When I was in high school, I had a friend tell me, "Hillary, you're kind of smart, and kind of dumb."
I took no offense. I knew exactly what she meant. As I never make a habit of arguing with the truth, I didn't deny it.
I think the best example of my special view of this world is demonstrated by what I said on a trip into the Idaho countryside with my parents when I was about 17. I believe we were on the way to Cascade or Council, and we were passing lush fields of mint and grain. Mountains provided a magnificent backdrop for lonely farms and ranches where huge irrigation sprinklers, big as hay bales, oscillated their enormous jets of water across the crops. Miles of fence abutted the road. I was watching the passing cows, crops, horses, and barbed wire as I sat cross-legged in the back seat of the car, and I began to notice something exciting every dozen feet or so along the fence line.
I saw and interpreted what I saw, and then my heart swelled with the knowledge of these lonely ranchers' hospitality for the traveler, for regularly along the fence posts were barbed wire buckets filled to the brim with rocks of every size and color.
"Mom, Dad - look!" I said. They turned their heads, and I pointed excitedly. "Isn't that nice of them? Souvenir rocks!"
Immediately, the laughter broke forth in a cacophony that washed over me without mercy. I had been greeted with such phenomenon before, so I sat it out with little protest even when my parents jabbed each other in the ribs and pointed at me, shaking their heads. My mistake, I doubted not, would be revealed to me when the mirth subsided.
Finally: "Hillary, those are to keep the fence posts grounded!" bellowed still-laughing Dad. "In case of a storm!"
And I was hoping we could stop and pick out a couple to take home. Those are the disappointments in life waiting for someone who doesn't quite understand reality.
But disappointments are also waiting for those who have to live with me. A few years ago my kindergartner came home on a late fall day and presented me with his plain red sweatshirt.
"The teacher says we have to put our initials on our jackets and sweatshirts," he said.
"Oh, alright," I answered and went off to find a Sharpie. When I had my black permanent in hand, I spread the sweatshirt across my lap and carefully wrote my son's initials in big broad letters on the left breast pocket.
I handed it to my son, and he stared at his initials dumbstruck for several moments before looking up at me.
"Mama," he said, mortified. "On the tag..."
Oh sure, now you tell me.
"Wear it anyway," I advised him.
He didn't like that advice, so he showed the shirt to his Papa when he came home.
"Babe, what'd you do?" demanded my Man.
"I initialed it, so it couldn't get lost."
"You're supposed to put it on the tag!"
"I know that (now), but I wasn't thinking."
"No kidding! He can't wear this. I wouldn't wear it," he added, seeing the look in my eyes. "Kids will make fun of him. We'll have to buy him a new one."
Sigh. Kids made fun of me. I survived.
For instance, there was that occasion in high school when even I wanted to kick myself royally for my stupidity, because it cost me a pretty penny.
Having stayed after school to work on the school newspaper one late afternoon, I was getting a snack of peanut M&Ms from the vending machine to fuel my brain for whatever column I was writing. With hungry eyes I watched my healthy snack move to the edge of the metal precipice, shift, pause...and stop. I tried everything to convince that yellow bag to surrender to gravity and the pull of my own voracious appetite for it, but no; it insisted on playing hard to get even when I kicked and punched the machine. In wild-eyed desperation, I waved a dollar bill high above my head and turned to face the small crowd watching my spectacle.
"I'll give a dollar to anyone who can rescue my M&Ms from this machine!" I hollered.
Immediately, a young man emerged from the crowd. He approached quite calmly, and I eyed him narrowly, wandering what his tactic might be - karate chops, the headbutt, or the oft employed shake and rattle? I was genuinely surprised to see him reach into his pocket, but when he drew out his own dollar bill and slid it into the machine, I began looking around for my fool's cap and a convenient corner to stand in.
One small delicious bag submitted to the monetary command, and the second soon followed. Completely lacking in chivalry, with no mercy for the ravenous, dim-witted damsel in distress, the little bastard held out his hand for his reward. I smacked my money into his palm with a grunt of disgust, only to see out of the corner of my eye that his friend was attempting to make off with my own costly bag of junk food. Two bucks shot with nothing to show for it? Simply was not going to happen.
