My entire Yahoo! 360 archive, minus photos......

Hi, folks,

Now that Yahoo's blog site, 360, is shutting down, I'm moving everything here. This entry will progress as I edit its 143 stories.


I've covered a lot of stuff in this blog. I started this thing in 2005, with Christmas shots of our little red barn in Texas. At that time, I lived with Kenny, Ginger, Sway and India at the little 2 1/4-acre spread we called "The Double Nickel Ranch." You've read about the State Fair of Texas, Christmas with The Monkey, my kapa-making endeavors, the commercials filmed at our farm, the acquisition of Texie and Sadie, our adventure with Riley O'Possum, my rescue of my Florida cabin and - during the same trip - my dancing at the Polynesian Resort Hotel and the Ohana Restaurant for my kumu hula, Kau`i Brandt.
You've followed our move back to California, the scattering of our family throughout the East Bay, and the formation of my halau hula. I turned Christmas into a sporting event, documenting The Monkey's assault on the Christmas tree and its ornaments. I've written about the wonderful Hawaiian events in the Bay Area at which the Royal Hawaiian Ukulele Band - of which I'm a member - have performed.
I turned this blog into a series of feature stories about things that touch my life - scenic train rides, the recovery of a childhood pirate game, my launch into the world of pinstriping, the running tale of my retinal detachment, so you'll know how to spot it - and what you're in for - if it happens to you. I'm getting a Honda Reflex for my birthday, and I was looking forward to turning my new toy into a series of stories about my customizing her with some stripes and my reacquaintance with 2-wheel transport.
Closest thing I've done to a diary in a long time. Closest thing to newspaper work I've done in a long time.


It is often said the only constant in this world is change. And most folks like change the way they like burned food, packing for a move, losing a job, seeing a favorite store close, getting a speeding ticket as a birthday present or finding out the hard way the milk has spoiled.

I wonder if I could print the whole dang thing out and paste it all into a real diary...the girly kind with lock and key?Heck, right now, I'd settle for printin' it all out, getting out my 3-hole punch and slippin' it all into an old-school binder.....Y'all can just come over to the house and read the stories the old fashioned way!

Did you feel the Earth realign?

Earlier this week, the Earth was off its axis. The Universe was completely out of balance. The world was misaligned.


Ginger was hanging out with Bo, and Sway was becoming the odd man - okay, horse - out.
Ginger and Sway the Limit have been pasture mates since I brought them home in 1993.
Earlier that year, we'd lost Buddy, Kenny's Quarter horse-Morgan cross gelding who was a lovely red horse with a beautiful blaze and one white hoof. Whichever body part was larger on either of his parental breeds, Buddy got the larger version. Massive body, huge head,full neck, thick wavy mane and tail, sturdy hindquarters and trees like tree trunks. Short tree trunks. He looked like a 16 hand horse that got cut off at the knees, making him a shade more than 14.2 hands tall - just a whisker past pony size, except in England, where he'd still be considered a really...massive..."pony."


I consider his build similar to the Lipizzaner of the Spanish Riding School and "Miracle of the White Stallions" fame. Kenny still thinks of him as a descendant of the horse ridden by Ichabod Crane in the Disney version of "The Headless Horseman."


Later in the same year, I lost Stradivarius, my beloved soulmate, a 17-hand Thoroughbred who was the great-grandson of Man o'War, and grandson of War Admiral, his Triple-Crown-winning son. Strad was the spitting image of War Admiral, only taller, and with a significantly lesser race record. He won only one race, an impromptu dirt-road match race with a horse more than a decade and a half younger than he. I was aboard.


I'd softly, invisibly twiggled the reins that led to his snaffle bit. "Can you take this horse?" I'd asked him after the other horse's owner kept braggin about how no one would ride with the two of them because her horse was always wanting to run and could outrace the neighborhood horses. I'd started to have my fill of the bragging; Strad wasn't impressed by the other rider's horse, either. When the other rider announced she wanted to let her horse run to spend some of her horse's energy, I secretly asked Strad his appraisal of his rival. "Just say the word," he replied through the reins, and he was true to his word - outrunning the other horse from the first stride.


He was everything I wanted when I was a kid. I was 10 years out of college when I found him. Losing him was like losing oxygen in the world.


We chose - I chose - Sway the Limit and Ginger to be these dear souls' successors. Could I find two horses more opposite? Not very well likely.


Unlike Buddy, Ginger is skeptical, with a strong dose of the regal attitude that in lesser folks would be described as arrogant. She's on top of all her surroundings - if you could mind-meld with her, you'd know when the latest train went by and what its cargo was and how many cars and how many locomotives were part of this train. She could tell you how many cows were in the pasture and which were facing north or south. She'd be able to recite how many cars had gone past her pasture on the John Muir Parkway below, and how many redwing blackbirds had alighted on the nearby power wires.

You may ride her - IF you know how to ride. She underwent training - what, didn't you? If you don't know how to ride, why are you on her back?


Unlike Strad, Sway is short and stocky for a Thoroughbred. He actually won some money, but nothing compared to his Citation and Nashua - and War Admiral - predecessors. If Strad was elegant, Sway can be a goof. He's also, quite possibly, autistic. He has meltdowns and tantrums and can't abide being stroked against his hair's grain.

Whereas Strad would have never done a thing to harm me, Sway had a meltdown a few years back and attacked me. I came out of it wounded, and barely got out of the stall before my injuries were worse. I'd committed the sin of brushing him. It took a lot of work for the two of us to trust each other. On the other hand, when I got attacked by a paint mare in Texas, Sway became my personal guardian, never allowing any horse other than Ginger to approach me. He's no "typical Thoroughbred," and despite his ivarius, even under the greatest duress, would never have stooped to commit.


However, just as Buddy and Strad were, Ginger and Sway are devoted to each other since the day I put them in the same pasture in Florida. They adore each other, and I never thought anything could come between them - until the other day.


I arrived at the pasture where I have them boarded, and saw Ginger munching the pasture's grass, not too far from Bo, the red Tennessee walker who used to rule the pasture until I brought my two to the place. The first day, Bo learned he was no longer pasture boss and, at least for a while, had no chance with the cute red Appaloosa who was joined at the hip to the stocky dark Thoroughbred.


Till the other day.


"Where's Sway?" I thought - starting to panic. Sway, turned out, was off to the side. WAIT-a-minute - that's how BO is supposed to be - off to one side, while Ginger and Sway are joined at the hip.


And as I called my two in for supper, I figured out what was going on. Bo had return to his "I'm Mr. Studley!" attitude, and Sway wasn't coming out ahead of the game, for once.
Just as I had panicked when I hadn't seen Sway immediately, Sway was in full panic himself. While the other horses moseyed to the gate, Sway raced in, full tilt. "Bo's PICKING on me!" he wailed. "And he's stolen my GIRL!" He had the battle scars - and a serious lack of Ginger by his side - to back his claim.


I had prepped their meal, so Sway and Ginger raced through the gate to get it. Bo was fired up in victory as much as Sway was heartbroken at his loss of standing.


It isn't easy to be a human in the middle of a 3,000-pound soap opera. But I have a few tricks and a couple of tools to help me put the universe aright.


I calmed Sway down and chided Ginger for her indiscretion.


Later, I took Bo and forced him into a corner. While berating him with "No- NO!" and "How DARE you behave like that!", I got Sway and Ginger over to the water trough, a power spot if there is one in this pasture. Bo had to endure a lengthy "time out" for a while, stuck in the corner. I finally led my two back, then Bo started his "Mr. Studley" act again. And, once more, he got put into another corner with a healthy dose of "No-NO!" and "How DARE you!" shouts.


He was still frisky when I had to leave for home. I hoped a couple of gargantuan "times out" would be enough. I was going to leave, but Sway, feeling excluded again, raced toward me, and I slipped through the gate once more. I hugged his neck and he held me close. I told him, "I'll keep working at it - and while I'm gone, don't do anything stupid. You've got 20 acres - you be smart and stay safe. We'll get it worked out." Finally, this horse let me go.


No, Bo is not my horse. But, when it impacts my two, he is my problem. He's not a bad horse; he's just got some lessons in manners to learn. He's at least 8 years younger than Sway, and just a tad older than half Ginger's age. I get the feeling it's been a while since he's been expected to behave according to any standards.


On the other hand, today, when I walked out to the pasture today, Sway and Ginger were reconciled and joined back at the hip, Bo was keeping a respectful distance, the Earth was rotating on its proper axis, and balance, once again, had been restored in the Universe.


Ukulele Ladies - and Gentlemen!

Several hundred folks from the East Coast to Hawai`i tuned up their ukuleles Sunday at the Hayward (Calif.) Adult School, and kept the music rolling all day at the 16th annual `Ukulele Festival of Northern California.
We - The Royal Hawaiian Ukulele Band, founded by Kem and Rosalyn Tung-Loong of the Templebar Restaurant in Berkeley - went on earlier than our scheduled 3 p.m. appearance, and launched into an upbeat version of "Hawai`i Calls."
After that came one of Uncle Kem's hallmark march-medleys that blended "Stars and Stripes," the theme to the tv show "Bonanza" and "Moloka`i Nui a Hina." We wrapped up with a rousing church number - it was Sunday, after all! - "Ke Alo o Iesu," finishing that hymn with an a capella tag.
Above, the white-haired Uncle Kem is tuning his ukulele. Aunty Roz, with her guitar, is chatting with band members. Their son, Kem Jr., is slinging is bass guitar over his shoulder. You know us by our red polo shirts with the yellow "Royal Hawaiian Ukulele Band" logo on the back, and our black pants and kukui lei. Our "uniform" gives the band a nice look.
I love this festival. You never know what you're going to see there. This is where I first saw a real musical saw being bowed. Sure, the old tv variety shows occasionally would have a band or soloist, sitting down with this carpentry tool and a violin bow, and cause it to sing. But a Tin-Pan Alley group playing 1920s music let me hear the thing played live.
No such novelty act this time, although Aunty Linda Danek's halau, Halau o Pi`ilani of Santa Clara, sent its ukulele band to play vintage Japanese songs that were popular in Hawai`i in my parents' time, despite the time-proximity to World War II. I grew up listening to a 78 of "Ginza Kan Kan Musume," loving the jazzy band and the soprano singer. I'd beg my mother to let me take the song to a Japanese restaurant so we could get the lyrics translated. My mother, a woman of strict morals, refused, saying the female subject of the song was a young lady of questionable character. On the other hand - my mother did have that 78!
The band played this song reminded me of the time that Aunty Lani Valenta, a Kane`ohe woman, and I were sitting at the dining table at my friend Karina's house. Aunty Lani's ukulele had been stolen some years back. I'd brought a little Hilo ukulele I'd gotten second hand [ and once I got another ukulele, I gave that one to Aunty Lani]. As we sat and chatted, I started playing this song, and Aunty Lani began to sing the words. It was a wonderful moment that brought us closer together.
Later at the Ukulele Festival, one of Aunty Linda's band came up and asked if I remembered him. Of course! He and I sat next to each other at the first Hawaiian concert I attended after moving to California - Makaha Sons playing in Watsonville. I didn't know a single Hawaiian community person at that time, and was feeling so sad that I had moved away from Aunty Kau`i, Aunty Lani, Karina and my "hula sisters" back in Florida. He made me feel welcome, and from that moment on, Aunty Linda's halau has always had a special place in my heart. And we got to share stories about growing up listening to "Kan Kan Musume."
Ukulele Jams, a group of children that might be expected to be the "cute" act, showed the audience that they might be cute, but they are true musicians, picking intricate melodies on par with any adult band. Derek Sebastian's instrumentals kept the energy level high. Rogie Cadiente came in from Hawai`i to play and to bring a donated Sonny D. ukulele for a prize, as did the Kamaka ukulele-making family, represented this year by Side Order, a top-notch band that substituted for the usually-appearing Hawaiian musician and singer, Chris Kamaka. Hawaiian Air Lines, in honor of Uncle John who used to work for that company, again donated two round-trip tickets.
Evan Tom, an area youngster we started noticing when at 10 he blew practically everyone else out of the water, now is - I think - in high school and his excellent group only gets better with time. Wait till they get old enough to vote!
Occasionally bands were accompanied by hula dancers, such as Kaleponi Strings' Na Hawai`i `o Kaleponi Hula - originally, these were the Kaleponi dancers, led by the late Harriet Spalding, with whom I danced after moving to California.
Some of my music students came to hear us - some missed us because we went on early. I teach mostly rookies, although some are much less rookie than they were a few months ago! They learn chords and to draw chord diagrams next to chord names until those chords are . I teach them the Hawaiian vamp - that introduction that tells you, "This probably is a Hawaiian song... “

They learn how to transpose songs into keys their voices can reach, several strumming patterns and how to add a few little flourishes to their playing. And how to sing in Hawaiian!
Our class songs frequently are "students' choice" - each time one of the rec center sessions is about to close, I ask them to submit requests for the next batch of songs, on which I'll base the next round of classes. I never know what's going to come up, and it means I'm always trying to find lyrics to songs I've never sung before, because it never occurred to me to play these songs - which makes leading these classes fun and exciting. The current Pleasant Hill set, for instance, goes from the silly "Tiptoe Through the Tulips" to the torch song "Fever."
I always ask them what they want to play - or else they'd be getting Hawaiian 100 percent of the time! My students are folk singers, scout leaders, folks who fished their grandfather's ukulele out of the closet and decided to learn how to play it. So far, nobody's brought in a "dud" instrument - all are playable. They range from inexpensive bright yellow Hilo ukulele with rainbow and palm tree decals to some vintage, decades-old treasures their owners frequently have mis-valued - until I demand stringently that they order a case for this priceless instrument before they sleep that night!
The Ukulele Festival of Northern California was founded in 1994 by two long-time musicians, Uncle Hollis Baker and Uncle John Ogao. ["Aunty" and "Uncle" are honorifics in the Hawaiian community.] Uncle Hollis, a relative of composer-singer Andy Cummings, also founded the Kaleponi Strings. Uncle John not only played and sang, he also began making ukulele, and in the picture above, resting on the ground on its case, is my own 8-string, 2-hole Ogao ukulele. Uncle John made ukulele for his entire family, and you can spot a "family" Ogao - the sound hole is heart-shaped. It's easy to spot an Ogao, anyway. His models have their own look and an incredible sound.
Both founders are deceased, but memorialized at each festival, and rightly so. This festival, designed to increase appreciation for the instrument that was brought to Hawai`i from Portugal, also awards scholarships to children and raises money for the Hayward school system.
The show wrapped up with a rousing set by Eono Kane [the name means "6 men"], a group with tight vocal harmonies and excellent musicianship. Then we all stood and held hands for "Hawai`i Aloha," so familiar to anyone who attends Hawaiian events. Then, like good little helpers, we folded our chairs and helped the volunteers clear the auditorium, made one more quick visit to the vendors - one of my students bought a tiki-decorated "Flea" ukulele before its vendor closed shop - and went home, full of music , "da kine" food - and aloha.
It started with a flash of light....An ongoing battle to shove my retina back into place and seal a rip in this important part of my left eye is going my way. Finally. For the first time in a week and a half, I get to stand vertically!
The Battle Begins
The retina announced its damage one night a few weeks ago, starting with a series of flashes that resembled a running crescent of the fireworks pictured above. I'd finished teaching classes at Pleasant Hill Community Center, and was pulling out of my parking space when I saw the flares arcing to my left. "What's up with the parking lot lights?" I wondered.
But the lights continued as I drove home. Again, I wondered what in my truck might be reflecting street lamps. Then I hit a patch of unilluminated street - and still saw the lights.And when I got out of the truck at home, I still saw the lights. And I realized it wasn't street lamps - it was my eye.
I researched the condition on-line, and quickly learned what was coming up next: A veil, or shadow, would begin creeping over my vision. It hadn't happened yet, and we were in that uncomfortable position of Kenny being laid off at Laika and not yet picked up at Omation, where he's working for a few weeks with no benefits, but at least he's getting a paycheck. So, while the internet sites urged immediate attention, we knew that wasn't going to happen here.
The Creeping Shadow
But as days passed, I noticed the beginnings of the shadow. It was as if someone was slipping cheap, ruined window "sun-shade" film into my field of vision. At first, the shadow was just a tiny thing. But day by day it expanded. When it covered two-thirds of my left eye's vision, I knew we could no longer wait.Kenny was working like crazy on his end to get our insurance in place, and I was working on my end to find a doctor willing to work on me. We were among those who have fallen in between the cracks - COBRA was going to sink our budget, but we're too "rich" to get reduced help at the county hospital, I learned after several days of correspondence, including a three-hour phone call.
I called another hospital and was referred to a retinal specialist group in nearby Walnut Creek. I phoned them, explained my situation, and Jenny on the other end said, "Can you come in at 1 today?"Sure, I figured - they'd check me out, get things set up, and and me home.
Surprise!
Instead, Dr. Verne inspected the retina by placing a lens that felt like three dimes stuck together into my eye and blazing a light so he could check the damage. And what he saw changed his approach from skeptical about my own diagnosis to taking charge of the salvage effort. Zip - I was shuttled into another room. Zip - my eye was anesthetized. Zip - using a needle I couldn't see or feel, he tapped off a bit of fluid, then added a gaseous bubble.
The bubble's job is to shove the retina back into place, after which it would be sealed with a laser or a cryo-freeze procedure. If this didn't work, I'd be getting repaired in the operating room instead of a doctor's clinic - a much pricier procedure.
Dr. Verne patched over the eye with a bandage and tape - what, no pirate patch? He drew a red arrow to remind me which way my head was supposed to be positioned as soon as I got home, and told me to visit him in the Oakland office the next day for Treatment Part Two.And that's when we found out you can put a bubble into an eye, but you can't always tell it where to go. Instead of pushing the retina back into place, the bubble played hide and seek with the detached area. With softer commentary than I would have said, Dr. Verne sent me home with orders to stay on my other side and see him Tuesday in Walnut Creek. He gave me a prescription for expensive eye drops, and I splurged on a pharmaceutical black eye patch while I was there. My dear left eye deserved better than a party-store imitation!
Kenny to the Rescue
Kenny came up from San Diego Friday night, and promptly became my "Cabana Boy" for the weekend. He camped out on our L-shaped sofa with me, patiently ignoring the 24-hour-on television, putting up with my impatience when I couldn't do things myself. He also comforted The MonkeyCat, who has never seen me "down for the count" before. Our veteran cat, India, assessed my pretty quickly. She figured I wasn't dying, and wandered back and forth from her favorite sleeping spots to say "Hi." In contrast, Monkey was morose and worried, and wouldn't leave my side.
Kenny stocked the refrigerator with easy-to-make meals [safest choice for me even in ideal conditions] and stocked the various cats' feeding stations with two weeks of food. Then it was back to Omation Sunday night. Bye-bye, Cabana Boy! I was back on my own.
But Kenny'd taken care of that, too. All our friends were notified. My next rides to the doctor were set up, with back-ups "just in case," and friends began calling to see if there was anything I needed. My neighbors, Tom and Doris, brought over pecan cookies when I ran out, but Kenny had taken care of the rest. I loved hearing their voices.Kenny also had called all my rec-center students, and I began getting get well calls and cards from them.
Finally - Part Two!
My neighbor Lisa drove me in for the surgery. I wore my pirate patch, and Jenny joked about pillaging and plundering. "Sure - so long as I do it lying down on my left side!" I joked back.
To Dr. Verne's delight, the bubble finally had knuckled down and done its job. He decided to "freeze" the retina in place, and told me it'd be like the brain freeze you get from eating something frozen. He wanted to do it with less anesthesia, and we agreed to give it a go with just the deadening drops in my eye.
The procedure is something like brain freeze, but only in pinpoint - or, perhaps pencil-point - sized spots. I also felt a lot of pressure.And during this visit, I discovered two things - I was the first patient one of the assistants had ever encountered who accurately diagnosed a detached retina. Score one for the rookie!
And, I took the freeze procedure like a man. Partway through, I mumbled my concern to Dr. Verne, and he gave me a breather. Then he started again, and soon I was light-headed again. I asked for another breather once he finished his latest "zap," but that was the last of it, and we were done. "I've seen this before," he said, "but usually it's with men."So much for my "Cowgirl Up!" philosophy.
I was sent home with orders to stay on my left side and to report back to Dr. Verne in two days. Which I did, dressed in the fun-pirate shirt Kenny's mom gave me and my black patch. If you're going to have eye problems, may as well have fun with it! Dr. Verne scanned the eye again, said, "You look marvelous!" and sent me home, with a reminder to stay put till Monday morning. He'd see me next Tuesday.
Today is Monday, and I am vertical.
Or, mostly so. After "walking like Goren," a reference to the troubled detective on "Law and Order: Criminal Intent," for several days, it's hard to remember to stay upright. When I've left the couch, where I've spent so many days left-side-down, I've walked either with my head tilted to the left, or I've positioned my body like the number 7. I've longed to sleep on my right side, and to turn my head and body to the right. Now that I can, I forget to do so! Of course, it's only been a couple of hours.
I have some tips for folks who may experience a retinal tear or detachment.
- the warning signs: If you suddenly see "floaters," or if your floaters change. I've seen floaters - what look like little, clear strings that you can move by changing your eye position - since I was a child. But lately, my floaters got dark spots. Right before I contacted the doctors, I saw dark spots, a symptom similar to what my sister experienced. She said they looked like gnats, and she discovered her "gnats," like my "street lights," were caused by her eyes when a neighbor asked why she was swishing her hands in front of her face and told her there were no gnats in the air. If you're near-sighted (you see close up, but distance is blurry), you're a candidate for a retinal tear or detachment. And if an eye exam reveals "latticing" of the retina - a thinning of the retina - the chances of a tear or detachment increased seriously.
- Second - the symptoms: If you see a crescent of flashing lights or an increasing watery dark shadow creeping into your vision. If you're clever or lucky, you'll have health insurance, and you'll call your primary care physician or eye specialist immediately, get in, get the procedures done, and then be on your way in no time. When you see these things, your retina has been damaged.
- Third - preparation for recovery: Below are some tips I discovered first-hand.
- 1 - Have a few things where you can put your hands on them without searching for them. You won't be seeing well, so looking for something is frustrating - and useless.2 - Keep some straws on hand- a couple of bendable ones, and a couple of milkshake-sized ones. It's hard to drink from a mug or glass when you're on your side, or in some cases, face down. Water bottles are your friends, but coffee tastes better from a mug. Dishes with handles, such as those oversized coffee mug/soup bowls with handles, so you don't drop things when you walk half-horizontally. Narrow, deep spoons, because eating sideways is a challenge. And put towels down on your camp-out spot so that when you spill food, you don't ruin your couch or bed.3- Keep yourself entertained - You aren't allowed to read, which is a near-death experience for me. I had the tv on 24/7, and listened to my iPod during the commercials. If you can't read, you can't write...much, and you don't get to play on the computer. And you're doing everything sideways. It may sound luxurious to have to catch up on your bed rest, but it doesn't take long to be bored, bored, bored. Put the phone nearby, so you can comply with your doctor's orders.4 - Set up camp - In addition to keeping yourself entertained for days and nights on end, you will want plenty of drinking water, designated pain killers and other necessities and luxuries (lip balm, hand lotion, tissues) within reach. I put things in plastic containers so I could feel for them readily.5 - Follow your doctor's instructions - If you don't, you're wasting his time and endangering your eye's recovery. Be a compliant patient.6 - Have fun with it - My act of defiance was to get the eye patch, although it makes sense to keep the eye "quiet" while it recovers from yet another round of dilation at the doctor's office. It also means I can put mascara on the healthy eye without fretting that the healing eye isn't getting its usual beauty routine. My hula students already are asking for some "pirate hula." And the clinic staff loves the eye patch!7 - Be patient - It's going to take time for the bubble in my eye to go away. I can't fly till then. The bubble is visible to me, a dark, bouncy lens, as if I have a dark contact that doesn't cover the entire field of vision. My left eye's pupil is still dilated, although the redness around the iris is nearly gone. Tilting my head to the left helps move the bubble so I can see better, but I'm ready for new positions this week. Vision's improving, but the left eye's sight is still blurry.8 - Be ready to learn things - I learned that, yes, I can diagnose my eye. I learned that flashing lights and shadowing from the lower left means the tear happened in the upper right area, because the retina reverses light. I understood how it worked for conventional vision, but I didn't know how it worked for the symptoms of a detachment.
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- I learned from another patient's stories that during World War II, Naval ships wouldn't accept canned apricots, because unlike canned peaches or pears, the apricot cans would explode for some reason after being shaken by the ships' movement. And that during the Japanese surrender, the Japanese officials boarded a white plane that had to have a green cross painted on it when they went to surrender to Gen. Douglas MacArthur.
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- I learned from one of my music students that my doctor, who got picked something like the way a horse track enthusiast studies The Daily Racing Form, is one of the best in the Bay Area. And I learned that Dr. Verne loves his work, especially because by peering through those bright-light, heavy lenses, he can see exactly what's going on inside my eye.
- And I learned we have wonderful friends, and I have wonderful, patient students, and that my husband is the best Cabana Boy ever!
Endangered SpeciesSway and Ginger are gazing out at the Mothball Fleet anchored in Suisun Bay. Lately, folks have resumed active discussion about what to do with this collection of 78 ships, the largest group of ships in the Pacific area.
Some people say some of these ships are falling apart, and their paint is chipping off and drifting around the bay, which is part of the waterway that starts far to the east as the Sacramento River, then goes on to become the Carquinez Strait, then on to the San Pablo and San Francisco bays, then out the Golden Gate to the Pacific Ocean.Recent tests have shown the water surrounding the fleet is no more poisoned than other areas, and others say that's because the toxins have drifted, speading out into the rest of the water. Some folks are nostalgic about the ships, and others want them all scrapped.
Fleet Supt. Joe Pecarero said the ships, properly called the National Defense Reserve Fleet, is better maintained than most realize. He said the ships are maintained daily and inspected for leaks. Low-voltage electricity prevents underwater corrosion. These ships await a return to service, so that our country won't have to count on ships from other nations in case of an emergency.
But still the call goes out by some who want this fleet turned into scrap.I'd hate to see them all go. Among those ships is the Hoga, a little tugboat that on Dec. 7, 1941, rescued sailors, fought ship fires and pulled the battleship Nevada out of Pearl Harbor to the relative safety of the open sea. That's one I'd like to see up close.
The liner Golden Bear, that traded its passenger service for a job as a military training vessel, and the World War II merchant ship, the Red Oak Victory, also rest in the Suisun Bay. Their companions also have served, some as recently as the Gulf War, and they can be ready to serve again in as few as four days if called up by the President, Pecarero has said. But only these three ships have organizations who are fighting to preserve them.
Under Sway's and Ginger's feet is green, open pasture, part of property that's been owned by the current family since the 1800s. It's open space, where horses can wander and graze, can trot about or run, can roll, can even stretch out for a nice long nap. These hills are part of a nice section of privately owned green space along Highway 4 near Martinez, where motorists can see cattle as well as horses grazing.
When Kenny and I moved to Martinez, a small hillside near our house also was grazing ground for horses. I'd hoped the property owner would let me lease a spot so Sway and Ginger could be boarded within eyesight of my new California home. It wouldn't be as much fun as having them in the back yard, but at least they'd be close.As is typical, that open land was sold to developers. Those who live in the neighborhood on the hill better be train fans, because they have a great view of the BNSF line. Had we been able, Kenny and I would have bought the lot with the best railroad view - which is accompanied by the strongest sounds of the locomotive horns and bells, because the tracks and the houses are nearly at the same level. We would have wanted to buy enough land so that the horses could be housed in the back yard, if the zoning permitted it. Our neighbors would have loved us.
Instead, we live below this development, with the BNSF in our back yard, where trains roll past on built-up track that mutes the sound of the horns and bells - not that we mind the sounds.
But every time I see those houses - that had to be sold at cut-rate prices at auction - I mourn the loss of that pasture. And every time I visit my horses and get to wander out onto a great sea of grass, I rejoice that I found a spot where Sway and Ginger can wander, too. The economy has slowed down this gobbling of green pastures, but it's still happening. Pasture land and other farm land certainly is becoming an endangered species.
The sound of the train horns is endangered, too. People who bought homes near railroad tracks frequently complain about the sounds of the trains. They petition their local governments to pass ordinances that will silence the alarms that the engineers are supposed to sound when approaching intersections - or to warn anyone or anything on the track to make way for the train. These great metal beasts can't stop on a dime. They can stop after, perhaps, a mile. Anything in its path - its rails - had better move. It's not as if the train can make a side-step, either.If people didn't want to hear the sounds of trains, why did they move next to the tracks?
The very thing that aggravates some people is the very thing that prompted us to buy our Martinez home. We throw parties so our friends can sit around and watch the trains go by.
There are other endangered species around us, things we see every day...for now. As Joni Mitchell said, "Don't it always seem to go that you don't know what you've got till it's gone - they paved Paradise and put up a parking lot."
We take our history and recycle it as scrap. We cover our pastures with houses. We abandon safety to silence the train horns.
And then we'll write songs and poems later, romanticizing the adventures of those old ships, and the peaceful, pastoral hillside dotted with quietly-grazing horses and cattle; or the mournful wail of a passing train, a sound that might have prevented a tragedy.
And we'll wonder where these things all went, and who decided they should go.
The Horses' New DigsWith panoramic views of double-peaked Mount Diablo, the historic Mothball Fleet and the John Muir Highway, Sway and Ginger ignore it all and chow down on a nice blend of grasses, clover and other munchies in their new home.
They share an enormous pasture with a red Tennessee walker, Bo, seen above left of my two, and most recently, Skip, a sturdy-looking paint. Beau has quickly discovered he has no chance whatsoever with Ginger, who grazes away, entertained each time Beau wanders a little too close and Sway chases him away.
This Queen - and Ginger truly considers herself The Queen - indeed is amused!
All this chasing has kept Sway busy. He gets to graze, but he's constantly stopping to check on Bo's proximity.
This is all good. Sway needs to lose some weight. Constant interruptions and sudden short chases is exactly what he needs.
Ginger, on the other hand, is still underweight from her move from Texas. She clearly was upset about leaving the perfect little place for the two of them [us, too! For the first time in years, all of us lived there at the same address!]
She continued to pine for her Texas pasture and barn, and it's taken every trick in the book to encourage her to eat the way she should and to get her to gain.
Her passive observation of the boys' antics and her unflappable constant grazing is exactly what she needs, too.
The pasture here isn't level as was their Texas home. These hills are nearly 100 percent "roll." I was happy to see my how my horses gradually acclimated themselves to footing that constantly seems to be at an angle. They strolled around the first day. They're gradually trotting more, and occasionally break into a gentle lope - I wouldn't even call it a canter. Mostly, they walk - it's easier to snatch some grass when you're walking than trying to eat - literally - on the run.
They aren't the only ones who are building up muscle and lungs. I'm back to popping 3 Alleve at a time from the new exercise, and I'm constantly longing for a nice hot tub full of Epsom salts. Gasping, I reach for a Halls to sooth my throat.
We're close to the Carquinez Straits at this ranch, and we're elevated above most of the West Martinez area. The winds can get pretty strong, and if it's not tied down, you will lose your hat. This is no problem for the horses, who instinctively find the wind breaks in this pasture's hills and valleys.
It's not like having The Kids at home. But, as usual, Sway is the bellwether, the thermometer, the supreme indicator. And he's acting happy. And when he's happy, I can go along with our circumstances - and it's a lot easier on Ginger.
Sway is wired peculiarly. The working theory (and it is working) is a type of equine autism. Things that other horses would ignore will send him into a rage. He hasn't had a severe meltdown in years, but that's in part because we don't really enjoy dealing with a 1,000 pound, armed-and-dangerous holy terror who's mentally lost contact with the world as we know it. I've worked long and hard to get a discipline program and series of practices that keeps him happy to dwell in his "sane" side.
One sign he's happy is when he doesn't mind being groomed.
Yep, this is a horse who can go into a rage because you have the nerve to run a brush across his filthy hide. The gentle circular massage of a nubby rubber curry comb will send him into an uncontrollable meltdown.
I learned through a lot of trial, a lot of error, and the failure of finding any brush he liked among the $200-worth I bought and tried on him, that his favorite grooming tool - the last item I'd ever consider using on a thin-skinned, sensitive, raging Thoroughbred - is a double-bladed shedding comb. These things look like narrow, metal-toothed saw blades bent into a curve and shoved into a handle. I learned this when he'd rolled in California adobe mud, which had dried hard as concrete on his entire left side. Deciding to chip it off, I tied him up thoroughly and reached for the shedding comb. I was ready for the worst, and shocked to see him ignoring the whole process.
I also learned an essential technique that night - comb with the grain of the hair. No soft massage, no gentle circles. No friggin' way.At the last place he and Ginger lived, I didn't have to cross-tie him to stay safe while grooming. But I did groom at meal time, so I could order him, "Put your head in the supper dish! Put that foot down! Close that mouth! Put your ears up!" He was tolerating his grooming to a degree, but he wasn't happy about it.
At this new place, mealtime is anytime you put your head down and graze. There's no hitching post yet (it's coming), so there's nothing to which Sway could be tied. And Beau knows that if Sway is haltered, it means Sway can't chase him. Beau then gets aggressive, trying to drive Sway off. Not safe for me, not safe for Sway, and this sends Ginger off - with the boys in pursuit. Not good on any level.
It's taken me a few days, but I have the system down. Catch Ginger. Halter her and attach a nice long lead I can stand on, whether I'm with her or Sway. Groom her first, and give her a full beauty spa treatment, which she loves. Massaging curries. Gentle brushing. Combing and brushing out her mane and tail. Give her nice rubs of neck, shoulders and back that I learned from an equine chiropractor during his demonstration at Keller Horse Owners' Association. Clean her pretty, just-trimmed toes and put our version of nail polish on - an old-time blend of turpentine, iodine and pine tar to toughen her feet after a long stay on soaked adobe clay. The blend smells like an old Florida pine-wood camp fire.
During all this, Sway watches. Occasionally he literally sticks his nose into the middle of things. Rather than be repulsed by Ginger's beauty routine, he acts like he's looking forward to a bit of grooming himself.And, he's not lying. I've been able to switch from the shedding comb to a pair of cute little flower-shaped hard-plastic curry combs by Epona I picked up at Master Made in Grapevine, Texas, while we were out there. He likes those, too. Then I follow this up with strokes of a ball-tip hairbrush usually used by long-haired humans. Yes, I've actually tapped him with the back of the hairbrush, much as parents used to do when their children didn't mind their manners. But, right now, there's no need. He's standing for all this as if he were one of those fiberglass horses you sometimes see outside saddlery shops.
Then I have the nerve to use a pair of brushes on his hair. And he ignores it all. No pinned ears, no narrowed eyes, no threat of teeth, no lifting of a back foot. Also, no halter! He's just standing there, as if there were no expanse of green rolling hills calling to him.
Then it's toe time. One of the few things Sway is "typical Thoroughbred" about is his feet. How to get Sway to pick his feet up: Stand by one leg and start to bend over and reach for the hoof. You don't have to tap, you don't have to shove, you don't have to do anything except grasp the hoof he's already picked up and is holding in mid-air for you. Like many Thoroughbreds trained at the track, he'll let you clean all four feet while you stay on his left side. Track horses often are taught to reach their right-side hooves underneath their bodies to the person standing to their left. It save time for a groomer who's got a line of horses to prep for a race. But, since nothing is level here, I cut him some slack and walk to his right side to do those feet.
Each foot gets its own slap of turpentine-iodine-pine tar goop, and we're done. But what's this? He wants more! So, out comes an ultra-soft brush, and I stroke his face. What's this? Ginger wants this done, too.By now, Ginger's halter and lead are off and packed away. The horses have been given our code for, "You're on your own time now - you've clocked out of 'obedience school.'" I use, "Go party!"
In the past, that has meant the horses have trotted off to be unobligated horses until I show up and start giving orders.
Right now, with acres of grass, beautiful panoramas and the mild nuisance of Beau's glimmer of hope that one day Ginger will leave Sway for him - fat chance! - I would think that the horses would be scampering off to play at being wild mustangs on the open range.Instead, they keep hanging around, rubbing on me (turnabout being fair play after I groomed them) and seeking more hugs and kisses. Finally it's time for me to go, and I turn to gather my gear. I don't live here. They do.
They understand, and finally turn to graze their grass and gaze out at the hilltops and beyond.
I love my horses!Sway the Limit and Ginger - my two beautiful horses - climbed into my 4-horse stock trailer today as if walking into a metal bear cave on wheels is something they do every day.
The trailer, however, has been parked with its back, the horse entrance, against a fence line since I brought Sway and Ginger to a stable of paddocks where they've been living until their most recent trip.If you've read about horse whisperers of long ago, or more contemporary trainers who employ gentler means of working with horses, you see how horses can be taught to trust us, even when we ask them to do something that is particularly offensive to their strongest instincts.
No sane horse willingly walks into a dark metal box that creaks and bangs with every hoof fall. No sane horse feels comforted when the footing underneath - despite multiple axles, four well-inflated tires and a secure grip on my Silverado's hitch - feels unstable as he or she walks on board.
To get a horse to load, particularly with little fuss, you have to earn the horse's trust that you really are looking out for the horse's best interest, even when you ask him or her to do something quite insane.
My riding instructor, Pamela Woods, once trained a horse to go up ramps - perhaps stairs, too; I wasn't there. Oh, but wait - there's more. The horse was being asked to carry a music star with questionable riding experience to open his band's concert. Night time, blinding lights, roaring crowds, and wildly amplified music and other spectacular noise. During all this, the horse was expected to do his job calmly.And, he did. As if he opened rock concerts every day.
Sway and Ginger went for a short ride to a new home, where they're dining out on 20 acres with two new companions. They backed out of the trailer with little fuss. Sway accompanied the property owner as he led my little Thoroughbred around the yard; I was holding Ginger. They snatched up the yard grass and took in the panoramic sights on this hill that had been in this man's family since his grandfather's day.
Then it was time to enter the enormous paddock. First, a stop at the water trough, filled with the same water the man's family drinks. The trough's water was so clear I took a sip myself, and the horses followed suit in short order. I unbuckled the halters and gave them my cue that they were free to roam - "Okay, kids, go party!"
They wandered off to visit their new pasture mates while I moved the trailer and settled up their initial bill. Then I grabbed my lunch and a water jug and joined the horses for the rest of the afternoon.
Sway was busy explaining to a Tennessee Walker that Ginger was off limits. Seems the Walker, a deep red horse whose coat reflects the light beautifully, thought of himself as king of the pasture. Sway was unimpressed, and chased the horse off at any convenient moment. As the afternoon passed, the Walker got both messages - he was no longer king and Ginger would never be his queen.
Watching all this with interest - from a distance - was a tall bay Thoroughbred-type horse who might have been king because of longevity in the pasture, but for some reason had been bullied by the Walker. As the mini-soap-opera unfolded before his eyes, he quickly realized he had the freedom to wander the rest of the pasture unmolested. I got a chance to visit him periodically - he's a sweetheart who reminds me a bit of my first horse, Stradivarius.
Later in the afternoon, I began coaching Sway in how to train another horse. I've trained riders and I've trained horses, but I have never had the chance to train a horse in training horses. And, just as when Sway and Ginger loaded this morning, my horses showed me how much they are willing to listen and heed what I say.
I'd noticed that the Walker had figured out how close he could get to Sway and Ginger without provoking Sway to chase him farther away. And he appeared to drop his interest in Ginger. So, as the horses moseyed from one spot to the next looking for the best tidbits to graze, I began correcting Sway when he started making aggressive gestures toward the red horse.
And, he listened.
I noticed that he also listened when I asked him for some of our little liberty exercises - halt, turn left, turn right.
And later on, when I suggested that they ought to drink some water, both horses listened, and followed me to the water trough. Upon my urging, they approached, and drank their fill. Oh, yes, you CAN lead a horse to water AND make him drink!
The horses have a lot to explore at their new home. The pasture isn't a simple square or rectangle, and only a few spots are quite level. It ranges from rolling to steep, but not so steep that you can't stand on it or walk around, particularly if you have four legs and are more interested in grazing than racing. It's windy there, and horses often act flighty on windy days, as many riders can attest.
But with all these distractions, my horses remained attentive to me all day. I could walk up to them and give them hugs and snuggles at will. It wasn't as exciting as, say, being the opening act to a rock show, but for me, and perhaps for them, too, it was a really good day.
"Koool Kan!" - or - "Fink up your Trash!"Kenny (Ken "Mitch" Mitchroney, for you Rat Fink afficianados) finally decided to paint up this midnight-blue metal-flake can with full Finky flair!
He's got it on sale at eBay - just check in at the world-famous auction site and type "Rat Fink" in its search window, and it'll come up! Kenny also blogged his layer-by-layer photos of the project on his web site, brotherratfink.blogspot.com.
As some of you know, Ken worked with Rat Fink's creator, Ed "Big Daddy" Roth, for many years, and now he's the art director of the Ed Roth estate. Ed would critique Ken pretty strenuously when Ken inked Ed's pencil work. Ed wanted Ken to know the proper way to draw Rat Fink! You can't get better training than that!
Because of his schedule, Kenny rarely gets a chance to paint these cans, unless he's tied down to the table at one of the charity events. And, as with any work of art, it's a one of a kind.
If you like it, you can get in on the auction - it ends this coming Sunday. Bid early! Bid often! Class up your trash with Rat Fink!
What I Learned about Racing This TripWhen my mother lived in Texas, she visited some dirt tracks.And decided she didn't like car racing.
Then she moved to Daytona Beach. This was several years after the old Beach Races had ended and the new tri-oval super speedway, the Daytona International Speedway, became the star of NASCAR racing.It took a lot for my cousin, Reid Hughes, to convince her to attend a race - or even some of the pre-race activities - at DIS. The track was a far cry from the short circle tracks like Texas's Devil's Bowl.
First off, it's asphalt. Second, it's banked so steeply that if you're not going at least 90 mph, you will not make it around the track. You'll slide down that 31-degree slope to the apron. Third, it's huge. Fourth - it's not dirt.
My mother quickly became a NASCAR fan and later would find folks like Donnie Allison's mother among her clients at Hughes Oil Company, where she was, literally, the voice of the company for many years. At one time, she knew which driver was at which hotel, back before drivers switched to spending nights in huge travel-trailers camped at the speedways.
Our family's affection for the Allison boys led to an interesting first encounter with my future husband. Kenny is a Cale Yarborough fan. My family favored the Allisons. If you know your NASCAR history, you know about the famous "encounter" between the Allisons and Cale during the first televised NASCAR race.
So, there we all were, chatting about things, breaking the ice between the Weilenman family and the young man who was dating the daughter. And talk turned to car racing. "So," my parents asked, "which driver do you like?"
"I like Cale Yarborough!" Kenny answered.
And the room got really quiet.
Crickets.
Endless pause.
Finally the conversation started again when we all agreed that everybody liked Richard Petty!

