Aloha, aloha! I don't know why you say aloha, I say aloha.
Well, I guess it makes sense, it just doesn't sound very good. Aloha means hello. And goodbye. And I love you.
Aloha, Hawaii.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
If the Beatles were Hawaiian...
If the Beatles were Hawaiian, then the song wouldn't make sense.
Aloha, aloha! I don't know why you say aloha, I say aloha.
Well, I guess it makes sense, it just doesn't sound very good. Aloha means hello. And goodbye. And I love you.
Aloha, Hawaii.
Aloha, aloha! I don't know why you say aloha, I say aloha.
Well, I guess it makes sense, it just doesn't sound very good. Aloha means hello. And goodbye. And I love you.
Aloha, Hawaii.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Never say never (again!)
I 'm done. Yeah, like a turkey. Finished. Never again. Don't say those words. They'll come back to get you.
Unless you're smart, like my dear friend Daisy. Just add a disclaimer. A condition.
Daisy was the cook at the conference center where PH and I lived the first 10 years of raising our brood. Daisy said PH was the finest little Christian bossman she'd ever had. Her words. And I still believe it to be amongst the highest of compliments he's ever received.(But that's another story and I've already got two going here...) Anyway, Daisy loved to go to the dog tracks. She and her daughter, Jerlean, would regale me with tales of their weekend adventures at the tracks every Monday. Sometimes they'd win, but not often.
Then the tornado hit. Jerlean was there when it hit, and it was mighty scary. Lights went out and protective bars came down over the money windows. No one was hurt, but it was an evening to remember. Daisy wasn't there. She and Henry were in his truck. On the WAY to the tracks. Daisy said it was the scariest moment of her life. "I got down on my knees and I told God if he got me outta there I'd never go to the tracks again!"
Well,God came through, Daisy lived to tell me the tale.
Fast forward a few weeks... A Monday morning and Daisy is telling me about going to the tracks again. "Daisy," I said, "I thought you told God you'd never go the tracks again! What happened?"
"I SAID I'd never go again... in a thunderstorm!"
Ever since, when I say, " never again," I add, "in a thunderstorm." Or maybe in Hawaii.
So what did I do?? you ask.
Well....most of you know I co-owned a decorative painting company for 10 or so years. That may sound a little more impressive than it was. I mean it IS impressive. We were very good. But the "company" was a company of two. What should I blogname my business partner? Hmm. When you've painted behind toilets together on a regular basis, you know a lot about another person. I think I'll just call her PartnerDarling.
PD and I painted many things. We have been in the rafters of many Little Rock churches, a few others farther afield, some at the Capitol, the old state house... And more powder rooms, dining rooms, nurseries, bedrooms and kitchens than you can shake a stick at. We have also painted floors. Some to look like slate, some to look like marble, oh you name it, PD and I did it.
And a few years back I declared I was DONE. Like a turkey. Finished. Bever again. No More Floors.
In a thunderstorm.
Because yesterday, in Hawaii, I painted 4 floors.
We have been the guests of Malcolm and Imogene these last 3 weeks. Mal and Mo are 90 years old. They are the Reason we ended up here, I think. I know our stay here would not have been the same without them. We saw them the first night at the sports bar ( previous post). They invited us up later for wine and cheese. I rode to church with them on Sunday. We had them to our place for dinner last week. They've told us stories. Like the one about sitting in church with Joan Baez in the 60's. And Mal shared his books with us. His first book was written in the 70's, Healing Is For Real. He tells stories of his early ministry. I found myself moved by the profound absence of ego in his tales. He was so far ahead of his time. An excerpt:
Another incident,...was the time the police called me to help them subdue one of my parishioners who had gone on a rampage in a local bar. The police knew him as ordinarily a law abiding citizen, and wanted to avoid using strong arm tactics to bring him under control. I wasn't enthusiastic about going into the bar for him. It seemed just a little bit like Daniel going into the lion's den, and I didn't feel as secure as Daniel is reported to have been. The man out of control was a big person and he had intimidated everyone in the bar, so like Dopey in Snow White and the Seven Dwarves, I was sort of pushed into the bar with the others right behind me- way behind me.
I really felt relieved when he reacted like a small boy being caught stealing the jam, as soon as he recognized my clerical collar. Just as peaceful as a lamb he walked with me to the police car and got in without an argument. Once underway he started to get unruly again, but all I had to do was speak his name and he'd say, "Sorry, Father," and calm down. Because he had caused some damage, the police felt they should keep him overnight, so they put him in a cell. As soon as they closed the door on him he began to scream in genuine terror, complaining that "they were after him." Later on I learned that he was reliving an experience from the war where he had been trapped in a shell-hole with two Japanese soldiers, both of whom he had to kill.