"Those are mine!" I cried desperately as I dashed after him. The smug smirk on his face as I wrested the bag from his hand said plainly that I might have saved my M&Ms, but my dignity was lost, and I'd always be kind of dumb.
Well, my friends and readers, I argue that that is simply a risk of the human condition. I, at least, get the satisfaction of writing about it. That's one of the things that makes me kinda of smart. So there, haha, and neener, neener, neener.
Thursday, June 7, 2012
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
Turkey, Pie (term of endearment)
Thanksgiving in June.
Why not? Christmas in July is very popular as a means to sell merchandise, because, astonishingly, people who are much better organized and generally smarter than you or me actually do begin holiday shopping then.
So why not Thanksgiving in June? I walked into my house yesterday evening, and the exotic perfume of cloves and ginger hung in the air and I exclaimed, "It smells like Thanksgiving in here!"
There can be no higher compliment to spring from my lips in praise of food. Thanksgiving is to me the ultimate feast with the ultimate spread (a belief established in childhood thanks to my mother's cooking), a glorious tradition that can make an American's heart thump in supreme gratitude and proud patriotism over their full belly as they watch football.
So when I walked in and smelled the aroma of my daughter's birthday pie - pumpkin, chosen over cake - I felt like Thanksgiving in June.
I had felt that way a week or so earlier, too, when cooking a chicken for my friend. The poultry seasoning, olive oil, onions and butter mingling in the hot oven brought back the ghost of November turkey. The smell just about drove my husband to steal the bird for his own consumption. Of course, my friend might strongly disagree with our praise of that entree after eating it; perhaps it turned out like the turkey I fed her and her family at Easter. That was also a smell-good bird that was as dry as its own bones, and I didn't even make gravy to save it from its poverty of texture.
And in the spirit of disclosure, shh...come closer...those Thanksgiving pies in June I made yesterday had charred pastry, because I forgot to turn down the oven mid-bake.
So maybe there's a reason we American cooks go into indentured service for just one day a year. The bird's unstable, the pies - especially the pastry - unpredictable. Then there's the rolls, the dressing, the sweet potatoes, the gravy and the green bean casserole to worry about, too. That kind of stress should be reserved for the third Thursday in November alone. We've earned our freedom for the rest of the year. I just wish I could manufacture the smell of all that rich, spicy food to permeate my home until the harvest feast comes round again. All guests would enter, breath deeply and exclaim in gratitude, "Ah, it smells like Thanksgiving in here!"
Why not? Christmas in July is very popular as a means to sell merchandise, because, astonishingly, people who are much better organized and generally smarter than you or me actually do begin holiday shopping then.
So why not Thanksgiving in June? I walked into my house yesterday evening, and the exotic perfume of cloves and ginger hung in the air and I exclaimed, "It smells like Thanksgiving in here!"
There can be no higher compliment to spring from my lips in praise of food. Thanksgiving is to me the ultimate feast with the ultimate spread (a belief established in childhood thanks to my mother's cooking), a glorious tradition that can make an American's heart thump in supreme gratitude and proud patriotism over their full belly as they watch football.
So when I walked in and smelled the aroma of my daughter's birthday pie - pumpkin, chosen over cake - I felt like Thanksgiving in June.
I had felt that way a week or so earlier, too, when cooking a chicken for my friend. The poultry seasoning, olive oil, onions and butter mingling in the hot oven brought back the ghost of November turkey. The smell just about drove my husband to steal the bird for his own consumption. Of course, my friend might strongly disagree with our praise of that entree after eating it; perhaps it turned out like the turkey I fed her and her family at Easter. That was also a smell-good bird that was as dry as its own bones, and I didn't even make gravy to save it from its poverty of texture.
And in the spirit of disclosure, shh...come closer...those Thanksgiving pies in June I made yesterday had charred pastry, because I forgot to turn down the oven mid-bake.