Cale always encouraged Kenny to try out a dirt track. He did. Once.That was after his successful adventure into short track paved racing, particularly at Volusia County Speedway, back in its NASCAR-sanctioned days when its featured division on asphalt was the Florida Modifieds in which Kenny raced. His rookie year, Kenny was 9th overall.On a paved track in a decent car, Kenny can be competitive. On a dirt track, in any car, Kenny's lost in the turns. It's a whole 'nother ball game, if I may mix my metaphors. And Kenny's decided, at least behind the wheel, he's a fan of asphalt.This latest trip to Florida, Kenny got a chance to visit Volusia County's remaining paved track, New Smyrna Beach Speedway, which has a colorful history dominated by Clyde Hart, its late owner. His family still runs the track, and the Harts have put some money into the place since we left. Kenny had such a good time the night he attended racing there (I was dancing with Aunty Kau`i at the Polynesian....) that he said, "If the trip ended now, and I had to go home, it was worth it." Thanks, Hart Family! Thanks, NSB Speedway! Kenny loved every minute!
Before the Daytona 500, we also went to Volusia County Speedway, which is dirt once again. The few years of pavement didn't suit the track, nor did it suit its new owners, who are part of the dirt-track series in the East. Kenny and I both agree that the track is "happier" now that it is dirt again.
We stopped by the track's office on our previous trip, and I got to meet Karma, the track's feline mascot. While Kenny was gazing out at the dirt oval outside, I was busy entertaining the cat, letting her chomp on my fingers and snarl her claws and teeth in my hair. Sounds frightening, but Karma is a gentle playmate. At that time, Kenny decided to watch some Volusia Speedway races when we returned for the 500.
And, we did. And I found out that, like my mother, I like pavement.I like dirt. I like playing in it - gardening, digging fence post holes, doing minor landscaping.
I learned to enjoy driving in it in Florida.
Back when I lived in Orlando, I'd drive on slippery, muddy, unpaved roads, and I learned to appreciate standard transmissions and a sailor's ability to tack. Maybe I could have been a decent dirt driver, since taking curves on dirt involves spinning your car at angles that, on pavement, would mean you'd lost control.
While driving on these sllippery roads, I had the windows raised. I didn't have windows - or any other shield - while in the stands at the dirt speedway. Before the night was through, I went shopping for the types of glasses you wear when you suspect flying wood chips or metal chards might pierce your eyes. I grabbed some free flyers as well. Thus armed, I returned to the stands with my face fully shielded. Didn't stop the hurtling dirt clods from hitting my shoulders and head, but at least my face was protected. Other fans were getting pelted far worse than we.No matter. I've decided that I like watching race cars that don't throw stuff at me.
I did have fun. I fully understand how much fun folks have watching dirt races. The last race, in particular, was entertaining because the best driver picked a new line (path on the track) to drive that hadn't been successful for other drivers - but it was working for him, and he was burning through the laps.
Kenny told me later that some other tracks have much higher stands, and the gravel-sized chunks of track rarely fly that high. And, if I'd known ahead of time and had come prepared, I'm sure I would have been able to fend off the stuff with blankets...heavy canvas....a buckler or larger shield. Maybe a helmet.
Yeah, I'm a wimp for being bothered by the stuff, but I got started watching NASCAR...such as the picture here at DIS. I discovered I love watching pit crews and their lightning-fast tire changes and other maintenance work. My dad managed service stations, and to get a fill-up and tire change in a matter of seconds amazed me back then, and it does now. Until this year, I never got a chance to see dirt track racing; until Kenny got involved in racing, I'd only visited one short track.Will I go back to Volusia? Yes - but I'll be better prepared for the pelting. Or...maybe I'll spend a little more time in the office with Karma. During Speed Weeks, she'd actually gone to Daytona Beach, and I missed seeing the fun little furball.
Oh - Karma is definitely a dirt-track fan, and maybe she'll win me over to this surface. Abandoned by somebody early in her life, she found herself at one Florida track. Unbeknownst by anyone but Karma herself, she hitched a ride in a car trailer that was bound for Volusia. Once at this track, Karma made herself at home.
That's a pretty big reference, in my book. So, eventually I'll figure out what it takes to enjoy the dirt, because if Karma likes the place, that means something!
Aloha, my Florida hula family!One thing I'll say about Aunty Kau`i Brandt, wherever she is, there is aloha.
The folks in this picture didn't know me from Adam - okay, Adam's a guy who predates me by a long shot and usually dresses in fig leaves or animal skins, and I'm female and I prefer to let animals keep their own hides. But these folks all have joined Aunty Kau`i (dressed above in purple) since I moved to California.
When I first started returning regularly to Florida, I had no idea how I'd be received by these folks. Only a couple of dancers remember me from "the old days."
But I quickly realized you CAN go home again, even when "home" has changed its locale from Altamonte Springs to Walt Disney World's Polynesian Resort, and the family members' faces are new to me.The anchor, of course, is Kau`ihealani Mahikoa Brandt, my kumu hula for more than a decade. She teaches me so much more than just hula, and to call it "just hula" is a great disservice to the knowledge she so willingly shares.
She is kind, gracious and humble. At times when some folks haven't given her the credit due or treated her the way they ought, she has always taken the high road, even in private times when she could have expressed her disapproval or criticised them off the record.
She welcomes anyone to study with her. You don't have to be talented. You don't have to be "20-and-skinny." You don't have to "look theme." You don't have to be Hawaiian. Just show up and want to learn and be willing to try.
If these were classes taking place at the big NASCAR track to the northeast of Disney, I'd add one tip - "Hang on!" Aunty Kau`i teaches the way the Cup drivers drive. We covered nearly a half-dozen numbers during our Wednesday night class, and Aunty Kau`i later apologized to me for not adding more while I was there.
Of course, the rest of the folks in this photo will be in class every Wednesday, and I won't be back for a while. This is why God created video cameras, and this is why I don't go to Florida without packing mine.
But the beauty of it all for me is that on my next trip, these folks and Aunty Kau`i will welcome me back to the class. It is always fun to dance with these students, and it is always heartwarming to know I'll be welcomed with generous hugs.
Aunty Kau`i has taught them well!
Mahalo, ku`u mau hoaloha hula!
Back home again, at least for a bit.....Oh, we're back in Martinez, but for one week, this was home sweet home.
This is the little cabin we bought after watching the train rumble by its western property line, way back in 1985.
This little cabin's been hanging in there for soon-to-be 100 years. We think it may have started its life as one of those little cabin/bungalows that welcomed Florida tourists so long ago. Some time in its life, it was hauled out as a hunter's cabin to this land site. The inside has beamed ceilings and drywall, nicely finished. At one time, windows on all four sides, so no matter how the wind blew, it would cool the interior. Then it got a screen porch and a deck. Then the screen porch got closed in and the deck became the new screen porch. And plumbing and electricity. Truly, all the comforts of home.
This trip, our little cabin let us know that the window air conditioner finally could no longer cool the bedroom. So, it got a present - a nice, new white unit from Lowe's. (Kenny does like Jimmie Johnson, and Lowe's is his sponsor!) The old unit, with its makeshift plastic canvas cover, finally was retired to the barn.
I made a new table, since my original night stand table is being used to support other things. I found one of my old "director" chairs, which had become backless. It still had its old "country Victorian" print fabric covering its original odd-orange canvas. But the old print cotton was in poor shape. I ripped it off, cleaned off the remainder, and patched together a new covering from scraps of the curtain material, a black background with ivory and red orchids and other flowers done in indoor-outdoor canvas. I'd hoped the fabric would be stiff enough to hold the lamp, books and other night stand items, but it drooped and stuff fell.
So, off to Wal-Mart we went for a framed corkboard. It matched the wood, and the cork prevents anything from sliding around. It fit perfectly as a tabletop, and I was set.
Frame for table: An hour's labor.
Table top: Less than $6.
Feeling that, once again, I'd kitbashed something better than I could buy new, and thoroughly beat the new price while doing it - AND had everything match? --- Priceless!!
My additions were lighter weight: Two wind chimes to replace the butterfly-shell chime that had lost some of its parts, and a front door sign that says "Friends and Family Gather Here." The larger wind chime is wood and pipe, singing deeper-toned counterparts to the smaller chime that's topped with a turtle emblem. It has tinier pipes with shimmering voices.
Last trip, I added some paintings of a magnolia flower arrangement to the inner wall of the front porch. Prints on metal, I figured they'd handle the Florida weather, but I touched up the magnolias and their containers to match the colors of the porch - olive green ceiling and supports, brown half-walls, sand-colored floor. These colors were inspired by the landscape outside the screen. Once I put up those pictures, I realized the door to the cabin's interior would need something, too. And just before we flew out, I found a sign that summed up how I feel about our place. Friends and family do gather there.
I didn't want a "welcome" sign - not everyone is welcome out to this five-acre sanctuary. We've welcomed some folks in the past who didn't love it as much as I do. And some other decor I found was downright silly. But this sign not only expressed my feelings, it did it in the correct colors - I didn't have to do anything except re-string the sign with green ribbon.Inside, Kenny and his dad replaced the molding around the bedroom's interior door. At one time, it was trimmed in beautifully-stained wood that matched the old wood that makes up most of the original cabin's accents. During the past years, someone decided they didn't like part of the trim, and I never found where it went. I tried to make do with leftover lumber, but it was just plain wrong. Time to pare down to bedrock and start all over.

We liked the white of the new trim's coat of primer that we decided to keep the trim around the door white instead of trying to blend a bunch of browns and paint it with a fake wood grain.
I puttered with my cabin's pictures, too. When I redecorated the cabin during what I call "its reclamation" (when I don't call it "the rescue"), I had brought out some dollar-store prints of tropical flowers and South Asian-looking pictures. I put 'em up on the walls and quickly realized that they were way too small. They looked lonely. They needed help.Sure, I could go buy some pictures, but I'm no slouch in the art department - I could paint them. So, I drove back to Texas, where we lived at the time, planning my next art project during the two-day drive.
I had made three paintings of tropical flowers. I remembered the brighter red accents in the cabin's curtains, but had forgotten that the main art inside was a lovely print, a South Asian picture of an elephant that is one of my few extravegances in our Florida home. Its colors were ivories, light greens and rustier reds than I used in on those flowers.

