sister went to live with an aunt.

Looking at the picture of this great estate with its Versailles-like gardens, I could not fathom that it be anything but comfortable and hospitable, but according to my grandfather the militant German immigrant, Mr. Lowenstein, who was the warden for the boys, made sure the boys knew this was not hospitality but charity that had graced them with a roof over their head and food to eat.

There were three sets of brothers among the home’s residents: the Grahams, the Sheldens and the Vanderslicers. Mr. Lowenstein’s philosophy was: if there was any trouble in the home, one of the sets of brothers was surely to blame. So he would call out, “Grahams, Sheldens and Vanderslicers!”, and the boys knew they were being summoned to his office for a beating doled out to all. Having regular beatings didn’t seem to curb the boys’ mischievous behavior, but a more subtle lesson taught to my grandfather made a lifelong impression. This brings me to my story of the red coat.

At the same time every fall each orphan was given a red wool coat to wear through the whole winter when trudging the long walk to school through sleet, snow, freezing rain, gusting winds, etc. My grandfather said it was two miles to school, two miles back for lunch, two miles back to school and then finally two miles home again. Some years in Pennsylvania they have what’s called an “Indian Summer” or a heat wave in the fall. As you can imagine, wearing a wool coat in 90 degree, swampy humidity would not be the free choice of any child, especially not an obstinate boy, who was numb to paddlings. William came up with what he deemed a very sly idea. There was a stone wall just beyond the doors of the orphanage. He decided to take off his jacket and hide it behind the wall and just pick it up when he returned that afternoon, slipping it back on before he was inspected by Lowenstein upon his return.

The first part of his plan went off without a hitch, but on his return, he discovered the coat was gone from its hiding place! Bracing himself for the beating that was surely awaiting him, he slowly climbed the steps of the orphanage. To his alarm, Lowenstein carried on as usual, not uttering a word about the coat. In fact, he never said a word about it the entire winter.

This tale always helps reinforce for me as a person and a parent that experience is our best teacher. My grandfather never knew whether Lowenstein found the coat or a classmate ratted him out, but a beating certainly would have been less painful than my grandfather's slow suffering of walking eight miles to and from school every day throughout the chilling rural Pennsylvania winter.

Fried and True

When my husband and I first got married he knew how to cook his mom's spaghetti, cornbread, cube steak and also tuna helper, and I knew...well, I knew how to make cinnamon-chocolate chip cookies. We were meant for each other.

For that first year we ate lots of frozen pizza and tuna and baked potatoes in the microwave - uh, microwaved potatoes, I guess - and cookies. Anyway, one night we thought we'd get creative and have hot dogs. And my husband trusted the woman who thought "sweet things" was a major food group to make them.

I went into the kitchen, got a frying pan out, and decided to make those hot dogs the way my family used to take them. I split them down the center, heated some oil in the pan, and splayed the dogs open-faced in it. I waited until they were nicely curled at the ends and seared to perfection.

I brought the finished product in a bun to my husband, and I was completely insulted by his horrified expression after all my hard labor.

"What the heck is this? What'd you do?"

"I fried them."

"Fried them?!"

I tried to explain to him about cultural influences, culinary ingenuity, and honored family traditions, but while I was talking he went to find a sauce pan and boiled himself a new hot dog. Therefore, I didn't have an opportunity to tell him about my barbecued bologna heritage, but I figured that was a revelation best saved for the future.

These many years later, I no longer fry hot dogs, and I don't even eat bologna unless I'm visiting relatives. I won't touch Tuna Helper, but I do feed frozen chicken nuggets to my kids occasionally. I know how to make cornbread, spaghetti and cube steak - ha! I'm crazy about spices, and if it were possible to OD on cinnamon and nutmeg, I would have gone to re-hab years ago. Our family eats lots of raw fruit and steamed or grilled veggies, but I still microwave the potatoes.

I've learned, sadly, that one can't bake a whole meal. I think it goes without saying that hot dogs are best left out of the frying pan. But please don't doubt the great and growing ambitions I have in the realm of my kitchen, because you can bet ya that one day I'll realize them when I get over my fear of raw meat, sharp knives and French cooking. Maybe someday soon I'll even share the few good recipes here that I execute easily and well.