So maybe there's a reason we American cooks go into indentured service for just one day a year. The bird's unstable, the pies - especially the pastry - unpredictable. Then there's the rolls, the dressing, the sweet potatoes, the gravy and the green bean casserole to worry about, too. That kind of stress should be reserved for the third Thursday in November alone. We've earned our freedom for the rest of the year. I just wish I could manufacture the smell of all that rich, spicy food to permeate my home until the harvest feast comes round again. All guests would enter, breath deeply and exclaim in gratitude, "Ah, it smells like Thanksgiving in here!"
Monday, May 28, 2012
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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
A post in pictures: Strange Land
A long time ago, the stringy-haired, bespectacled little girl who used to be me would have walked through a landscape like this in horror. As nourished as she was by verdant fields, creeks that ran all year, abundant wildflowers, and deep, earth-scented woods, she would have been appalled by the bizarre plant life here and felt in a nauseated sort of way that she was a stranger in a strange place. The sight of the dull and bone-dry clay everywhere under foot would have repelled her. Where's the grass? she would have wondered in panic. The rich, deep brown earth beneath it? Where are the irises, the tiger lilies, the black-eyed susans...the hardwood trees?
Now, all grown up, I'm fascinated by this alien landscape, and I can almost believe that silky yellow cactus flowers in my planter could rival the beauty of violet irises in the grass or a profusion of black-eyed susans along a country lane. Almost.
Nostalgia wins, if only because the mind erects an altar to it, well guarded by memory, which defies any rival of the present.
Dad wrote a comment on one of my posts about Arizona; You've gone native, haven't you? I can almost see the bit of sadness dripping from those lines. Gone native in a place like Arizona, his little southern girl who thought that the sun and moon rose only over Middle Tennessee? That naive little person who imagined the man she would marry could simply walk out of the beautiful, well-loved woods behind her home (no doubt thrown out of his native fairy tale), so she could avoid uprooting herself, instead married an Albuquerque boy who had never once in his life been in the South (and never intended to be)?
Yes, and that is the stuff dreams are made of...or, at least, my fortunate life.
So, here I am, and I do love it, despite the fact that I have at present a strong spell of homesickness inspired simply by this act of writing. Yet, if there is one thing that Arizona taught me after many arid years of journeying blind and stubborn through its desert regions, it's this: you can find something to like about any place on this planet. Your respect for its natural environs will certainly grow the more you explore them with open eyes and an open mind. Heck, you might even come to love the place. Just don't waste time pining for the paradise you left behind; you'll likely never return to it. Even if you do and even if by some miracle it has not changed, you certainly will have changed. So....move on and move in fully with your whole being when you arrive at a new destination. Make the best of your strange presence in a strange land until you are forced to march on.
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| ...painfully pretty |
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| a bloomin' saguaro |
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| saguaro, mostly dead all day |
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| crested saguaro |
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| another one bites the desert dust |
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| a friendly, welcoming local |
All pictures taken at Desert Botanical Garden in Phoenix
Friday, May 18, 2012
Short: Snackle
Most of this post I must credit to the wit of my friends. I have yet to decide whether I will protect their identities in this post (in case they don't want to be associated with me), or whether I will expose them outright to the accolades I think they deserve. I only wish I could convey everything that was said just how it was said, but since I am currently too lazy to develop my own ideas for posts, I am likely too lazy to do justice to the brilliant nonsense of others.
A couple weekends ago my husband and I were hosting a party for our son who had just been confirmed and received first communion. I was exhausted from overly ambitious preparations, and when the guests arrived, I was still making the frosting for my son's celebratory cake. Oh, it looked awful! It wasn't fluffy. No. Instead it grew thicker and more gelatinous as I beat it, in a plumber's putty sort of way, and I was afraid it might rise out of the bowl like the Blob from that ancient horror flick. Worse, it tasted like vanilla-laced, possibly fatal granular paste, and if a French pastry chef had been nearby to witness my utter defeat in this culinary endeavor, he would have beaten me silly with the paddle attachment of my stand mixer.
My friend Dana tried to console me.
"That's what happened to mine last weekend. It was like the sugar crystallized, and the more I tried, the worse it got. I just had to give up."