When I drove my paintings and other things out to Florida from Texas on my next trip, and got them hung up on the walls, I liked how they worked with the little dollar-store prints. But...the reds were too strong to blend with the elephant picture.
Since the elephant picture's colors didn't fight the curtain's accents, and since that print is my pride and joy as well as a memorial for my mother and my friend Aunty Lani Valenta, I knew what I had to do - repaint the flowers.
Last trip, I tried peaches and rusts. They worked in terms of fitting the colors, but I didn't like the results. How can light peach look muddy? This trip, I looked at the colors in some of the prints and the bathroom accessories I use to hold pens, despense hand cream and hold my cell phone. This time, I tried out a deep burgundy with orange accents, and I love the paintings' new look. So does the elephant!
Because the neighborhood is changing, and because some folks thought our driveway would give them access to our lake, we've added a few more "No Trespassing" signs. Digging post holes by hand in Florida is a far cry from trying to crack the stubborn surface of Texas or California clay. I did four; Kenny did one, too. I think each took about a minute to create. I brag that I set nearly every post on my property, using manually-operated post hole diggers. Most of the posts are still standing. But don't think was anything like the challenge of setting posts on our Texas place, where only a two-man auger would do!
Thanks to Kenny's folks, our place looked quite welcoming when Kenny arrived. It takes little time to set up, a little longer to break down and pack. We fall into the old routine as if we never left it for California in the late '90s.
We're planning on visiting the place more frequently than we have in the past. First, there's less work to do, so it's a lot more pleasant. Second, we want to see Kenny's folks, as well as our many Florida friends, a lot more frequently. Third - and anyone who knows me knows this, even if they don't understand it - I love this place.
Checking in with the neighbors....When Kenny and I first set foot on the 5-acre spot that would be our first purchased home, the real estate woman tried to hustle us through the cabin and garage. We couldn't figure why she was hurrying us through. Then, off in the distance, we heard a rumble. Then the unmistakable call of a train.
I shot out of the garage's side room, which I'd been inspecting as a potential tack room for my saddles. Kenny shot out of the cabin, which he was examining as our future dwelling. Out to the west - the western proprty line, to be exact - rolled the train!
We all stood still and watched till it disappeared to the north.To the real estate agent's shock, Kenny and I looked at each other and said, "We'll take it!"
The very thing she'd hoped to avoid was the biggest selling point of all.We love trains, and both of our properties have active train tracks on one of the boundary lines. In Martinez, it's the BNSF freight line, the old Acheson, Topeka and Santa Fe tracks. In Glenwood, it's Amtrak and CSX - the old Orange Blossom Special tracks.
Both of our properties are on rail lines with songs associated with them; on the other hand, don't most train lines have songs somewhere in their history?
This year during our Daytona 500 trip, we had time to wander around the neighborhood. Kenny headed out for the tracks.
We crossed the rails to walk along the boundary of the Lake Woodruff Wildlife Refuge, which is west of our land.
Animals from the refuge also cross the tracks (or fly over them) to visit us. We've had, among other visitors, deer, foxes and last year's bears come over, and eagles, hawks, herons, cranes and egrets sail overhead. Nothing like a bald eagle swooping down to catch your attention, as if to say, "Hey, it's your national emblem here! Put your hands together - let's hear some ooohs and aahhhs!"
We walked parallel to the tracks for a while just to admire the scenery.Our place is a short drive from the Amtrak station, a place that, in years past, was burned by transients who'd broken in and set a fire inside the building. It's sad when folks are cold, but it's no excuse for burning down a train station. Eventually, DeLand High School's "Bulldog Construction Company," its construction-class students, teamed with other volunteers, including Woman's Club and garden club members andthe patrons of the local biker bar, to rebuild the damaged station and its grounds. Kenny got train art donated to decorate the interior. The station's reopening was a big local event.
Since then, the station's gotten another facelift, and it's lovely. It's a beautiful place to watch these mighty engines roll past.
Across from the station is the winter quarters of the Clyde Beatty-Cole Bros. circus, the last of the "big top" circuses. At one time, the circus owned its exotic animals, and late at night, while watching trains, you'd hear the occasional roar of a lion or tiger. Now the circus leases animals for its tours, and if you hear a roar or growl, it won't be coming from a safely-enclosed creature....
You can still see the trains from our little cabin. A recent freeze opened up a little more viewing room between the trees, brush and Spanish moss. Eventually we'll thin out some dead trees and any diseased ones, and that'll improve the view.
And even now, when we hear the rumble and the roar, we still stop what we're doing and run out to watch the train.
This is how it started.....The stands filled with cheering fans, the rumbling growl of engines so strong you feel their sounds as well as hear them, the faint scent of racing fuel, and the anticipation of the first NASCAR race of the year - this is the Daytona 500!
Like American Thoroughbred racing's Triple Crown that begins with the Kentucky Derby, NASCAR racing launches its season with its top race, 500 miles in the city where NASCAR was born, at a track that some folk, way back when, said Bill France was crazy to build.
Bill France had a vision to take stock car racing past its moonshine-runner's roots, beyond its beach racing heritage, and into a new realm of banked asphalt tracks. Most of the season is run on circular tracks, which give a fan a much better view than the occasional NASCAR road race. They sell tee shirts that advise, "Drive fast - turn left!" If only it were so easy....
Kenny used to race at the shorter circle tracks back when we lived in Florida full time. He ran a few races at New Smyrna Beach Speedway and competed more heavily in the NASCAR-sanctioned Florida Modified featured division at Volusia County Speedway, back when it was paved. He came in 9th overall his rookie season in a car that was nowhere near that good. His crew chief, Buz McKim, later ran NASCAR's archives; you soon will see him at the NASCAR Hall of Fame in Charlotte. Buz knows more racing stories than anyone we know, and has amazed past Daytona 500 champions with stories they'd forgotten about their own careers.
Prior to attending The Big One, Kenny had a grand time watching some awesome driving on the tracks he used to call home. Both short tracks have had upgrades since he left, and Volusia now is a dirt track. We miss its asphalt, but we both agree this track prefers to be dirt.Those races were quality opening acts for the grand star of Speed Weeks.Each year, the Daytona 500 sells out. This year, despite a fretful economy, was no exception.
And we were there. Keith Urban serenaded us. Tom Cruise drove the pace car. The governor ordered the drivers to start their engines. And our favorite drivers and their competitors, as the saying goes, drove "like you stole it."
We saw great battles for position. We saw some four-wide racing in spots where three-wide is scary. We cheered our guys, particularly when they overtook drivers who have yet to win our favor.
And, no matter which driver you liked, most fans agreed that if "their" driver didn't win, it'd be nice for Mark Martin to take the checkered flag at the Daytona 500 - for once!
And this is how it ended........not with a roaring finish, not with a dramatic crash, not with two metal monsters battling to the finish line, 200 mph and inches apart.Nope - the race itself, as well as its competitors, was beaten by soft, gentle but insistent rain that lasted well into the night. Matt Kenseth won; our guys placed well back; Mark Martin was denied his first Daytona 500 win despite an exemplary career as a driver.
Some folks fussed, but we'd seen some terrific racing that day, and we were happy. Wasn't the first 500 ended by a rain storm; won't be the last. And as Kenseth said, any driver who's in front during a rain delay, particularly in the Daytona 500, who says he'd like to race to the last lap is lying. No asterisks with this win - it's a Daytona 500 win, and every NASCAR driver would like that in his resume!
Why Floridians call California hills "mountains"...Heading north on Grand Avenue in the community of Glenwood, Fla., on the way to our little 5-acre place, we spotted this sign.
When Kenny and I moved to California, some of our friends chided us when we asked the names of all the mountains we saw in the Bay Area. Those weren't mountains, we were told. Those were "hills."
Mountains would be Mount Tamalpias, a beautiful sight said to resemble a slumbering Indian maiden, but which reminded me a little of my dear Diamond Head in Hawai`i. Or Mount Diablo, a double-peaked giant that changes colors as the sun passes by, and which is said to be one of the creation-of-man sites in Native American stories. The rest of the peaks were merely "hills."
We moved to California from a state where such cities as Oak Hill is at 10 feet above sea level, Holly Hill is 15 feet above sea level, and Mount Dora is a whopping 124 feet above sea level -whoa, nosebleed territory!Our little place in Glenwood, less than a mile from this sign, may join Holly Hill at the 15-foot level.
From there, we moved to Point Richmond, Calif. Driving to that first apartment involved stopping at an intersection so steep that if you were in Kenny's Corvette, you couldn't see the street because the nose of the car was pointed like the Space Shuttle poised for a launch. I often tapped the horn and inched forward past the stop sign in case anything might be in the way. Heaven knows I couldn't see anything beyond the great white hood of the car - not without a periscope, anyway! And Corvettes don't come with periscopes.
I now speak "hills" and "mountains" like a native Californian, and I got a chuckle out of the Grand Avenue sign that warns motorists about the upcoming "hill."
On the other hand, I've spent more time in Florida than anywhere else, and I find the little warning sign endearing, a charming reminder that the gentle rolling landscape of Florida has its own subtle versions of hills and mountains.
Stripin' for the kids....I got paint under my fingernails and all over my brand new drinking cup. I had some near one lip, and nearly got some on my glasses. And had lots of fun doing it!
East Coast Artie threw another "Artie's Party" for any pinstriper willing to meet up at the Sacramento Autorama and pitch in for up to three days painting panels, earrings, door knobs, bowling pins and other paraphernalia supplied as "canvas" for these artists.
He recruiting his awesome auctioneer to sell the finished works.And none of the stripers got a dime for their efforts. We were just happy to be there.
All the proceeds went to the University of California-Davis Children's Hospital, and more than $21,000 was raised at the auction.Kenny's art contributed a lot to that amount - he painted Rat Fink on a toilet seat and a panel, and started a "jam" with other stripers by painting Finky on a garbage can that later on made the rounds so others could add some touches. Those Finks, plus some others by such artists as Eggie, caught everyone's attention. In fact, Kenny anticipated pretty fierce competition for the garbage can, and he was right.
Some of the best in the nation came to this event. East Coast Artie, originally from Paterson, N.J. and now from Myrtle Beach, wasn't the only one from the Atlantic side. Bruce from Massachusetts came and and added not only his beautiful stripes, but also added gold leaf the way he does to fire engines in the Northeast.
And we had two from Martinez (not to be confused with Herb Martinez, from Livermore, another famous striper who also spends a lot of time teaching the art to others). Kenny's introduced me to the wonderful world of extra-long-bristle brushes and enamel car paint and the straight lines, curve lines, teardrops and "lazy-S" stripes.
The first time (and, up till now, the only time) I painted was the night before Ed "Big Daddy" Roth's funeral. (For you non-hot-rodders, you non-pin-stripers, you non-custom-car-culture folks, just plug that name into your web browser and...um...stand back!) His wife, Ilene, asked the stripers to paint on the refrigerator. Most were taken aback, but then, some of the best "Ed" stories included food. So, everyone got out their paint and brushes and thinner and Smoothie and started in.
I paint in watercolors, not oils, and certainly not enamels. Sure, I've sold my share of paintings, but this style of painting is quite different. But at everyone's insistence, I took some purple paint nobody was using, and a brush Kenny picked out, and tried to find a spot nobody else was interested in painting on the refrigerator. Down on the floor, one side of the ice box - nobody was there, so I wouldn't be interfering with the "real" artists. I painted a horsehead, and it didn't turn out too badly. Later, I would learn, anyone visiting the Ed Roth Museum in Manti gets introduced to the horsehead and the story of the woman whose first "striping" painting is that one.
Kenn’s been wanting to teach me to stripe, but it never got past the discussion stage till last week, right before he left for another L.A. round of job interviews. I had only a few days to practice before the Autorama at Sacramento.
But the stripers' jam was open to anyone of any proficiency, rookies and veterans alike. So, I registered and practiced and rode along with Kenny to the show, and got my credentials the same as the rest, as well as a warm greeting from Artie. Denise from Modesto was happy to see another woman striper, and Phoenix and I teamed up for a double-redhead photo to delight Kenny.
Both my panels sold, one to Kenny, and one to a West Palm Beach man who'd come out west to show his car at the West Coast shows before heading back to Florida.
I had a blast, and I helped get a little more money for the hospitalized children. I even encouraged a few folks who said, "Boy, I'd like to get into this...but I don't know where to start." Don't know if any of these folks will order a brush, grab a can of paint and a piece of glass or metal and try their hands at this specialized art. I hope some of them do, and I hope to see 'em at a future panel jam. And I hope they go home as enthusiastic about their first striping show as I am about mine!
Everybody Dance Now!When Jeff Ferris asked if the dancers of Hui Hula Ka Hale o Ku`u Hoaloha Hula (we call it "Ka Hale Hula" for short) would perform at the 2009 Further Confusion convention, I immediately said "Yes!"Then I told the dancers that this would be one of our more unusual shows.
Oh, we'd be dancing the usual hula, built around the theme of taking a trip around the islands. It's just that the audience would look a little different from those for whom we've danced in the past.
We've danced for a square dance club, and before the night was through, we were invited to dance in a square, something new for most of my students. We've danced, either as a troupe or as solo acts, at tipsy fundraisers, for church women's Christmas luaus, for school fundraisers, birthday parties, even done some hula for a party for 4-year-olds and managed to hold their attention for 20 minutes (my biggest challenge so far.)
But, as far as I know, none of my students had ever attended any type of "fandom" convention, let alone a "furry" convention.
I've started fan clubs. I've started conventions. For more than three years, I didn't lose a costume contest, taking home at least a "best of category" if not "best of show" award each time I entered. There's photos of me in Starlog 11 as Princess Leia, and photos of me on Kenny's wall as Red Sonya (yes, with sword!). I've appeared as Little Nephew Shiro in a "Samurai Cat" skit, as the warrior woman Jirel of Joiry, as Grey Mouser from the "Sword and Sorcery" series of novels. I've sung light opera with a couple of friends - "Three Little Maids from School Are We" from "The Mikado," in full formal Klingon attire , restoring the final verse of the song as translated into English from the original Klingon.....
But, I digress.
I've breezed through as a drop-in to a couple of Further Confusion events, but had never appeared as a guest. Here was our chance. Only, I had to explain the convention to my dancers.
Our clients, I told them, would be dressed something like game mascots. Only, these aren't game mascots. These folks have created characters and gone beyond sketching them into "nothing" books or art portfolios. They've turned their characters into full-size, 3-D, walking and sometimes talking images.
If you go to a Star Trek convention, you see Federation allies and Klingons and (if you're lucky) the occasional Orion slave girl, slithering and swaying her graceful green body.
If you go to a Society for Creative Anachronism event, you see the populace of a Middle-Ages village. Move the date forward a bit, and you have a fully-costumed Renaissance Faire. Turn the dial a little more forward, and you get Civil War reinactments in full-dress blue vs. grey.And, at a furry convention, you have dogs and cats and monkeys and wolves and foxes and bunnies and the occasional lizard and bird. Okay, lizards and birds don't have fur. Go get technical on us, and we'll decide you're missing out on the fun.
I told them, "Be careful when we get to the convention site. Sometimes the masks limit their vision, and they may not see us - give them room!"And, I promised, this would be one of the best audiences we'll ever entertain.
Despite my detailed descriptions, one dancers said later, "It's one thing to hear about it, but it's another thing to see it for yourself!" They marveled at the detail work and beauty in some of the more elaborate costumes. Those who stayed later were impressed by how well the wearers could move in their fur suits.
The theme this year was a surfing beach party, complete with animals in tropical-print shirts and leis. And the occasional grass skirt. -- And us!We took the stage after the rehearsal of "Furry Night Live," the skit show that would start after our presentation. We opened with our mele kahea (a chant that announces us) and paid tribute to Queen Lili`uokalani's beauty - traditional shows open with chants that pay tribute to deities and royalty.
Then we started the "tour of the islands," taking the audience to Kaua`i to see the tall, wet mountain Wai`ale`ale, then down to Nohili and off to smell the sweet hala; we also stopped by Hanalei to admire a sweetheart's beauty by the light of the moon.
We traveled to Keaukaha on Hawai`i Island to pick seaweed, then on to Maui, where we visited Ulupalakua Ranch. We sailed on the Pueo Kahi ship to Honolulu, where we viewed a garden of green roses, then traveled by trolley car with our friends to Honolulu, where we ended up in Waikiki. Along the way, the audience saw us dance with an ipu, a gourd turned into a hand-held drum, and `ili`ili, water-smoothed clicking pebbles, which I assured them had been blessed so there was no danger from the "Pele's curse" visited upon those who remove rocks from Hawai`i. And the audience giggled, if a little nervously!
(By the way - the stories that this is an ancient curse is fiction. The "curse" was invented by a park ranger frustrated that tourists ignored his pleas to leave nothing but footprints and take nothing but pictures. He blurted out this notion of Pele's "ancient curse." Funny thing, though...there are entire books devoted to what has happened to tourists who take the stones from the volcanoes....could it be that Pele's backing the rangers up on this????)
And, at Waikiki, we turned the fun up several notches. Audience participation time!
And, as I'd assured the dancers, you couldn't ask for a better audience. I love and dread audience participation time. The volunteers always have fun, but trying to lure them on stage frequently is an ordeal. I want to start packing lassos and come-alongs and maybe a tow truck to pull 'em up on stage, even though our clients always request our "free hula lesson."
But, we needed no traps or lures at Further Confusion. We simply needed to get out of their way! Here they came, bounding on stage. The stage hands had planned to put ramps in place so those in full costume could step up more easily. But by then, there was no time, nor any need. Hopping and leaping like the cats and rabbits and foxes they appeared to be, the audience flowed from their seats to the stage.
My dancers, who were supposed to mingle with the volunteers to help "fill up the stage," barely had room at the back. I contemplated stepping down to the floor to make room for more folks, but had just enough room to teach from the stage.
And, to honor the only Hawaiian entertainer to have his own prime-time show, Don Ho, who, like the professional he was, performed up to the day he died, we danced to "Tiny Bubbles." And by the time the last bubble was popped and the last note faded away, these participants were into the choreography!
You can find a clip on YouTube of our audience participation, with all these folks un full sway. Apparentlly some of these "new dancers" are still talking about the fun of dancing hula on stage.
And, as for my dancers, one summed it up, "This is the most fun show we've done!"
Welcome, Mr. PresidentAs I write this, we are about to inaugurate a new President. This man fought hard for the job, and he'll need to battle long and hard to get our country moving forward again.
I don't often talk politics in this column - I see my blog more as an extension of the columns I used to write for the Orlando Sentinel and the Daytona Beach News-Journal. I'm not going to break from that path. I figure how one votes in this country is between the voter and the ballot box. I rarely tell anyone how I vote on an issue, in keeping with our country's offering me the freedom to vote in secret. I often explore several sides to an issue, even when the conversation is among those whose views differ sharply from my own, simply because learning more about an issue or campaign fascinates me....again, you may take me out of the newspaper business, but you'll never quite be able to draw all that printer's ink out of my blood.
But we will have a new president in a few hours, a man, who like me, has lived in Hawai`i. Perhaps he has spent time at the very spot where I took this photo. I know the sight of Diamond Head probably stirs his heart as much as it does mine.
Just as in the past months, there will be talk during the inauguration of change (hello, folks, no matter how you voted in the presidential election, there'd be change, so change was coming regardless of which candidate got your vote) and hope and new beginnings and first times for this and that. Optimism is in the air, and I think that's good for all of us.
On a day during which we were reminded of the days of Dr. Martin Luther King, I reflected on some of the changes that have taken place since I was a child, living in pre-Civil Rights-Laws America.
I remember my mother being sad one day. She told me she'd had a bad dream, that she was attending a ball game, and she and my father wouldn't have been allowed to sit together, because in this dream, he was of a different race. "Why would that matter?" I asked. "Because here, people of different races can't sit together." I was shocked.
I remember coming to Texas from Hawai`i, and gradually meeting all my relatives. I had been called my mother's little keiki and her little kanaka for so long, I had presumed that somewhere in my ancestry, I had Hawaiian blood. But I kept being introduced to folks who clearly were not Hawaiian, but were said to be my kin. Finally, I asked my mother, "So, which side of my family is the Hawaiian side?" And my mother patiently explained that while I was born in Hawai`i, I had no Hawaiian blood. I replied, "Couldn't you have gotten a transfusion?"I told this story to a friend who is of Philippine and African heritage and who also is an "island girl," and she laughed heartily at my childhood story. She tells it to others to this day.
It took me a while to understand my own ancestry. It took me years to see the impact of pre-Civil Rights Law separation, and I never quite understood it. There were signs announcing who was not allowed inside, or which doors some were restricted to use. There were more severe impacts on some people's everyday lives - where you could work, where you could go to school, where you could eat lunch, where you could go to the bathroom. Did you know that during a radio interview, someone asked Elvis Presley which high school he attended, because they could not determine his race by his singing voice - but they'd be able to label him based on his school.
I moved to one town that had black porcelain and white porcelain water fountains in its courthouse. At that time, I'd only seen white porcelain. It wasn't until I moved to Florida that I saw that porcelain came in pink and yellow and lavender and mint green. And I had no idea that black or white porcelain's color had significance far greater than the pastels I'd encounter later. All I knew was I'd discovered that porcelain came in a new color, so my sister and I promptly drank from the black fountain. We did until we moved away, even after we were told the significance of the colors.
My folks owned a dime store in one small town in which we lived before we moved to Daytona Beach. The only color my folks considered important was the color of your money. Children of patrons were welcome to play with my sister and me, so long as we all kept quiet and behaved. Occasionally, someone would whisper to my mother, "Do you know who they're playing with?" and my mother's response was, "Are they getting into trouble?" And if the answer was, "Well, no..." then my mother said, "Oh, that's wonderful. Now, may I help you with something?" and that settled that.
When I entered high school, the local school system became integrated. This made sense to me, because prior to that, African-American children had to be bused 60 miles to attend high school. If you've ever ridden a school bus a few miles, you know how long that takes. Imagine a 60-mile ride, none of it on a nice, smooth interstate highway. Imagine taking that ride twice a day. I don't know how those children ever got their homework done. They probably could attend no extra-curricular activities, and it's doubtful they could work after school. But the year I entered Graham High School, it became integrated. How did the town react? Like it was a normal, everyday event. No marches, no signs. We just went to school, us freshmen entering with the same jitters that all high school freshmen get.
When I moved to Daytona Beach, it was different. The high school had only three grades, not the freshman year. So, I was a first-year all over again. The school was a full third larger than Graham High School, despite the fewer years. Most of my classmates, a large number of faculty and much of the administration came from "Up North," mostly New York, although a few had moved down from Massachusetts and Connecticut. Mine was the only Southern accent I heard, and a Texas accent, to boot. I was told by one administrator that I'd come from a hick town and that I'd be competing for grades with the cream of the crop of the nation, so I shouldn't expect the excellent grades I'd earned in Graham, a town that at the time had one of the most serious educational programs I would encounter.
And for all the Northern influence, this school of 1,100 students had a single African-American student, one senior lad. When I hear the artist Floyd Norman tell of the day he was hired by Walt Disney, it reminds me of how my high school in Daytona Beach probably felt about this young senior. I'd never heard the word "token" before, but I'm sure that's how this young man felt from time to time.
While I was in high school and college, a lot of the Civil Rights marches were going on, even in Daytona Beach and other Florida coastal towns where it didn't matter what side of the tracks you were on, just which side of the Intracoastal Waterway you had your home. Beachside houses rarely were sold to people of color, although in Volusia County, Bethune Beach originally was a place where people of color could visit the ocean. Bethune - a name synonymous to me with Bethune-Cookman College, also in Daytona Beach, founded by a woman so young black women could get a quality education and be more than maids. When I found out later that my church denomination supports this school, I was thrilled.
The word "maids" reminds me of the difference in the maids I saw in the Texas towns where I lived and the Daytona Beach maids. It probably wasn't this way everywhere in Texas, but the maids I knew in Texas (we rarely could afford them; my mother figured she had two daughters to do the job) often had use of the car during the day. In Daytona Beach, most rode the bus, and there the public transportation system again meant for a very long workday - not to mention trying to get from one client's home to another's, with your equipment. I didn't envy these women their daily ordeal.
When I first worked at the Daytona Beach News-Journal, we had a young African-American couple on the staff. The young man was a sports writer; his wife was a copy clerk like me. One of the days we worked together, I was scanning some news copy about another Civil Rights march, and noticed that the nomenclature for people of African heritage was changing. When I lived in Texas, the word "colored" was considered polite; "black" was considered a low-class reference, and "Negro" was used, but was considered elitist by some, even though that word translates to "black." [There were other names, rude ones, but we never allowed those words in our house.] The labels "Afro-American" and "African-American" were starting to be introduced into popular language, and the change prompted a question I decided to ask Cynthia, because I figured she'd have a good, first-hand opinion about the matter.
"I'm hearing all these different terms now," I said, listing them. "How do you all prefer to be called?"
"How about just 'people'?" she answered. "Just 'people.'"
And that settled that.
Our new president spent time in Hawai`i. You can't say there's no prejudice or racism there; it's just different. And sometimes Hawai`i's humor about itself and its people can be mistaken for prejudice, except that the joke-teller probably is telling a joke about his own ethnicity.But Mr. Obama also went to Punahou, a far fancier high school than I attended in Florida, and it could be argued that he, not I, went to school with the real cream of the crop. He also went to Harvard, which is another "cream of the crop" place. He's been encouraged to strive, and that should serve him well.
He's not going to have all the answers, and the road ahead for this man and our country won't be smooth for a long time. What's come to a head now has its roots in mistakes we've been making for decades, not just two presidential terms. Back in the '70s, I covered meetings in which I heard businessmen say we were losing our competitive edge and business accounts to other countries, because we no longer manufacture things for comparable prices. Back in the '80s, when Kenny and I traveled to Mirage Studios to meet with our Ninja Turtle employers, I saw empty factories and plants and wonder where we were headed. I saw people speculating - gambling, really - on so many things, such as developments that eat up the land and resources but produce nothing, whereas our farmlands and ranchlands are disappearing. Everything started pointing to our dependency on other countries, and a short look at other countries' histories didn't make me feel comforted by what I was hearing and seeing.
Mr. Obama already is warning us that he's got no magic wand to wave over the land and make it all better. His becoming President won't make each and every American start to behave kindly toward each other, or develop spines, or demonstrate strong work ethics, or obtain proper moral values. His inauguration isn't going to save each home threatened by foreclosure, or assure every one of us that our jobs will last as long as we need them.
This man does not have an easy road ahead of him, and he knows this. In this, he has an advantage over his predecessor, who had to deal with surprise attacks on the Twin Towers, the unexpected destruction of a Space Shuttle and the devastation of Katrina, one tragedy after another after another, and of those, only the hurricane gave warning. But awareness of some of the troubles facing our nation doesn't make Mr. Obama's next four years an easier task.
No matter how you voted, this man is going to need our help, just as we will need his. Let us hope that our entire nation will come together, as it did after 9/11, and work as a team, and let us hope and pray that our leader will be a strong and courageous one. Let us hope, in the language of the land he and I love so dearly, that he is pono and full of aloha, and if so, we're all going to be just fine.
It's time to dance in the new year!This coming weekend, the Vietnamese Tet (comparable to Chinese New Year's) will be celebrated at Concord Centre. And the hula dancers of the Concord Senior Center will be there.
I was asked to teach these intermediate students after their previous instructor assumed other duties at the senior center. I suggested the intermediate class be called "Hui Lokahi," based on a Hawaiian word that means accord, agreement...or...concord. And the class readily agreed.
This will be our second show together. The photo is from the dancers' debut under my leadership, at a day-long event at the senior center in which we were part of the entertainment.
While I've taught hula off and on since 1994, and have had my own hui hula for more than a year, I had never taken over the leadership of an established class before. I was told they were "intermediate," but that covers plenty of territory, and I had no idea what to expect.
Most of our first class together was spent sitting at a table with me asking questions and taking notes on the students' answers. Few of the original group showed up, unsure whether they'd continue hula without their original teacher. I certainly understood that - I don't know how I would have felt had Aunty Kau`i Brandt left our class in the hands of others, and when I moved to California, I certainly was tentative about jumping into a new hula group.
But the students who decided to take a chance on me have been spreading the word, and more of those original students are returning to this class, and their first instructor has given both her former students and their new leader some high praise, for which I am so grateful.
The class is dedicated, meeting mid-week on their own to rehearse together. I've launched them on their first `olapa, or kahiko, or chanted-song hula (the term depends on how you've been taught to label it.) This chant, "E Lili`u E," honors Queen Lili`uokalani and praises her physical beauty. They also learned "To You Sweetheart Aloha," an English-language ("hapa-haole") song that historically has been the closing number to many hula shows, in time to perform it for the first show. During the holidays, they learned some Christmas hulas, and recently learned "Hene Hene Kou Aka," a song that originated (as the story was told to me) when some high school students took a trolley-car ride around the Honolulu area back when a trolley ride was quite a big event.
This weekend, we'll celebrate the new year, the Year of the Ox. I'm an Ox person in Chinese astrology, an Earth Ox, to get technical about it, if what I'm told about such things is accurate. I think this year is the Golden Ox. The Chinese zodiac comes from a story about a long journey 12 animals took to visit the Buddha, and for most of the trip, the ox led the way. At the last minute, the rat ran ahead and became the first animal to greet the Buddha, so after all that work to get all the other animals safely to their destination, the Ox didn't get a chance to be the first to meet the Buddha.
On the other hand, I'm not the first to teach these lovely ladies, who are working so hard to dance beautifully at this new year's celebration. Just as the Ox was the second to greet the Buddha, I am the second to teach this class. But it's Aunty June, not I, who deserves the credit for setting the foundation and leading the way for these dancers. She guided them for three years; I'm the Johnny-Come-Lately who gets to pick up where she left off, and now get to reap the benefits of her preparation.
I'm glad she's happy with what I'm doing with her students. She has said several times, "These are your students now." I'm happy she likes where I'm taking the class - and I'm happy that more and more, her former students are rejoining their hula sisters!
The Game's Afoot - or, rather, At Hand!Back in the 1930s - and please remember that decade - a Mr. and Mrs. Bull created a game issued in England as "Buccaneer." In 1960, Parker Brothers issued an American version, "Trade Winds." In 2006, Hasbro made another major revision and called it "Pirates of the Caribbean: Buccaneer."
"Buccaneer" predated the typical adventure/role-playing games. Back in those days, board game play mostly consisted of rolling a die or twirling a spinner, moving the requisite squares, and trying to reach home, or a specific square, first.
There were variations. The African "Hyena" game called for tossing shells (meaning you could roll a zero;) it also provided for your losing shells and limiting your forward progress. The winner became the hyena and began chasing the other players, who then battled to avoid being "eaten" by the hyena player. We've got a copy of that game, and it plays furiously well.
But back in my Texas childhood, one of my relatives gave us a copy of "Trade Winds." It played far differently from any game we'd encountered. Your marker was a colored pirate ship; your movement was, in part, ruled by the number of men in your crew, although you as captain chose the ship's heading. The pirate ship was hollow, allowing it to carry treasure from the square "Tre3asure Island" in the center of the board, or from other ports, back to your home port. You also could battle other player-pirates in hopes of taking their treasure. First player with 20 points in booty won the game.
Your crew came in two colors - the total number was the maximum number of squares - "leagues" - you could sail, although you could travel fewer squares, because turning ended your forward progression. And you had to sail around islands and other obstacles to get to the portion of the center island where you could dock, draw "chance" cards and hope that the chance card would gain you treasure pieces.
The two colors of sailors also decided your fighting strength - you subtracted the smaller number of the one color from the larger number of the other color. You could sail swiftly with a crew of 14, but if 7 were red and 7 were black, you had no fight in you whatsoever, and your best bet was to sail far away from any other pirates on the board.
This freestyle play in a board game was quite unusual for the time, and I can imagine it may have been unprecedented back in the 1930s. And "Trade Winds" became my favorite board game.
Then we moved from Texas to Florida, and most of our games and toys were stored in a relative's attic, where they promptly became squirrel fodder. Two years later, my mother went back to Texas to retrieve our stuff - especially this game, the name of which I'd forgotten by then. And she returned with the sole survivor of my stuff, my small toy tiger. I loved the tiger, but I grieved for the game.
Fast forward to the night before we were to take the train to Portland to retrieve Kenny's stuff after Laika laid off nearly everyone associated with the "Jack and Ben" project.
Browsing the internet, I finally discovered the game's name! And its earlier British incarnation. And I began pursuing this in earnest. By 2:30 a.m., I was waking Kenny up, waving a sheaf of printouts and jumping up and down. Kenny caught my enthusiasm when he realized its cause.With the help of some other board game enthusiasts, I was able to re-create a miniature - laminated! - of the British version's board. By 4:30 p.m., I'd gathered craft store jewels, two colors of stamp pads, a Choco-Cat stamp Kenny had given me the previous Christmas, sheets of business card blanks, and a few doll-house wooden bowls that would have to serve as ships until we got some sculpted or carved. I colored the bowls with permanent markers, and packed other supplies and a notebook full of references I would need to finish - and possibly play - the game aboard the Coast Starlight.
I hand-wrote the chance cards, and I stamped Choco-Cat crew cards in burgandy and turquoise (Burgundians and Picts?) I had no center Treasure Island, but trimmed a small drinking cup down and slipped the treasure inside and placed it on the center square that, in the original game, would have been cut out to allow the plastic island to be put inside.
And then I recruited Kenny into my newly launched pirate realm.We stumbled through the first game, referring to the rules as the game slowly became familiar again. It was an all-new encounter for Kenny, of course, whose childhood pirate game was Pirate and Traveler.I took the first game, but we had plenty of time for a re-match, and Kenny won that one handily.
Because I have the Buccaneer board, I'm learning that I need to play that board with the Buccaneer version of the rules. There are differences - but the basic play is just the same.
And it's just as much fun as I remembered it.
Kenny found it good fun, too, so we celebrated by spending New Year's Eve day poking around interesting stores in search for pirate-game gear, including a stop at Captain Henry's Pirate Store, where I got a Jolly Roger patch for the case that now holds my new pirate game gear. A bead shop carried barrel-shaped beads, gold cube beads and tiny freshwater pearls so I no longer have to pretend that certain jewels really are barrels of rum, bars of gold or pearls. I still use bowls for ships, but with a little session with Sculpey and possibly another session with making molds and extruding colored plastic, I expect my fleet soon will look more like pirate ships than the Native American bullboat.
Kenny also bought me a lovely blank book of handmade paper, with a bark-cloth cover and bound by cord that weaves around a small twig. It doesn't resemble the Codex Pirata that's in Captain Teague's care, but it soon will have calligraphy and drawings to record all things related to my pirate game - both the original Buccaneer rules, the Trade Winds version and a few of my own twists to the game.
Sure, all you modern-boardgame players and RPGers easily can compare it to many contemporary games. As I re-read the rules and worked furiously to re-create the game in time to play it on the train, I thought, "This isn't so different anymore."
But, remember, Mr. and Mrs. Bull were working out the rules of play for their pirate game long before one could have a computer in one's home (or in any other small building.) Their game predates Dungeons and Dragons, Play Stations, Gameboys and Wii.
And back when I was a kid, this was quite an unusual game. It left such an impression, I never gave up looking for it. I'd see craft jewels and think of the bits of treasure cached at the center of the playing board. I saw pirate movies and souvenirs, and think of playing the game so long ago. I played more modern freestyle games and compared them to the board game of my childhood days.
I've since learned that even though this game isn't as unusual as it was at one time, others value "Trade Winds" and "Buccaneer" pretty well, too. We've finally found copies on-line for $75 to $100 or more. Read the reviews of contemporary players, and they're always pleased - or astonished - to find out how well it holds up after so many years.
In 2006, Hasbro re-issued it under the "Pirates of the Caribbean" banner, labeling it "Buccaneer," the game's original name. Sadly, that one's out of print and hasn't started showing up on used-games websites....yet. Could be we "Trade Winds" and original "Buccaneer" fans had no idea this was a new incarnation of our dear game. I certainly didn't know, or I would have bought one! And it could be that Americans don't play or try out "new" board games as often as they once did.
Yep, I'd love to get my hands on a "real" Trade Winds game, or even the Pirates of the Caribbean version. But until then, I'm having fun re-creating this adventure game and molding it into my own take on fictional pirate life.
"Yo, ho, all hands, hoist the colours high--Heave ho, thieves and beggers, never shall we die!....""Send me out to The Black, Tell 'em I'm not comin' back,Burn the land and boil the sea, you can't take the sky from me....""Yo, ho, yo, ho, a Pirate's life for me!"

Muddy Christmas from the PoniesIt's winter in the Bay Area, and that means mud in the horse paddocks.Sway the Limit, my precious little Thoroughbred, doesn't like California winters. All this mud interferes with his beauty naps in the sun. And when he's slogging through the mud and unable to sleep stretched out on nice, dry, sun-warmed ground, he gets fractious.
Okay, he also gets grumpy. Sometimes he gets downright hazardous.At times, only Ginger, my beloved Appaloosa mare, and I are the only ones who can keep him in line. Or - in his paddock.
Turns out Christmas Day, Sway slipped through the gate as Laurie, the owner of Synergy Farms, where Sway and Ginger are boarded, attempted to enter their paddock.
And then the fun began!
He's a Thoroughbred. For my non-horsey readers, Thoroughbred is a breed, not a synonym for "pure bred." Thoroughbreds are the race horses you see in the Kentucky Derby and other Triple Crown races, among others. And Thoroughbreds do love to run.
And did Sway ever!
Later, Laurie said she wasn't about to call me up and say she couldn't catch my high-flying horse. But he did lead her on a merry romp down the pathways between other paddocks and around the various work arenas - thankfully doing no harm to himself in the mud nor to the stable grounds. And, fortunately, Synergy Farms is well-planned, with gates and other barriers between rambunctious, misbehaving horses and the Great Outdoors, where loose horses can be injured or killed.
Finally, Laurie realized she wasn't going to recapture "Mr. Excitement" on her own. She needed help. So, she made a request to The Queen. Her Royal Majesty Queen Ginger, that is.
Laurie haltered Ginger and led her out where Sway could see her. And Sway never could resist Ginger's beauty. He happily returned to the paddock they share.
I went out later Christmas Day to deliver the goodies Santa left at our house for Sway and Ginger - apples, carrots and various types of cookies. Neither horse, by now coated in California adobe mud, mentioned Sway's morning adventure. Nor did anyone try to barge the gate when I arrived with the treats. Sway and Ginger politely gave way when I told them, "Go to your rooms!" - my command for them to head toward their feed troughs.
You know how your pets may do all their cute tricks in front of you when no one's around, but won't perform anything adorable in front of visitors? Sway did the opposite Christmas morning. I completely missed out watching his high-tailed, high-headed gallop around the property. I was told he was a beauty to behold, and that he was enjoying himself despite the wet and the mud. It may have been a frustrating morning for Laurie, but at least Sway was in a good mood.