Until then I'm sending you over to A Lady in France. She shares easy recipes (French recipes!) like this ONE, and she also tells wonderful stories like this ONE. Today, she happens to be sharing Part Two of a captivating story about Paris written by Daniel Hylton, my dad.

As for me, I must get cooking, literally. Tonight I'm making grilled chicken, Parker House rolls, and sweet potato souffle. Haha, so there, and wish me good luck!

Guest Post: Pipi Pupu...or How the Pacific Ocean Tried to Kill Me

The guest writer, Daniel Hylton, is the author of the Kelven's Riddle fantasy series.



Hawai'i: Lovely People, Lush Tropical Foliage, Rolling Blue-Green Surf, Feral Chickens, and of course, Pipi Pupu...

I don't travel well, especially these days when you have to undress at security after standing in line for an hour, and then be felt up one side and down the other by an equally-embarrassed TSA employee. Short, single-city flights are bad enough, but Hawai'i, undoubtedly a premier destination, is nineteen hours, three different often-delayed aircraft, and three obnoxious airports away from San Antonio.

My lovely bride, the Lady Karen, won a week-long Hawaiian vacation from her company. Unable to find more suitable companionship, she decided to take me along.

And so we embarked on the vacation of a lifetime, the journey to which had become a rather grueling ordeal by the time we reached the West Coast and headed out over the ocean.

At least, I thought, we'll get to look down on the wide blue Pacific as we pass over. But no; there were clouds all the way until just shy of Honolulu, by which time my hiney was so sore I didn't care about looking down upon the ocean anymore and didn't give a flip about the fact that Pearl Harbor and Diamond Head lay just below us as we approached Honolulu. Karen was airsick and I was just out-and-out planesick.

We passed our time in the Honolulu airport trying to get Karen's stomach right and buying over-priced drinks for me in an attempt to get my attitude right. Our lay-over in Honolulu stretched into three hours (we were actually headed on to Kaua'i), but after an hour or so, Karen began to feel much better. In order to facilitate her recovery, I bought her a lei. Isn't she pretty?

Then it was on to Kaua'i as the sun went down and the sea below grew dark. We landed in Lihu'e and taxied into a terminal that doubles as a fruit stand and tiki bar. And not a large one, either. We were then shepherded onto a bus for a night-time, hour-long ride over the twisting mountain roads to the south coast and the small town of Po'ipu. (I know, it looks like it ought to be pronounced Poy-poo but no, it's Po-ee-pu. The hotel is located on Pe'e Road. No, again, sorry, it's pronounced Pay-ay.)

Which brings us to a short discussion of the Hawaiian language. And I have a theory. I think when God was handing out languages to the various peoples of Earth, He did really well at first. Like with Spanish – it makes sense and has a good mix of vowels and consonants. But then He passed over Eastern Europe where He got a little carried away with the consonants and a bit stingy with the vowels. As He moved on, Asia got more than its share of “Z”s and “G”s.

By the time He got to Hawai'i, all He had left was a boatload of vowels and a handful of consonants, mostly H's,L's,M's,W's,P's, and K's. Which is why your average Hawaiian word is comprised of one or two of these consonants and eighteen vowels. Nor does it comport well with other languages like, say, English. For example, the Hawaiian word for appetizer – on every menu – is Pupu. And yes, it's pronounced just like it looks. One of the best appetizers in the islands is braised beef strips. Very yummy, I ate it often. Now the Hawaiian word for beef is Pipi, pronounced Pee-pee. So get this – you can go into any restaurant on the islands and with a straight face order a Pee-pee Poo-poo platter. Not only will they not laugh at you …...... they'll bring it to your table.

Speaking of food; there are a million chickens on Kaua'i. Everywhere. Feral chickens, not in pens, but free-ranging, not really wild, but not really tame either. There are several theories about how they got there, the most widely accepted being that Captain Cook traded a few pairs to the natives a couple hundred years ago. Some of them, sensing opportunity, high-tailed it into the countryside where they've lived ever since. With no natural predators, they've done very well, thank you. These aren't fancy chickens, nor are they members of any exotic breed, they're just chickens like those you see on any farm anywhere. And they're protected (except, of course when one tries to cross the road and is unsuccessful – then the nearest restaurant gets a small break on its food budget for the day). I won't waste space on a photo – you know what a chicken looks like.