"She and my mom kept brainstorming ideas," said her husband Alex. "I tried to tell Dana we should just use it to patch the walls. It was the perfect texture."
"We could have," said Dana. "Like chocolate.....oh, what's that stuff..."
"Spackle?" I suggested brightly.
"Yes," said Dana. Then a light came into her eyes, and she added, "No, snackle!"
"Dana, that's brilliant!" I exclaimed, laughing. "You could sell that!"
"Yes, I can see the infomercial," Alex piped in over our giggles. "Guys, do you have holes in your walls?...Are you hungry?"
"Stop!" I begged as I scraped my own snackle paste on my poor son's cake. "I'm too tired, too easy a target..." Then something occurred to me, and I became more serious. "Hey, Dana, do you think it could get guys to do their projects around the house quicker?"
"Maybe."
"Yeah, but we'd be alot more rotund," her husband added. He pretended to hold up an empty container as he mumbled sheepishly, "Honey, we're all out of Snackle again..."
At this point I surrendered wholeheartedly to a fit of hilarity. I could just picture men shuffling off to the master bath to do some work on a Saturday morning, grumbling about their honey-do list, but then they'd lock the door with a satisfied smile, scoop up a great glob of Snackle on their putty knives and lick their lips...
A couple weekends ago my husband and I were hosting a party for our son who had just been confirmed and received first communion. I was exhausted from overly ambitious preparations, and when the guests arrived, I was still making the frosting for my son's celebratory cake. Oh, it looked awful! It wasn't fluffy. No. Instead it grew thicker and more gelatinous as I beat it, in a plumber's putty sort of way, and I was afraid it might rise out of the bowl like the Blob from that ancient horror flick. Worse, it tasted like vanilla-laced, possibly fatal granular paste, and if a French pastry chef had been nearby to witness my utter defeat in this culinary endeavor, he would have beaten me silly with the paddle attachment of my stand mixer.
My friend Dana tried to console me.
"That's what happened to mine last weekend. It was like the sugar crystallized, and the more I tried, the worse it got. I just had to give up."
"She and my mom kept brainstorming ideas," said her husband Alex. "I tried to tell Dana we should just use it to patch the walls. It was the perfect texture."
"We could have," said Dana. "Like chocolate.....oh, what's that stuff..."
"Spackle?" I suggested brightly.
"Yes," said Dana. Then a light came into her eyes, and she added, "No, snackle!"
"Dana, that's brilliant!" I exclaimed, laughing. "You could sell that!"
"Yes, I can see the infomercial," Alex piped in over our giggles. "Guys, do you have holes in your walls?...Are you hungry?"
"Stop!" I begged as I scraped my own snackle paste on my poor son's cake. "I'm too tired, too easy a target..." Then something occurred to me, and I became more serious. "Hey, Dana, do you think it could get guys to do their projects around the house quicker?"
"Maybe."
"Yeah, but we'd be alot more rotund," her husband added. He pretended to hold up an empty container as he mumbled sheepishly, "Honey, we're all out of Snackle again..."
At this point I surrendered wholeheartedly to a fit of hilarity. I could just picture men shuffling off to the master bath to do some work on a Saturday morning, grumbling about their honey-do list, but then they'd lock the door with a satisfied smile, scoop up a great glob of Snackle on their putty knives and lick their lips...
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
A Post in Pictures - Trail Head or Tail
On a too hot Saturday in late March, my son spotted something moving stealthily just off a trail in Usery Mountain Park and said, "Look, it's...", and a friend and I suddenly became like two giddy tourists astounded at their good luck in finding a celebrity while visitng that celebrity's native city. We oohed and ahhed, exclaimed in delight, congratulated each other on our good fortune, and clicked our cameras just two feet or so from the notorious individual's face. Said individual was not pleased with our attention. He attempted to slink beneath a bush. When that only had us bending over him, he demanded we keep our distance with an all too famous signal, a solo instrumental of warning.
It all began with a morning hike. A lot of good, strange, very dangerous things do begin that way, I find. We were having a grand time, because it's nature after all, and nature never ceases to be a celebrity to humanity, especially the farther we grow from it. Everything too was in bloom except the saguaros. There were plenty of cactus flowers, yellow budding bushes, and there was a breeze - thank God for that! Without it the weather would have been oppressive (yes, in March).