But I'm sorry I missed the spectacle of my lovely ex-racer romping happily at liberty.
But it's MY present!Kenny and I were up late Christmas Eve. We made our customary trek to Hotel Mac for a wonderful dinner with wonderful friends, and then stayed up to wrap all the presents we'd shove into stockings and and cram under the tree.
These included the presents for both the indoor and outdoor cats. One of these was for The Monkey - a large plastic ring with a jingling ball inside. The sides of the ring have openings so cats can bat the ball around - preferably with a human helping to keep the game (and ball) moving.
So, Kenny and I were moving a little slow Christmas morning. We wandered into the living room and interrupted The Monkey opening his present.
The Monkey had ignored India's catnip-laced scratching boards. He ignored all the tempting bows atop the other presents. He had pulled the bow off his own new toy, and was busy ripping into the newspaper that I'd used to wrap his present. Kenny grabbed his camera and caught the surprised Monkey in mid-rip.
How did he know this was his gift?
We don't know.
But like any kid his age, The Monkey couldn't resist getting a head start on opening the present Santa had left for him.
Merry Christmas!From all of us at the Mitchroney Ohana -- including India the DogCat, Kamalani MonkeyCat, the outdoor sisters Sadie and Texie, our dear horses Sway the Limit and Ginger, even the Moocher Brothers from next door, and especially from Kenny and me -- we wish you a blessed Christmas Day and the happiest New Year.
(And, yes, the Christmas Tree survived another year of Christmas Tree Games!)
Monkey's in trouble for Christmas....If "Santa" hadn't gotten The Monkey his Christmas presents already, he'd be stuck with a stocking of coal lumps.
When The Monkey isn't busy torturing the Christmas tree, he spends time concocting new ways to tease India...who is as well known as "The Dog Cat" as she's known by her own name.
By the way, in her day, The Dog Cat could scale a tree and fling off ornaments at least as skilfully as The Monkey. This is why I knew long before The Monkey saw the light of day that if you have cats, you'd better tie your tree to the ceiling or the walls.
But now, The Dog Cat is a matronly lady of 19 years. She hasn't been a barn cat since 1997, and she sees no reason to come out of retirement to chase anything. She climbs on the couch, mooches scrambled eggs (to be served on a piece of newspaper at the proper temperature) and she hops down, evades The Monkey and curls up on one of our surfboard-shaped carpets to take a nap by the heater. She expects her dinners to be served on time, and will prompt us if we forget to watch the time.
And, apparently, she has supernatural X-ray vision to repel Little Monkeys who are busy plotting surprises for India. And I thought all she did to punish the Monkey was to hiss , growl and swat at him!
Lest you think we're only focused on The Monkey...[We take a break from the Monkey vs. the Christmas Tree coverage to bring you a story that is closer to the true meaning of Christmas.]For the past several years, Morello Hills Church has given its neighbors a two-day visit to Bethlehem this time of year.
You don't need frequent flyer miles, nor will you worry about political unrest. However, the trip does take you to a place where occupying forces and military soldiers make their presence known, and townsfolk try to make the best of things in spite of it all.
The trip to Bethlehem is just up the street on the church grounds, where tents and bazaar booths have been erected. Roman soldiers patrol the grounds. Shepherds, goat-herds and Wise Men lead their animals past the residents in period garb and the visitors dressed in cold-weather parkas.
Three times each night, Mary and Joseph are turned away from the Bethlehem inn and directed to the stable, which becomes illuminated by the "birth of the Christ Child." These little presentations are announced by angels and are attended by shepherds, Wise Men and other visitors to this little town.
The church gives visitors a taste of what it might have been like in those times so many years ago.
Literally.
Children - and sometimes adults, too - mix flour, oil, water and salt, roll out this dough and hand it to bakers to be cooked into flat, unleavened bread. Visitors munch on this and sip such anachronistic beverages as hot chocolate and coffee to warm themselves against the night's chill.Other booths let visitors play with dreidels. Booths representing carpentry shops let children (and some adults, too) build a little outline of a stable. Successive booths let visitors add to the stable, ending at the pottery shop where visitors can form tiny baby Jesuses in swaddling clay-clothes and add them to their little stable scenes.Carolers provide the music, and folks may join in song.
A fire pit and other heaters help visitors and costumed residents stay warm. The church doesn't charge for this event - although in a reminder of how some things change and how some things remain the same, each person arriving is given a gold coin with which to pay taxes as they sign in the census. And, donations are welcomed.
I arrived the first night as a visitor. When the minister asked for volunteers to help with the animals the next night, I signed up, and went home to dig out some of my old Middle Eastern dance dresses that might be suitable attire.
I first was posted in the census booth, but when the llama (a stand-in for a camel) refused to stay on her feet, I became a desert woman with her reclining "camel-llama," telling visitors how creatures of her kind were used in Jesus's time, and welcoming all to run their fingers through her silky warm fleece. Katy, the llama, patiently endured it all, rarely batting her long eyelashes at the attention she lovingly received from the children.
When it was time to prod the llama up to send her home, I managed to get her back on her feet without treating her harshly. (Pity I hadn't figured how to do this earlier, so she could join the Wise Men at the manger scene tableau as originally planned. Next year, I'll know!)Since I left my Florida home and my Texas home, I no longer get to spend some meaningful time Christmas Eve in a barn, something I enjoy and miss very much.
But this year, I got to spend a little Christmas time in Bethlehem.
"Christmas Time In Little-Monkey-Land"Monkey vs. The Christmas TreeMonday Night ResultsMonkey: One candy cane, one crystal snowflake, one golden bell.Christmas Tree: Still standing.
The Christmas tree is countering with a new defense against The Monkey...with a little help from its friends. It's gradually building a Wall of Boxes around the trunk, not to be used as stepping stones but as a blockade against The Monkey's nightly excursions into the branches.
How effective is this new strategy? "Nice try" comes to mind.....
"Christmas bells are a-clatter,Candy canes fall and shatter,Angels tumble below to the skirt of felt "snow,"It's playtime here in Little-Monkey-Land......Christmas balls roll in the hall, andAll the stars have been fallin',The ornaments sway, The Monkey's at play,Prowling through his Little-Monkey-Land......On the branches you can see a nose now,In between the pretty blinking lights.It's hard to get a picture - there he goes now!Oh DARN! The Little Monkey's out of sight......Later on, he'll be sleeping,But tonight, he'll be creepingAmid branch and bough - It's his playground now!It's Christmas time in Little-Monkey-Land."
Sunday Night FightsMonkey vs. the Christmas TreeSunday Night Results:Monkey: Great punches and strong pounces, but penalties for using MonkeyMouth and RazorClaws.Kenny: Strong but controlled punches, excellent MonkeyMop defenses.Christmas Tree: Gets a break during the boxing match.
The Coast Starlight has a nickname, "The Coast Starlate," and for good reason. Especially this time of year.
Kenny booked one of the last available sleepers on No. 11 to travel home from Portland. The train would be packed, he learned. Coach seats had been sold out for some time.
Then the winter storms hit Portland with a vengeance. Snow covered the streets and ice coated the sidewalks. Banks of fluffy white stuff piled up past car bumpers. Taxis weren't cruising for riders; even bus service was spotty. Kenny ended up walking to the train station, where he'd wait four hours for his storm-delayed train to arrive from Seattle.
The train was delayed further by frozen switches. Amtrak employees slogged through the slush to release the switches. The Klamath River bridge presented other problems, and the train itself kept hitting defect-detectors indicating the locomotive needed repeated de-icing.
However, Kenny was heading south Saturday and Sunday. While he was heading home, motorists and airplane travelers were stuck in Portland and elsewhere. Conditions worsened up north after Kenny's train left, and even Amtrak riders were stranded. As usual, Kenny got out under the wire.
He arrived in Martinez Sunday afternoon. His trip was a jolly one, thanks to Roman and Hayward, a pair of Amtrak employees who appreciated Kenny's humor. Other riders grumped about the delays - apparently they didn't know how lucky they were to be moving at all. But Kenny enjoyed the scenery and the relaxing ride home.
The MonkeyCat and DogCat welcomed him at the door, and after Kenny unpacked, the Monkey-Kenny games begain. Crawling into the empty suitcase, The Monkey enticed Kenny into a boxing bout that went on for about 20 minutes until Monkey began cheating by using his claws.Then The Monkey bounded out of the suitcase and grabbed Kenny's sock-covered feet. Monkey loves feet and toes. He prefers to be petted by feet instead of hands. And he and Kenny have developed another game we call "Monkey Mop" because The Monkey curls up around Kenny's foot so Kenny can slide The Monkey around the floor. Something like a foot-operated Roomba. If I'd remember to coat The Monkey with some sort of dusting spray, I'd have the best-mopped floors around.
The Monkey rode around like this along half the floor until he got a little revved and began biting Kenny's toes. That's also cheating, and is a game-ender.
The Monkey's favorite toy, Kenny, is home, and so the Christmas Tree gets a rest from the Christmas Games. But The Monkey is still young, and I'm expecting to hear the clatter of falling ornaments any moment now.
I'd better slow down, I'd better be good -
Kenny's on his way!Monkey vs. the Christmas TreeSaturday Night Results:Monkey: One gold snowflake, one new crystal snowflake.Christmas Tree: Still standing.
"Kenny's home for Christmas, I'm happy as can be...Monkey sleeps, no longer creepsInto the Christmas Tree.....Bells and balls and garlandRest safely on each boughI'll have a Merry Christmas --Kenny's heading home right now!"
As many of you know, Laika closed the movie project on which Kenny was working. While the announcement shell-shocked other employees, Kenny knows the ropes. Hey, it's show business. He surprised the officials making the announcement by asking, "May I go make some phone calls?" and requesting an early exit from the funereal meeting.
His first call was to me. His next calls announced his availability for work. At the same time, he was packing his cubicle - in 15 minutes he was ready for his exit. He booked a train ride home, and got one of the last sleeper cars on the last train out of Portland before ice and snow ended any form of exit from that city.
Some of his co-workers said, "Now that's the sign of a professional animator!"
Within 30 minutes of the announcement, he got his first job offer. In Jerusalem. Yes, that Jerusalem. Interesting, considering the holiday we're celebrating. And interesting, considering the violence that's going on there this week. I hope something crops up a little closer to home. Like...maybe in the Bay Area?
But what this means is Kenny's coming home for Christmas, and I don't have to send him back right away. We both fell in love with Portland, particularly the Northwest neighborhood in which he lived and worked. But, we've loved everywhere we've lived, so this was to be expected.However, we got spoiled living together with our cats and horses and each other for four years in Texas, and this separation has been a little tougher on the two of us.
I knew Kenny would be home for Christmas. I may have him home a little longer than we originally planned - although nothing is certain in the animation industry. But having Kenny home with me is a great Christmas present.
Tree-Sliding MonkeyMonkey vs. The Christmas TreeFriday Night Results:Monkey: Two crystal icicles on the floor, another strand of lights pulled off the branches.Christmas Tree: Needs an overhaul. But...still standing.
Back in the old days of Hawai`i, back when the smaller islands were independent kingdoms and larger islands were a collection of independent kingdoms, the people built long, narrow sleds and would lie down, face forward, and glide down slick slides on these Polynesian tobaggans.
Little Monkeys don't need no tobaggans. Or papaholua, as the Hawaiian sleds were called. No need for surfboards. You just body-surf your way down the branches, scattering ornaments that can't handle your wake.Then, like folks heading to the ski slopes, you have to make your way to the top again. For Little Monkeys, it means climbing up through the decorated branches, causing more ornaments to tumble to the floor.Like, this is a problem?
Guess where that pine cone is now....Monkey vs. the Christmas TreeThursday Night Results:Monkey: Two golden bells, one strand of crystal bead garland, one strand of gold bead garland, one strand of lights, one decorative spray, two pine cones.Christmas Tree: Not as pretty as when set up. But...still standing.
It's one thing to see the ornaments you placed so carefully on your Christmas tree lying on the skirting after being batted off their branches by The Monkey.
It's another thing to trip over the two pine cones that were separated from their decorative spray and then used like soccer balls on the living room floor.
I didn't get to see the pine cone soccer game. It was staged long after I was asleep. I only witnessed the aftermath.
The pine cones used to be attached to a spray of artificial mini-apples and ivy leaves.
But foliage sprays apparently don't entertain Little Monkeys until the little rascals pry the pine cones off the sprays.
Bat those pine cones just right, and they'll skitter across our vintage Armstrong asphalt tile floor and carom off the book shelves and entertainment center! Oh, happy, happy Monkey! What a great new toy he discovered!
And what's this? There are two pine cones on the spray? Twice the fun!Our Christmas tree has taken a beating. The gold beads sag to one side of the tree. They no longer spiral neatly around the perimeter of the tree's branches. One of the crystal bead garlands I hung vertically has also been brought down to floor level. So much for the theory that a vertical drape might discourage The Monkey from pulling it down.One strand of Christmas lights has been pulled off the branches and sag down the tree near the wall.
I spotted The Monkey halfway up the tree gnawing on a crystal bird - at least he hadn't reached the feathered ornaments, and he was unable to drag the crystal bird from its branch. I barely had time to snap a photo of The Monkey in mid-bite before he disappeared into the tree.
Since the pine cone play happened while I was asleep, the pine cone you see in the picture is as close as we're going to get to the Thursday Night Pine Cone Soccer Game.
But we know the results to that one - The Monkey won the game, and the floral spray lost two pine cones.
"Who's that climbing up my tree?..."Monkey vs. The Christmas TreeWednesday Night Results:Monkey: A spray of apples and leaves, a bell, a snowflake, two icicles, more beads and rumpling of the skirting.Christmas Tree: Still standing. (Thank heavens for monofiliment!)
In a comeback worthy of sports-page superlatives, The Monkey launched full-throttle into the Christmas Tree Wednesday night. He scored big, according to the clutter piling up on the tree skirting below.So much for thinking his interest in the Christmas Tree had waned!
The Monkey hid a pair of icicles under the skirting. Whether he was being modest about his late-night haul, he's not saying. The rest of the damage was left in plain sight, as was the Monkey as he crept up even higher in the branches.
How high has he ventured? I'm not sure. If he reaches the angel tree-topper, that won't be his goal. Surrounding the angel are all our feathered bird ornaments. The Monkey won't see the angel for all the birds.
I keep the feather-trimmed birds on the top branches, because the first year The Monkey engaged in The Games, he reached a white dove, dragged it down to the floor and ripped out all its tail feathers.
It took a new batch of feathers to restore this white dove's dignity, and several washes of paint to freshen its look. The bird looks fine, as do our three red-feathered birds, because - so far - The Monkey hasn't reached the top of the tree.
Yet.
The season isn't over. . . .
Beads and Bells and Monkeys - Oh My!Monkey vs. The Christmas TreeTuesday Night Box ScoresMonkey: Gold beads snagged big time.Christmas Tree: Shaken but not stirred.Monday Night Box Scores:Monkey: Rearranged skirting, crystal bead strand pudding the floor.Christmas Tree: Still standing.
Christmas trees are not just for climbing anymore.
After a brief break in the action, The Monkey is back to his Monkey Shines, and you can tell by looking at the Christmas Tree.
The gold beads no longer drape horizontally on the branches. They sag to one side and are tangled here and there. Apparently discouraged by the fishing-line strings that I've used to attach the ornaments, The Monkey has assaulted easier "prey." And he's found it in the gold-bead garland.
I started to expect things might be winding down. The last few mornings, I awoke to find only mild disturbances in the tree's decor. Perhaps The Monkey, who is a little more than 4 months away from his 4th birthday, had decided to cut the tree some slack, I thought. Perhaps he'd decided that dismantling the Christmas Tree was best left to the younger set. (Not that we have a "younger set," of course.) Perhaps he finally found tree-tackling a boring pastime.
Perhaps The Monkey was lulling me into believing such nonsense.The Monkey clearly isn't done yet. And perhaps the best....worst?....is yet to come!
Little Monkey's Night Off.....(sort of....)Monkey vs. the Christmas TreeSunday Night's Box Scores:Monkey: 0....at least regarding the tree.Christmas Tree: Intact and still standing.
That's the trouble with box scores. You look at 'em, and you see the game summary, and you think that's it. When, of course, there's so much more.
Take baseball. A low score might lead you to believe that it was a boring game, when instead it was a serious pitcher's duel, or a great opportunity to catch fly balls, or perhaps that wonderful rarity, a hurler's perfect game. A high score may look exciting in the box scores, but perhaps it was a rout, a slaughter, a real ho-hummer unless, of course, it's your team racking up the points.
The Sunday Night summary makes it look like nothing happened. Far from it. Just like this photo implies that The Monkey slept through until Monday morning without committing any Monkey-shines.
HA!
First, The Monkey has been taking greater delight in climbing the tree and seeing how far he can reach before I notice. I've been trying to watch him without letting him know I'm paying attention. I've been trying to capture him on camera. Neither of my activities is reflected in the box scores - mostly because I'm the one recording them, and I'm failing miserably at sneaking up on The Monkey.
Second, if those fishing-line loops mean fewer ornaments can be pulled from the tree and scattered on the floor for further playtime, The Monkey knows there are other things that can be attacked.
Toilet paper, for instance.
When I was a car hostess during one of last year's rail excursions, the owner of the vintage rail car spotted me replacing the bathroom paper roll.
"Do you have cats?" he asked.
"Yes - how did you know?" I answered.
"Because of the way you put the toilet paper on," he said. I looked - frankly, I hadn't paid attention to how the roll sat. I was in a hurry, and was just trying to get the paper replaced before I undertook my other duties.
The roll would unwind "underhand," with the excess toward the back, against the wall, rather than the "overhand" with the excess coming over the top of the roll. I realized that most cat owners would put toilet paper on that way so that when their cats pawed at the paper, the roll would spin without a cascade of toilet paper pooling on the floor below.Well, that's "most cat owners." Most cat owners don't have a Monkey Cat.
The Monkey would love to unroll the bathroom paper into a puddle of fluffiness on the floor. But he has other tricks up his furry sleeve. He bites the roll of paper, and chews it into confetti - no unrolling required.So, while the tree's intact, and the ornaments are in their original position and even the skirting below has been unruffled, I have a roll of bathroom paper to replace.
Somebody's chewed entire roll into lacy gauze.
Perhaps he was trying to make paper snowflakes??
And the de-decoration continues....Monkey vs. The Christmas TreeNight Five Box ScoresThe Monkey: One ornamental spray of golden apples on the ground; one strand of crystal beads displaced; the two layers of skirting separated and in two different places.Christmas Tree: Still Standing.
The first thing you hear is a slight rustle in the tree.
Then the plastic ornaments (we don't use glass decorations anymore) start to clatter, something like the sound they'd make if they were wind chimes outside on this breezy, drizzly day.
And you see the Christmas tree is shuddering.
"It's beginning to sound a lot like Chrismas....Monkey's in the tree....There's the clatter of angel wings and other plastic things....Is everything intact? Well, let's go see!It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas....beads are on the floorAnd the thing that I now know as I watch the tree lights glowIs there'll soon be more....lying on the floor...."
Friday Night Under the (Christmas) LightsMonkey vs The Christmas TreeBox ScoresMonkey: Plenty of climbing; no ornaments down.Christmas Tree: Still standing and fully intact.
Well, here's a first - No ornaments down this morning!
Not that The Monkey had no opportunity for batting down, pulling down, biting down some of the angels, birds, snowflakes, trains, horses and manger scenes that decorate the tree.
While I rehearsed for today's hula show, The Monkey was busy scaling the heights of the Christmas tree. He didn't make it to the top - only because I kept asking him mid-climb, "Monkey----what are you doing?" in a semi-growl while I danced.
I think my kumu hula, Kau`ihealani Brandt, would chuckle to hear my "kahea" during my hula practice.
For the non-practitioners of hula, "kahea" is a call, a recitation of the first word or so of a verse in the song to which you're dancing. This practice dates to pre-contact times in Hawai`i, when the chanting of a song needed to be accurate.
Before Western contact, the people of what we now call Hawai`i had no written language. Everything was handed down orally from one generation to the next, so chanters needed to be accurate. Besides, the punishment for mistakes could be quite severe (in fact, the prime sentence in the old days was death for many "crimes" we'd think of as minor mistakes, let alone actual felonies.) Dancers accompaning the chant would help the chanter by calling out the first word or so of the next line of the chant. This not only helped the chanter deliver the lyrics accurately, it also made sure that chanter and dancer were launching into the same verse.
At no time, I suspect, did any ancient dancer kahea to the chanter, "Monkey, what are you doing in the Christmas Tree??"
Ancient Hawai`i had no Christmas Trees, let alone monkeys of any type - primate or feline, climbing up their branches.
Whether it was the late night hula practice or The Monkey being foiled by my fishing-line "ornament hooks," or perhaps a Christmas miracle, The Monkey eventually curled up under the tree and took a nap after watching the "free hula show" in our living room.
This means the Peace of the Season may be arriving at our house....or else he's resting up for some serious Monkey Madness tonight.
Christmas Trees don't need no stinkin' skirts!!!Monkey vs. The Christmas TreeNight Three Box ScoresMonkey: Stripped the Christmas Tree of its double skirtingChristmas Tree: Naked from last branches down, but still standing
You never know what's going to be rearranged next in this competition.And undressing the tree has taken a new turn - pulling the skirting away from the Christmas tree's trunk.
This is an unusual turn in the Games because The Monkey usually enjoys napping on top of the skirting, snuggled under the tree in his favorite corner where the wall and fireplace meet.
Our Christmas Tree skirting is a double layer of felted cloth. The larger piece has gold-glittery snowflakes near the hem. That was our standard skirt until I found a skirt with illustrations of Santa Claus riding horseback - a must-have in my house! To give the skirting a softer, fluffier look a little like a small snow drift, I usually layer these, with the horse-themed skirt on top.
Until last night, the skirting was never part of the Christmas Tree Games.
Occasionally, "Monkey-shines" involve snagging some fabric and wadding it up to play with it, but that's not the case with the Christmas skirting. It simply was pulled away from the tree and dragged partway toward the sofa.
I have no idea what The Monkey had in mind, since it left his favorite under-tree napping spot devoid of fuzzy bedding, and Little Monkeys usually prefer to sleep atop something fuzzy instead of the original flooring, vintage Armstrong asphault tile.
My only clue is finding two mis-matched rubbah slippahs ("flip flops" for the non-island readers) hidden beneath the skirts.
Could be "Find the Skirting," or perhaps "Hide Something Under the Skirting," will become a new category in the Christmas Tree Games. Could be Monkey is making up a new game, seeing if I'm smart enough to find whatever treasure he's secreted under the blankets of fake snow....
No cameras, please!Monkey vs. The Christmas TreeNight Two Box Scores:Monkey: One long, elaborate holly, apple and pear spray ornament.Christmas Tree: Still standing.
The frustrating part of documenting this holiday competition is trying to photograph the offense in action. I call The Monkey the "offense" in this sporting event, because the Christmas tree is tied in place and can't move on The Monkey.
Of course, being tied up isn't an effective defense, either. But, it keeps the tree upright, as the box scores will attest.
The Monkey, a year older, is a year smarter about this sport. He knows he ought not to be climbing up the tree, and he knows he might get whacked if he's caught.
He's apparently a year speedier, too. I'll hear the rattle of the ornaments. I'll see the tree swaying. I'll grab the camera. But before I can turn around and take aim, The Monkey - like magic! - is on the couch, in the window, by the front door. Anywhere but in the tree.
Clearly, it's some OTHER Monkey Cat who's causing the havoc.And, once again, I have no photo.
Could be this will become a new category in these games....So far, it seems we may have fewer ornament drops this year because of the way I've attached them to the tree. Instead of hooks or their down-and-dirty substitute (bent paper clips), I've strung the ornaments on fishing line loops and hooked these onto the branches. Most of the stuff I've got decorating the tree is attached with fishing line.
I didn't do this on purpose as a way to foil The Monkey. I did it because I couldn't find our old ornament hooks and I've run out of paper clips. But I had a partial reel of fishing line, and decided to use what I had on hand.
The ornaments rattle and the tree sways when The Monkey makes his hourly climbs halfway up the trunk. But we haven't had the "fallout" we had last year.
On the other hand, I've placed some lovely sprays on the branches, and none of these is tied down. If you crawl up the tree trunk and snag these sprays in your teeth and keep pulling, they fall down - Monkey climbs! Monkey snags! Monkey scores!!!
And it's only the second night of competition....
So many ornaments, so little time....2008 Monkey vs. the Christmas TreeFirst Night of Competition ResultsBox Score:Monkey - 1 dove ornament, 1 strand of gold beads. Christmas Tree - Still standing.
If you look carefully in the picture, you'll see the tip of a tail and a white foot in the lower left side. If you look carefully in the tree branches, you'll see some of the rest of The Monkey at work.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the Games are on in earnest!
I awoke to find one of my plastic "stained glass" ornaments, a white dove flying against a red background, in the "Monkey Corner" under the tree. Monkey's favorite spot to lie in wait...and plot...is under the tree at the corner where the wall and fireplace meet.
I also saw that most of one of the strands of gold beads was in a puddle on the floor.
Memo for next year - Vertical beads may stay put; horizontal beads definitely do not. I've put the crystal beads on in enormous vertical loops that drop from the top of the tree full length to the lower branches, then go back up to the treetop for the next drop down. I'm telling folks that I was inspired by long icicles...such as the ones I saw on planes in Chicago in February 1994. Those icy stalagtites spanned from the jumbo-jets' wings nearly to the ground.
In contrast, I put the gold bead garland on in horizontal loops, the conventional way of putting on garland.
Next year, everything will be vertical! It won't make for an exciting blog, but at least the ornaments will have a fighting chance.
I've already caught The Monkey climbing halfway up the tree.Before I realized he was in the tree, I had flipped on the living room tv. It was tuned in to our local PBS channel, and "Curious George" was on. Apparently the cartoon monkey was doing something similar to our own Monkey's activities, and someone on-screen was telling George, "Get down from there, monkey!"
Hearing this, and rattling ornaments all the way, The Monkey promptly scrambled down from the Christmas tree and scampered up on the sofa. His innocence act would have been more effective without the clatter of plastic ornaments still swaying on the tree....
Let the Games Begin!Ladies and Gentlemen,Welcome to the 2008 Monkey vs. the Christmas Tree Games!
Oh, yes, the fun is about to begin. I managed to get the three-part, mostly-pre-lit tree (there's the small matter of one end plug that mysteriously seems to have been chewed off...) assembled and tied to the ceiling before The Monkey awoke from his afternoon nap on the couch.
It didn't take long for him to scoot under the tree, back into his favorite corner under the tree.
He's already gnawing on the branches.
I just finished adding decorations, and he's already pulling them down.I'm SO glad that India, who wreaked similar havoc on our Christmas trees in Florida, is 19 and has decided that such antics are best left to the younger set. Thanks to India and our dear late Mace, I know enough to tie the Christmas Tree to the ceiling, and did so again this year before I put on the first ornament.
If you didn't read last year's coverage of the Christmas Tree Games, rest assured - I've dressed the tree in mostly acrylic decor. I have two lovely ornaments that may be glass - but they're in their original display acrylic boxes and are wedged next to the tree trunk. I'll probably reinforce their positions with some clear tape...but they survived The Games last year, and I'm optimistic for a repeat success story...."success" being relative and mostly involving keeping the tree upright and most of the ornaments on the tree. I've already employed a new design for the beaded garland - instead of winding the clear crystal strand around the tree, I've opted for a mostly up-and-down cascade look.
Last year, the beads took a beating. (Is that a near-pun?) Their nice, neat placement took a nightly wrecking, and toward the end of the season, I conceded defeat in that category. We'll see if the new approach stays pretty longer.
Covering The Games is a tough assignment. As a veteran reporter, I value objectivity in reporting the news. It's hard to be objective when the sporting event involves demolishing your home decor.
And I face a familiar dilemma that reporters and photographers face - do I cover the news and get my best photo shot, or do I grab the squirt bottle and yell, "Get DOWN from there, Monkey!!" If I opt for the former, am I enabling The Monkey and encouraging him to misbehave? If I opt for the latter, will I be able to give you daily box scores and clever photos of the damage done?
The Monkey is a year older - he's a springtime 2005 model - and while you might that might mean he's taking a more mature approach to Christmas trees, I think it only is making him more wary about getting caught climbing the tree, pulling off ornaments and chewing the lights' wiring. This may become a tough year for getting action shots at The Games.
Bad for the blog, but good for the tree: There's a potential spoiler I may add to the competition. Last Christmas, Kenny gave me the large Captain Teague action figure. Yep, Keith Richards in all his pirate glory sits on my mantle in my living room. And, should I decide not to play fair, I may slip Prince Keef under the tree, switching on the button that will allow him to recite his lines from "Pirates of the Caribbean" anytime he detects The Monkey plotting another Christmas Tree assault.
The only problem with that strategy is Captain Teague IS a pirate, and he may decide mid-competition to change sides. That would mean anytime I'M approaching the tree, the good Captain might sound off, warning The Monkey to beat it out of the branches before he's discovered.
It's going to be another....interesting....Christmas....
And now you know why he's that way....The day before we left Florida, Kenny and I met his folks at Bellini's, the wonderful deli and restaurant in downtown DeLand that's operated by our buddy, Scotty.
Scotty used to sponsor the three-driver race team that Kenny joined during his two-year racing run as a Florida Modifieds driver at Volusia County Speedway and New Smyrna Beach Speedway. He fed the team, and he fed it well.
Now he feeds Kenny's folks when they drive in from Oklawaha to check on our farm in DeLand. And so we all went to Bellini's to meet up and chow down our last full day in Florida.
And, as you can see, Kenny comes by his sense of humor naturally!His folks, Jeanne and Joe, are veterans at Lake Bryant Fish Camp, a place the family would go to for vacations. Eventually, Jeanne and Joe would retire there.
They're talented - his father until recently played musical instruments, and his mother has made some lovely paintings. And they're active. They've been boaters; they've made their own driving land tours from coast to coast; when we owned the little horse farm in Texas, Joe helped Kenny cut and nail the top rail on our 2-acre pasture.
I'm always grateful that they can find the time to come out and visit our farm. And they're glad because it puts them that much closer to Bellini's!The trip to Bellini's also gave us some time to visit another dear DeLand friend, Cliff of Cliff's Books. He has a huge inventory of books and comics, and visiting his place is like going on a treasure hunt where you know the treasure definitely is there. I didn't mean to come home with anything, but two "Serenity" comic books, a collection of Thelwell books of horse cartoons, and a little packet of "Pirate" game cards couldn't be ignored.
We also made a jaunt out to Volusia County Speedway, where Kenny raced. A portion of "Days of Thunder" was shot there, as well as other places in DeLand. But all that was back when the track was paved. Now it's dirt. Dirt's become more popular, but Kenny still favors asphalt. The visit was bittersweet for him. All sweet for me - I met Karma, a tortoiseshell kitten who had fled one set of owners to sneak out to one race track only to hitch a lift to Volusia County Speedway, disimbark and take up residence in the speedway's office. While Kenny wandered around the track area, Karma chewed on my fingers, nose and hair, purring all the time.
As you know by now, we got the farm packed up next day, made it to the airport on time, and spent the rest of that day being shuttled hither and yon in peculiar routes back to the west coast. I'm back in Martinez, and Kenny's back in Portland. I'm back with the cats and visiting the horses who always seem to get boarded while in California, and teaching music and hula and dancing at little hula shows; Kenny's back at his regular job, one that doesn't involve standing at odd angles while laying paint onto a car's surface. And Kenny's folks are back to holding down the Florida fort and making the occasional trip to Bellini's.
Ed's BoysHere's Kenny photographing Greg "Coop" Cooper, who's striping my ukulele.
Kenny and Coop were brought together by Ed "Big Daddy" Roth, who had a knack for doing such things. Coop and one of Ed's other stripers have been nicknamed "The Nervous Brothers" by Ed, and Kenny's become an honorary member of the band.
Coop and I convinced Kenny he should go to Florida for the Turkey Rod Run at the Daytona International Speedway, one of the largest hot rod and custom car shows anywhere, because Kenny hadn't attended in several years. Coop's a regular striper at the event, so much that his spot is called "Coop's Corner." Another incentive is that Kenny would be spending his birthday at the show, and he'd be where his parents would be close to him for Thanksgiving and his birthday.
Best laid plans meant Kenny's birthday would be spent painting cars, and the car show meant Kenny wouldn't be breaking away at lunch time for Thanksgiving. He'd end up visiting his folks in the Ocala National Forest the Monday after Thanksgiving, and they'd come into DeLand for a wonderful lunch at Bellini's, a welcome substitute for Even More Leftover Turkey.
But Kenny didn't mind, and neither did Coop. Coop had brought in a friend, Jim, with whom he was staying not far from Kenny's folks' home in Oklawaha. But nothing gets much more fun than watching Coop and Kenny work together, teasing each other and swapping Ed "Big Daddy" Roth tales. Coop said several times he certainly was glad Kenny was there to do the show with him.
He's now lobbying to get Kenny out for the spring show at the Daytona Beach International Speedway as well.
Because I'd been urged to bring out an ukulele to jam with Barry Cook's bluegrass band, and because I was too scared to bring one of my top-dollar models, I had a basic ukulele model I'd bought at "Charlie Chan's" in Waikiki a few years ago. It plays well enough, but has no label and little decoration. I thought, "Hey, I'm working the shirt/keychain/patch/decal/souvenir table...maybe I could hit Coop up for some stripes on this thing!"
And, Mr. Cooper graciously agreed. He did a rainbow of elegant stripes and a simple outline on the instrument's face. While he was dragging lines, Kenny snapped some shots with his camera, and I took a break from selling shirts to snag a photo of the boys.
We often joke that striping makes a car go faster and get better gas mileage. All I know is I would swear this ukulele actually sounds better with its new decor!
My lovely farmIn late October of 1985, Kenny and I bought a little 5-acre spot of Florida about 28 miles west of Daytona Beach, just outside the city of DeLand.
Our home was a little 1920s-era cabin, a pretty cozy place, to say the least, after living two years in a brand-new duplex. But the acreage and little garage-sized barn meant my horse, Stradivarius, and our second horse, Buddy, would be able to live with us. We got half the property fenced in time for me to have a horse on my property by Christmas of that year.
I didn't know how important that would be - Christmas and all the family home - until we moved away in '97. I let other folks live out on the place, but I don't think anyone has appreciated the place the way I do.
I love that place. This picture shows a bit of tulle fog rolling in early one morning. I'm facing the west, toward the old Seaboard Coast Line railroad, now home to CSX and Amtrak, but at one time the rails on which the old Orange Blossom Special would roll. On our side of the tracks is a 3-acre lake, of which one acre is on our place. On the other side is the Lake Woodruff Wildlife Refuge.
Our place is semi-wild. The eastern half is for the people. The easternmost paddock is still fenced in, as is the area surrounding the cabin, although after all these years, the post and wire fencing has taken a beating, and has been difficult to "rehab." The posts were guaranteed for 20 years, and most have survived long beyond their "expiration date."
The place gets wilder to the west, as the land rolls down to the lake. I discourage folks from going to the lake. It's occupied, as are most bodies of fresh water in Florida. Birds have "seeded" the lake with fish, something I learned from Kenny. But much larger things live in the lake, as I also learned from Kenny when I mistook the gentle gronking of the gators for the sound of really big bullfrogs. We never have seen our alligators, but Kenny's seen the tracks, and we know they're full grown, breeding adults.
I have seen alligators at the wildlife refuge, and "little six-footers" don't look so small when there's nothing between you and them but some strands of tall grass.
We lived on this land full time for 12 years, and despite its wildness, we only had two negative encounters with the resident wild life. One happened when I was mowing, and stepped into an underground wasp nest. The angry denizens attacked me with vigor. They may have been yellow jackets. We were told there were no underground-nesting wasps or bees in our part of Florida. I beg to differ, and for a while, I had the scars to back up my claim. I had no desire to go back and try to dig up the underground nest just to show 'em I was right.
Many years later, a water moccasin refused to leave our barn area, despite our best efforts. I'd just gotten back from a hula show, and at the time, I was wearing contacts. Rather, one contact, since wearing two meant I couldn't read the show lineup. I could read and drive with my mismatched eyes, but in the soft barn security light, I couldn't tell whether the dark snake was a moccasin or a safe but endangered indigo - a crucial and critical difference. I called Kenny from the barn phone and begged him to leave his studio; meanwhile, I was throwing stuff out of the barn to move the snake and keep my cats and dog from getting involved in defending me. I finally could reach the hose, and began spraying pets and serpent alike. Despite the assault, the snake didn't leave - not a good sign; that's not the Indigo way.
Sure enough, when Kenny arrived, he spotted it for a moccasin. He grabbed his shotgun, but set up an escape path with spare plywood to give the snake a chance to head down to the lake. Instead, the snake headed toward Kenny, and immediately the snake was no more. I felt sad, but the snake had had plenty of chances to leave us alone, just as we had endeavored to leave our co-habitants of our property alone.
This land has rattlers and coral snakes. It has black widow spiders and big black spiders that look frightening enough. This year, it has bears. It has alligators. It also has brilliant red cardinals and vivid blue jays, and those lovely redwinged blackbirds with flashes of red and yellow on their wings. Eagles and hawks and kites and vultures sail overhead, some calling out to us below. Kenny's been buzzed by an eagle that landed in front of him as if to say, "Hey, I'm your national emblem! How about some attention?" He's been escorted on his walks by oppossums and raccoons. I've been visited by owls, and I've been serenaded by entire families of great horned owls, each group trying to out-hoot each other.
This year, as I touched up the front porch, I had plenty of lizard help - little streamlined anoles we who live in Florida call chameleons because they change color from brown to green. One even rode on my shoulder while I strung new Christmas lights on the porch ceiling.
I cleaned out the tack room of spider webs and blown-in leaves and anything else that might appeal to invading critters, and during the cleanup, a large black spider and I encountered each other. I expect that she and I had the same reaction to each other, as we both shuddered as we fled in opposite directions. I then laughed. No harm done to either of us.
I wore rubber flipflops through the sword fern as I rolled paint onto an unpainted wall of the barn. I actually thought about putting on sturdier shoes, the paddock boots I'd brought so I'd have proper shoes to wear when we visited Barry Cook's Central Florida family horse barns. Then I thought, "What an insult!" This land hadn't done anything to me, and I wasn't working during the time of day when creatures go on the hunt. So, I slipped on my old rubber flipflops, grabbed my paint roller and extension pole, my buckets of paint and paint pans, and in about five minutes had the wall covered to my satisfaction. And gave my footwear not another thought. Plus, I hadn't gotten paint on my paddock boots!I wore flipflops down the path cut for us by our bush hog man, Mr. Otto. And I walked all around the area where Stradivarius and Buddy, our first two horses, and Pele, our precious Shepherd-Husky farm dog, are buried together, as they all would have wished. I tooks some pictures down the hill, looking back through the trees at the cabin. Those pictures make my western yard look like a park.
Then one morning, the tulle fog crept in like those little waves that creep in on the beach after the breakers have worn themselves out. And I was awake enough to run out and grab a couple of photos. I thought it made this land look magical. I could imagine these images illustrating a book of mystical creatures.
I photographed Spanish moss so long that it cascaded down from the tops of the trees nearly to the ground. Sometimes this bromeliad is called "Old Man's Beard," and indeed it looked like a beard suitable for one of Tolkien's tree-like Ents.
I got to see some of my favorite magnolias and palmettos that grow on my land, and to see and hear the sounds of some of my favorite birds and animals. I think Kenny probably tired of hearing me say, "Oh, I love this place."
But I do. And what makes it so very special is I get the feeling that it loves me right back.
Dancing at DisneyYou've rolled paint on the barn, you've painted the front porchand replaced its Christmas lights, and you've cleaned out the tack room. Now what are you going to do?
"I'm going to Disney World!"
And I did, too!
But not for the reason most Florida visitors do. I went to hula class taught by Aunty Kau`i Brandt at the Polynesian Resort. It's Aunty Kau`i's family troupe that opened the Polynesian Resort's luau show. And Aunty Kau`i still entertains there.
As you enter the lobby, you'll see children busy at arts and crafts, coloring pictures of Lilo and Stitch or making kites or stringing silk flower kupe`e (wristbands) that they can keep and take home. And helping them all is Aunty Kau`i, who also makes lei for the cast members. And each Wednesday night, she teaches adult and older children hula class. And I got there in time for class.
It's always a joy for me to return to classes with Aunty Kau`i. After a brief introduction to hula by Karina D'Errico, I was sent to Aunty Kau`i. It was logical - driving to Karina's School took about four hours. Aunty Kau`i taught about an hour from my house. Instead of studying once a month, I could take weekly classes. So Karina threw me into Aunty Kau`i's lap with her blessing, and Kau`i took me on as a student, always encouraging me to grow and study more and do more.
I learned two new hula, and reviewed some I'd danced with Aunty Kau`i many years before.
And soon it was time to entertain the visitors at the Polynesian!
That's what we do after class. We change into pretty attire and wear fresh-flower lei and go out to dance. Our music is live - Kaleo Carvalho is our "house band," and his voice has only gotten better since I lived full-time in Florida. The adults and younger folks alternated performances; the men got their turn in the spotlight, too. "Do you want to dance a solo? What do you want to dance?" Aunty Kau`i asked. "Ka Uluwehi o ke Kai?" I asked, citing one of my favorite songs. I knew that Kaleo could sing it well. And suddenly, it was my turn to dance. I love that song, and it has some fun, sassy turns to the hula I was taught.
The picture shows me dancing with Aunty Kau`i, in red, in the background.
All too soon, the evening was over. But we always have one last task. We give away our fresh-flower lei. I spotted a woman in a wheelchair who seemed particularly fascinated by our dancing, and I made my way through the crowd to her. She remembered me from dancing there before, and we had a nice visit.
Before I left for DeLand, Aunty Kau`i asked if I could come back. I would return Sunday and help her make the fresh-flower lei for cast members. These are simple ku`i lei - strung on cord using a doll-making needle, since those are more available in Florida than lei-making needles. The order is simple - folded ti leaf, carnation blossom, small piece of straw, folded ti leaf, carnation, straw, until you run out of the counted-out flowers. Then you tie it off and hand it to Aunty Kau`i, who adds a ribbon bow.
While I was stringing live flowers, young guests came by and wanted to make lei. They can get silk lei for free, but they can make their own kupe`e - wristbands or bracelets - using similar silk flowers. This means that they can take those self-made souvenirs home. Instead of sharp-pointed needles, the children use elastic with one end that's been dipped in instant glue to help with the stringing. The other end is knotted.
They start by picking up one piece of macaroni in the shape of Mickey Mouse's profile. I learned by trial and error that the best place to start is by poking the elastic string through Macaroni Mickey's "eye." That kept the macaroni piece centered, and the piece wouldn't slip over the knot. And - it made the kids giggle. Then you string two flowers and one straw segment, two flowers and one straw, two flowers and one straw, until you have enough strung to go around your wrist. Then an adult ties off the elastic - three knots or more - and the child has a flowery kupe`e to wear throughout his or her entire stay and later on at home.
The children still wanted to make lei, until I showed them how sharp the lei needle was. Besides, making the little wristband meant they could leave and color pictures or make kites or do one of the many other activities the Polynesian provides for children - or be done in time for their family reservations at one of the restaurants!
While Aunty Kau`i cut and counted more flowers for cast member lei, she said, "Make a bracelet for yourself!" And I did. And it was fun! It took me longer than some of the kids, though, because when some youngsters saw how much fun I was having, they wanted to join in, too - and there I was, back to being a teacher.
That's how I got started teaching hula, too. Aunty Kau`i teaches children Saturday mornings, and when I was studying with her and living in Florida full-time, I would go out and help her with the hula classes. I'd learn, too, but I also got my first chance to teach. Some of the children I taught (who are no longer "children," although some served as models for the characters in "Lilo and Stitch"!!) still remember my lessons in spacing out. We'd take our `ili`ili (stone pebbles, a pair in each hand, clicked rhythmically) and chant a short mele composed by Luika Perriera of Keaukaha, where Aunty Kau`i once lived. And we'd hula along the sidewalk to the song, parading around like a huge "children caterpillar." I'd urge them, "Don't scrunch up or you'll squish your caterpillar - and don't stretch out or you'll pull the caterpillar apart!" To this day, these former children (not to mention Kaleo himself!) remember participating in this "hula parade."
And now I have my own hula group, Ka Hale o Ku`u Hoaloha Hula, and I'm the alaka`i, or guide, of this group based in Martinez, Calif. But I'll always be a Kau`i Girl, and I study with her every chance I get. And that's one of the many joys of getting to go back to Florida whenever I can.
Classic LinesEver since I got my 1957 Plymouth Savoy, Erin, as I was starting my college career, I have loved that year and model car.
Every time Kenny and I go to a car show, I search for '57 Plymouths...in part because my folks sold Erin while I was finishing my degree and away from home. Kenny says I've been looking for Erin since she got sold...and he's right.
You can have the hottest cars, the coolest cars, the largest car corral, but if there's no '57 Plymouth, the show just wasn't complete.I was telling Kenny this as we were approaching "Coop's Corner," the spot where Greg "Coop" Cooper would be bent over clients' cars at his "Coop's Graphics" booth. Kenny would be joining Coop in the booth. While Coop did stripes, Kenny would paint characters and I'd help sell Rat Fink tee shirts, key chains and other memorabilia.
We turned the corner, and all I had to see was a wing tip. It was a '58, not a '57, I realized as I got closer, but '58s resembled the '57s closely enough.
This beauty was the classic aqua and cream you normally see on what others consider the classic '5os car - the '57 Chevy. But I'll take an okay '57 Plymouth over a mint '57 Chevy any day. Look at those lines - look at those fins! They actually did their jobs of improving this car's aerodynamics!
Inside, this car had a push button automatic transmission. This model is a 2-speed; Erin was a 3-speed, so she had one more button on the left-hand transmission console. This car's mirror was mounted on the dash, just as Erin's was, but it is slightly closer to the driver's side; Erin's was pretty much in the center. And the front of the '58 doesn't have the brass stylized ship emblem on its front. But they had the same engine, the same 2-door post model body, the same slant to the front fender over the double-headlights, the same clean side line, the same slope to the roof, the same wraparound windshield that still makes me wonder why Detroit decided to put us in blinders by changing the windshield shape; and real, operating air vents in front and roll-down back windows. Oh - and the emergency break actually could stop that car! Ever try to stop your car with your parking brake? Don't - or you'll find out why the name was changed from "emergency" to "parking" brake. It now only works when the car is parked.
The young man who bought this car got it from eBay and was thrilled that he wasn't outbid. He had wanted a '58 Plymouth since he was a kid and saw the movie "Christine." I told him a little about Erin, how she was like "Christine" but nice. In fact, once I met the young man, the first thing I asked was if he'd noticed anything...um...unusual about this car. So far, nothing strange.
Give it time. Erin didn't start out unusual. But before I had had her a year, I knew she was no ordinary car. She had seat belts, a latter-day addition, I think. One day, she wouldn't start till I had fastened them. No reason. But that's just what happened.
Later on, I had to have the doors locked, or she'd sit there like a rock.Eventually, the "start up" routine got a bit more elaborate. And I was not the only one to notice. Before I lost her, my friend and college classmate, Benita Budd, wrote a story about my strange, beautiful car. A frequent passenger, she saw enough to become a true believer. Times when Erin wouldn't allow the windows to be cranked without a propery worded "Please...." Times when I'd agreed to drop off a classmate from one of our gigs at a coffeehouse. She wouldn't start until Tom exited. I tricked her - I cruised slowly, and Tom hopped in, and I kept the engine gunned so Erin couldn't stall out. Logistically and logically, he'd be the last one dropped off , but Erin had other ideas. She backfired like crazy. I announced, "We're dropping Tom off first." At first, the rest of the crew complained until we dropped Tom off at his home - and all backfiring stopped. And the rest of my passengers became quite silent!
She always got me home. I never worried with her. My folks wouldn't let me take her to Orlando when I transferred to the University of Central Florida. Instead, they supplied me with cars that were far less trustworthy. Occasionally (to everyone's surprise, since they couldn't get her to start), I would come home and take my darling Plymouth out for a cruise around Daytona Beach. And one day, when I routinely asked how Erin was doing - we always phrased it that way - my folks told me she was sold. I never found out her fate. My workmates never understood my screaming and crying during that phone call. And I never found her.
But I love that era Plymouth. And this beauty is similar to my lost Erin. And I hope the young Florida man who bought this cream and aqua classic enjoys his car for a long, long time. Will she turn into another Erin? No telling. But if nothing else, this car is gorgeous - even moreso, because Coop added some gorgeous and tasteful striping!
I got to drive it before her owner reclaimed her. Yep, this man actually left the keys to this car where I could grab them, and boy, do I know some places from Florida to California where nobody could find her! Coop needed the Savoy moved so the next client's car could get striped. I was given the joy of backing her out and parking her, which I did without taking her around the Speedway track, oh, about 8 times, or parking her after a quick trip to...um...Keller or Martinez or that small barn in Glenwood. I was good.
Besides, I couldn't have taken her - and break that young man's heart? I've been there, and it hurts. And, she's not Erin.
But she's a good car. She's got a good heart. She may not be quite the "authority figure" that Erin was, but she should give this young man many years of joy. I won't forget her, and I'm thrilled for the few moments I got to spend with this lovely classic car.
Gators and Rattlers and Bears - Oh MY!Thanksgiving in Florida - what a jam-packed "vacation" it was!There were many highlights that will get their own entries in this blog - the 1958 Plymouth Savoy at the Turkey Rod Run hotrod and car show at the Daytona Beach International Speedway. Me working the table at the Turkey Rod Run. Coop, whose booth we "crashed" at the car show, painting not only the '58 Savoy but a million other cars and one of my ukulele. Kenny painting characters on an array of items.
My two trips to the Polynesian Resort at Walt Disney World, where I got to dance along with Aunty Kau`i's halau as well as give a solo performance, then returning to help make lei for cast members and teach guests' children how to make silk flower kupe`e - "First you take your thread and poke it through Macaroni Mickey's eye, because piercing his ear won't hold the thread...."
Seeing Kenny's folks during a delicious trip to Bellini's, our favorite DeLand, Fla., deli.
Seeing Cathy Vaughn, a fellow Daytona Beach News-Journal veteran, and her wonderful puppies (okay, they're grown up, but still....), two rusty-colored standard Poodles. I had so much fun visiting, I forgot to get photos...again.
And visiting my little 5-acre farm. Sprucing it up some more, but no longer working like a mad woman on a mission of rescue. Now it's the this-and-that primping that reminds Kenny of his work on car restorations or on model kits. They're never quite done. I have a 5-acre model kit.
But the most unexpected event of this trip was the appearance of two black bears on my property!
We've seen deer, bald eagles, wild turkeys, coral snakes, rattle snakes, water moccasins, pilated woodpeckers, Eastern blue jays, brilliant red cardinals, assorted varieties of hawks and kites, raccoons, gophers (for you non-Florida types, these are tortoises, not mammals), box turtles, slider turtles, opossums and several types of rabbits. We've heard all sorts of frogs and toads serenading us in between the gronking of the alligators, with whippoorwills and bobwhites joining in. Mockingbirds are always in full cry, and we've heard all-night hooting parties, courtesy of the great horned owls. All these and more. After all, we live next door to a wildlife refuge.
But we never had had bears on our little place before.
Kenny was driving us home that night. We left the pavement of the eastern end of our street and hit the single-lane dirt extension, with no hint of what was ahead. Our dirt driveway left-hooks off from this road, and just where our driveway straightens out, I saw a fuzzy butt disappearing off to the left. What a huge raccoon, I thought, until I realized I hadn't seen a tail. What a huge black dog, Kenny thought.That was the little one.
Up ahead of us was a much larger black fuzzy butt, a larger bear galumping away in front of our rental PT Cruiser. Wait till the Enterprise folks read about this!
We followed the bear at a generous distance. [Neither of us had a camera at the ready, nor could we get to one in time, so I've substituted one of the several murals on DeLand's business-district's walls. ]Just as we slowed down on our approach to our fence gate, the bear disappeared into the underbrush ahead.
Kenny and I both were amazed. We'd never seen bears at our place. I was quite excited about seeing the bears.
I hadn't seen wild bears loose since I was part of a bear capture when a black bear was found sitting in a tree in an otherwise overly-civilized area of Winter Park. A reporter for the Orlando Sentinel at the time, I covered the Central Florida Zoo beat. This was back when Jack Hanna - yep, the same Jack Hanna you see on television - directed the Central Florida Zoo. The zoo folks grabbed their tranquilizing guns and other equipment, and I followed them in my intrepid little VW Bug, and during the chase that finally led to the capture, I got to see the Winter Park bear up close and darned personal, fortunately for just a brief moment before he fled his pursuers. Captured, kept until he recovered from a terrible hangover, and then released, his story ended happily in freedom.
Of course, these bears on my place weren't tranquilized. So, the larger of the two reappeared to face down its rumbling, light-eyed opponent.I have no idea whether Kenny was thinking about jamming the Cruiser into reverse and backing up, or revving its engine and flashing on the brights. All I know is that I was delighted to see this bear stand up on its hind legs and wave its paws.
Hey, at least it wasn't walking toward us!
After realizing the Cruiser wasn't backing down, the bear gave up trying to scare us. Kinda slumped, as if disappointed that the "scary bear" routine hadn't worked. It rambled off into our wooded western yard.Kenny and I sat in the car, still delighted at the bear's performance. Finally it was time for me to get out and open the gate. "You want me to do that?" Kenny asked.
"Nope. It's my place - and my bears!" I answered. Sure enough, nothing happened while I fumbled with the lock and dragged the gate open.I never saw the bears after that, although we heard them crunching through the branches later that night. But they were still out there - Cathy Vaughn came by Monday night, and her first words to me were, "You'll never guess what I saw down your road!"
Congratulations, Mikoi, on a wonderful show!`Aumakua - This is a Hawaiian word loosely translated as "guardian spirit." These could be ancestral spirits - the spirits of relatives who have lived in the past who provide guidance and protection. These could be the spirits of animals as well - a hawk, a sea turtle, a shark, a lizard, an owl.
And "`Aumakua" is the name Mikioi Iwamoto chose for her 2008 Ho`olaule`a - the recital of her hula school, or halau, Halau OKa Ua Lililehua.
Unlike the halau`s past presentations, this show took a theme, a young woman's search for her own guardian spirit, and used it to link the show's various hula just as one uses a thread to string the flowers of a lei.
The story, as told through Mikoi's introductions of each song, and through the show's songs and dances, is adventure. It's a peaceful quest that unfolds as the young orphaned woman, Pomaika`i-i-ke-anuenue, encounters various representatives of others' guardian spirits as well as other folks who live on her island.
Some time before the show began serious rehearsals, Mikoi asked me if I would participate. Immediately I agreed. I have admired Mikioi for years before she started her halau, and I got in on its organizational meeting. Had I not been asked to teach hula upon my return to California, I would have gone back into her fold. To be asked to join her in this effort was pure joy for me.
It also is poetic that my involvement would be a demonstration of making kapa, the bark cloth fabric of ancient Hawai`i that had become a lost art that only in the past few decades has been revived. Other island cultures still made their version of bark cloth, as have the cultures of Central America. But Hawai`i, once known for the finest kapa, began abandoning that art as soon as western sailors introduced woven yardage. The last known maker, as I've been told, was a Kaua`i man - significant, because kapa-making was considered the woman's responsibility - who died in 1929.
The art has been revived, and was shared with me by Moana Eisele in a class offered by the Pacific Islanders Cultural Association in Hayward, Calif. I took the class; later, Moana and her husband, Robert, made my implements, the very ones used during Mikioi's show.
I was among the four participating in a prelude to the opening number. As the band Island Blend sang "Life In These Islands," Michael Fa`aifo entered and demonstrated poi-pounding. His wife, Dawn, entered and began stringing a plumeria lei. Ian Ordinario brought out his fishing nets, and finally I came out as the kapa maker. Mikioi began talking about the rhythm of life in Hawai`i, and the heartbeat of those who live there. Michael began pounding part of a classic beat often used in Hawai`i's ancient chants. As Mikioi continued, I began tapping the balance of the beat with my `i`e kuku, or beater.
The curtains opened to reveal the dancers and their own percussive instruments - ka la`au, ipu, `ili`ili, ipu heke, puniu, pu`ili, and in turn, each section began joining in the beat. As the dancers' instruments took over, we four exited the stage. The halau began performing the lovely "Kamali`i o ka Po," and the show was on in earnest.
Mikioi blended chants with `auana (Hawaiian-language lyrics set to music) and hapa-haole (English lyrics with a Hawaiian theme.)She had touching and serious songs - tributes to chiefly `aumakua, an encounter Pomaika`i had with the blind and deaf goddess Kaiona, and the dramatic finale that tells the story of how Hawai`i's owls came to rescue a common man who had been sentenced to death by the O`ahu king simply because the man had chosen to honor an owl who had promised to be his protector. And the owl had kept her promise.
(This chant has special meaning for me, because I am from O`ahu, and because I'm so animal-oriented. Stories of animals rescuing us touch me deeply. In Texas, my dear autistic Thoroughbred, Sway the Limit, pulled a rescue of his own when I was attacked by a mare in the pasture where Sway and Ginger were boarded. From that moment on, Sway escorted me from the moment I arrived into the pasture until I exited. Some of these stories may just be stories, but some of these stories are true.)Not limiting herself to chants or serious stories in this production, Mikioi incorporated sweet numbers, such as "Nou E Nani" and "Pikake Onaona," about the flowers she loves so well. She had the humorous "Na Hoa He`e Nalu," about a group of friends congregating at the beach to go surfing (complete with one dancer mimicking a handstand on a surfboard, much to Mikioi's surprise!) And she included such familiar songs as "Pupu a`o Ewa." Oh - never heard of that one? Its English title is "Pearly Shells."
She educated us about the various bird songs in "Na Uwe o Na Manu" and had her keiki (youngest students, the children) demonstrate the challenging pala`ie loop-and-ball game in "E Kau, E Kau."
Kenny came down from Portland for the show. I had promised Mikioi that he was hers for the day. He helped unpack trucks, build trees, drill holes in props, sweet floors, repack the truck, unload the truck again. He filmed the show - "the master shot," he called it, because he kept my little camera on its tripod in a fixed position (except now and then when folks accidentally knocked the camera...ah, well....) in contrast to the close-up shots taken by professional equipment from the sound booth.
Everyone helped assemble the stage props - monsteria leaves and a bird floating from above; a forest of palms, bamboo and other trees; lava mounds; representatives of several popularly-known `aumakua. The most dramatic of the `aumakua was the flying owl that appeared during the final number. Chris Leong, with help from Ernie and Kate Chan and others from the halau, worked long and hard on these giant "pop-up" figures. All we had to do was set things up and take them down.
And, true to form in any Hawaiian situation, we ate. We grazed off and on in the theater cafeteria, and took time for a real lunch as well. Once the show was over and the sets were broken down and taken to the halau building, we ate once more while we watched a film of the show.The evening was topped off by Mikioi's birthday cake, a tall affair that reminded some folks of the gigantic creations served at "Claim Jumpers" - the restaurant that some of us simply call "Big Food," for good reason.
This experience has reminded me how special my own hui hula (hula group) is to me. And it also has let me know what I have missed by not returning to Halau o Ka Ua Lililehua. Mikioi and her halau have come long and far from that little organizational meeting in Berkeley. It has grown into a wonderful organization that presents wonderful shows full of wonderful hula.
Next time they put on a show - try come!
Come see "`Aumakua," a wonderful show!I've just seen the dress rehearsal of this year's hula show directed by my dear friend, Mikioi Iwamoto, and it's something you should see.