It was nearly ten o'clock local time when we got to the Grand Hyatt at Po'ipu. The staff was friendly and efficient and within minutes we were ensconced in our room. The shades were drawn, it was totally dark outside, and we were shot from nineteen hours of travel. I, of course, was cranky. “This had better be worth it,” I grumbled.

Several times that night we were awakened by what sounded like a pretty intense thunderstorm. By 3:30 AM (8:30 in Texas) I was awake and watching Stuart Varney, who was way too alert and animated for such an ungodly hour. But then of course, he's in New York, damn near on the other side of the world from Kaua'i. By six, it was light outside and Karen was making coffee. Still cranky, I downed a cup and then got up and approached the drapes. Looking back at Karen, I groused, “I hope that we can at least see the ocean, even if it's just the horizon line.”

Throwing wide the drapes, this is what I saw:

Evidently, the company Karen works for appreciates the $1.3 million in diamonds she sold for them last year.

Of course, we had to get down to that lovely beach and wild surf as soon as possible. We hurried through breakfast, changed into our swimming suits and headed out.

Sadly, just five weeks before the scheduled trip to Kaua'i, Karen had slipped in the shower and broken her shoulder. She was in the immobilizer right up to three days before departure. Even then, the doctor agreed to let her go only if she did no swimming at all and promised to wear the immobilizer on the trip there and back and at night.

We strolled along the beach and came around to where we had a better view of the hotel. It is said to be one of the premier resorts on the planet. I think that's likely – what do you think?

We decided to get closer to the water. Shipwreck Beach is small but lovely, and the surf there is awe-inspiring. Surfers love it. For some reason, they recommend against swimming, not just because you might get hit in the head by a surfboard but also because the water is “dangerous”. And that morning the red flags were out in force.

We found a place among the rocks to the west of the stretch of sand where we could sit and watch the waves.

After awhile, giving into temptation, I said, “I'm going in.”

Karen looked at me. “What?”

“I'm going swimming.”

She watched me for a moment and then gazed out at the sea. A look of longing spread over her face. “I wish I could go out with you.” You see, my lady is no shrinking violet; she's courageous and brave, and she's a better swimmer too, not stronger, but quicker and more clever. I shook my head. “You can't, honey.”

She sighed and her face grew sad. “I know.”

“Do you mind if I go?”

Another sigh. “No.”

“Will you take some pictures?”

“Okay.”

I went down and walked along the sand until I got to the center of the crescent-shaped beach, and then I turned and faced the water. Instantly, I had doubts. The Pacific is vast and powerful and its massive waves thunder like the voice of God as they crash against the ancient shore. A tingle of fear worked its way up my spine. This might be foolish, I thought. But I didn't want to chicken out in front of my lady. Even though we've been together nearly forty years, anytime she's around and watching, I feel the need to impress.

I became aware of someone standing beside me. I looked over. A balding Japanese man about my age stood there. He pointed out at the surf. “You go in?”

I nodded. “I'm thinking about it.”

He turned and watched the water for a long moment. I could see that he was harboring the same doubts about the whole proposition as I was. I introduced myself. “Dan, from Texas.” We shook hands, like gladiators about to face the arena. “Kazu,” he said. “From Kyoto.”

We stood side-by-side for a bit, working up the courage. He glanced back at his wife, sitting a ways up the sand. I looked over at Karen. Then I grinned at Kazu.

“I'm going in.” I said. “I think I'm man enough.”

He grinned back. “I go, too.”

Well, I wasn't man enough. Nor was he.

As we would discover in just minutes.