The best thing was that I discovered a new place in this state to love. (I'm proudly collecting those places like marbles in a jar since my heart expanded to fit Arizona about a year and a half ago.) True, I regretted we were not back hiking South Mountain at first, but then on the gentle winding trails in Usery Mountain Park, I found the true beauty of the Sonoran Desert with all its plant life diversity, and I knew South Mountain couldn't rival it. And I found a couple of famous individuals that I really associate with the West. Actually make that three....uh, four.
One of them was this gracious gentleman. His friend kindly gave me permission to take his picture. He and the scenery both were very photogenic.
It all began with a morning hike. A lot of good, strange, very dangerous things do begin that way, I find. We were having a grand time, because it's nature after all, and nature never ceases to be a celebrity to humanity, especially the farther we grow from it. Everything too was in bloom except the saguaros. There were plenty of cactus flowers, yellow budding bushes, and there was a breeze - thank God for that! Without it the weather would have been oppressive (yes, in March).
One of them was this gracious gentleman. His friend kindly gave me permission to take his picture. He and the scenery both were very photogenic.
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| A Horse With No Name |
Another was this odd fellow, Sauron Saguaro I called him - The One Eye.
Oooohh...scared you, didn't I?
But the one that really gave us chills of excitement was this one:
Can't see a bloomin' thing, can you? Well, if you peer very hard into the center of this photo, you'll find a diamond pattern. Look to the far middle left, and you'll see a pattern of white and black lines. It's a rattlesnake, my friends, and the black and white lines are the end of its tail, the rattle. I was never so thrilled in all my life to see one. I could have gotten a really good picture of this famous reptile, but I would have had to let him strike me. You can understand, I'm sure, how I might not have been so happy about meeting him at that point.
It was only after he rattled at my friend and I a few times and moved into a very decisive position that we had the good sense to walk away. My friend's little girl had cried in real fear when we spotted our celebrity, and her father swiftly lifted her into his arms. I apologized for making such a fuss over the snake and promoting this fear, but my friend assured me by saying:
"Oh, she's only scared because I talked to her about snakes before we came and warned her to stay on the trail."
Huh. Talked to her kids about snakes, warned them to stay on the trail? I had done neither. The most I had said in concern before the hike was, "Honey, did we remember the hot dogs?"
Silly novice hiker.
I made up for it, though, by obsessively reminding my kids after that close encounter to stick near, stay clear of bushes, and not to let one pinkie toe stray from the path. I had to amend my motherly failure, and, by heaven, I did my duty as paranoid parental figure forthwith.
Good thing, too. We ended our hike and drove to our chosen picnic spot where we could cook those hot dogs I was so solicitous about before our adventure. When we merrily emerged from our vehicles, an uneasy middle-aged man in the truck next to us pointed and said, "Be careful. There's a rattlesnake under that table."
No way! Rattlesnakes appearing twice in a hike to the same people? But sure enough. He was enjoying the cool concrete in the shade, and I got this really great picture of him for you.
Of course, the commonsense fellow in the truck watched us parade about the table for our shot, and his eyes plainly spoke what he thought about our mental deficiencies.
"You know what they say, don't you?" our grey-headed sage asked, not even a foot of his dangling near the potentially treacherous desert floor from his open cab door. "Where there's one, there's usually two."
Yes, but we weren't too bothered. We'd already seen the other one. Still, after snagging this prize picture, we drove off to a different picnic site where the rattlesnakes had the decency not to show themselves (instead snickering at us quietly from beneath their bushes) while we ate our hot dogs, salad, potato chips and cookies.
We wrapped up the hike by playing in the playground. Yes, adults, too. There was this really great four-seater see-saw there, and the parents all got on and tried to mildly hurt each other on a kiddie ride; as my friend said, This is what you call extreme sports once you become a parent. We were laughing it up and had little idea what the kids were doing. They could have been playing with rattlers, feeding their leftovers to coyotes...or getting smacked to the ground by another kid on a swing, which, it turns out, my two youngest were. My daughter was okay after walking in front of her swinging friend, but my poor little son got rubber burn on his face, and by his wails I was swiftly brought back to real life, cursing myself for another deficiency in parental responsibility.