"`Aumakua," the 2008 hula production by Halau Ka Ua Lililehua, takes place at 4 p.m. Saturday, Oct. 11, at the University Theater, Cal State East Bay, 25800 Carlos Bee Blvd., in Hayward, Calif. Tickets are $25, $20 for those younger than 12, and you can get them by calling 510-351-1164 or emailing lililehua@aol.com.
The picture you see is part of the dress rehearsal of the opening number, featuring dancers performing a beautiful chant while they play traditional implements of old Hawai`i - and by that, I mean the pre-ukulele days.
Unlike in the recitals of the past, this year's has an ongoing theme that connects all the hula and songs presented. That theme is, as the title suggests, `aumakua. That word roughly translates into guardian spirit.Like guardian angels, these guardian spirits cared for their specific people and families. Some say these are ancestral spirits, family members who have passed on and now in spirit form watch over the members of the current generation. Not limited to "people" spirits, `aumakua often were thought of as being specific sharks, birds, turtles, lizards and other creatures.
I'm not going to spoil the show for you - better you go see for yourself! But I'll give you a little peek: The storyline is about a young woman's personal quest. The hula includes some lovely `auana (musical numbers sung in Hawaiian) and one fun hapa-haole number (also melodic, sung in English), but the opening number and the finale are two of my favorite chants.
I am in this show, even though I now have my own hula group. I attended the organizational meeting Mikioi arranged to establish her halau, and I was one of the founding members. I left only because I moved to Texas. I had intended to return to this wonderful halau when I came back to California until my plans were changed when I was asked to teach in my home town of Martinez.
To be invited to participate in the opening number - oh! I never expected it! She needed someone who could perform a duty that comes easily enough to me. I agreed immediately. It wasn't until the first rehearsal that I would discover that I'm among the "prelude players" whose performance launches one of my favorite chants.
I'm lucky - I get on stage early, do my job briefly and exit just before the dancers begin the chant. Then I get to see the whole production!I hope you decide to join me in the audience!
Street Dancing at the Solano StrollI love entertaining at the Solano Stroll.
On the border of Albany and Berkeley, Solano is a street that runs from up in the hills nearly all the way down to the bay. And during the street festival called the Solano Stroll, this street is packed with people - some 300,000 or more of your closest friends.
The streets are lined with vendors and folks promoting their causes. Some of the vendors are extensions of the Solano stores. And these are varied, indeed. You can shop at a Native American arts and crafts store, a "bone" shop that specializes in fossils and reproduction dinosaur-era bones - and in some cases, the real thing. A couple of Tibetan stores. All sorts of restaurants, salons, clothiers. Captivating book stores. A yarn shop for those who crochet, knit or weave. A futon shop that specializes in other Asian items for your home. Florists - one an orchid specialist, another displaying the wonderfully fragrant tuberose.
The causes espoused by other booths are varied as well. Vegetarians sold cookbooks and passed out pamphets about how this food style can save the earth. I picked up the pamphets but passed on the cookbooks. Yep, I'm a vegetarian. Nope, can't cook worth a darn. If you read this blog, you know what I mean.
Other "Green" causes, such as water conservation, composting, mass transit - issues you'd expect Berkeley area folks would endorse. I also found a table for the local Methodists side by side a table for area Buddhists. I like that. Too often, I find folks around here express their views with little flexibility for dialog. Folks on both sides of the political red/blue line can be guilty of that, for instance. So I was glad to see a Methodist church booth and a Buddhist home-meeting booth sitting side by side with nobody fussing. Reminds me of the Texas best buddies who lived at Las Colinas and parked their cars side by side - one with a "W" sticker, the other with a bumper sticker that said, "Somewhere in Texas, a village is missing its idiot." If these two best buddies in Texas can accept each others' poles-apart differences, I hope the rest of us can learn to do the same.
But, back to the Stroll. You can't help but stroll....too many folks in the street to do more than that. You stroll and browse, once the colorful parade ends. Ah, the parade, with Doo-Dah entries, cyclists and stilt-walkers, dancers of nearly every ethnic-dance type and some modern dance types that defy definition. And bands - serious, silly and sublime.Speaking of bands, you can hear all sorts of music on the Stroll, too. African drumbeats intermingle with taiko drumbeats and Middle Eastern drumbeats. Peruvian flutes. Spanish Flamenco. Hard rock. Classic rock. Hip hop. Blues.
And the Royal Hawaiian Ukulele Band!
We've become a fixture at the Stroll, and folks look for us. We were up at the mauka end (in the hills) near the intersection of Solano and The Alameda. Led by Uncle Kem Kanikapila Tung-Loong, we put in a full day. We gathered as early as 9 a.m. to help put up our canopies, string up our sign, decorate the area with palms and raffia umbrellas. We played our first hour-long set at 1 p.m., then went on again at 3 p.m. and 5 p.m.
We had our sets all picked out in advance, but by the 5th song in our first set, we knew that Uncle Kem would be customizing the sets to suit the audience. We who are veterans for the Royal Ukulele Band's performances know to be flexible. Uncle Kem often jokes with us about using our "psychic perception," and that's always the case at Solano. I tell the newer members that we just become good little lemmings and follow our leader wherever he sends us.
Uncle Kem and his wife, Aunty Roz, are experienced and talented musicians, and smart entertainers who can read an audience well. And the smart thing for us band members to do is to become good little lemmings and follow their lead.
I love watching Uncle Kem as he leads the band. He gets such a kick out of performing, and his wide grin is so infectious. He has me grinning from the first note all the way to the last roll of the strings.
And - I got to dance. I love dancing hula for the band. This year I also got to "teach" - call up volunteers from the audience and guide them in hula to such fun, familiar songs as "Hukilau" and "Pearly Shells."
Taking a tip from last year, I picked up a large carpet mat to cover the asphalt when it was hula time. Elana, a hula instructor from Santa Rosa, joined the band while I was in Texas, and she does a lot of the hula for the band. This year, she brought one of her students, since another band hula dancer, Rosemary, couldn't make it to the Stroll. When Elana saw the carpet mat, she was thrilled - it's tough dancing hula barefoot on asphalt on hot days.
Kenny made a special trip from Portland to the Bay Area to celebrate our 25th wedding anniversary. Granted, the anniversary actually was the previous month, but we decided to celebrate it on Solano Stroll weekend, to make his trip a little more worthwhile.
But the Stroll would be more than a chance to watch us perform. Kenny was the "mat man" for the day - hauling out the carpet and spreading it out before each performance, then rolling it up afterwards so that the throngs wouldn't stomp all over it during our breaks. Such a sweetie! There are some hula dancers who dance in spite of their husbands' lack of interest. I'm lucky - my husband supports all the hula I've ever done.My friends came in support, too - Jeff Ferris, Jeff and Anita Pidgeon, Dave Feiten - and even some of my recreation center students came to watch our shows.
We wrapped up our last set about 6 p.m. Kenny rolled up the carpet and helped as we all broke down our "stage." Then, accompanied by our friends, we walked across the street to our favorite Berkeley area Indian restaurant, Khana Peena, and wrapped up the day with a great dinner. It was a great wrap-up to Solano Stroll 2008!
"Franklin" needs your help - and a home!I think someone may have thrown away a perfectly nice Cocker Spaniel, who now needs a good, permanent home.
Wednesday afternoon, while I was out at the boarding barn visiting Sway and ginger, a bicyclist called out across the creek, "Are you missing a dog?"
He'd found a buff (honey-beige) neutered male Cocker Spaniel along the narrow shoulders of 2400 to 2600 area of Franklin Canyon Road, and logically assumed it had wandered off from one of the horse farms in this area.
Whether this dog was abandoned by a man I saw in a white pick up truck parked on Franklin Canyon not far from "our" stable entrance, or whether the dog lost his family some other way, I don’t know.
The bicyclist who called out to me also spent time asking residents in the area if they were missing a dog. I hadn’t seen a dog like this in the area where I board my horses, although I also asked some other neighbors if their dog was missing.
Rather than leave this poor dog to take his chances with motorists who think the posted 45 mph speed limit is just a suggestion, I grabbed a hay string, turned it into a makeshift collar and lead, and (dreading the call I'd make to Kenny....), I took him home.
We stopped by Petco - the closest place that would admit a pet while I picked up dog food, a collar and a stake-out cable. Then I raced home to get this bewildered but mannerly older dog set up in the back yard before I prepped the house for hula class.
Our back yard isn't fenced, so I linked the dog, which I've nicknamed "Franklin" (short for "That Poor Cocker Spanial Someone Dumped Off Franklin Canyon Road") to one cable of our long clothes line. This limits the ways he can get tangled, and it gives him a bit more room to maneuver. It's not perfect, but it beats tangling with speeding cars.I filled a bucket with water, and tied it to the clothes line post so he couldn't tip it over. I grabbed a spare cat food bowl and filled it with dry food. I found some carpet remnants and threw them down over a pile of leaves. He'd have plenty of shade from the shrubs and trees. I couldn't do much about his solitude, but one of the neighbor's cats came over and decided to keep him company for a while.
I have notified Contra Costa Animal Services, including the shelters in Martinez and Pinole. I am trying to reach every animal rescue service that will deal directly with the public. I have put up 20 flyers along Franklin Canyon Road, in case he’s really lost - in case I misinterpreted what I saw on that road. It could be he still has family frantically looking for him.
It's obvious that at one time, this dog had a loving home with people who cared for him.
First off, he's neutered. Caring, responsible owners do this. Negligent ones don't.
His teeth are fairly white for an older dog. He seems to prefer canned food to dry - he picks at the dry dog food, but devours any canned food left behind by the yard cats. Granted, he's smaller than the German shepherds I'm used to, but it seems to me that it's the more caring owners who pay the extra for canned food for their dogs. And, since some dry food tends to clean dog teeth, but canned food doesn't, this suggests that someone had this dog's teeth cleaned professionally periodically.
Except for his dewclaws, his toes seem trimmed.
And he's been handled a lot in the past. When I gave him a vigorous scrubbing and then trimmed the mats from his fur, he handled it all politely with no fuss whatsoever. Not every dog tolerates baths and scissor-encounters with such grace.
He’s well-mannered and nicely trained. He sits, comes and shakes hands on command. On a leash, he walks fairly nicely “at heel” – no lugging or lunging at all. And I'm picky about a dog being obedient on a leash.The only "misbehavior" I've spotted is something others clearly permitted him to do, so he's only learning now that some folks don't like this: He has been allowed to jump up on people – not hopping around, but putting his paws on your thighs as he stands to greet someone. Since my experience is with German shepherds, I never let our dogs do this. So, I've been correcting him - and he's getting the message.
He's a cooperative gentle dog. He’s attentive but not cloying. He’s got enthusiasm without being rambunctious. He’s polite and gentle, in contrast with some Cocker Spaniels I’ve met. I wonder at times if this dog might have changed hands and fell into a home that didn’t give him the same level of care, since he was dirty and matted when I took him home.
I haven’t found any bad habits. Usually, he’s quiet - he’s not one of those nervous barkers or constant yappers. He isn’t so submissive that he wets himself for no reason – something I read about Cockers. On our walks, he doesn’t feel compelled to mark each and every spot along the path the way some dogs will.
He is lonely, though. Like most Cockers, he wants human companionship – more than I can provide at the moment. I work part time, and I split my time between my house cats and my boarded horses as well as doing outside of the home assignments. My time to spend just hanging out with a dog is limited.
This life-style change is beginning to tell on this poor dog, who finds himself staked outdoors with little contact with people through no fault of his own. He's bewildered and probably feeling a little depressed and definitely is feeling lonely. He misses having a family.
Because of the temperament of India, our 19-year-old "Dog Cat," “Franklin” has not been inside my house; he is living strictly outside. Staying in our back yard is better than running loose on the limited shoulders of Franklin Canyon Road, but it’s not what this nice Cocker needs.
He’d make a lovely companion to someone who has time to spend with him, particularly an adult who wants a nice Cocker-sized dog. He has been nice to other dogs we’ve met on our walks, and he is equally polite to the "Moocher Brothers," the neighbor's cats who consider our back yard their home. When I was photographing him, the Monkey hopped up into the window. Franklin saw him, but made no aggressive moves at all. I think he'd be happy with a family with established pets, if the resident animals gave him half a chance at fitting in.
If you can give him a home, let me know. You may email me at doublenickelranch@yahoo.com. If you can't, could you pass the word around and let's see if we can give Franklin the nice family he so richly deserves?
While Kenny's away....."So, how's it going since Kenny's in Portland?" they ask.The folks who haven't known us very long are asking how we cope when work separates us.
Those who have known us a long time remember this is the usual lifestyle for us, and that our years together in Dallas actually are an aberation.
Those who have known us both a really long time want to know whether the kitchen is surviving.
Since Kenny got a studio job in Portland, I have rearranged the furniture in my library and have started teaching hula and music at Concord (I teach at three recreation centers now!)
I also decided to work on the front yard. The brick planter by the front door finally is full of plants, making the three small flags (USA, Hawai`i and Oakland A's) extraneous. So I filled the "planter" under the front bedroom window with solid foam, and stuck the flags in that. I also painted it a dark green.
Under the same window is a window air conditioner that David Wallace, the previous owner, installed under the window because this house's windows aren't designed for such devices. I have often puzzled about this location for an air conditioner, because even in California, hot air rises and cold air falls. (Water, even in California, seeks the lowest depths and so tends to run downhill, a fact that some barn planners have failed to consider...which is why I had to move my horses from one barn where the run-in sheds flooded so badly each day that the stall mats would float and pile up against the stall door, which was put on backwards, which meant you couldn't get in to your horse. It doesn't take a scientist or engineer to figure this out. I'm neither. But I did get taught these facts of nature back in grade school in Texas....)
The air conditioner was beige, and just didn't fit in with the look of the front of the house. And even though it was low, it was visible. I decided to paint it dark green as well - just the solid outside part, not the metal slots that allow the air to circulate. But that side - the side that faces the street - needed camouflaging as well.
So I turned to my trusted friend, plastic canvas. That is such a great material. In the past, you could get it in an array of colors to satisfy all those crafters who use it to make yarn doo-dads. Now, for the most part, I find it in white and sometimes white and black. In an earlier blog, you learned that I turned black plastic canvas into a substitute "face" for my window air conditioner in my Florida cabin after it went missing after a series of unfortunate experiences with tenants.
I was introduced to the wonders of plastic canvas by my friend Karina D'Errico, who uses it in Tahitian costuming so that the elaborate headdresses won't give her dancers splitting headaches. Like Velcro and Stitch Witchery, this has become a staple at my house.
But, the only stuff I could find in the size I needed was plain white. So, I carefully spray-painted it dark green, making sure I didn't plug any holes. I fastened the sheet onto the air conditioner's back with paper clips, and just like that - with a little fluffing of the spider plants and ferns, the air conditioner no longer stuck out like a sore thumb. In fact, it resembled a planter, so I stuck some flowers on top of it. Just to complete the picture, I took some old plastic pots, painted them dark green, turned one upside down, turned the other rightside up, stuck more plants in it, and stuck it all in the corner, where a little more "decor" and disguising of lawn stuff was needed. In fact, it disguises the lawn stuff pretty well - I put some pliers for turning the faucets on and off and some clippers for trimming the shrubs inside the pots as well.The side tables next to the swing needed a little extra coat of paint - and so they're now a nice dark green, the way they once were. The swing has stayed its nice dark green, so I left it alone.
But the tables needed a little upgrade, and I found two Asian flower pots, one painted with chickens (goes with the "Little Red Hen" theme) and the other with horses. Had I found two of the horse-painted pots, it would have been horses all the way. I found some flowers that coordinated with the colors on the pots, and brought it all home and set them up on the tables.
I added more pots under the brick planter and added ferns. Now our ADT alarm sign has lovely accompaniment.
What has bugged me for years, besides the air conditioner's look, has been that expanse of wall next to the living room's large window. It was empty. We put a wreath there for Christmas, but some of the decor got ruined since then, and besides, Christmas was many months ago. So, it's been empty for a long time.
I got an "Aloha" sign that had it been small enough would have gone over the slate painted with a pineapple that has our name, "Mitchroney", next to the large bell that serves as our doorbell. Had it been large enough, it would have been put where the wreath had gone. Neither worked, so now it's on the front door. Perfect for "Ka Hale Hula" - "The Hula House." But...still...that space was blank.
Now, those of you who live in Florida will know what I mean by a "Periwinkle House." It's one of those small homes on the beach side. They usually have Spanish bayonets with the tips trimmed (at one time, when colorful foam egg cartons were the rage, you'd make flowers out of the egg cartons and stick them on the bayonet tips to ward folks away from plunging their eyes onto the thorns and to make the yard look like it was full of flowers)...and these Spanish bayonets would grow on either side of a huge coquina rock boulder, which is another important part of beachside landscaping. These little houses, all flat-roofed and usually made of cinderblock and painted in pastels, would have a similar space on which the owners would have put a plaster seashell, sea horse or other marine-oriented sculpt.
Our house is not cinderblock - it's frame. But even the lapboard makes the house look like it's cinderblock. It's pastel. It's flat-roofed. And everyone who sees it asks Kenny, "How in the world did you find a Florida house in California?? Only you could do that!" So, I knew what was needed - I just didn't know where to find the decor I wanted.I finally ended up at Pier One, after scouring all sorts of yard supply places and World Market. On sale - two metal sea turtles. For less than $25, I could fill in the gap!
I brought them home and painted them dark green. But when I hung them up, they still looked like dead sea turtles mounted on the wall. So, I took them down, and taking paint that's similar to the house color of seafoam green, I accented the shells and gave them "eyes," and put 'em back up. The artsy-er turtles looked just right!
No, I didn't put bandanas on 'em or give them ninja weapons, although some of you know we did work for THOSE Turtles for a while! But there are two of 'em - one for Kenny, one for me.
The "naked ladies" pink lilies are in full bloom, and I've added Confederate jasmine and pittisporum to fill in the planter next to the street. I've moved a small tree out there so that when it grows, it'll help shade the yard and possibly keep the front lawn greener.
I've figured out how to run the riding mower (I usually got to do that every 2 years, not often enough to remember the tricks), so the lawn is now a proper height. Too much stuff is on top of the weed whacker, so I'm learning to guide the left side of the riding mower to handle most of the trim - I'm getting good at that!
Of course, there's the indoor stuff:
1 - I've caught one pot holder on fire.2 - I tried to make pancakes and mostly succeeded the first time and utterly failed the second. The resulting mess was tasty, but looked more like a side of mush or Tater Tots instead of a pancake.(The Monkey still comes into the kitchen when someone (me) goes in there, but instead of the usual hopeful "What's cookin'? Anything for a Monkey??" expression, he now wears a worried face that suggests that I should teach him - just in case - how to call 9-1-1 or the fire department.)3 - The lever on the toilet fell off, and wouldn't jam back on. To replace it involved taking everything out, but part of the stuff that needs taking out is firmly attached to the tank and won't budge. So, until Kenny comes home and drills that stuff out, we have a really retro way of flushing that involves pulling a chain that attaches to the inside-the-tank lever, that is stopped by a clothes pin and weighted down by a bunch of metal washers....it took me 3 or 4 days to concoct this contraption, but the important thing is - it works!
And, so far, everything else is holding up just fine, including me!
Portland and PoniesAlong the sidewalks of Portland, Ore., are small metal rings where at one time folks would tie up their horses.
Lately, folks have been attaching toy horses to the metal rings, a little grass-roots habit that is a tiny-scale version of what happens in towns when someone decides an area needs artists to paint fiberglass horses, guitars, bears or whatever. Those large structures are scattered about so that folks will flock to see the artwork and then stick around to dine and shop.
But most of those toy horses in Portland are little things that are easily overlooked until you notice the first one. Sadly, they're also small enough that quite often, they're taken.
In front of one of the Northwest district's quaint and fun stores, Dazzle, is another horse. But the Dazzle horse is no little toy. This one is a little larger than Sway and Ginger, and sports real mane. At one time, a tail, too. But someone took it, and the bobtailed Dazzle horse is awaiting its return - a reward has been offered. One way or another, this horse may soon wear a new tail.
Meanwhile, the Dazzle horse is painted worthy of the name Dazzle. Red-earth brown forms its base coat on its left side; shades of blue are the background colors of its right side. Checkerboards, squiggles, rainbow curves and other artistic markings put even the loudest Appaloosa to shame. Of course, its thin mane and lack of tail indicate the Dazzle horse may have Appaloosa inspiration!
I drove to Portland to deliver more DVDs, books, clothes and exercise equipement to Kenny, who has his new apartment pretty well decorated. The only other time I was in Portland, I saw nothing but the airport - not even caught a window to any scenery. This trip, I saw lines of Friday afternoon drivers determined to cool off at the beach during one of Portland's more intense heat waves.
I cruised around, looking for a parking spot big enough for a longbed, extended cab Silverado with hitch. Portland is a town of small cars - I saw several Smart cars, and its Zipcar fleet is Mini-Coopers. I managed to score a spot 3 blocks from Kenny's complex, and considered myself lucky until we started pulling out my "deliveries." Later, we'd get the truck nearly to his front door. By that time, the truck had been emptied. Timing is everything.
Kenny told me his particular neighborhood reminds him of Berkeley. It has older homes that are now apartment complexes. Some of them are beautiful Victorians. And his area has little pubs and small restaurants, and lots of quaint, intriguing shops like Dazzle, as well as favorite chain stores like Lush. Being within walking distance of places like Lush is a dangerous thing.
I beat the heat with an Indonesian fabric fan I carried around everywhere. Portland was shocked by 100-degree heat that weekend, and that fan did the trick. I got a chance to see a little of Kenny's workplace, and meet Ric, who has done an excellent sculpt of a hula dancer. He'd worked on "Lilo and Stitch," and had taken care to make sure the dancer's position was proper. He's having trouble getting it into any galleries. The operators keep asking, "Who are you?" instead of looking at the artwork itself and realizing, "He's the guy who can do work like THAT!"
Kenny took me to the Portland Beavers baseball game. These Triple-A players are a San Diego Padres farm team with a lovely ballpark they share with soccer players. There's talk they may get moved and that PGE Park may be renovated into a more upscale soccer field. But for now, Kenny has baseball within a short walk from his apartment.
Most stuff he'd need is a short walk from the apartment. Three or four grocery markets, his workplace, all the colorful little shops, excellent little restaurants. A little farther along and you'll see Portland's beautiful Union Station and its Broadway Bridge.
Keep walking, and you'll see an entire city block that's Powell's Book Store. There's more to Powell's than meets the eye - you have to walk a little farther to get to its techie book store. You get a map of the store when you walk in. Take it. You'll need it. Rooms are given color names, and the decor helps you figure out where you are. New and used books sit side by side. I could have emptied out Kenny's bank account in a heartbeat.
The stay was too short, and nearly 20 hours of it was consumed during the drive. But the drive was fun, too. I saw scenery I'd never seen before. I knew I'd love Mount Shasta, and am sorry I didn't have time to adventure to Crater Lake, which I'd read about since childhood. I saw Black Butte and a series of shield volcanos.
When I take long drives, I don't stop anywhere for long. A fill-up here, a brief walk at a rest stop. No sitting down 30 minutes at a restaurant - I get to sit long enough during the drive. I cruise into a rest stop every hour to 90 minutes, and one offered free coffee from the local United Methodist Church, accompanied by sqawks and chirps from a flock of mooching Steller's jays. We mostly have scrub jays in Martinez, and I'd wanted to see the crested Stellers, because I miss the crested blue jays from Texas and Florida. Well, I saw lots, heard lots, took a few pictures of a very few - they want treats, not cameras, so when you point a lens their way, they wait for the digital delay and leave you with a picture of an empty tree branch or an unoccupied sidewalk square. They're worse than Hawai`i's mynahs.
The trip was fun, and I can't wait to see Portland (and Kenny) again. I certainly see the comparison to Berkeley, but I also see Baltimore in its look and feel - old industrial layered with upscale renovation and renewal. Factories and warehouses that have become homes.
I left Portland and took the heat with me. Packed it in the truck bed and let it drift away to join cold air and produce thunder and rain. Portland cooled down, and after a nighttime light and sound show, its skies have opened up in downpours.
Fortunately for Kenny, when I packed his goods, I also included an umbrella!
Another Era ClosingWhile I'm off visiting Kenny, the last horses will race at Bay Meadows.One of the Bay Area's oldest tracks - one of California's older tracks - and one of the places that factored early in the career of Seabiscuit, the venerable old Bay Meadows has been sentenced for demolition to make way for housing and other development.
This comes, of course, when newscasts and newspapers' financial sections are full of stories about foreclosures and folks losing their homes because they can't afford the mortgage payments. Those stories compete with stories about companies leaving California, and other California-based companies declaring bankruptcy.
I finally made it to Bay Meadows during the San Mateo County Fair. I got to sneak into the clubhouse, even though I had no reservation. I caught a few snapshots of photos of Seabiscuit in this more exclusive section of the track. Then I found a cluster of photographs in the main area of the track, and snapped copies of them as well.
I wonder where these and other memorabilia will go. I wonder where the hot walkers will end up. I wonder if anyone will save the stall gates. sI worry about the beautiful trees and plants that landscape the entrance - living things that may be destroyed along with the turf track, the light boards, the saddling area, the multiple rows of stalls where the famous and not-so-famous have stayed.....and the winner's circle.
I wonder what this will mean for California racing. And I worry about racing at other tracks.
Pimlico, Baltimore's wonderful track where Man o'War and his famous son, War Admiral, both won the Preakness, is in a desperate situation. It isn't surviving on racing alone. It needs off-track betting and slots to survive. Last I heard, Maryland disapproves. I wonder if it will disapprove of Pimlico closing. And again, I wonder what has happened to racing that this is even being discussed and pondered.
At one time, races were attended by folks dressed to the nines. Ladies wore elegant hats; men were in suits and ties. Of course, time was when folks wouldn't be seen downtown - any downtown - without proper attire. For women, this included gloves. I remember my mother gearing me up in those restrictive cotton gloves when I was about to adventure into Downtown Dallas. The only other time I wore such dress gloves was to church and to the prom.
Times change. And by Aug. 17, the "last dance," as it's being called, will be run at Bay Meadows.
I got a shot glass, a racer's horseshoe, a program with a vintage cover and a writing pen as souvenirs. I shot photos of the horses being mounted, being ponied, then being urged to win their races. It wasn't the last day, but Bay Meadows' life was drawing to a close.
When I went to Pimlico and saw the names of Man o'War and War Admiral, listing their wins of the Preakness, my heart skipped a beat. It skipped even more - nearly stopped - when I saw an enormous photograph of War Admiral as I climbed the stairs of this dear old track. That photograph was of War Admiral, but it looked exactly like my beloved Stradivarius. Logical - Strad was the grandson of War Admiral, which also made him the great-grandson of Man o'War.
Seabiscuit beat War Admiral (then 4, a year after he won the Triple Crown) in a long-anticipated match race. As far as anyone knows, it was a fair and square defeat. Either way, it would have been a win for Man o'War - "Big Red," my hero, sired War Admiral and was Seabiscuit's grandfather.
Seeing photographs of Seabiscuit at Bay Meadows certainly made my visit there poignant. This horse started as a loser, and never was entirely sound. He brought together three men whose lives were changed by working with this colt. His name became so famous that Hollywood cartoons often used it for their animated race horses. His life - so well-documented now I'll refer you instead to the book and movie about him - sounds more like dreamy fiction, especially the kind meant for young girls while they still prefer horses to boys.
But he was a real horse. And he ran at Bay Meadows. And I got to see that landmark track before developers make it go away.
Ka Hale o Ku`u Hoaloha HulaWe're the new kids on the block. We're not even a year old. As a group, we've only done two shows. We stay small, because if we grow too large, we can't all fit into our dance area.
We are Hui Hula Ka Hale o Ku`u Hoaloha Hula. For short, "Ka Hale Hula."
`Ohelo, at left, wears our travel dresses. I was inspired by Kalina, with whom I sometimes danced in Florida and who started me on my hula path, to have us arrive at shows in matching dresses. This is a simple version of the Mapuana Dress (named for the woman who shared the design with some of us Florida dancers.) The rest of us - Kamalani, Kealoha, Ku`ono`ono and I - are in our pa`u outfits, garlanded in maile, in preparation for our first number.
Ku`ono`ono currently lives on Hawai`i Island, bless her heart. My youngest student, she dances with great enthusiasm and love. The rest of us meet Wednesdays at my home. I still have trouble thinking of myself as the hula instructor. Still shy to use the title "kumu," even though my own kumu, Kau`ihealani Mahikoa Brandt, has called me that. I still think the title I use most, "alaka`i," fits best. It means, among other things, "guide," and that's more closely how I think of myself.
Since its tiny beginnings a year ago come August, "Ka Hale Hula" has grown to two classes. Besides these ladies, I also have Danielle (when she recovers from surgery), and my Thursday night classes that began with Manu Ku and Iana, and has grown to include Puanani and Lei Hoku. Some of these haumana have danced hula before; for others, it's their first experience.
A hui hula - again, I'm shy about calling it a "halau," because there are those who apply labels such as "kumu" and "halau" more strictly - is a great responsibility. I was born in Honolulu, and after my father's work took us to Texas, my parents were always reminding me how important it was that I was born in Hawai`i. When I finally got a chance to learn about hula, I started to cry. I would drive 4 hours each way for class until Kalina sent me to Aunty Kau`i, who was only an hour away.
Ours is a small group, but there's the open door, always room for more. Our logo is a blended lei of maile, lehua, one blossom that could be the yellow hibiscus that represents Hawai`i, or the `ilima that represents my birth island of O`ahu, or the hibiscus that is native to other lands - meaning that no matter where you're from, you're welcome; and the circle of the lei has a slight opening, meaning there's always room for one more.
I couldn't teach "choreography-only" if I tried. My haumana (students) learned this when I taught them "Hukilau" for audience participation. From the first motion, a "hitch-hike" gesture with the thumb, I said, "What does this tell you about the community?" And we discussed that. Then the next gesture, the tug to represent pulling in the hukilau fishnet, led to a discussion of the hukilau, how the song came to be written, where La`ie is, and so forth. We almost didn't finish this short hula! But to me, context is important. Older and wiser folks who are steeped deeply in hula support me in this.
We dance little shows, and we dance for donation. We don't do big productions or competitions, because those events begin to dominate a dancer's life, and I acknowledge that my students have lives outside of hula. Some are students, others are parents, and all have careers. I can only ask so much of them before hula ceases to be enjoyable.
But I am trying to create a Hawaiian experience for our audience when we perform these little shows. Our slogan, on our hui card, says, “A Little Bit of Hawai`i in Martinez.”
And for my dancers, for one night each week, I hope that it is true!
Somethin's Missin' Around HereThere's a commercial series currently being aired on tv. They're selling a product to help folks quit smoking. The ads portray folks struggling to eat breakfast at a diner, or back a car out of the driveway or get dressed for work without their nicotine fix. If you can do these things without a cigarette, the ads say, you can do other things without smoking, too.
I'm no smoker, but for once, I can sympathize. I'm stumbling around, trying to remember what life was like without Kenny around the house.Since April 1, 2004, and ending with his being hired in Portland, Ore., Kenny and I have lived at the same address. That nice stretch is an oddity in our marriage.
Seems as though we just get settled in, and work ships Kenny to somewhere far from home. Sometimes it's just a few hours' drive, such as when he worked in Ocala while we lived in DeLand, Fla., or when he worked at Disney and DreamWorks in the Los Angeles area after we moved to Martinez, Calif. And sometimes, such as the years he worked at Warner Bros., it's a continent away.
The most recent multi-year stretch started when I moved to Texas, where Kenny was working at DNA Productions on "The Ant Bully." Loved being back in Texas after so many years' absence. Most of all, once we bought our place in Keller, I loved having Kenny, the cats and the horses all at the same address. Finally, all the family was together, and for a while, it looked like a long-term proposition.
But, it seemed that nobody bothered to develop a promotional plan for "The Ant Bully," which was released at the same time a batch of other animated movies were set loose in the theaters. It made its money, but slowly. Unlike for other films, I saw no talk-show presence of DNA or Warner's reps, no guest spots from Playtone's Tom Hanks, or movie voices Nicholas Cage, Julia Roberts, Meryl Streep or the rest. I saw only one ad on ABC the day the movie was released. As a 23-year newspaper veteran, I knew it would take a miracle for the movie to launch well. Even the spectacular IMAX 3-D version earned money slowly.
(Lately, I've heard how the next generation of animated movies will incorporate 3-D "to tell the story better," as opposed to using this technique for gimmicky effect. Had you seen "The Ant Bully" in IMAX 3-D, you'd have seen IMAX 3-D used exactly that way.)
Well, no miracle happened, and nobody at DNA had a "Plan B" in place in case Warner's dropped plans for sequels and spin-offs. I often wonder about that. DNA had been in existance for 15 years, doing tv, commercials and, finally, movies. It had a decent number of employees. Its demise impacted us all - and more than us. All the employees had families. And we all had developed ties in Texas. Even now, my former associates in Texas - the horse club, the hula associates, Texas Motor Speedway, the motorcycle buddies, the family members and the many dear friends - tell me how much they need us and wish we were around. Guess nobody thought about that when they forgot to publicize that little movie.
We had to sell our beloved "Double Nickel Ranch" (our nickname for our 2 1/4 acre spot with a great Texas Rambler house and the prettiest, most perfectly iconic red barn you could ever own) and race for Martinez, where our little house awaited our arrival with WAY too much stuff from Texas in tow. We beat out the economy decline by hours.
Kenny returned with dreams of working full time at a studio in the Bay Area, or at least California. That's why we never sold the Martinez house. But nothing was breaking at the time. Fine with me - it meant he was doing freelance television work in his at-home studio. He could look out the window and see the BNSF Railroad that runs along our south property line. I could look into his studio office and see him.
He could make the coffee every morning. He could sit in his recliner chair and draw on his lap table, with adequate supervision by India, our Cat-Dog, who has loved him since the day she set eyes on him. He could be entertained by the Monkey-Cat, and from time to time run out with me to see Sway and Ginger at their new home at Synergy Farms.
We could sit together on our couch and sip coffee and share the morning paper. And we did all this and more, because we never knew where his career might take him - or when.
Now we know. Kenny's career has taken him to Portland, Ore., and he's there now. He's wrapping up the decor in his new studio apartment. He's found out that Portland is a "walking town," a blend of Berkeley and some of the quaint towns in Marin, with a good dose of Northampton, Mass., thrown in for even more charm. He's a short walk from nearly everything he needs, and a short drive to the rest - including minor league baseball and the train station.
Me? I've got my hula classes and ukulele work to keep me busy. I visit the horses every day, and I get all of India's and Monkey's attention, not to mention Sadie and Texie outside, and the neighbor's cats I call the Moocher Brothers, Flash and Snippet, who get daily bribes to leave Sadie and Texie's meals alone.
That stuff is part of my normal routine. But, coffee? Cooking supper? That's stuff I haven't had to do in a while, and I'm stumbling around like those folks in the Ex commercials. Trash day? How do I move those gargantuan containers, and where, exactly do the trash men want me to set them?
We developed a strong division of labor during the 4-year run, because there was no need for us to duplicate the other's efforts. Till now! Do I do things my style? Or Kenny's? I feel like the Benihana chefs who keep shouting, "How ya wannit? How ya wannit?"
I've been continuing our endless unpacking, and decided to put pictures up on the wall as I find them. I'm deciding whether I like a certain print for kitchen curtains. I leave the living room fairly empty so that my dancers have room for class and I won't have to keep shoving chairs around before they arrive.
Just as Kenny's calling the shots on his apartment, I'm calling more and more shots around the house. Eventually, it'll reflect more and more of me as I unpack our stuff and place it around the house or in back yard storage for future donations and garage sales.
It's fun being in charge of stuff. Doing things the way you want, putting things where you want them.
And I'm thrilled Kenny's getting a chance to work on another movie, and that he's found himself in a neat city that has plenty of charm, lots of good folks, and a studio that has become home to some of the other DNA folks, as well as a director whose family still lives in Florida. He's got plenty to talk about, and he's having a good time on this new adventure.
But I miss seeing Kenny sitting in his recliner, with Indy peering over his shoulder at his drawings. We're back to the usual way of our commuter marriage. But that 4-year run certainly was fun while it lasted!
Train Watching In MartinezThe BNSF Railroad runs along our back yard's southern boundary. We wanted this house specifically because it was adjacent to the trains.
Our Martinez house was our second home purchase, and our second home next to a railroad. The western boundary of our 5-acre farm in Florida is the CSX and Amtrak tracks, part of the old "Orange Blossom Special" line. Not just railroad tracks - a song, as well. Martinez doesn't lack there. It's associated with "The Atcheson, Topeka and the Santa Fe."Just as the previous owner, David Wallace, had done, Kenny chose to put his office so he would have a good view of the trains as they coast by our house. He aligned his art table so when he glances up and to the right, he can count locomotives and check on cargo cars.
Our rail-fan friends are eager to attend our backyard parties, but they can't live at our place full time. So two buddies, Jeff Ferris and Jeff Pidgeon, conspired to buy Kenny a computer camera so that he can send his view of the backyard train activity for them to see. "Train Orders" without the subscription.
Some time after we landed back in Martinez, Kenny began noticing he was getting Monkey Help in his studio. Monkey would curl up and sleep on his storyboard pages so they wouldn't blow away. Monkey would sleep on the cabinet next to the copier in case Kenny needed help with the papers spit out by the machine. Monkey would bounce up the pinball machine and sleep on its top in case - well, no reason, really. He just likes sleeping there.
During all this, Monkey discovered trains. And pretty soon, Kenny had a train-watching buddy.
But then, Kenny got work in Portland.
So, all our lives are discombobulated.
Kenny's settling into the Northwest Section of a fascinating city that's defined, in part, by its sections. The Northwest blends Berkeley with Marin, Kenny says, and has a train station and a minor-league baseball park, not to mention movie theaters, within walking distance, or at most a short drive.
I'm getting used to eating my own cooking and making my own coffee and doing the chores Kenny used to handle. I haven't burned down the house or set off the smoke alarm yet, and every Friday the garbage and recycling cans are ready for pick-up. The yard's staying watered (although I think the main sprinkler is off-kilter again, and I haven't learned out how to make it go on when I'm home to check it out. There are alternatives in case I can't figure it out. After having 4 years of uninterrupted Having Kenny Around The House, I'm gradually collecting a lot of those "alternatives to the way Kenny handled things."
The Dog-Cat, India, realizes Kenny and I aren't sitting on the couch with our coffee and newspaper, reading to each other, with me having breakfast at this time. The Dog decided some time ago she's owed a bit of my scrambled egg every morning, served on a section of newspaper. A dish will not do. And it must be served in HER window. She's 19, and we happily comply. But, it's different without Kenny, who usually sits near her window and hands her the serving of egg on paper. It's taken her a week to get used to the Kenny-less version of the morning routine. Then she returns to her usual schedule of sleeping and eating and soliciting attention.
The Monkey, who last year had to learn about moving across half a continent and into a smaller house that was familiar to all the other cats and me, but was quite alien to him, has handled this new change in lifestyle by becoming my shadow. There's no storyboard papers to weigh down. There's a copier that rattles to life and needs Monkey paws to help it deliver its printed goods. (No, it doesn't, but try telling the Monkey that!)
And watching trains without Kenny around isn't the same. Even the pinball machine has lost its allure.
Kenny will be coming home to visit periodically. It's Portland, not the North Pole, after all. And on his first visit back home, Kenny will prove to the Monkey he hasn't wandered off and gotten lost.
Until then, Monkey's taking no chances. Wherever I go, there he is.It's been a busy week, setting up the house so I can handle things without Kenny's help.
But once things settle down, I think I'm going to spend a little time in Kenny's studio, watching the trains. I think the Monkey would like that!
One Era Ends, A New One Begins....I'm not talking about the old era of train travel vs. the new. Or how planes, instead of trains, now dominate the travel industry. This "era" is a little more personal, and it ended with a train sounding its bells and disappearing with its two red tail lights disappearing around the bend.There's fun train songs, and sad train songs. Back in Texas, KHYI 95.3 "The Range" had its station next to the tracks, so when a train went by, they had to play a "Mandatory Train Song." One time I heard them play "The Orange Blossom Special" with the sounds of the passing train adding another dimension to the song.
There was a time when taking the train was a very special, exciting event. For us, it still is. Anyone who's taken a train and who appreciates that a train trip comes with a different time dimension than air travel knows what I mean. You can have a sleeper car and stretch out and enjoy the ride. And even if you travel coach, it's still more spacious and friendly than anything you've experienced lately if you've had to travel by air.
And the food's better, too! Oh, yeah - there IS food, and on longer trips, it's cooked on the train by folks who know their way around a kitchen!We're glad the Coast Starlight runs from Martinez to Portland, Ore., where Kenny soon will start a new job with a new studio. We were able to take the quick, 5 minute drive to our downtown area, park in the Amtrak station's parking lot, and catch plenty of train activity before the Coast Starlight pulled in from Southern California.
The picture you see isn't the Coast Starlight. I forgot to take my camera. It's a shot from the Martinez station, though, of a privately owned rail car being boarded by folks who got a chance to experience a touch of "old days" train travel. But Kenny said his accommodations were comfy, and Amtrak even provides a personal set of toiletries, including a towel, for those in sleeper cars. And, this time, he wasn't even traveling first class.
He shared bathrooms and showers with other folks in his car. He chose to have his own breakfast in his car, but got to have an excellent hot meal in the diner car at lunch time. He had electric plugs to recharge his phone and work with his computer.
And he had peace and quiet to work on his last storyboard for "Twisted Whiskers," a fun television series project that paid him money, earned him some appreciation, and reunited him with old buddies who knew his style of storyboarding was exactly what this show needed. Nobody expected him to inspire a few episodes as well, but his "Jack Benny" voicings did exactly that - and snagged him a few more storyboards to draw, because who else would qualify to do the job?
He woke up as the train passed Klamath Falls and Mount Shasta, and he viewed some mighty pretty countryside on the way to Portland.
But, like train songs, there are the happy songs, inspired by the excitement of a new trip, the powerful rumble of the locomotives and the romance of a transportation style that reinforces the thought that "it's not the destination (or how quickly you get there) - it's the journey that's important." And there are sad songs - songs about hearing lonesome whistles blow...or knowing the train is separating you from a loved one...or watching a train pass, knowing that as much as you'd like to, you can't board that train and go.
Late in the night July 9, 2008, a nice stretch run ended. The clock started ticking April 1, 2004, when I officially joined Kenny to live in Irving, Texas. We managed to stay at the same address until July 9, 2008 - even though those addresses changed three times.
April 1, 2004, was a day full of optimism. Kenny had been working at DNA Productions on "The Ant Bully" for a year. The job was to have lasted 6 months, but in short order, the company's owners decided Kenny should be kept for the long haul. At that time, DNA was Warner's darling. It was going to be Warner's version of the Disney/Pixar relationship, as it was back then before the two companies merged.
Warners would keep making movies, and DNA would do the actual work. I was back in Texas, where I could say words like "y'all" and fit right in. We were hoping that Kenny would become one of those long-term employees at a place that would keep him on board till he retired.But, nobody was watching the publicity campaign for "The Ant Bully," and too few folks even knew the movie was released. I saw only one ad on television, and that was on the day of the release. Unlike for other movies, neither the stars nor the execs made the talk show rounds to announce "The Ant Bully." It made its money and was critically praised, but DNA had no "Plan B" if Warners decided to cancel the spinoffs. No parachute to deploy when the studio's wings were clipped.
Kenny was one of the last to leave. Even after being laid off, he fought to keep DNA alive. But it wasn't his company to save. And there was no future for him in this industry if he stayed in Texas. So, we ran home to Martinez as fast as we could. We were one step away from the financial decline. Sold the perfect little Texas farm we'd bought in Keller - at a profit - and refinanced the Martinez, Calif., house when everyone said it would never happen.
And when everyone said, "There's no work," Kenny found it, first at Wild Brain and then at Mike Young studios. Bless their hearts.
Then he got the call from Portland, went up so they could look him over, and just as the tv work was about to end, got asked to join the team up there.
He's back in theatrical-release-movie-land. He'll be working with some of the crew from DNA, so he won't be among strangers. He'll be in a town that has minor league baseball, if not a Major League team, and the Amtrak station isn't too far from the studio.
Everyone says he's going to love Portland. I'm looking forward to seeing the place myself.
But, we've dragged the horses from Florida to California to Texas to California, and India, our "dog-cat," has been dragged along as well. The Monkey's acclimated to California. Texie and Sadie are happy in our back yard - they'd never survive in a tiny studio apartment (as our friend, Karen, their previous owner, discovered. Which is why they became our Texas barn cats and now hunt gophers in our Martinez back yard.) We haven't unpacked from Texas, yet. And, besides, I teach classes at three recreation centers and have my own halau (hula school.) We just got BACK here! So, Kenny and I agreed I'd stay put and hold the fort in Martinez.
All I know is that nice stretch run of living at the same address, wherever that address might be, ended. New friends are worried. They don't know that most of our dating was spent meeting each other at airports and train stations, and that in less than five years of our wedding, I was shipping Kenny off from Florida to work in Hollywood eight months out of the year. Before I moved to Texas, we added it up - we've spent more of our married life apart than together. Texas certainly helped bring that into a better balance.
Portland's going to be a new adventure. We're excited about the prospects. Portland's only a 90 minute flight away, and I'm told it's an 8 or 9 hour drive. It's longer - 15 to 17 hours - on the Coast Starlight, which is nicknamed "Star-late" for a reason. With my current schedule, I couldn't take the train for many of my trips.
But, I hope to make it up that way by train. The journey sounds beautiful and restful. Portland sounds fascinating, with rose gardens and enormous book stores and all sorts of intriguing teasers touted in its travel brochures. The end of one era always marks the beginning of a new one, and Kenny and I are quite familiar with a "commuting" lifestyle. With luck, some of the commuting will be done by train!
Movies for CatsWhen Kenny set up the movie screen in the back yard, and repaired the back porch fence, and got the machinery so that we could have Movie Nights periodically - another reason for a backyard party at the Martinez house! - we didn't know we were doing it all for cats.
We thought that we'd have a few friends over, like Jeff and Dana here, so they could watch vintage black and white movies and show off stacks of railroad slides.
What we didn't expect was Texie.
Texie and her sister, Sadie, were our barn cats in Texas. Like the previous barn cats before them, these two will be moved around wherever we go. Just because you lose your barn, doesn't mean you leave behind your barn cats! Ohana means family, and that means no one's left behind or forgotten.
When we brought up our previous barn cats, which includes India the Dog Cat who now is an indoor Grand Dame of the Martinez house, we'd bring them inside periodically and we'd all watch cartoons and train videos. Indy, in particular, would sit at the foot of the bed, especially for train videos. You couldn't see the train for this silhouette of a black cat perched attentively in the best seat of the house to watch trains.
So, we shouldn't have been surprised when during one movie night, Texie marched right up and began watching the movies. She gets a double view, too!
Kenny, in center, holding Texie, plugs his DVD player into the machine that projects the movie onto the screen. From Texie's vantage point (Kenny's lap...), she can watch either the DVD player's monitor or the big screen version.
She'll come visit us all, but in the end, she'll be in Kenny's lap, switching views from the closeup monitor to the on-the-wall screen.
Just like us - and just like Indy - Texie LOVES trains!
More Adventures in Cooking, or
I Didn't Burn Down The House...YetWow, check out those two loaves of Amish Friendship Bread! Don't they look pretty?
They tasted pretty good, too, although I didn't realize until too late you're supposed to add pudding to the batter. I left it out, and the two loaves still ended up mighty tasty.
And I didn't burn down the kitchen while making 'em. Although...the place was pretty messy with scattered flour and dough before I was done. Cooking "from scratch" is messy business, I've learned. You should have seen the Texas apartment's kitchen when I failed in an attempt to fry okra. At least I didn't set off the fire alarm.
Some of you think I'm kidding about my cooking ability. I wish I were.And, you'd think after making it through the 10 day ordeal of prepping the "starter dough" for these two loaves, I'd feel pretty good about cooking - that, perhaps, Amish Friendship Bread had broken the chain of unfortunate cooking experiences that usually prompts me to leave cooking to the microwave, where, so far, nothing exciting has happened.But, you'd be wrong.
This time, though, it wasn't the cooking part that tripped me up.Despite what you'll read about other folks keeping "starter" for years, I managed to kill mine off.
Reminds me of the brief time I got worried sick over my little Tamagochi toys and "killed" my virtual pet three times in a day.
This is too much stress! I have live mammals to care for - 4 cats and 2 horses, not to mention Kenny - and I ended up fretting more about beige glop in a plastic baggie.
Don't ask me how it died. It just did. But, I did get two loaves out of it, and managed to share its "starter" bits with some others. You know, folks who aren't entirely incompetent in the kitchen! So, the starter lives on through its "descendants," and I wish them well in their baking. Just...don't offer me a bag of starter in return! I'll only kill it off.....
Old PossumPossums in the wild last only a couple of years.
This shocks some folks, who must think possums live long lives, like cats or dogs.
They don't.
They live life in the fast lane - 13 days gestation, then they're born and must crawl into Mama's pouch and find a nipple that'll pump milk into their tiny, half-formed bodies. Some don't make it to the pouch; some don't find a nipple. They don't make it. Sometimes Mama gets hit by a car before they're old enough (about a couple of months - maybe) to make it on their own, or with the help of kind, knowledgeable humans. They don't make it, either.
But, happily, some do.
They're our own native American marsupial, same as kangaroos and Tasmanian devils and most other Down Under critters. They've got more teeth than other mammals. They scavenge, and that means they clean up the mess left behind by dead animals and litterers. They'll hiss and threaten with their teeth, but their biggest battle weapon is to lie down and play dead - rather convincingly, I am told.
I don't know about that first-hand. All the possums I've known, and those I've rescued and reared - not one ever played dead.
Possums - formally, "Opossum," from an Algonquian word that means "white animal" - would make nice pets if they ever were domesticated, and I can't imagine that would be difficult to accomplish. From 6 weeks (the earliest I've had one survive losing its mom) to about 3 months, you have a narrow window of opportunity to convince a young possum that you're safe to be around. By 3 months, Mama has taught her baby that we're pretty much the scum of the Earth, and baby possums listen to their mamas.
And, if you hear how some folks talk about little, innocent possums, you might think Mama is right. The usual reaction I'd hear to my little rescued charges would be, "Oooh, yuck! Big ugly RATS!" This would be after I knew the little babies would survive, and that meant I'd spent two months feeding the little critters every 2 hours. About the time I REALLY needed to sleep through the night, the possums were old enough to figure out how to eat Pablum from a bowl. And, since they don't suckle - they can't - you don't feed them with a baby animal bottle. You syringe infant animal formula into their mouths. You even have to help them go to the bathroom. Unable to control their own body temperatures, you have to provide them a warm place to stay in between feedings. Cheap, fake hair wigs from a hospital thrift shop and an old heating pad set inside a cage make good imitation Possum Mama pouches.
But, they're "exotics," not domestic animals, and you need a permit to have one. They don't do tricks, don't come when they're called. They sleep most of the day, and when they groom themselves - which they do often enough - they comb their fur the wrong way, spiking it up instead of laying it down nicely. Most folks hate the long, near-naked tail that, being prehensile, acts as a fifth limb. Their hands and feet are excellent for grasping. In fact, their hands have two opposable digits instead of only one, like people's thumbs. They like to be cuddled. And, when they're brought up indoors and away from carcasses, they smell something like baby powder.
My first three charges were Virginia, Rosie and Jali, and I raised these roadkill orphans for the Central Florida Zoo. They were 6 months old when I realized they were old enough to live on their own. Possums aren't the smartest animal to survive on earth, but these three were smart enough to prefer climate control and room service to the lure of the wild. There was no lure of the wild for them. Simply taking them from my house to the car involved putting them in deep trash barrels so they wouldn't freak out about being OUTSIDE!
Wild possums are supposed to love ripe persimmons. Mine had no idea what to do with the persimmons they were given. They preferred oranges and bananas and cat food. They're supposed to enjoy wading in ponds. When I turned my bathtub into a temporary possum wading pool, they were horrified, thinking they were going to drown in a half-inch of water. Possums are supposed to love being in trees. Mine clung temporarily with a white-knuckled death grip onto a very low branch when I thought I should let them indulge in some ethnic - species? - activity. They were nervous wrecks when I finally brought them back inside.
They were house possums, and proud of it. They showed me, all right. In the future, when I'd raise possums for release, I taught them about trees, ponds, scavenging and persimmons, and wouldn't let them get too attached. "Born Free" for American marsupials. But I'm not sure even those possums preferred freedom.
Virginia, Rosie and Jali toured Central Florida when the zoo had fundraising events, because these possums were completely tame. That was their job, even though they remained with me all their lives. Folks in formal wear were surprised they'd be allowed to pick up and hold a so-called "wild" animal that snuggled comfortably into their arms.
Unlike their wild relatives, my three house possums lived for about 4 years. During that time, a young man named Ken Mitchroney came to visit with a bunch of his friends, who had been warned, "Don't you DARE utter the phrase 'Oooh, yuck, big ugly RATS' in front of me!" He hadn't been tipped, and his friends suddenly started saying, "OH! We forgot to tell Ken abaout the possums!"
Then Kenny uttered his first words to me: "Oh, possums! Can I play with them?"
That's an opening line you never forget. When my German shepherd, Athene, expressed her approval, too, we got engaged. And we married in 1983.
This old possum, photographed through Kenny's studio window, was brought up in California the more conventional way, by his own mother. I don't know how long he'd been hanging around our house. Usually, he'd wait until all the humans were asleep before he'd clean up the cat food left behind by Texie, Sadie and next door's Moocher Brothers and drink from multiple water bowls under Kenny's studio window.
He must have seen that we were pretty good people, and so his trips to the leftover food and water started coming more frequently. We figured we were his main food source. He moved very slowly, like elderly possums do. We would hear him drinking the water, and he seemed to be a very thirsty possum. So, whether it was convenience for an old possum, or his understanding he had nothing to fear from us, he became a more frequent visitor.
Apparently he camped out in our back yard, hiding under the shelter of our Iron Garden and boxes of Stuff We Will Sort Through One Day.He's gone now.
It prompted Kenny to have to clean the scent of death out what's left of his Chevy truck project. We were worried that it might have been one of the yard cats. We're still sad, but not surprised, that instead it was the Old Possum. Kenny buried him in the back yard.
That's all we ever called him, "Old Possum." We didn't try to adopt Old Possum or change Old Possum's ways. We just wanted to provide for this elderly possum while he hung around our place. Hadn't had a yard possum since Riley hung around our Texas place after we got him hale and hearty after his rough beginning that included shock and a sprained leg.
We have raccoon footprints on our Martinez back porch occasionally. And one movie night, a skunk decided to join our friends and Texie on the porch. Its appearance might have ended the party at other houses, but we all left each other alone and had a peaceable time watching movies and chowing down on munchies.
But I'm gonna miss Old Possum.
Thanks for the Memories, Joe!So, there's Country Joe, playing wonderful music, and the banner above his head proclaims the goal we tried to achieve. We did it, and as you read on down (or if you stopped by this site before), you know I got to be one of the 2052 that made the gig at Todos Santos in Concord, Calif., July 1.
Joe stood to play his six string and 12 string guitars, but he took a bit of time to sit and slide a bottleneck over the strings, playing one guitar lap-steel style. It was beautiful, and I think this probably was my favorite part of the entire event.
In case you were wondering, we actually did spell "F-I-S-H." Joe teased us all (plus those handling the live feed to KPIX, the Channel 5 CBS affiliate station) by calling out earlier, "Gimme an F!" The crowd responded with a loud echo of the letter. But Joe stopped there, laughing. Those of you who remember Country Joe and the Fish days will know the next letter he used to call for wasn't an "I."
The picture above shows you my view of the event that eventually was labeled "Concordstock." I also heard it called "Concordfest" as well. But then, Country Joe was at the original Woodstock, so "Concordstock" was printed on the tee shirts we earned by showing up to play and sing.I have no preference in a name for this call-to-strings to break the world record. Tuesday night, it wasn't about a name....it was about numbers, and we had 'em to spare.
But more than name and numbers, the event sparked a lovely cameraderie, a peek into the past when folks were really nice to each other, welcoming others in to a circle. The time from Woodstock to Altamont was pretty short. But it was a pretty cool time to experience.Some say if you remember the '60s, you weren't there.
Back then, I didn't like the taste of alcohol, didn't see the sense in conventional hard drugs and I didn't have 3 days to take an acid trip. They worked it down to 8 hours, but if I had had 8 hours to spend on a single thing, it woulda been sleep. I was in college, and wasn't living on my parents' money. We'd hit Florida in '64, broke as could be, and we were still recuperating. I was paying my way through college, and it was a 4-year marathon of work, study and classes. I was exhausted when I got my degree, and even then, I had to work that night and I missed my own graduation ceremonies.
I used to think, "If you could work acid down to a 30 minute trip, and I could hear what the color red sounds like, that'd be enough." But, they never did, and the hardest drug I took back then was chilled Dr Pepper over ice in a brandy snifter to heighten the fragrance. And jasmine tea, sipped outdoors while gliding in a swing when the orange blossoms were in bloom on a hot Florida evening.
So, I do remember the '60s. I'd head down to Daytona Beach's Main Street and get handmade sandals and sandalwood incense and beautiful incense burners and soft, cottony paisley-print dresses and tapestry bags. In my few nights off, I'd play at the Florida coffee houses and other venues, making a little money singing Joni Mitchell and Bob Dylan songs, and hanging out with some really neat folks who were nice to you and welcomed you into their circle.
I saw a lot of folks at Todos Santos who were around in the '60s. And they must remember something of that brief time from Woodstock to Altamont, too. Because for a few hours, it all felt the same.
Goin' for the Record!I didn't make it to Woodstock.
I didn't dare take the time off. I was going to school, working when I wasn't in class, trying to get my journalism degree so I'd have a lifetime career with a newspaper. A year before this landmark concert, I'd spent my last dollar on an all-mahogany Gibson accoustic guitar.
