Honolulu Is Nice

We're back from our vacation to Hawaii—got home just yesterday afternoon where the sky was gray, the wind was howling through the trees and snow was falling in clumps. We didn't get much more than a dusting in the end, but it looked like it was going to be a real blowout for a few minutes. I've spent the morning running every errand—pet store, post office, dry cleaners, liquor store, grocery store—and now I can catch my breath and reintroduce myself to the puppy. We think he grew in height and weight while we were away.

So, we went to Hawaii, Honolulu more specifically, and the Kahala Resort to be exact. It's a hotel on the southeastern end of the island in a quiet residential area. The resort has a private beach, three restaurants, and a helpful concierge, so all you need is handy.

View from our balcony.

Every morning, we would wake up, open the doors to the balcony and have a gander at the ocean—I was surprised by the view every single day. "Oh yeah, there's an ocean here!" We'd go downstairs and have breakfast at an outside table, stop by the pool area to reserve a cabana for the day and slowly make our way back up to our room. We'd eventually make it out to the beach and settle into the cabana, which came with a cooler with water, and we'd raise the flag. Each cabana was equipped with a little flagpole and a little yellow flag. When you wanted something, you raised the flag, and within a few minutes, a cabana boy would come running to take your order. It was lovely.

On really sunny days, we might position ourselves in the shade of a palm tree or expose our tender Ohio skin to the full rays of the sun. We'd test the water, feel the sand, sip some coconut water, think about what we might have for lunch and read. I read Benjamin Hale's The Evolution of Bruno Littlemore and began Major Pettigrew's Last Stand. We became familiar with the other guests who all seemed to be either from Australia or Japan, determining which of their little kids were sweethearts and which were terrorists—Charlie from Australia should have been strung up by his thumbs for his bad deeds, but the Japanese brother and sister set were a delight.

Palm trees on the little Kahala peninsula.

After awhile, we'd walk a few steps to the outdoor restaurant and order lunch, and then we'd walk a few steps back to the cabana and recommence with the vacation. By five o'clock or so, we'd be back up in the room to shower and dress for dinner, which we had usually arranged to have around seven o'clock. Then we'd go to claim our reservations. There was a particularly wonderful restaurant called Hoku's, and we had amazing meals there. For those of you who know about the molten chocolate cake I make, I they make it here, too. Here is fried fish for two that was really great:

But sometimes we'd have dinner at Plumeria, which was meant as more of an everyday spot, still good but not as grand or pricey. They celebrated the Chinese New Year there with fireworks, Chinese musicians and a buffet. Here is one of the dragons from the special presentation—it's the year of the dragon:

It only looks like the dragon is eating the woman.

We ventured out from time to time, driving around Diamond Head and having dinner in Waikiki, where I fell in love with the Royal Hawaiian Hotel. We had one of the most amazing meals there at this magical place set back from the main drag. The area is like 5th Avenue mixed with Times Square—lots of high-end shops and noise and crowds and tourists. But if you follow a passageway back away from all that noise, you discover a courtyard lined with trees and lit with lamps, and it opens up to present the Royal Hawaiian, calm and peaceful with palace-like passageway and a beach. If we ever return to Honolulu, I would love to stay at this hotel.

And we found a few things to amuse ourselves. We went on a helicopter ride that toured all of Oahu.

We are not wearing fanny packs! These are life preservers.

Waikiki as seen from the helicopter.

A steep hillside and the tiny shadow of our helicopter.

We went whale watching:

Two humpback whales near Pearl Harbor.

 And we visited the Arizona Memorial:

The memorial, which was haunting and solemn, I felt.

Visible remains of the USS Arizona
where more than 1,000 men are entombed.

And we got to all of these destinations in a Mustang convertible. So, yes, Honolulu is nice. I'll look forward to the next time we get to go there.

Howard Thurman—Leader Behind the Leader

After three years of writing columns for Small Town Newspaper, I've done Martin Luther King day. There isn't much else I can say about it other than what I've already said. And with so many people still living who knew the man personally, it seems best to let them speak to the occasion of MLK Day.

But despite all the talk—all the interviews and news stories and columns—I haven't heard anything about one of King's great mentors, Howard Thurman, the man who met Gandhi personally and counseled King decades before the civil rights became a national movement.

So, here is my column for today's edition.

A Park For All Seasons

I prefer not to walk Baxter, the big puppy, in my own neighbor despite the obvious convenience—slip on the harness, hook on the leash and off we go—because I hate walking the hills, and for some reason, the place seems desolate. Beside the occasional passing car, you could get to feel like you're the sole survivor after a global catastrophe. So when it's time to walk the dog, I'll often put us in the car and drive five minutes to the town park.