So the hike wasn't peaceful, and it certainly wasn't danger or accident free, but it was beautiful and mostly enjoyable, and on the drive back into town I got to laugh again at a ludicrous sign on the side of a mountain. I suppose it's meant to direct snowbirds (retired out-of-towners who come here each year, fall to spring) to the main part of town or, perhaps - just perhaps, it's meant to direct foolish people like me to the nearest hospital with the best chance of treating that snake bite.
A little disclaimer: I, Hillary, the writer of this blog, in no way promote trying to take pictures of or attempting to get close to any kind of poisonous snake, nor do I advocate letting your children see by your actions that you think venomous reptiles are cool. Be safe, my friends.
Saturday, April 14, 2012
End of the line, end of my rope, end of the world as we've made it
I've started to take the road less traveled a couple days a week now, religiously. And I don't speak about the road in my mind; that was always a strange, meandering path that only I could ever fully be friends with, and I venture down it continually. No, I'm speaking about my now firm habit of driving to the end of the line, just like in that Traveling Wilburys song, only...not in a train.
The road less traveled begins after picking up my daughter from preschool. Her brother's asleep, and I've stopped fighting his habit of dropping out of the bustle just as we go to pick her up. Instead I've taken to ambushing friends to watch the car while I dash in to fetch my little girl. I tell her to be very, very quiet (we're hunting wabbits), and then I throw some snacks and coloring books her way over her sleeping brother's golden head, and we start out.
I have a minimum of 45 minutes to kill. I could park and read, but inevitably my little guy will wake up, and then I'll have to pitch my newspaper aside with all due haste at that first cry and hush and drive, hush and drive, hoping to heaven he falls asleep again. So I drive the whole time. I drive in a minivan with a poor engine, squeaky brakes and a bad turn radius down a promising road, hoping to reach its end and always hoping for a good result. If the road just happens to have a fetching view of my beautiful behemoth, South Mountain, it's a bonus.
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| South Mountain as viewed from the south |
Sometimes I'm disappointed with where the road leads. It ends behind a shopping complex or in the private roadway of some manufacturing facility or it curves and merges with another thoroughfare. Once I was scared, because I took a lonely road west, and I had a fantastical feeling it was going to smack into the side of some sheer and intimidating mountains. Instead, the street merged onto a highway headed south into the emptiness of this desert where the Sonoran plants thin out and things get plain and ugly, and there were no stoplights anymore and no streets to turn around on, only a few fast, soulless vehicles going around my hesitant van. For the world, I couldn't comprehend where they were headed to clutch civilization's last straw. For my part I felt I was being swept away from all human warmth, from my family and my home, led astray out of Phoenix by a highway from which I couldn't escape. On that day, at last, I ended up turning aside onto an Indian reservation's private lane.
Sometimes, though, the buildings drop away, and it's not at all scary when the stoplights become less frequent. The saguaro rears its proud head, other cacti dot the brown earth and the desert scrub kisses the road. The pavement is lonely, and the road noise keeps my young one asleep. Best of best, I'm driving toward more mountains, and I just might reach their flanks before I have to pick up my eldest kids from school, or at least before my baby wakes up. As for my precious preschooler, I glance back her way in the rearview, wondering if she's satisfied with the silence, the books and the journey and whether the scenery captivates her at all.
I found the foothills of South Mountain on a naptime excursion. There the road ends; here the hiking trail begins - no wheels, just feet please.
I drove west (it's my new east) until I saw an all too familiar reflective barricade with a sign that read The Road Ends and No Stopping. The mountains were still a long way distant, the end of this road several miles shy of my destination - wilderness.
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| Dad off the ground, way off the ground |
A drive to the end of the road is a perfect retreat for exploring the wilderness of such memories and reflections. So thank you, my little son...for the nap, the memories and another quiet drive to the end of a line.
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