I went down and struggled through the crashing foam, got knocked down, got up, struggled on, got knocked down again, got up, struggled on, got bowled over, went under. Crap, I thought, I'm getting water in my ears. Now, I hate water in my ears because I'm prone to getting swimmer's ear. Got a bad case of it in the Caribbean a couple of years ago, lasted for weeks. It was miserable. Finding myself for a brief moment between waves, I rubbed the salt water out of my eyes and rolled my head over to either side, draining out the liquid.

Another monstrous breaker came at me. As the water in front of it deepened with the wave's approach, I swam quickly into it, hoping to ride up and over the crest. Earlier, I had watched the surfers, mostly local guys, and noticed that they all employed a similar technique when facing an oncoming breaker. They would tip their boards down into it, duck their heads, and a moment later pop up on the other side in calmer water. Sure, they're all on surfboards so by and large they're riding on top of all that power and not actually down in it; still, the technique would probably have worked for me. But as you know, I don't like getting water in my ears.

So, I tried riding up and over. It didn't work.

The wave crashed just as it got to me. Down I went into roiling water and boiling foam, tumbling over and over. Crap, I thought, I'm REALLY getting water in my ears now. And I was down there in it, being tumbled over and rolled along for a really long time – long enough for the tingle of fear still hovering along my spine to become a regular jolt of terror. Just when I thought my air would give out, I popped up – into the calmer water in the wake of the enormous wave that rumbled away toward the beach. I rubbed at my eyes, dug the water from my ears and looked around for Kazu. All I could see, a short distance away, was a bobbing head and an occasional glimpse of two very round, frightened eyes.

I was in calmer water now, deeper water, out beyond the breakers among the heaving swells. Having just been seriously pummeled, I decided to get even further away from the treacherous breakers along the beach behind me and swim out into the ocean where I could ride up and down the swells for a while and rest. (Yes, you heard me – rest. I was no longer thinking about fun but recovery.) I swam just a few strokes and discovered that I was in fact very, very tired. The struggle from the beach had taken a lot out of me. I was beat.

Kazu had drifted to the west, into the paths of the surfers. An enormous swell came in from the sea, breaking slowly from west to east as it went in toward the shore. Angling down along that sloping mountainside of water, staying just ahead of the break-over, came a surfer. His board sliced within mere inches of Kazu's head. I yelled like a banshee, but of course it did no good – nothing as insignificant as a human voice can be heard above the roar of the Pacific. But that was enough for Kazu, he turned and swam like a madman toward the beach.

I had had enough, too. The strength of that ocean, its awesome power, is a tangible, fearsome thing. It can be felt in the water surging all around you. It's like being suspended in the gaping maw of a hungry monster. And that monster is about to swallow.

I was in a long low trough, between swells. A good time, I now realized, to get out of this situation with my life. I turned and swam toward the breakers and the beach. I was done and wanted out. But, oh, I was so tired. My progress toward the safety of the sand was tedious, slow, and wearisome.

I heard a roar behind me, as if the ocean was giving voice. Turning to look, I felt my blood freeze.

It was one of those humongous waves that surfers long for and look for. Piling up, up, up, it towered above me like the rugged, dark, massive slopes of the Rocky Mountains, blotting out the sun.

And there was foam surging along its crest. It was breaking over.

Right on top of me.

Oh, crap, I thought, water in the ears. LOTS of water in the ears.

Then it hit.

You ever been in a car wreck? There's that brief second when you know that it's going to be bad. Then the whole world goes crazy for a few seconds. Noise, pain, confusion, fear, more pain.

If you're lucky enough to be alive when it's over, you pull yourself out, stumble around and try to make sense of everything, and you can never really say just what happened.

That's what it was like.

The wave smashed the breath from my body on impact and then drove me further, down into the dark. I haven't had the breath knocked out of me for many years, and I had forgotten what an agonizing experience it really is. My lungs collapsed and a terrible hurt knifed through my chest. Pain erupted from several other points as well, especially along my right leg from the knee down to the ankle. As the wave churned toward the land it was rolling under itself, and dragging me along the bottom with it. For the moment, I was no longer concerned about getting water in my ears. My thinking had evolved.

Oh, crap, I thought, I'm going to die.