Not the larger one - that was $125, and outa my price range. But, I could buy the $99 one on time at the music store....and so I did. Hid her from my folks at first - they would have died to think I'd squandered my fortune on a second guitar (my first was a Japanese-made accoustic my folks bought for $22 at Woolworth's. Still have it. And it still plays just fine!) But....I'd wanted a good Gibson so my girlfriend and I could play the coffee houses in style. And I fell in love with that all-mahogany brown guitar.
Got it a black neck strap to match the guitar's accents, and later on, when I arrived at what then was Florida Technological University, I was given a black armband in protest of the Vietnam War. I tied it to the base of the neck strap, and it's been there ever since.
My girlfriend, Benita Budd, and I played the coffeehouses in Volusia County, Florida, and other places during our college careers, picking up a little extra money here and there. I eventually acquired more guitars, but there's nothing like that dear Gibson to me.
Fast-forward to 2008.
The Woodstock generation is featured in hair-coloring and retirement plan commercials. And my journalism career only lasted 23 years. Papers haven't hired reporters in years. Instead, they shedding staff 10 percent, 15 percent at a time. Now, they're outsourcing their copy editing and layout - even writing! - to folks in other countries, which may account for the unearthly screams you hear every morning when Kenny and I have our coffee-and-paper time. I read papers like Kenny watches movies - writhing at the errors and sins committed by folks who were paid to get it right.
I hadn't touched my guitars in a while. I've been busy teaching hula and playing ukulele with the Royal Hawaiian Ukulele Band. Taught ukulele in Texas, and formed a duet so I could play Hawaiian music at Texas parties.
But when Kenny spotted a promotional piece about "Concordstock," a gathering of guitar-pickers in Todos Santos park in Concord, Calif., I decided to go. The organizers wanted to beat the world record and earn a spot in the Guinness Book for having the most guitars played for a single song. We'd be led by Country Joe McDonald, and we'd all be singing "This Land Is Your Land."
It was time to break out the guitar cases and to remember what it's like to play 6 strings instead of 4.
Besides my Gibson and the Woolworth's classical, I've gotten an L.A. model (bought for me by Kenny on a whim and a trip to L. A. from Florida, back when we lived on our little farm), an accoustic classical Gould I was urged to buy by my friend Barbara Muller, a folk singer who spent the Bicentennial year gathering obscure folk songs on the Eastern Seaboard, and Kenny's father's classical guitar that Kenny should be playing, but instead kinda wandered into my herd of six-strings. Kenny got himself a shiny black Fender folk accoustic, and we both have Lace Rat Fink electrics.
But for this, only one guitar would do. My darling Gibson.
I dug it out of the one hardshell case I own. I went to town, wiping it down and oiling it up and trying to convince the old strings they should sound like new. I have new strings for her....they're in a box in a storage shed out back. I didn't know which box...or which shed...and there was no time to launch a full-blown treasure hunt. The strings wouldn't have stretched in time, and this guitar is picky about the strings she likes - LaBella Silk and Steel. Not the kind you just run out and buy. What she wore was what I'd be playing.
I don't have my old flowered bell bottoms. Wouldn't have fit in 'em, anyway. Don't have my old pirate-y peasant blouse anymore. Still have my love beads, but like a lot of stuff, they're hiddin away in a box in a storage shed. I went with denim with turquoise and agate beads. I taped the lyrics to the side of the guitar like we'd tape our lineups back in the old days, and I headed out for Concord.
The weather was nicer at Concordstock than at the original Woodstock. Since this was in a downtown, instead of out in the country, you had to mind where you parked. Fortunately, I found an obscure small strip mall parking space within a decent walk of the event site.
I'd signed up in advance, so I got a free tee shirt. I've got so many tee shirts in boxes in storage sheds (haven't I typed those words before, already??) that I'd hoped I could trade it in for a guitar pick they were giving away to those who signed up the day in advance. Turns out, I wouldn't have to trade!
Got settled in before we were to play. I'd brought the hardshell case, and I turned it on its edge, and sat on it as if it were a very short pony. I photographed the guy sitting next to me, and he returned the favor by snapping the photo that accompanies this entry.
A lot of the crowd were Woodstock-era folks. We may have accumulated years, but we've done it our way, as those TV ads proclaim. In between sets by Country Joe and Channel 5's KPIX Blues Band, a fellow named Dennis, who'd seen Country Joe and the Fish back when they played at the Fillmore, stood up and got us playing and singing songs on our own.
Another man, who sported a long white pony tail, played his kazoo that he'd hand-made from a Miracle Oil can and other hardware parts. It was time to wear tie-dye and flash peace signs. The only thing missing was the herbal "perfume" that scents most concerts. Instead, the air smelled vaguely of our recent fires, and more fragrantly from the food being cooked and sold at stands surrounding the park's perimeter.
Country Joe led a rehearsal, then after a short set, prompted us that it was our turn to sing. We sat or stood - I stood, with a foot on that sturdy guitar case that still had memorabilia stickers from back in the '60s - and launched into "This Land Is Your Land." We played and sang all the verses that we'd downloaded off the Internet in preparation for this gig. Then Country Joe sang verses I'd never heard. We were supposed to play a solid 5 minutes to beat the record, which had been held by a collection of folks in Germany who sang Deep Purple's "Smoke on the Water" who'd gathered to outnumber a collection of folks in Kansas, who had earned the record prior to that with "Smoke on the Water."
I don't know anything about how the song was chosen. Maybe it's because Country Joe has an album of Woodie Guthrie songs. Maybe it was because it was so close to our country's Independence Day. Maybe because Guthrie's folk songs were both patriotic as well as protesting. Maybe because it is a three-chord song that's easy to play and sing.Didn't matter.
All I know is that for 5 minutes or more, 2,052 folks strummed strings and sang along with Joe. And just to make sure we had sing the song for enough minutes, he led us in repeating the chorus several times, dedicating various repeats to Woody, to the organizers, even to all of us who participated.
Then the Channel 5's crew band, made up of cameramen as well as on-camera talent, came on to play a blend of blues and rock. During a break, we were encouraged to visit the vendors, but many of us jammed together, playing for the fun of it. Country Joe took the stage again to set his guitar in his lap and play it deliciously with a bottleneck. We got to hear "Section 43" and "Not So Sweet Martha Lorraine" as well as his tributes, "Janis," for Janis Joplin and "Masters of War" for Bob Dylan. Before the day was over, we even got to call out "F - I - S - H!" before he launched into his best-known anti-war song, "Feel Like I'm Fixin' to Die."
After the attendance totals were announced and we were happily applauded for setting a new record, I bought a couple of Joe's CDs and he graciously signed one in between signing event shirts and a guitar display. It was getting dark, but some of us weren't ready to leave. Small groups of guitarists gathered together and jam, and I joined up with one of them. Two had just gotten guitars last Christmas. I bet next Christmas, they'll be talking about how in less than a year, they'd participated in a world event, playing the same chords as everyone else.
And, I think, everyone probably got a fulfilled wish. A spokesman announced that the organizers had ordered an extra thousand tee shirts, so all the latecomers could get one. And a young woman began walking through the park with a huge bag of light-blue event guitar picks. She wasn't stingy - I got enough for all my guitars, and a few extra as well!
I think I need a bigger boat - uh, closetDuring this past week, I've seen all sorts of ads for those "Get Organized!" and "California Closets!" space organizers so that your closets and other storage spaces would looks so pretty and neat, you wouldn't cringe - not even a little - should your mama come to visit and take a peek behind the closed doors.Sunday ad flyers. Magazine ads. Even clips on television.
I finally took a close look at those idealistic closets, and I came to one simple conclusion.
Their owners must not do anything.
Maybe these folks lost everything in a fire or flood, and this is all they have left. If not, they must lead very boring lives.
While I wish my closet looked as neat and uncluttered as the ones in those ads, my closet also shows I have a life. Right now, in a mortal battle for limited space, are my Sunday clothes, my luau dresses, my Aloha shirts, the tote I take to NASCAR races, the tote I take to baseball games, business attire, car show shirts, the Royal Hawaiian Ukulele Band uniform, and the winter coats you'd think I wouldn't need in summer - unless you've gone into San Francisco in July or to a night baseball game at the Colliseum in Oakland.
I have one full-length Tahitian hau bark skirt rolled up in a sheet. I have, folded up in garment bags, a few dresses for movie premieres and fancy parties that aren't island-themed. On top of them is another dress folded up in a garment bag - my wedding dress that my mother and I made, patterned after Princess Leia's "throne room scene" gown, for less than $30. And, yes, I've worn it since, portraying Vulnavia in a "Dr. Phibes" costume contest skit.
Western cowboy boots and English dressage boots. A small suitcase full of English riding attire. Another small suitcase full of the vintage Aloha shirts and my mother's last, custom made Hawaiian holomu dress that date from the days my folks first moved to Hawai`i. Mixed in with them are two dresses I wore as a kid growing up in Waikiki.
This doesn't count the stuff on Kenny's side of the closet.
I started composing this entry when I heard the latest in an auto parts company ad campaign that has clearly targeted men. Garages, the ad contends (to cheers from a group of men) that a garage is not a walk-in closet for women's stuff. It's for cars and tools and things like that, the ad contended.
And I remembered how our garage looked mid-summer when we kept bringing things out from Texas. It looked like the picture. Three times over. By now, guys, Kenny's garage, for the most part, FINALLY looks like a real garage - very few "girly" things, except my bicycle. He's got his garage fixed up with tools and hardware and paint cans and a dune buggy chassis and car cleaning bottles and sprays, and a wire basket for shop rags.
But our closets are crammed - as are our storage sheds. There's still plastic tubs covered with tarps stacked in our back yard, stuff we haven't really unpacked and sorted. Yet. Weeding out the extraneous, deciding what stays and what goes, is slow slogging.
I was thinking about all this as I ran across another one of those "California Closets" ads, and sighed with envy. Gosh, I wanted my closets to look just like the one in those pictures. I decided to examine the pictures more closely to see what I needed to do to get closer to that goal.
Suddenly I realized, "There's nothing really IN those closets!"My closets would look just as neat and spare if I quit working in the garden [you gotta have at least one set of grub clothes] or never got involved in painting walls [once you spatter paint on a shirt-and-pants set, they're "the paint clothes"]. Or if Kenny quit providing mascot art for both the Oakland A's and the Baltimore Orioles [If I'm in a Fun Bird, we must be at Camden Yards; if it's Stomper, I'm at the Colliseum]. Or if Kenny never drew Rat Fink for the estate of Ed Roth. There's the barn-cleaning clothes [these also sub for house-cleaning clothes] and then there's the riding togs when I don't plan to spend the day working on the horses' paddock. It could be worse - I could still be riding in horse shows! That's a whole 'nother clothes category!
I also don't enter costume contests anymore, although I've kept our Chewbacca costume, my Princess Leia dress and a couple of other costumes that get re-used at Halloween.
Since moving to California, I've started my own hula group, and of course, we all need matching costumes - me, included. One "ancient style" costume, one hula dress, one "travel dress" so that once you see one of us, you know the rest are "with the dancers." Then, a costume collection that is my solo-show attire - one dress that has several different looks, depending on accessory costume items I change with the different songs. Those are worn only for shows.
That doesn't count the Hawaiian-print dresses and shirts for going to all the Bay Area Hawaiian events - and there are a lot of them! You gotta dress the part! Particularly if you lead a hula school!
Next time you see those lovely "Get Organized" closet designs, take a really close look at what's in there. Three pairs of shoes, a couple of purses, three pairs of pants, three shirts, a couple of jackets, maybe two dresses. And, apparently, that's for a couple.
Don't these people DO anything? Don't they GO anywhere? Where are their NASCAR tee shirts? Where's their NASCAR-level fire suit, shoes, gloves and helmet? Where are their blue jeans? Where are their crew jackets from "Toy Story 2" and "Monsters Inc." and "Tiny Toons" and "The Ant Bully"? Where are their A's baseball caps and Raiders jerseys? Don't they mow their own lawn and plant their own roses? Where are their "movie premiere" gowns? Where are their riding breeches and helmets? Or Stetsons? Have they no luau attire at all? Are those few clothes what they wear while doing their hobbies? Do they even have hobbies?
When I used to look at those closet organizer ads, I admired how neat and organized they are. I was disappointed that I wasn't one of those who finally figured out how to have "a place for everything and everything in its place."
But after giving those closet-pictures closer inspection, I realize, there's not a lot of "everything" in those ads. So of course there's plenty of "place" for the "everything."
Kenny and I are still struggling with not having enough places for all our "everything," even after yard sales, donations and outright throwing stuff away. We don't want to rent a storage unit, and we're still debating buying more resin storage sheds until we've gone through everything first. We're resisting - so far - the temptation to turn our guest room into a permanent indoor storage room.
This California house has no place for an artificial Christmas tree and holiday decor. It has no storage for out-of-season clothing. There's no attic for the suitcases - there's no attic! There's no barn with a loft for spare wheels and car seats or hobby equipment and crafts supplies. There's no room for my keyboard or Kenny's steel guitar. There's no built-in display case for signed baseballs or excellently painted model locomotives. Getting our closets, not to mention other parts of the house, to look pretty instead of overstuffed is going to be a work in progress for a while.
Sad to say, those organizer systems wouldn't be much help. We do too many things. We have too many hobbies. We have too many interests. We do too much of our own house repair and gardening and car maintenance. We go to too many places where "theme" attire is encouraged. There's no way we could winnow everything down to the limited number of pants, shirts, jackets and dresses those ads display.And that's okay.
I used to envy the owners of those pristine, almost sterile looking closets. Now, I'm starting to pity them.
For the Love of HorsesEarlier this month, Big Brown won the Kentucky Derby. He beat the rest of the field, including a filly, Eight Belles, who came in second - ahead of all "the boys" but one. Shortly after crossing the finish line, as she was being slowed down, she tripped and broke both front ankles, falling to the track and tossing her jockey.
While Big Brown's entourage was cheering his victory, Eight Belles was being humanely killed on the track. With both front ankles broken, she didn't have the chance that Barbaro had; with a bone that punctured the skin, her chances of survival with even one broken ankle weren't as good as Barbaro's....and he didn't make it after months of valiant effort.Earlier in the day I write this, Big Brown won the Preakness Stakes, the second leg of the Triple Crown. Our hopes are raised he can win the Belmont Stakes. We don't have a living Triple Crown winner, and this is the first time since Sir Barton did it in 1919 that we don't have a living Triple Crown winner.
I really want there to be a living Triple Crown winner again.
The television coverage of the 2008 Preakness addressed some of the discussions that have taken place in the two weeks since the Kentucky Derby and the loss of Eight Belles. Some points that were raised matched my own thoughts; some points caught me by surprise; some points have made me very sad, possibly for reasons you might not expect.
Some folks have emailed Eight Belles' owners and others associated with the horse, and some of these emailers have said horrible things to these people. Some accused the owners of being motivated solely by money. Some have called for the suspension of the jockey. Some compared racing to dogfighting, bullfighting and cockfighting. Some people identifying themselves as being associated with PETA rang bells in memory of the fallen filly.
I don't mind the bells. I have my Barbaro bracelet and my Barbaro beanie-pony (thanks to Cathy Vaughn!) We've lit virtual as well as real candles in honor of Barbaro and other racers (and non-racers) who have died or need prayers. But some of the other comments are unwarranted.Only interested in money? I think the Jackson family, who owned Barbaro, showed us how far owners might go to save a horse who has a chance. Eight Belles' injuries were a kind that we currently don't have the technology to treat successfully. A horse with one broken leg might have a chance if there's no bone protruding after the break. Eight Belles wasn't as lucky as Barbaro, and we know how that story ended. She didn't have a chance to recover, and ending her misery was the only alternative I could see.
I'm not saying some race horse owners aren't motivated by money, but if a standard racing plate shoe costs $75, why would Big Brown's owners blow $500 for specially made shoes, if they were motivated solely by money?
I see no evidence that Eight Belles' owners were interested only in money. Those who wrote cruel, rude emails to them were clearly out of line. Write the Jockey Club. Work to get the changes you want put in place. Take up the issue with state agencies that regulate tracks. Ring the bells for this fallen champion. But don't blast Eight Belles' people while they're in mourning.
The comparison of American Thoroughbred racing to bull fighting and other animal bloodsports outraged former jockey Gary Stevens, and I'm right there with him. Racing is not a blood sport, and each lost horse is mourned. A bull may be bred for fighting, but in the end, he's killed, and his body parts become a trophy. Stevens was right to be upset. I was, too.
PETA wants Gabriel Saez, her jockey, suspended. During the pre-race broadcasts, retired jockeys Jerry Bailey and Stevens examined Saez's ride aboard Eight Belles. Both concluded that Saez did nothing wrong, that they didn't see anything in his action or the way Eight Belles was running during the race that suggested Saez should have acted differently or that he could have prevented her fall or injuries.
These former riders now work for television networks, and in times past, if they saw something, they didn't hesitate to second-guess a jockey. But both men supported Saez strongly. The networks interviewed him for the broadcast. After answering a few questions, this young man got misty eyed and finally said, "I don't want to talk about it." Today was a big work day for him, and any race can injure a jockey so badly he's out of work. You don't get paid for not riding. Somehow, these young men learn not to think about that.
Eight Belles' loss is a sad tragedy. It's opened up some discussions, and it's renewed others. It's prompted The Jockey Club to commission a seven-person safety committee to review and recommend ways to improve horses' health and safety. I hope good comes from this. I hope all aspects of racing are examined for the good of the horse.
ESPN and NBC, the two networks providing the bulk of Preakness coverage, both had "round table" discussions about horse safety. The former jockeys, veterinarians, trainers and media commentators participated. And some of the things they said were quite revealing.
One issue was the young age at which racers are ridden and raced. I was surprised to hear a veterinarian say that statistics show that horses that are race-trained at 2 actually last longer than those who train later.So much for my thought of applying the "Black Beauty" rule to training!In that novel, it was proposed that trainers wait to saddle and ride a young horse until he reaches maturity at 4 years old. My primary riding instructor, Mrs. Pamela Woods, ran the experiment with her own filly, Pebbles. And Pebbles responded well under saddle when it was time for her to learn to carry a rider.
But, in racing, statistics indicate that horses that are run at 3 or later actually don't last as long in racing as those who run at 2. Those statistics were quoted on air by a veterinarian. Horses need to run - and train - so that the impact and stress can create stronger bodies. It's why Kentucky and Ocala are good breeding areas for Thoroughbreds. The ground has limestone underpinnings. Not only does this mean a good source of calcium, but out in play, when a foal is pounding the ground, it doesn't give. All that pounding stresses these babies' bodies. And, this kind of stress makes the foal stronger. Something like working out at the gym.
Addressing concerns that Thoroughbreds aren't as sturdy now as they were a few years ago, some of the trainers agreed. But other panel members also pointed out that horses, except for geldings, race only a few years, then are retired for breeding. Some of these horses breed for up to 20 years, and that means breeding doesn't "change" as quickly as it might in shorter-lived creatures, such as dogs or cats. The breed can be changed in 50 years, but 20 years down the road, some current stallions will still be fathering foals, throwing the same genetic material into the mix.
Furthermore, in order to be registered, Thoroughbreds must have real, live mare and stallion encounters. A Thoroughbred conceived by artificial insemination can't be registered, unlike with some other breeds. This is because The Jockey Club is a closed registry (if the parent horses aren't registered Thoroughbreds, then the foal or its future foals can never be registered as Thoroughbreds), and it's done to prevent the majority of mares in the breed being impregnated by a single stallion. The rule creates greater genetic variety, which is believed to strengthen a breed. Quarter horses and some other breeds not only accept artificial insemination, but also allow some other breeds of horses to contribute to the breed.
Some critics say the racing season lasts too long, although others pointed out fewer horses are racing, and that they don't race as many times as horses did in the past.
One legitimate issue the panels raised was that horses are undergoing corrective surgery before they are a year old, so they'll look better at the yearling sales. Others said that horses are being bred and conditioned not for racing, but for those sales. Some are concerned about steroids being injected into the younger horse to give them a better yearling sale appearance. If those accusations are true, those issues really need to be addressed - and changed.
Other panelists worried about increasing legalization of anti-inflammatory, pain killing or blood thinning drugs used during racing. I could understand cortisteroids as an anti-inflammatory treatment if a horse is recovering from an injury. I would not want to ride a horse that constantly is on cortisteroids, and I think those horses shouldn't be raced while they're on those drugs.
The non-steroid-anti-inflammatory commonly called "bute" is stronger than aspirin, but in that category. At one time, American horses would be disqualified if bute was in their system. The Kentucky Derby winner Dancer's Image was disqualified for having tested positive for bute.Princess Anne of Great Britain blames bute for the death of one of her horses, saying that he ignored pain and ended up shattering his leg. She wasn't racing. I think she was riding him in dressage at the time, a controlled, on-the-flat discipline. It has other stresses on the horse than racing. However, horses can absorb only so much bute before it causes other complications, and should be given for a limited time. I've used it under veterinary supervision, but should a horse regularly race on this drug? It's not a nerve block, which completely ends any sensation of pain, or any other feeling. I have mixed feelings about racing on bute.Lasix is administered to horses whose nasal blood vessels break during the heavy breathing during a race. They've been called "bleeders." Unlike humans, horses breathe only through their noses. The blood thinner is given to these horses to prevent the bleeding.
Usually horses that are being administered Lasix (and in some cases, bute, too) are noted in the Daily Racing Form. So, potential breeders should know whether a specific breeding candidate has regular pain or bleeding problems. The information is there. Of course, it would be better if we didn't keep reintroducing these problems into the bloodline.Currently, some races are run on artificial surfaces, and others are still run on dirt. California is switching completely to artificial surfaces. No panelist brought up switching all races to turf (grass rather than dirt). At one time, I thought turf would be safer than the less cushiony dirt, but I was told that there are more injuries on turf than dirt.
During discussion of this topic, one panelist said that a well-maintained dirt track was much better than a sloppily maintained artificial-dirt track. And most said that there isn't enough data to know whether the artificial surface is going to save many horses, or reduce their injuries. Trainer Nick Zito indicated he's unsure about the new surface, because it isn't well-proven. There's not enough hard information, and he isn't sure every track should switch to artificial surfacing until statistics show for sure that it truly is a better surface than well-maintained dirt. But as many said during the broadcast, he said he'd agree to anything that was in the best interest of the horse.
Some folks object to the whip the jockeys currently are required to carry. Jerry Bailey said jockeys are required to carry whips, but that he advocated not using them at all. He suspects most races would have ended the same if no jockey carried a whip.
Me? I always carry a whip. Mrs. Pamela Woods required it for our classes. It taught us to be better skilled handling the reins. It was used to reinforce our leg aids. Pat Parelli, considered one of the current resistance-free trainers, urges riders to spank a horse if he doesn't comply with a rider's signal.
Whips also are useful in pleasure riding when one needs to flick off a nasty horse fly, or if one is riding on a 17-hand horse in the Florida woods, where huge banana spiders and their equally huge spider webs dangle between the trees. When I started working Sway, I learned that a metal-end riding crop made a good, distracting chew toy. And, when we had to retrain him after a major meltdown, I learned that one crop, in particular, really made a difference in training him. It's stiff, so I can use it as a tool to push Sway's open mouth away when he forgets his manners; it makes sound, so I can use it to strike something besides Sway when he needs to be re-focused; it has a fluffy end, and Sway likes it when I stroke him with it; and it has a metal handle that, when Sway forgets that "People Are Not For Chewing," he sometimes finds slipped into his mouth like a bit. Thus reminded of his manners, he remembers to keep his mouth shut without getting a slap in the face the way some owners correct their horses.
Ultimately, I've observed that horses know whether you're carrying a stick - big or otherwise. If they don't spot a riding crop (and jockeys carry riding crops that don't sting like items I'd call "whips" do), some horses drop any regard they might have had for a rider.
I noticed in the past few years, most jockeys literally show their mounts the crop; they sometimes "fan" the shoulder area, sweeping it along the horse's surface instead of outright striking the horse; and when they actually reach back and swat they horse, they actually hit the saddle blanket rather than the horse's body.
Should crops be banned in racing? If they're used cruelly, then yes. I'd say that about using crops in any discipline. But, crops don't have to be cruel. They can be teaching tools that are simply extensions of your hands. A tap behind my heel isn't a swat or even Parelli's "spanking." I'm just saying, "Hey, focus here." My horses don't fear crops or buggy whips or dressage whips. I think I could carry a really long drinking straw and get the same response under saddle with these two. I've exercised horses on the longe line using a long blade of grass instead of a longe whip. The communication style was the same, and the horses easily "read" my cues. But, when Jerry Bailey said that jockeys would ride just as well without crops, I listen, because he's had a great career as a jockey. I always thought crops took the place of the way legs on other riders signal their horses. Jockeys ride with such short stirrups, I can't imagine they can use their legs to give many signals during a race the way hunt seat riders, jumper riders or dressage riders can, with our longer stirrups.
I am not part of the racing community. I love going to a race track, but I don't bet. (I shop there like crazy, and we always dine out there. But I go to watch the horses, not bet on them.) I'm a proud member of the Barbaro Nation, and I've been watching the Triple Crown races on tv since 1963.
My real connection to racing started with books about famous racers of the past, and then one day owning my first Thoroughbred, the great-grandson of Man o'War, my darling Stradivarius. Later, I would own Marshal, a retired racer who became a show horse, then fell on rough times in his semi-retirement. And I would own Sway the Limit, pictured above with Ginger, my Appaloosa mare. Sway raced in his native Florida.
I read C. W. Anderson's stories of famous racers. I found old books about old-time racers. Man o'War's biography by Page Cooper and Roger Treat originally was printed in 1950, and recently was re-issued in paperback. It has little biographies of Man o'War's ancestors as well as the Daily Racing Form summaries of his races.
If contemporary folks think today's training system and breeding is out of whack, consider how horses in times past were treated. Read "Black Beauty" again. Horses easily were raced 50 times or more, sometimes weekly, sometimes in heats. Some of the training methods were barbaric at best. Buzzers under the saddle pads. Drugs that would make you gasp. Cheating techniques that would astonish you.
Man o'War, usually rated as the top Thoroughbred race horse, was carrying 130 pounds by the fourth race of his career, in 1919. Nowadays, a horse usually carries that as a 3-year-old. In contrast, his competitors in that race, the Hudson Stakes, were carrying 109 to 115 pounds. Oh, and in several of his races, he was running against fillies as well as colts, which even today is a common practice in Europe. So much for the argument that Eight Belles shouldn't have run against colts.
When he won the Preakness in 1920, he was carrying 126 pounds (the usual 3 year old weight today.) But five of his competitors carried only 114 pounds, one carried 122, and only two carried the same weight as Man o' War. As usual, the Daily Racing Form said Man o'War "won easily, second and third driving." Man o'War won most of his races "easily," although some Racing Form writers also used "won under stout restraint" or "won eased up," and "second and third driving." His first race he "won cantering."
Man o'War didn't win the Kentucky Derby. He wasn't entered - his owner, Mr. Riddle, thought the Derby came too early in the season, and that it wasn't right to ask such a task of a young horse. He finally changed his mind in 1937, when he entered War Admiral in all three legs of the Triple Crown. War Admiral won them. Strad was his grandson, and the spitting image of War Admiral - but with a kinder personality.Man o'War was easier to handle than his grandfather, Hastings, but there was still some of Hastings' fire in him. Even War Admiral could be a handful. Had he been a modern racer, War Admiral might not have been allowed to run, because he refused to handle the starting gate and often would be started outside the new, alien contraption.
Modern racers learn to change their leads, learn to handle the starting gate, learn to handle airplane rides. They work out in whirlpools and treadmills. As one comment during the round table discussions pointed out, racers have their own personal trainers. They have their personal nutritionists. They have their own dentists. They get regular pedicures. If they have a fever or sneeze funny, their doctors make house calls - and are there in quick order. These are not neglected horses.
Some horses who run in lower-level markets aren't as fortunate as those who run in the classics. And there's the growing concern about what to do with retired racers. There are always more horses than there are homes for them. Some in the Thoroughbred industry already are addressing those concerns.
And tracks accommodate many others who have issues to share to the track-attending public. When the Breeders Cup was run at Lone Star Park, in Grand Prairie, Texas, I saw a group of women who were telling of Ferdinand, who won the Kentucky Derby with the "senior statesman" jockey Bill Shoemaker aboard. Later, Ferdinand was sold to Japanese owners who became disappointed in his performance at stud. So, he was slaughtered for dog food. He was perfectly healthy, but met an untimely end. I would like to think that had he stayed in the United States, he might have been turned into a show jumper, or perhaps an amateur-owner hunt-seat prospect, or maybe even a lovely trail horse. And I find it ironic that Ferdinand was slaughtered, while my own three dear Thoroughbreds, who were never stars of the track, would never face that horrible fate.
These women presenting Ferdinand's story, belonged to an organization that advocates for retired racers. Lone Star Park welcomed them and their advocacy, and when officials at the track learned more of what they were promoting, they gave the group a more prominent place to set up their display.
Why was racing singled out?
What about the 1950's fad, the "Big Lick" that prompted trainers and riders of Tennessee walkers to use built-up platforms and shoes, chains and soring techniques to "encourage" these show horses to exaggerate the running walk that made this breed famous?
What about some of the training that goes into training the American Saddlebred? What about the past, when Saddlebred horses' tails were broken and then re-set for a so-called "prettier" look?
What about the way some Quarter horse breeders developed halter horse prospects that looked like watermelons on toothpicks - big, strong bodies on slim legs and trimmed-down hooves? Those horses looked great in halter classes, but as soon as some of these horses were started under saddle, problems arose. This breed, known for its "cow sense" as ranch horses, its lightning speed at the quarter-mile, and its great versatility was developing a new and unwanted reputation as very pretty, but horribly unsound horses.
If the current crop of Thoroughbreds aren't as strong as horses in the past, at least they're not the holy terrors that such legends as Eclipse, a foundation sire, or even as recently as Man o'War's grandfather, Hastings, were. Eclipse very nearly was gelded - or killed - because he was so dangerous.
I never heard of a race horse being neglected so that his halter grows into his face. In the mid-1970s, I knew of two such cases in Florida, both horses owned privately. I've never seen an actively-raced horse with hooves allowed to grow so long they curl up like Aladdin's turned-up slippers.
Where I live now, I know of two horses, one so arthritic that some days I worry that this horse is lying down and unable to get up. This horse gets no treatment for this. Another horse appears to have an infection that no one seems interested in treating.
Previously, I found a neighbor's horse after it had fallen into a recess and couldn't extract himself. I got help, and we notified the owner, who was at home nearby. We worked, first to get him comfortable and to give him water, and then to free this horse and get him on his feet. Had he been my horse and someone told me he was in distress, I would have dropped everything to get to his side. His owner didn't do this.These horses weren't shown. They weren't raced. They weren't used in the ways that draw the ire of some activists. These horses were privately owned. Pets, not "commercial interests." But I can't imagine a racer's owner or trainer not checking on his horse daily, or biding his time while his horse suffered - and not exclusively because the horse is a "commercial interest."
Some privately owned horses get lucky. Kenny's first horse was owned at one time by a man who'd tie up the horse, get drunk, and forget for days that his horse was tied up without water. This lovely Morgan-Quarter horse, Buddy, was bought by a wonderful couple who eventually let us have him because they knew we loved him dearly. Buddy died at 34 and he and Stradivarius are buried together on our Florida farm. Marshal was 27, underweight, shot at, cut up, and missing most of his teeth, because previous owners had allowed them to rot until a dentist had to extract all but the front teeth, when I got him. If he hadn't been sliced up so badly that I couldn't put a saddle on him, I would have had to hand-walk him home anyway - he was covered in muck itch. But I got him back to health, and he became a lovely riding horse. You'd think that Buddy and Marshal would dread humans. Instead, they both were sweet and affectionate horses.
Some of the comments I heard during the Preakness coverage came from animal activists who said horses should be allowed to roam free. But roaming free isn't so healthy, either. The horses of Assateague Island are allowed to roam free until they're rounded up for the Chincoteague sales. But in 1974, Equine Infectious Anemia was detected in the herd, and only by human intervention and isolation of those affected saved the herd.
So-called "wild" horses are injured on the open range, and suffer during drought or from disease or from food shortages, and they face predators and fires. They don't have veterinarians on call. They die, and some die young. You just don't see it on television.
And many privately-owned horses in California - particularly the Bay Area - don't have the luxury of roaming free. California real estate, even now, is just too valuable. Most barns offer 12x12 foot stalls, some with 12x12 foot "paddocks" attached. Turnout is limited. I really miss my little 2 1/4 acre place in Texas, because my horses could wander at liberty on the fenced-in two acres, and we had yard to spare for riding areas. They could take shelter as they pleased in the 30 x 40 foot barn. And they were in my back yard. Once I knew we had to return to California, my biggest concern was for my horses. Fortunately, they're now boarded in a large paddock the size of our riding area. I wouldn't say they "roam free," and they're stuck on California adobe mud instead of our coastal grass pasture, but they're not stuck in 12x12 cells. These two are luckier than most horses in California.
Eight Belles tripped after she was being slowed down after a race. I have ridden a horse at a walk on flat sand and had him trip. I've ridden a horse at a controlled trot, and I've had him drop nearly to his knees. It doesn't happen often, but it has happened enough that I know that horses, like people, sometimes trip. I've watched Sway slip and fall flat on his side in a California arena. He wasn't being ridden. My world stopped at each fall, until Sway got back on his feet and trotted sound.Speaking of Sway, he loved the track. Some critics challenged those of us who look at a horse and say, "Wow, he really loves racing." But, I saw Big Brown just prior to being led onto the track, and then in the post parade. He's a ham. He hears the sound of cameras, and he poses. I noticed it. So did some of the broadcasters. And when he stepped out on the track for the post parade, his ears were up and he had a bounce to his step. He wasn't acting up at all. He was a happy horse, full of enthusiasm for what he was about to do.
I never saw Sway race. And he was no Big Brown. He's got Nashua and Citation blood lines, and farther back, he's even related to Strad through some Man o'War connections. He was no great winner at the track before he was retired, but it certainly appears that he enjoyed his racing career. When he's around things that remind him of the track, he drops what he's doing to get involved.
Kenny and I noticed this when we pulled up to his stall at one barn. The Oakland A's were playing out of town, but the game was being broadcast, so we'd tuned in on the car radio. We kept the radio on and turned up so we could hear the game as we prepared dinner for Sway and Ginger. And - funny thing - Sway bypassed dinner entirely and instead, stood out in his paddock next to the car.
He was listening to the game! This usual chowhound ignored his dinner until the game was over. He ignored us. He ignored Ginger. He wasn't budging. He was riveted to the game.
Initially, I was teasing Kenny, my baseball-loving husband, by saying, "What have you done to my horse?" Then we tried to listen to the broadcast to hear it the way Sway was hearing it. What did this sound like to him? The crowd cheering, the broadcaster's voice rising as a batter sent a ball skyward....it hit us. It sounds like the track, with the cheering crowd and the announcer's voice rising as "DOWN the stretch they go!"
This became a big clue in dealing with my precious, mis-wired Thoroughbred. He LOVED the track.
The track gave him an orderly, regular schedule. The track gave him a job. He craves both. As a privately-owned, possible show horse, he got neither. He got treated like a normal horse, and that sends him over the edge. As past readers know, it's strongly suspected that he has some form of autism. Friends who deal with members of their family with autism say his behavior patterns are similar to what the autistic relatives exhibit. Life away from the track has been a challenge, and most of his past owners didn't want to deal with it. Until I got him, nobody bothered to own him longer than a year.
Ginger and Sway got carrots, apples and oatmeal cookies in celebration of Big Brown's win at Pimlico today. I always am grateful that my dear old Thoroughbreds got track training and that they survived their racing career. I am glad that Buddy survived his alcoholic first owner. I am glad that Ginger survived her first owner, who was starving her until a neighbor rescued her. I'm glad that all the horses I've owned who have faced abused (um...that would be all of them....) would not hold a grudge and apply it to me. They are so forgiving.
I can only hope that all the conversations about Eight Belles will stay civilized and focused on what is better for the horse. Racing may have led to some horses' severe injuries and deaths, but it also has backed research on horses that has led to medical achievements, preventive measures (my horses can get West Nile vaccines, whereas, I'm still vulnerable....) and fundraising for everything from Ronald McDonald House charities to Alex's Lemonade Stand to help children who are dealing with cancer.
I hope these talks lead to a better racing environment for horses, and that once this is accomplished, I hope we'll forgive mistakes of the past and move on to helping horses safely do something they really enjoy. Because, for many of them, they really do.
Artistry At WorkThe prettiest sculpture I think Madame Pele made so far is Diamond Head, "Kaimana Hila" and "Le`ahi," if you prefer the Hawaiian names. I grew up not far from this view, not far from Kapi`olani Park, not far from Waikiki Beach, not far from the Honolulu Zoo.
When I lived in Waikiki, you couldn't just travel to Diamond Head's crater floor and hike up the trail to its peak the way you can now. No, it wasn't because Madame Pele was dramatically redecorating this long-dead volcano with fresh lava. Instead, it was a military area, and when I was born, it wasn't so long ago that another portion of O`ahu, Pearl Harbor, had been bombed. World War II was still fresh on everyone's minds. My parents moved to Hawai`i at a time when folks were still talking about where they were and what they saw the morning of Dec. 7.
All that has changed. You can drive through a tunnel and park inside the crater, pay a minor pittance to help maintain this park, and climb your way to the top. Some tourist guides list this as a "moderate" hike. They urge you to take water, sunscreen and a flashlight. They fill you with horror stories about the heights, the 99 steps, the tightly-spiraled staircase, the tunnels with no lights (there are some now, but I'd still pack a flashlight). Sometimes you can buy tee shirts that will attest that you survived the hike, and even more often, you can receive a certificate that you made the climb.
I think the same PR department that urges you to brag, "I EARNED this tee shirt!" writes about the horrors of the Road to Hana that runs and twists and turns along the eastern-ish side of Maui's massive Haleakala volcano. At the end of this drive, you can buy "I survived Hana Road" bumper stickers and tee shirts.
Personally, I find the hike of Diamond Head and the patient trundle down Hana Road to be meditations and lessons in being mindful of your surroundings and becoming in awe of the beauty of Hawai`i. Horrors? I find places of wonder and history and loveliness there. "Moderate"? I'm no hiker, and I regularly make this hike in "rubbah slippahs."
When I look at any picture of Diamond Head, this iconic image of Hawai`i, I think, "Madame Pele outdid her self when she sculpted this volcano." Haleakala on Maui is impressive, with its size and height, its many lei of clouds, its fascinating geological and biological features inside the crater. But I love the beautiful lines of Diamond Head, and I think this is her prettiest work of art.
Madame Pele is one of the few dieties that is never spoken of in past tense in Hawai`i. Modern-day legends abound concerning this spirit who is said to have dug the volcano pits from the northeasternmost islands, including Kaua`i, on down to Mauna Kea, Mauna Loa and, finally, the still-active Kilauea on Hawai`i Island.
Her stories aren't only set in Hawai`i's ancient past. Modern stories tell of a pretty girl or and old woman, sometimes accompanied by a small white dog, who mysteriously disappears. My father told stories of how she defended her lava floe when it was attacked by bombers, and my mother told stories of how an elderly Hawaiian woman refused to leave her home during an evacuation, convinced that Madame Pele would protect her - and sure enough, the lava split and went around the old woman's house, reconnecting later on its way to the ocean. My parents, as am I, were devout Christians, but they always told these stories with an air of "There's something there. Either you'll feel it - or you won't." During one trip I took with a fellow hula dancer who was making her first trip to Hawai`i, she set foot on the ground outside Hilo Airport and said, "This ground is alive! I can feel its heartbeat!"
Madame Pele is said to have brightly-colored eyes. The volcanic threads called "Pele's Hair" are a red-gold. She is said to have a quick temper and to be tempestuous. But, boy what an artist!
If you've been to Volcanoes National Park, you've been on - and in - Kilauea. No matter which drive you take, you'll see sculpted sights that will take your breath away, or send you into esoteric musings, if you'll simply take the time to soak it all in. I could spend a month in this park and would leave reluctantly, wanting to explore more.
I have explored Chain of Craters Road, pulling off frequently to let impatient tourists zip past. This road isn't a place you should rush. Not only are there many rare wildlife forms, such as the nene, that may pop out of nowhere, there are lava formations that clearly are sculptures. And what interesting sculptures they are!
I have photographs of what looks like a 6-foot-diameter coin with the very-clear image of a horsehead in the center. It looks Roman or Celtic. I have seen sculptures that looked like crouching lions. Others look like squatting frogs. I've seen a wall that some have described as looking like piles of writhing bones. I've visited a cave that looks almost exactly like an egg - which is interesting, since Pele's youngest sister, Hi`iaka-i-ka-poli-o-Pele is said to have arrived in Hawai`i being carried in an egg form in Pele's bosom. Across from this cave is a sculpt I photographed and passed around later at a powwow, asking those attending to tell me what they saw in this lava form. They saw what I saw - the head and shoulders of a white buffalo.
Clearly, it didn't take much imagination to "see" images in the lava. The sculpts are pretty obvious. Yet, buffalo and horsehead coins aren't "Hawai`i" things. But - there they are!
Even if you don't see these or other images in the great piles of cooled lava, it's fascinating to see its different textures - the reddish Pele's Hair, the smokey-clear Pele's Tears, the ropy, pancake-batter pahoehoe and the sharp, jagged `a`a. Look more closely at lava, and you stop seeing something that is merely black or dark grey or light grey. You will see a dark rainbow of colors from the minerals mixed in with what at one time was bright red-orange blood of the Earth.
From the beginning, I've had a special relationship with this area. My parents visited it before I was born. My mother was filmed at the steam vent that I visited many years later, still steaming away. My father and his cousin flew over nearby Mauna Loa during its largest eruption, just about the time I turned one year old - a special birthday in Hawaiian culture. And when I returned there as an adult, I was told by my kumu, Kau`ihealani Mahikoa Brandt, to say a chant there. The chant she suggested was "Aia La O Pele" - There is Pele.
Each time I go, I visit the crater Halema`uma`u and chant this and a few other chants there. And each time I go, I learn something new about "Aia La O Pele." It's as if each visit gives me insight into a line or verse. Maybe it isn't THE insight or meaning the composer had in mind when putting those beautiful Hawaiian words together, but it's a special sharing that brings this chant to life for me.
Later in the day, I'll reach the end of Chain of Craters Road and see what I can see at the places the volcano is most active. Sometimes it's just been a plume of steam. Sometimes the distant glow of lava. Sometimes the encounters have been a lot more up-close and personal.
I don't take the hikes casually - I check in at the Ranger's Station for updates, I pack several gallons of water and food for the day, and fresh batteries for the flashlights. I check in with the rangers who often are describing conditions to tourists, or letting them view distant lava skylights through long lenses. I'm not there to impress anyone with any risk-taking. But I've also never felt endangered there. In fact, I've always felt very comfortable and safe in what easily can be described as an alien landscape.
Lately, though, this place has been anything but safe. Sulfuric acid is streaming into the air. Volcanic ash is bursting out from Halema`uma`u Crater, near the very place I usually chant. Earlier this month, scientists speculate that some of the ash has been pink, an unusual color. I wrote friends that either Madame Pele is showing off her girly side, or she's joining the forces urging research into breast cancer. Since this latest activity, the national park has been evacuated at least twice - this includes the famous Volcano House hotel, where my parents stayed when visiting the volcanoes so many years ago. Such evacuations are extremely rare.
This unusual, latest development at Halema`uma`u was unexpected - although, who is wise enough to predict the behavior of volcanoes? Who is so in tune with Madame Pele that they would make predictions? So scientists are monitoring the new activity quite closely. I'd love to take a look myself, but I'm no scientist, and I'm not equipped to breathe sulfuric acid and survive.
There are those who have been caught by these fumes. There are stories of a group of Hawai`i Island warriors who opposed the forces of King Kamehameha, who united all the islands under one rule. King Kamehameha hoped for Pele's favor in his campaign, and this army was obliterated swiftly by a sudden eruption of poisonous volcanic gas. Just as frightening, there are old stories of men who spurned Pele's affections and found themselves chased by a river of lava that arose unexpectedly. Whether you believe these are metaphors or retellings of actual events, it's clear one should respect a live volcano!
Yet, when I visit there, I have an entirely different impression of the place and of the spirit of the woman who is said to have created Hawai`i's volcanoes and who still lives at Kilauea and Mauna Loa. Perhaps reinforced by the images of the "sculptures" I see along the various roads I drive while visiting the park, I feel like I'm visiting an artist in her vast studio.
As I sat one night watching sparks fly as lava dropped into the ocean, I thought of Madame Pele, not dressed in traditional Hawaiian attire, but clothed in welder's gear, working on another massive structure, surrounded by dramatic sparks and fire.
During another visit, I watched as red-hot, liquid lava began breaking through the solid, crispy black old-lava surface. The sound reminded me of glass wind chimes. I saw how the solid ground was being broken up into shards. I got the overwhelming impression of someone painting in watercolor, a wild medium that is managed best when it's still a little out of control. This was fascinating!
Then the thought popped into my head quite clearly, "Yes, but I am not painting in water!" I got the message - watched a moment or two longer, then began my long trek back to the parking lot.
Like the hike up Diamond Head, I found this hours-long trek, guided only by my flashlight to break the perfect black of a volcano's night, a meditation. I spent the walk back thinking about what I'd seen and heard. I thought about the chants I had done earlier in the day. And I was happy to have had a chance to see the artist at work in her studio. Le`ahi may be the work I like best, but her career is far from over!
Someone Else's Monkey Cat Needs Your HelpHi - Remember me? I'm The Monkey Cat!And I'm going to ask you to help someone else's Monkey cat, who's been hurt pretty badly, and the folks who helped save his life need a donation. Anything you can do would help.
Unlike me, this other Monkey cat was allowed to go outside, and after an adventure, he came home with a badly hurt leg. His owner recently lost his job and couldn't pay for the doctor's bills, but the Contra Costa Humane Society stepped up to the plate to help. [See? I have been paying attention to all the baseball on tv! "...stepped up to the plate...." ]At first, the doctors thought this Monkey cat had broken his leg. But it was worse - this Monkey had been shot!
The shooter got him through the chest, but the pellet stopped in his leg, shattering the bone. The damage was so bad, the doctors had to remove his leg! The doctors said the bones had been shattered so badly, the pieces could have traveled through his body, and that could have made matters worse for this poor kitty.
The surgery cost the Humane Society $1,000, which came out of its Emergency Medical Fund. Now its executive director, Bob Langseth, is hoping that folks might donate to help replace these funds. This is a tax-deductible organization, so you can write it off. And the address is Emergency Medical Fund, Contra Costa Humane Society, 609 Gregory Lane No. 210, Pleasant Hill, CA 94523.
I decided to crash this blog to let you folks know that if you read about the Monkey cat that got hurt, it isn't Kamalani Monkey Cat - I'm doing fine! And, from what I hear, this other Monkey is back home and recovering.
But we Monkey Cats need to help each other out. I didn't even know any other cat out there was named "Monkey"!!
And this Monkey has lost his leg, poor thing! If you can send a donation of any size, please do!
The Birth of PegasusI have come to understand that a laptop computer that is still trundling along in 2008 after being assembled and programmed in 2000 probably needs to be retired.
Or, as Jeff Ferris said as he struggled to get my HP Relic to do anything in a timely fashion, it needs to be taken out back and shot.
I got this laptop when I had visions of being The Hawai`i Specialist Travel Agent who would plan the best trips for anyone interested in seeing Hawai`i. The compuiter programs travel agents used at the time wouldn't work on an Apple, even with addition of programs that could interpret most normal PC software. So, it was off to get a laptop. We crammed as much extra memory as the little thing could handle, and then added the travel agent programs.
And 9/11 happened. And the usual way an agent earned her money - commissions from airlines, hotels, rental cars - virtually ended. And I learned that many of the folks I thought might be clients took advantage of an unlimited air flight program, owned time shares or condos in the islands, and rented cars or had one parked somewhere in Hawai`i. And the bright idea came to a crashing end. I stripped the travel agent software - best I could - off the computer, although I am not sure it ever completely went away.
I'm not a computer-whiz. I am a dinosaur. Don't know when that happened. At one time, I was pretty cutting edge. Now I ask techie-types to speak to me in English. I ask them to understand and be patient when things they say make no sense to me.
A couple of years ago, when the computer routinely froze up and quit operating on its battery, one of the Geek Squad told me, "Your motherboard is eating your memory." This could explain a lot - and I could start blaming my mother when I walk into a room and forget why I wanted to be there.
Then he said he was referring to my laptop. What this meant was half my computer's brain was gone, and replacing the missing memory would only be feeding the motherboard more num-nums. Danged expensive num-nums, too. So, I decided Mother Board goes on a diet. And I took my little crippled laptop back home and used her only on places where she could run off the power cord. And I learned to be patient, and not to multi-task so much on the computer.
I learned to live with her new schedule. Turn on the computer, go make a cup of coffee. Sit down, give her more time to wake up. Click on a program. Click again - she was daydreaming and wasn't paying attention. Third time usually was the charm, and she'd start trying to get the program to wake up. Time for another cup of coffee, because this was gonna take a while. Usually by the time I was halfway through my second cup of coffee, I had connected to the internet and could check my emails and patter through other computer-aided jobs.
Kenny would admonish me, at times, for spending so much time on the computer. Actually, a good chunk of my "computer time" was waiting for the laptop to puzzle out what I was asking her to do. If only I could have poured the coffee straight into the hard drive....but I understand that wouldn't help nearly as much as I imagined it might.
I knew she was slow. I didn't know how sluggish until I saw her snail's pace frustrate a normal computer-user. Jeff Ferris came by to help me improve my Filemaker Pro skills. He was the logical choice - he's been working in that program's department for a while. But then, Mr. Ferris ran head-long into the crippled laptop's deficiencies. I thought he was going to get jumper cables for the little thing after a while. Or toss her into the trash when I wasn't looking. He was incredulous that anyone could do any work at all on this machine - and I had professional, commercial assignments to complete. Later on, in a private discussion with Kenny, he laid it on the line - I HAD to have a new computer.
Enter Miss Dasha, depicted above, screwdriver in hand, at work at Kenny's garage work bench, bringing Pegasus to life. Dasha Clancy knows her way around a computer. She's a writer, a gamer, a rail fan and a very dear friend. And she's also a good listener - she really listened when I told her what I needed out of a computer. And she set to work planning a tower model that would replace the laptop and do the other jobs I would need done.
We chose the name Pegasus for this computer because it was designed to be fast.
Plus, way back when, my father made a wooden rocking horse for me when he worked at the Honolulu Kress Store. He started it before I was born, and finished it three months after my birth. He made it with a saw and rasp and hand-held screwdriver. He painted her himself, giving her a golden coat, a deep red mane (red and yellow are Hawai`i's royal colors) and a hand-fashioned flowing tail. I still have this treasure. She has followed me from Hawai`i to Texas to Florida to California to Texas and now back to California. As a kid, I rode her miles and miles for hours and hours. My father made her so well, I still can sit on her red wooden saddle and ride her. And her name is Pegasus.
Before Dasha started assembling Pegasus in Kenny's garage, Kenny and Dasha visited Best Buy and Fry's. "I walked around, following Dasha, and she pulled things off the shelves. And I bought them," Kenny said later. After the shopping spree, Dasha set up shop on Kenny's work bench and started building my new computer.
The result is a gleaming black tower with wildly-colored lights on the side, a matching glossy-black flat-screen monitor, a satin-black new keyboard, a satin-black mike and the later addition, three nice speakers.And, yes, Pegasus is fast. I no longer wander off to the kitchen for all those cups of coffee. No more sipping java and watching my office tv while while waiting for programs to emerge on the desktop. No more clicking an icon three or more times to get a program to launch. I can research hula songs, type up music lyrics, indulge in a little instant messaging (there was nothing "instant" about the old HP Relic. If you needed something swifter than standard email, you needed to bypass the computer entirely and try catching me by phone.) I can do this all at the same time, and instead of having a nervous breakdown and shutting down to recover, Pegasus says, "What else do you want to do at the same time??"
I've got programs galore - the full MS Office Suite set, an upgraded Filemaker program, one of the most intense Quicken programs so that taxes won't be such an ordeal next year. This year's tax ordeal was made a little more pleasant when I alternated two Hawaiian song sites with the Texas twang of KHYI The Range to give me background sounds I could enjoy while sorting through receipts and logging them in.All this would have been impossible with the laptop.
Pegasus has picked up the load from the laptop, courtesy of Miss Dasha. She imported the essentials - my bookmarked sites, my pictures, songs, lyrics, hula notes - all the stuff I thought would have to be put on disk first. None of our computers want to talk to each other as a network, but she worked around their stubbornness to find a way to make them network. It's a little more interesting than most networks, but this is a silly house, and it fits. And - it works. Transitioning from the laptop to this model has been a cakewalk compared to computer changes I've experienced in the past.
The laptop isn't entirely retired. It still works. It's portable - Pegasus isn't easily moved. I've stripped the little laptop of a lot of the stuff I had stored on her, to give her a chance at working a little faster. It's named Akamai - smart - because at one time, it was one smart little machine. And I really appreciate the long service this little computer has given me - particularly when my tech-oriented friends say a laptop is out of date in two to three years. Apparently this little computer has lasted far beyond its expected lifespan, particularly with a cannibalistic motherboard.
Pegasus is Kenny's present to me. It's come in good time - before Akamai's usefulness is over. But Pegasus the computer wouldn't have come about except for Jeffrey urging Kenny to get me a new computer - quickly, before the laptop dies - and she wouldn't be the wonderful machine she is except for the skilled work done by Miss Dasha.
"Please trim a little off the sides...."When our little farm out in the Central Florida woods gets mowed, the acreage looks like a park. When last I saw my little place, it looked a lot more like a jungle!
Not that I mind a jungle. I love a good tropical rain forest - hiked in Manoa on O`ahu, and loved every inch. Spent some time lying on my back, looking up through the canopy of leaves in the rain forest around Mauna Loa, and felt like I could stay there forever.
Our little place approximates that when the foliage gets a little "lush."It wouldn't be so bad if the plants didn't get so "attached" to us. There's a weed with beautiful dark green leaves and lovely little purple-pink flowers. If that's all it produced, I'd quit calling 'em weeds and start calling 'em "landscaping."But, they produce a little burr that must have inspired the folks who came up with Velcro. Unlike sandspurs and other stickers, these don't hurt - until you try to pull them out of your hair.
Two years ago, when Jerry and I were undertaking Phase One of "Rescue My Cabin and Farm," I ignorantly plowed through these things and came up looking like Sasquatch. It doesn't help that I have waist-length hair, and it didn't help that I'd braided it and pinned it up. I was ripping these things - and some of my hair - off my head furiously so I could leave to teach hula at Aunty Kau`i's class at Disney World. Oh, I left in time, all right, but only because I pinned may hair up to hide the burrs that I couldn't remove in time.
Fortunately, the burrs and my hair are about the same color.
We have pokeweed, beauty-berry, several types of ivy, a vine with pear-shaped shiny leaves and a vicious set of spurs on its stem, several types of fern, impatiens, elephant ear and pine cone ginger growing on our place, and some of those plants I like to leave growing. They really are "landscaping" (except for the vine with spurs, which I do allow to grow along the fence line - look! Natural barbed wire!)
But, too much of a good thing is too much of a good thing. Especially those burrs. When Cathy came to visit me during my latest trip to Florida, she brought her beautiful red poodles, Riley and Caitlin. They romped outside a bit, even though I'd warned her that my best weedwhacking had only cut down stems, not removed the burrs.
Her two dogs gathered up an excellent supply of these things on their fuzzy coats, and she had to spend way too much time combing out their "collection."
But, our new bush hog man, Mark Otto, brought his machinery in recently and gave the place a massive haircut. I'd told him that once the place is trimmed, it's a beauty, and he wrote me back in full agreement. The various wild inhabitants of our place gave him a show while he worked. Most folks, when they see our place, realize that this little spot of Florida is special, indeed.
We don't strip the place. There's plenty of trees and tall shrubs to provide habitat for most of the critters that live out there full time. We don't mow past the pine tree line toward the lake. In fact, we've only fenced the eastern half of the place. That's the "people side," and critters need to be mindful that people are there. Beyond the fence lines are the animal places, and people need to be mindful that wildlife has been occupying this acreage long before humans showed up.
Yes, there are alligators in the lake. No, you don't feed them. No, you don't bother them. You want to see gators? We'll drive up to the wildlife refuge observation area, andyou can watch them cruise the waters to your heart's content. Nothing to obscure the view except tall grass. Nothing between you and the gators except tall grass. The people and the gators are mindful of each other, and perhaps it is this total lack of fencing between you and the thing that could kill you that keeps folks from provoking these giant lizards.
[Pity that animals in zoos don't receive the same respect. I know a little about that, having been associated in the past with the Central Florida Zoo and its predecessor, the Sanford Zoo. Properly maintained zoos aren't cruel, but some of the folks who visit them are - or are incredibly stupid. The care I saw given to the animals at the various incarnations of the Central Florida Zoo was excellent. The proof is in the reproduction rate, especially among the large cats. Unhappy animals don't reproduce, and these animals were making families left and right back when I worked in Sanford.]
But, back to the farm! The land is gorgeous again. Mr. Otto cut down the noxious stuff, but kept the pretty things. You can drive around the place without fretting you didn't rent a Hum-Vee. You can walk around the place without developing an insulating coat of burrs. Our little place is a park again, with a pretty cabin to match!
Kenny's folks ran out this week to check on the place and called with their glowing review of Mr. Otto's work. "Keep that man!" Kenny's dad, Joe, insisted. If the photos Mr. Otto sent us are any indication of his workmanship, we plan to do just that!