"Let me out of here-they're gonna get me. Oh, my God, let me out of here!"
I could see that this was no ordinary case of drunkenness, but something deeper and much more complex. This was a sick man, there was no doubt about that. I managed to get his attention, and again, when he saw me he was able to concentrate on what I was saying, even though he was still cringing against the wall. He was panting and the beads of perspiration covered his brow. It was a pitiful sight to behold. He spoke to me.
"Doesn't anyone understand?"
"Yes, there is someone who understands. Jesus understands."
"Can he help any?"
"Yes, through me he can give you his blessing."
"Will it help?"
"Yes, I am sure it will help."
I made the sign of the cross toward him and gave him the blessing "in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost." Then a most remarkable thing occurred. Standing against the wall he looked like he'd been shot. With a dazed look on his face his. Body went limp and he slid down the wall on to the bed and rolled over sound asleep. One of the policemen stood there with his mouth agape, completely dumbfounded.
"I never saw anything like this in my life before!"
Though I felt the same as he did, I never let on that this wasn't normal procedure in my book. Before leaving the station I told the officer that I felt that the man was sick and should be in a hospital rather than a jail cell. The following day he was taken to the VA hospital where he was treated, responding well to psychotherapy. Later on I learned from one of the doctors that he had told them the only one who believed he was sick was the young priest, and he appreciated that.
First published in 1972. PTSD, anyone?
Mo came into the picture a mere 25 years ago. She is an elegant, statuesque beauty who carries herself with abounding grace. She and I bonded as women immediately. And she loves chocolate.
Needless to say,PH and I are crazy about them.
So when Mal started sneaking up to the house in front of our cottage to touch up the painted floors, I intervened. He said he didn't want to disturb us, blah, blah, blah.
PH and I painted the floors. Did I mention that Mal is 90?
It only took a bit of an afternoon and it won't be in any magazines, but I might have gotten more pleasure out of painting those floors than I did out of all the many many floors that have gone before. Malcolm said as he was thanking us, "Sometimes you just know something is right."
Tomorrow I'm taking Mo some fudge sauce.
Never say never. You might miss out.
Unless you're smart, like my dear friend Daisy. Just add a disclaimer. A condition.
Daisy was the cook at the conference center where PH and I lived the first 10 years of raising our brood. Daisy said PH was the finest little Christian bossman she'd ever had. Her words. And I still believe it to be amongst the highest of compliments he's ever received.(But that's another story and I've already got two going here...) Anyway, Daisy loved to go to the dog tracks. She and her daughter, Jerlean, would regale me with tales of their weekend adventures at the tracks every Monday. Sometimes they'd win, but not often.
Then the tornado hit. Jerlean was there when it hit, and it was mighty scary. Lights went out and protective bars came down over the money windows. No one was hurt, but it was an evening to remember. Daisy wasn't there. She and Henry were in his truck. On the WAY to the tracks. Daisy said it was the scariest moment of her life. "I got down on my knees and I told God if he got me outta there I'd never go to the tracks again!"
Well,God came through, Daisy lived to tell me the tale.
Fast forward a few weeks... A Monday morning and Daisy is telling me about going to the tracks again. "Daisy," I said, "I thought you told God you'd never go the tracks again! What happened?"
"I SAID I'd never go again... in a thunderstorm!"
Ever since, when I say, " never again," I add, "in a thunderstorm." Or maybe in Hawaii.
So what did I do?? you ask.
Well....most of you know I co-owned a decorative painting company for 10 or so years. That may sound a little more impressive than it was. I mean it IS impressive. We were very good. But the "company" was a company of two. What should I blogname my business partner? Hmm. When you've painted behind toilets together on a regular basis, you know a lot about another person. I think I'll just call her PartnerDarling.
PD and I painted many things. We have been in the rafters of many Little Rock churches, a few others farther afield, some at the Capitol, the old state house... And more powder rooms, dining rooms, nurseries, bedrooms and kitchens than you can shake a stick at. We have also painted floors. Some to look like slate, some to look like marble, oh you name it, PD and I did it.
And a few years back I declared I was DONE. Like a turkey. Finished. Bever again. No More Floors.
In a thunderstorm.
Because yesterday, in Hawaii, I painted 4 floors.