Then, abruptly, I found my head above water. The monster wave was rolling away toward the beach and I was behind it, in its wake. The water was still over my head, I couldn't find the bottom. My lungs screamed for air, my chest ached. In a desperate attempt to get air, I arched my back and raised my hands out of the water, gasping, trying to expand my lungs. As I performed this maneuver, my eye fell upon Karen, standing fifty yards away on the beach. Thinking I was giving myself a high-five, she waved gaily back, and indicated the camera, as if to say, “I got it!”

Great, I thought, there'll be evidence for the insurance company, in case they don't find my body.

Finally, air. I took a few grateful breaths and was thinking that perhaps everything might be alright after all when the secondary wave hit me. Bang! Down I went again, rolling toward the beach. Up I popped and then Bang! Another, and then another. It was as if the monster wave had brought all of its younger brothers with it in its wake and was teaching them the tricks. Look, guys! Here's how you have sport with the humans! Aren't they funny little things?

Eventually, I found myself in the foaming surf at the edge of the beach. The big wave had gone very far up the steep sand and was now returning. It was like trying to wade against a powerful river, but I managed it somehow. I'd had enough – I was still alive and determined to get the hell out.

As I stumbled up the wet sand, I glanced over. Kazu was a few yards away, also struggling away from the maelstrom behind us and toward his wife, standing wide-eyed at the top of the dune with her hands clasped to her breast. The look he shot my way, though brief, was not friendly at all. I swear it was accusatory.

I limped over to Karen who had turned and was gazing out over the rolling Pacific with a look of rapture on her face. “Isn't it beautiful?” She breathed.

I tried to answer, couldn't, just collapsed on a rock near her, sitting quietly, trying to fully catch my breath. She turned and looked down. “Have fun?” She asked. I could only shrug.

“I wish I could have gone in with you.”

I didn't tell her, but for the first time in weeks, I was glad that she had broken her shoulder, and was thereby prevented from tempting the power of that ocean. A shudder went through me to think that she might have gone out there.

“Hey!” She said then. “You're bleeding!”

“Yeah, it pounded me some.”

“You're bleeding a lot!”

There was a chunk missing from the lower right of my knee, and a fairly long strip of skin that had vanished from my shin, both no doubt to become food for the denizens of the sea. There were four or five weird puncture wounds on my foot and ankle as well, as if a small shark had tried to capitalize on the opportunity to feast on a human foot.

The very next day, a woman from the next resort drowned at Shipwreck Beach. In conversations with the locals we found out that the beach has a nickname - “Drowning Beach”. Though more people each year drown at Waikiki down on Oahu because of the heavy concentration of tourists there, no beach is more deadly anywhere on the islands than is Shipwreck Beach on Kaua'i.

Here it is. The people to the left, refusing to go out any further, are evidently highly intelligent creatures.

And here's Kazu and me. That little dot to the right is Kazu, with whom I shared a very brief friendship. I'm to the left. At this point, it was still fun.

Here's where things went south. Yes, that idiot that you can't see, lost in the maelstrom to the left is yours truly. Kazu is to the right, barely visible as a little bald head bobbing on the crest. And right about now, we both just wanted to get the hell out.

Though my open wounds kept me out of the Grand Hyatt's swimming pool, we nonetheless had a great vacation. We even got back into the water again, but on the north shore, at Tunnels Beach, where a reef creates a sort of sheltered lagoon. The tropical sun is ferocious and the Lady Karen is very fair, so she went in wearing her hat in order to protect her skin. Yes, people were amused, and one woman said that she looked like one of the pictures from the glamour days of Hollywood when all the stars wore hats while swimming. Here's a photo of my glamour gal:

Kaua'i is truly the “Garden Isle”. Beautiful scenery, great people, stunning vistas of mountains and ocean. And everything blooms - trees, shrubs, grass. Flowers are everywhere. We had a wonderful time and will remember it all our lives. Karen says it's the most romantic vacation we've ever had. Maybe that's because - after that first day - I decided to expend all of my energy in the room rather than in the sea. But all good things must come to an end, and we're back in Texas now.



Where the Pacific Ocean can't find me.








Per my friend Camille's suggestion, to read more about my family's attempts to drown ourselves, visit Johnson Creek.