Home Sweet HomeOUR DAYTONA 500 TREK
The 50th running of the Daytona 500 was thrilling! What a way to start the new Sprint Cup series for NASCAR! Ryan Newman coming through at the last minute, literally "Sprint"-ing to the front to take the checkered flag. And we were there!
An ad campaign had other drivers yelling, "NEWMAN!" when they had discovered he'd shaved parts of their heads had run a few years back, and since NASCAR fans have long memories, you could hear shouts of "NEWMAN!" here and there as the crowds left the stands.
That was the exciting part of our February trip to the Greater Daytona Beach Area.
But for me, it wasn't the highlight of the trip. That came as I turned down Lime Street and headed past the year-old asphalt paved portion of the street and bumped my way down the single dirt lane that is still Lime Street, down to my little place in the woods.
BACK AT OUR OLD CABIN IN THE WOODS
Those of you who are longtime readers will remember that two years ago, I channeled my fury at how badly my little 1920s-era cabin and its beautiful five acres had been treated, and launched into a serious rescue. I brought Jerry Conine along, and although I'd warned him this would be no vacation - wouldn't even be very much fun - I am not sure he's completely recovered from the 24/7 effort it took to salvage my little place. It was a herculean effort on both our parts, employing lots of "creative repairs" and, without Jerry's skills, it would have been an impossible undertaking. I took no "before" pictures, because they would have broken my heart.
Even now, when it'd be fun to see how much better the place looks, I don't regret having passed on documenting the huge splotches of Day-glo green on the bedroom walls (and the lovely old heart-of-pine wood trim), the 2x4 nailed to a wall for some reason, the hole in the floor that let you see the dirt below, the missing, ripped-out portion of the Congoleum I'd carefully installed the year before I moved, the missing portions of wall panel, the raw wires leading to uncovered light switches and overhead lights, the missing front steps, the collection of rotting, moldy furniture left behind, the stench of food left abandoned in refrigerators long unplugged.