We have been the guests of Malcolm and Imogene these last 3 weeks. Mal and Mo are 90 years old. They are the Reason we ended up here, I think. I know our stay here would not have been the same without them. We saw them the first night at the sports bar ( previous post). They invited us up later for wine and cheese. I rode to church with them on Sunday. We had them to our place for dinner last week. They've told us stories. Like the one about sitting in church with Joan Baez in the 60's. And Mal shared his books with us. His first book was written in the 70's, Healing Is For Real. He tells stories of his early ministry. I found myself moved by the profound absence of ego in his tales. He was so far ahead of his time. An excerpt:
Another incident,...was the time the police called me to help them subdue one of my parishioners who had gone on a rampage in a local bar. The police knew him as ordinarily a law abiding citizen, and wanted to avoid using strong arm tactics to bring him under control. I wasn't enthusiastic about going into the bar for him. It seemed just a little bit like Daniel going into the lion's den, and I didn't feel as secure as Daniel is reported to have been. The man out of control was a big person and he had intimidated everyone in the bar, so like Dopey in Snow White and the Seven Dwarves, I was sort of pushed into the bar with the others right behind me- way behind me.
I really felt relieved when he reacted like a small boy being caught stealing the jam, as soon as he recognized my clerical collar. Just as peaceful as a lamb he walked with me to the police car and got in without an argument. Once underway he started to get unruly again, but all I had to do was speak his name and he'd say, "Sorry, Father," and calm down. Because he had caused some damage, the police felt they should keep him overnight, so they put him in a cell. As soon as they closed the door on him he began to scream in genuine terror, complaining that "they were after him." Later on I learned that he was reliving an experience from the war where he had been trapped in a shell-hole with two Japanese soldiers, both of whom he had to kill.
"Let me out of here-they're gonna get me. Oh, my God, let me out of here!"
I could see that this was no ordinary case of drunkenness, but something deeper and much more complex. This was a sick man, there was no doubt about that. I managed to get his attention, and again, when he saw me he was able to concentrate on what I was saying, even though he was still cringing against the wall. He was panting and the beads of perspiration covered his brow. It was a pitiful sight to behold. He spoke to me.
"Doesn't anyone understand?"
"Yes, there is someone who understands. Jesus understands."
"Can he help any?"
"Yes, through me he can give you his blessing."
"Will it help?"
"Yes, I am sure it will help."
I made the sign of the cross toward him and gave him the blessing "in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost." Then a most remarkable thing occurred. Standing against the wall he looked like he'd been shot. With a dazed look on his face his. Body went limp and he slid down the wall on to the bed and rolled over sound asleep. One of the policemen stood there with his mouth agape, completely dumbfounded.
"I never saw anything like this in my life before!"
Though I felt the same as he did, I never let on that this wasn't normal procedure in my book. Before leaving the station I told the officer that I felt that the man was sick and should be in a hospital rather than a jail cell. The following day he was taken to the VA hospital where he was treated, responding well to psychotherapy. Later on I learned from one of the doctors that he had told them the only one who believed he was sick was the young priest, and he appreciated that.
First published in 1972. PTSD, anyone?
Mo came into the picture a mere 25 years ago. She is an elegant, statuesque beauty who carries herself with abounding grace. She and I bonded as women immediately. And she loves chocolate.
Needless to say,PH and I are crazy about them.
So when Mal started sneaking up to the house in front of our cottage to touch up the painted floors, I intervened. He said he didn't want to disturb us, blah, blah, blah.
PH and I painted the floors. Did I mention that Mal is 90?
It only took a bit of an afternoon and it won't be in any magazines, but I might have gotten more pleasure out of painting those floors than I did out of all the many many floors that have gone before. Malcolm said as he was thanking us, "Sometimes you just know something is right."
Tomorrow I'm taking Mo some fudge sauce.
Never say never. You might miss out.
Monday, September 5, 2011
He's still got it!
Meanwhile, I joined the Kauai Marathon.
This link should take you to an audio (they publish on web) of PH's sermon.Click here
Thomas Merton And I reflect on The Help
Last night I had a curious and moving dream about a "Black Mother." I was in a place (where? somewhere I had been as a child, but also there seems to be some connection with the valley over at Edelin's) and I realized I had come there for a reunion with a Negro foster mother whom I had loved in my childhood. Indeed,I owed, it seemed, my life to her love so that it was she really and not my natural mother, who had given me life. As if from her had come a new life and there she was. Her face was ugly and severe,and yet a great warmth came from her to me, and we embraced with great love (and I with much gratitude) and what I recognized was not her face but the warmth of her embrace and of her heart so to speak. We danced a little together, I and my Black Mother, and then I had to continue the journey I was on.