Beyond the tennis courts, there is ball field after ball field, a wonderful playground funded by a women's group that literally baked cookies to raise money, and then a walking area with a kidney-shaped pond, trees and benches. You can walk up one hill to an access road to the town pool, then take that road down the hill to a little bridge, cross a tiny creek, and follow a path back to where you parked the car near the pond. On some days, I'm the only person walking there, but it never feels desolate. That is to say, I never feel as if I'm the only remaining human being when I'm walking at the park.

Baxter seems to like the park. When we pull into the parking area, he can't wait to jump out and smell every smell left by every dog in town. And on some days, like today for example, he went completely nuts over a colony of squirrels chasing each other around tree trunks in spiral fashion.

Since walking at the park these last few months, we've seen it in all of its stages—summer, fall and winter. Here is what we've seen:

The tree line in fall colors.

The water frozen just enough to support sticks people
have thrown onto it, like skipping rocks.

These leaves left over from fall are completely
frozen just below the surface.

Baxter smells the world in every leaf.

And finally, winter is here.

More Than A Sandwich

I made a sandwich for lunch today. Nothing to write home about, I know, but the process reminded me of the way my father would make sandwiches, and there's a story there.

Daddy loved food, and I mean loved it. He would get up very early in the morning to pack his construction worker lunch, and he would knock around in the kitchen like he was making a feast for a whole family. He'sdmake two sandwiches, pack some chips, some Archway cookies, an apple, a Mars Bar or a Twinkie or both, and a big thermos full of coffee. It was never a chore for him. It was always a delightful task.

On Sundays, we would often have a roast for lunch with the traditional sides, and we'd sit down at the table after church for the big meal of the day. Mama would pack away the leftovers, and later for dinner it was everyman for himself. Daddy would pull out sandwich fixin's from the fridge and lay them all out on the counter. There would be whole wheat bread, roast beef sliced thin, cheese, lettuce, tomato, mayonnaise, mustard and corn relish.

He would build the sandwich of his dreams and talk and sing his way through it, remarking on how good this sandwich was going to be, especially with potato chips and an ice, cold glass of RC Cola drunk from an amber glass that matched the gold tones of that crazy sofa set in the living room. The tomatoes were best in the summer, but the corn relish was mighty fine all year long. We would all follow suit and take our plates to the TV room where we'd watch The Wonderful World of Disney—Old Yeller, Davy Crockett, Donald Duck—or 60 Minutes. And Daddy loved every bite.

Lately, I have been wondering if I spend too much time thinking about food. I'm not gluttonous about it, but I do think about planning and options and flavors that work together. Take this sandwich, for example. I started with a pork roast from yesterday. I let it sit in a brine of apple cider with maple syrup and brown sugar all day and then roasted it for dinner. Today, I sliced it thin, toasted some wheat bread, added a little mayo, a slice of Muenster and some lettuce. I cut the thing in two and put it on a plate with sweet potato chips and sat down with my lunch and some diet root beer.

Daddy would have been proud, so maybe I don't think about food too much. Maybe it's just in my blood to appreciate it as fine and dandy.

But It's Only January

This afternoon, a guy from Invisible Fence was here installing a "fence" so that Baxter can run wild in his own yard. As it is, the big puppy can only run wild on the patio and in a mulched area so sloped that he looks like a goat when he stands at the highest point. In fact, we have occasionally called him Goat Puppy.

An invisible fence is really an electric wire buried in the ground that interacts with a collar that reminds the dog where his boundaries are. That's a polite way of saying that it zaps the dog if he gets too close and ignores the warning beeps. When the guy finished with the wiring, we walked Baxter around the perimeter of the yard to introduce him to the beeps and the flags, and I wore my winter boots and coat and scarf because we were trudging and sliding through what's left of two inches of snow, now less than an inch and slushy and mushy. It was raining at the time and cold and a little windy, and I was very happy to be finished with the exercise and to be back inside where I could get warm.

We'll be Gidget and Moondoggie.

I was also happy to remember that next week at this time, we'll be in Hawaii. Honolulu, to be exact. On the beach. In the sun. Where it's 80 degrees during the day and 70 at night. With no coats or scarves or snow boots.

A few days before Christmas, Husband said he really could use a break from cold weather and hard knocks and would like to go to Hawaii in January. I did not point out that we have only begun with winter in Ohio—it's only January!—and instead I said "OK." Of course, I did. And now I'm planning by reviving my summer clothes and arranging to board the dog and the cat. I'm scheduled to get my hair cut tomorrow, so I called ahead and threw in a pedicure, too. Why not? And I've read the details of the resort where we'll be staying—they offer two-hour horseback rides, which I feel I must do, and they have a beach and pools and restaurants with delicate teas and sushi and yummy things I won't be cooking, just eating.

Between now and this trip to an island in the sea, I'll be training Baxter inside the fence with melting snow and mud and rain and cold weather. It won't be pleasant, but I'll keep next week in mind. Besides, it's only January.

New Boots—Watch Your Step

I have new boots. I've never been one to care about boots and have only kept a dusty pair in the closet for those few days a year when I would shovel deep snow from the driveway. But now that I have a dog, I think I might be trudging through snow and sludge much more often than in previous years—so, boots. I like them. In fact, I put them on today just to break them in a little, even though I probably won't be going out until the current snowfall subsides. Baxter seems content to romp around on the patio on his own, so I'll stay warm and dry for as long as I can today.

But when I put on my new boots this morning, a terrible image flashed through my mind, one that might keep me from wearing them inside for much longer, or at least keep me from wearing them while walking downstairs. I have a bad association with boots and stairs, you see.

When I was in fifth grade, I lived in a neighborhood filled with kids, and we would invent games to play, like jump rope in the street or hide-and-seek in all the yards at night and war. We would pick someone's basement, one that was marginally finished, and we would pretend to hunt each other down like the allies versus the axis, the Yanks versus the Nazis. There weren't any rules, really, you just used your imagination, stalked behind couches and furnaces, looking for the enemy and acting out a shooting right through the dirty Kraut's pointy helmet.

One winter day as our school bus approached our stop, Linda from next door asked if I wanted to go to her house and play war. So, I climbed off the bus, ran home to drop off my books, and I put on my boots. Wearing boots would be more effective in the game, I thought, as if my snowboots even remotely resembled army boots from 1942. I went across the street to Linda's house, and she had a snack ready. We would be eating orange Jello during the skirmish, so I took my bowl of Jello and headed for the basement. Linda went down the steep carpeted steps first, and then I followed, not holding on to any rail because of the Jello.

One of my clunky boots caught on the carpet, and I fell head over heal toward the bottom with nothing to stop me. I dropped the Jello on my way down, bounced on a few steps, tried to stop myself with my right hand and then slammed my skull on the cement floor at the bottom. It all happened very quickly, but it felt as if I were tumbling in slow motion, seeing every step and feeling every painful landing.

When I hit the floor, I screamed and grabbed my arm, although I was sure I must have had a concussion, I hit my head so hard. Linda screamed, too, and immediately ran and got ice to put on my arm. Both of our mothers were at work, so she called the next-door mother who was off that day, and Mrs. Quigley came running. She also called my mother at work, and Mama got there as quick as she could.

The ladies got me to the car, and my mother rushed me to the doctor's office. No one bothered with my head, but it was clear I had broken my arm pretty badly. In trying to stop my fall, I jammed my arm bone into my hand, breaking something in the wrist and possibly stunting growth in my arm. and the pain was more than I can say. I was sent to the hospital for an x-ray and then given a cast and a sling.

My mother made most of my clothes then, so she used scraps from my school dresses to make matching slings, and I had one for every day of the week. I did all of my homework writing with my left hand, which earned points with my teacher, Mr. Shumway, and I never missed a beat.

After six weeks, the cast came off, and my arm went on to grow normally with no permanent damage, but boots and stairs still give me the shivers. With my level of grace and poise, I think it best I save my new boots for snow shoveling and dog walking outside, and I definitely should not carry a bowl of orange Jello when I should be holding onto the rails.

It's National Clean Off Your Desk Day

No, it's not really. That was Monday, but my weekly columns for Small Town Newspaper don't appear on Mondays anymore. They now appear on Thursdays, so I'm reworking my schedule and thinking in new terms. For two years, I have written with Mondays in mind—what happened on a particular Monday, what Monday holiday are we celebrating, and the like. It's a new day.

So, for this first new day with the new schedule, here is my column as written for Small Town Newspaper, the Thursday edition. It's about being messy and about how there is absolutely nothing wrong with that. In my living room and kitchen, I'm pretty tidy. My bathroom, my side of the counter at least, is free and clear of debris. But my desk is my space and my space alone, and if I choose to spread out and be a mess, that's my business.

It's where I keep the things that belong solely to me. Not only are my music and knitting and a few recipes there, I have little toys—a miniature Etch-A-Sketch, some wooden thing-a-majigs, some colored markers, rejections from my attempts to find a literary agent are all at home there as well. It's a comfortable home, my messy desk. It needs no day for cleaning, I say.