-From Dancing in the Waters of Life: The Journals of Thomas Merton
Much has been said and done concerning the book and movie, The Help. Some feel it is too much (fill in the blank), others too little (fill in the blank).I just know one thing. It is Real. I am not saying it is good writing, good acting, even true about civil rights. I am saying it is real. I can still feel and smell Ellen. Her big fat soft arms, cool skin, sweet lotion (with a little tobacco smell mixed in.) Not the feel or smell of my mother. Ellen was something different.
20/20 did a segment after the movie came out that showed the relationship between two middle-aged white women and their childhood maids. (Sorry. That is what we called Ellen, and to me it is a title of great honor. Housekeeper lacks any personal warmth or connection. I'm just sayin') I know 20/20 wants to tug at your heartstrings, but they uncovered, I think unwittingly a great truth. The relationship between those women and their maids was not anything like the one depicted between the currently young children and their nanny. Not the same animal.
I can't say exactly why, but the relationship treasured by so many in my generation and geography was sacred. Maybe it had something to do with crossing cultural bounds. Maybe economic ones. Maybe it was something akin to the story of a long ago slave..."You meant it for evil, but God meant it for good". There was so much bad and wrong going on in the 60's and 70's , racially speaking. But in my house, I was loved. By my family. And by my maid.
Peace be with you, Ellen. I'll see you when the roll is called up yonder.I look forward to being embraced in that most gracious and generous bosom.
-From Dancing in the Waters of Life: The Journals of Thomas Merton
Much has been said and done concerning the book and movie, The Help. Some feel it is too much (fill in the blank), others too little (fill in the blank).I just know one thing. It is Real. I am not saying it is good writing, good acting, even true about civil rights. I am saying it is real. I can still feel and smell Ellen. Her big fat soft arms, cool skin, sweet lotion (with a little tobacco smell mixed in.) Not the feel or smell of my mother. Ellen was something different.
20/20 did a segment after the movie came out that showed the relationship between two middle-aged white women and their childhood maids. (Sorry. That is what we called Ellen, and to me it is a title of great honor. Housekeeper lacks any personal warmth or connection. I'm just sayin') I know 20/20 wants to tug at your heartstrings, but they uncovered, I think unwittingly a great truth. The relationship between those women and their maids was not anything like the one depicted between the currently young children and their nanny. Not the same animal.
I can't say exactly why, but the relationship treasured by so many in my generation and geography was sacred. Maybe it had something to do with crossing cultural bounds. Maybe economic ones. Maybe it was something akin to the story of a long ago slave..."You meant it for evil, but God meant it for good". There was so much bad and wrong going on in the 60's and 70's , racially speaking. But in my house, I was loved. By my family. And by my maid.
Peace be with you, Ellen. I'll see you when the roll is called up yonder.I look forward to being embraced in that most gracious and generous bosom.
Saturday, September 3, 2011
We're on a boat!
Happy, happy, happy.
Notice the Cathedral Camp tshirt. I can't tell you how many people have commented on it. First of all PH asks them if they know the movie Sex, Lies and Videotapes. (Answer:no.when was that movie made? Um, 20 years ago? And how old might you be? 25 at best.) Then he quizzes them on the Joseph saga. I try not to let him get too far from my side....
These are my dolphins. I should have had my own camera, what can I say. But then again, I was in the moment. They glided alongside of us for several minutes. I think they were telling me how much they missed me. Pretty sure.
So here's to you Mrs. Robinson...That's what I would hum every time PH would ask me why I was taking another picture of cute young crew boys. I know. An even older movie reference but far more universal.
Hey, St. Michael's! Give up the kitchen renovation and buy a boat! It already HAS a kitchen!
Can't go through it....
Can't go over it....
Gotta go 'round it!
And we did. In style.
Notice the Cathedral Camp tshirt. I can't tell you how many people have commented on it. First of all PH asks them if they know the movie Sex, Lies and Videotapes. (Answer:no.when was that movie made? Um, 20 years ago? And how old might you be? 25 at best.) Then he quizzes them on the Joseph saga. I try not to let him get too far from my side....
Gotta go 'round it!
And we did. In style.
Our private beach
After driving down dirt roads for an hour, we came upon this. Our own private beach. It was a lovely place to spend the day.
Friday, September 2, 2011
A non-opposable thumb and anger management issues....
Or...how much can YOU learn about a person in under 12 seconds?? I think I win.
A little background. I love to play tennis. But not really I married into a tennis family. Well, I married the black sheep. He has the genes, but never really tried. And I have a minimum of hand-eye coordination. I had lessons my 9th grade summer from the maid of cotton. Didn't really stick. Since then, I have tried off and on, but only with family members. Post empty nest, PH and I have played a bit more. Well, we mostly just hit balls for about an hour. But he tells me I am a some better. Not a total embarrassment. But I don't even know how to keep score very well. All those ins and outs. And I have no idea where to go when those balls start coming.
So we get here with our 20 year old tennis racquets ( we usually take his octogenarian parents' castoffs), and there are tennis courts right behind our cottage- through the rainforest.AND they have round robin every other day. Show up and play. PH goes the first day which is totally unfair because I try to exercise all the time and he never does and here he is exercisingandmeetingpeopleandhavingfunandit'snotfair. So the next time he convinces me to go. I miss a lot of balls and i am very nervous, but it is kind of fun. And next time rolls around. It is midday, lots more sun, and I don't want the only other couple who showed last time to feel like they have to endure...you know. PH says he's calling me if I should come (in other words if it is other embarrassingly bad players). Phones don't work great here, so I miss his call. I decide to be bra e and go on over. My plan is to say I'd play if they needed me, otherwise I was going for a run.
When I get there, PH is playing with the good couple from the other day and another pretty good woman. Her husband?? is sitting on the bench. I sit down next to him. Hello. Hello. Well, long story short, by the time they've reorganized the game, he has told me he has anger management issues, more than three mistakes and he will..I dunno he didnt say just what he would do. And now he is my partner and he tells me he used to be left handed but look. That's where they had to surgically reattach my thumb. Did I mention that he was my partner??? I asked him if he got angry when his partner missed shots???? Well, he was a very nice guy and we lost but he didn't yell at me or himself very much. And his thumb stayed on.
But PH know none of this, and he'd been there all along. Amazing.
Today was the Grand Canyon of the Pacific according to Mark Twain. Truly beautiful, but no dolphin experiences. I do have some pictures to share of the goat hunters sign-in sheet.
And we had coconut shrimp at the shrimp station with papaya ginger tartar sauce. True to form, I had to go back to the ordering window and tell them that I didn't even like fried food but that was the best thing I'd had on this island. And by golly, I was gonna write trip advisor about it.
Parcha coladas on the porch. I like this!!!!
A little background. I love to play tennis. But not really I married into a tennis family. Well, I married the black sheep. He has the genes, but never really tried. And I have a minimum of hand-eye coordination. I had lessons my 9th grade summer from the maid of cotton. Didn't really stick. Since then, I have tried off and on, but only with family members. Post empty nest, PH and I have played a bit more. Well, we mostly just hit balls for about an hour. But he tells me I am a some better. Not a total embarrassment. But I don't even know how to keep score very well. All those ins and outs. And I have no idea where to go when those balls start coming.
So we get here with our 20 year old tennis racquets ( we usually take his octogenarian parents' castoffs), and there are tennis courts right behind our cottage- through the rainforest.AND they have round robin every other day. Show up and play. PH goes the first day which is totally unfair because I try to exercise all the time and he never does and here he is exercisingandmeetingpeopleandhavingfunandit'snotfair. So the next time he convinces me to go. I miss a lot of balls and i am very nervous, but it is kind of fun. And next time rolls around. It is midday, lots more sun, and I don't want the only other couple who showed last time to feel like they have to endure...you know. PH says he's calling me if I should come (in other words if it is other embarrassingly bad players). Phones don't work great here, so I miss his call. I decide to be bra e and go on over. My plan is to say I'd play if they needed me, otherwise I was going for a run.
When I get there, PH is playing with the good couple from the other day and another pretty good woman. Her husband?? is sitting on the bench. I sit down next to him. Hello. Hello. Well, long story short, by the time they've reorganized the game, he has told me he has anger management issues, more than three mistakes and he will..I dunno he didnt say just what he would do. And now he is my partner and he tells me he used to be left handed but look. That's where they had to surgically reattach my thumb. Did I mention that he was my partner??? I asked him if he got angry when his partner missed shots???? Well, he was a very nice guy and we lost but he didn't yell at me or himself very much. And his thumb stayed on.
But PH know none of this, and he'd been there all along. Amazing.
Today was the Grand Canyon of the Pacific according to Mark Twain. Truly beautiful, but no dolphin experiences. I do have some pictures to share of the goat hunters sign-in sheet.
And we had coconut shrimp at the shrimp station with papaya ginger tartar sauce. True to form, I had to go back to the ordering window and tell them that I didn't even like fried food but that was the best thing I'd had on this island. And by golly, I was gonna write trip advisor about it.
Parcha coladas on the porch. I like this!!!!
Thursday, September 1, 2011
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