Past tenants were supposed to live there, paying only their utilities, in exchange for taking care of our things. Instead they had left our cabin in horrible shape, and enough junk that I could have hidden my pick-up behind the pile we had hauled away.
But, that was what we tackled two years ago. And, two years ago, Jerry and I had the inside repaired and repainted before we left. Jerry even power-washed the cabin's exterior, and my only regret that year was that I didn't get the exterior painted and the fencing repaired.
That was last year's tasks, when I drove out solo to the Daytona 500. I wrangled barbed wire around the fence posts I'd installed back in '85, and I gave the cabin exterior a few coats of white paint. I'd reinforced the "saran" skirting around its base, and stuck solar lights into tent poles I had found left behind (no tent, just poles....) and turned them into "solar tiki torches."
Our trip this year was supposed to be our Valentine's getaway, not a heavy-duty repair and paint session. Finally, we'd get a chance to enjoy the place! Finally, Kenny would see how we'd brought the place back!But Kenny got a last-minute call to head to Southern California, so his outbound flight had to be re-arranged. I kept my original flight, which gave me a little time to get the place cleaned up and and ready for Kenny - and to meet up with Cathy Vaughn, my colleague and friend from back in the old News-Journal days, and to dance hula at Walt Disney World's Polynesian Resort's Ho`olaule`a, a monthly Hawaiian culture event. I'd participated in the first one, and it's always fun to return and join in the celebration.
It also gave me a chance to get new keys made. In our move, I'd misfiled my Florida keys. (Is that a pun? Sure! Why not!) I was able to copy Kenny's house key, but I needed keys to the padlocks and gate lock before I could enter my little house. Fortunately, Kenny's folks have a set, and they met me on-site so I could copy theirs.
I stashed my stuff, returned a pair of glasses they'd left behind in Martinez during their stay at our California house, and took them first to Wal-Mart for a key-duping session, then off to Bellini's in DeLand for lunch.
OUR REUNION WITH SCOTTY
Scotty, who runs this Italian-style deli-restaurant, had been one of the sponsors of Kenny's racing team, back when Kenny participated in the NASCAR-sanctioned featured division, Florida modifieds, at Volusia County Speedway. We'd call in a food order, Scotty would make the subs and pizzas, and on our way to the track, we'd pick up the donated dinner. "Will drive for food." Kenny's folks, Jeanne and Joe Mitchroney, and I were welcomed like long-lost family, and the food is as good as ever.
When Scotty learned that Kenny wouldn't be in till Saturday afternoon - Bellini's is closed Sundays and Mondays - he said, "Call us from the airport, give me your order, I'll make it up, and you'll have food to take to the track! I'll stay after we close!" Just like old times!
BACK TO THE CABIN
Unlike the past several years, this trip involved very little work for me to get settled in. I've made up an "Ops" book that remindes me from year to year what's where and how things work. Like, to turn the barn lights on, you flip the light switch down. Someone changed our barn light switches and decided backwards is better than conventional. Just one of many things that had made us wonder, "What the #??!!!”
As the old song goes......The Corvette is being sold this week. The Harley...the Chevy van...the Corvette. For everyone who made...this....possible....thanks. Thanks a lot.
How To Spot A Monkey-Free HouseThe photo, of course, is our house, and by now, you know it's not a Monkey-Free House! But, we saw lots of them this Christmas season!Before folks started pulling down their outdoor lights, Kenny and I moseyed around the area neighborhoods to see how everyone else decorated for Christmas.
My favorite was the house next to Synergy Farms, where Sway and Ginger live. On most days, this house is known for its pirate ship in the back yard, a gorgeous structure made by the home's owners, using scrap wood. He has a van painted in "Daylight" locomotive colors, and his house, in general, is intriguing and charming. Needless to say, from his lit manger scene to the giant illuminated candy canes along his fence line to his animated and lit horse and buggy, he's decorated to appeal to folks like me!
We also saw entire neighborhoods with lights, robotic-looking snowmen, traditional and innovative decorations, luminaria lining the sidewalks. Cartoon characters of all sorts meeting together. Flashing lights, twinkling lights, soft lights, garish lights - the works. Candles in windows. Snowflakes in windows. Dancing Santa heads in windows. Bears on snow skis. A plywood Christmas tree decorated in pie pans and retro, large Christmas bulbs - okay during the day, but spectacular at night. Yards of blow-up snow globes. Several ferris wheels giving rides to midway-prize sized toys.
As Kenny drove up and down the spaghetti-maze of subdivision streets, I began to notice the homes of families who probably were experiencing a Monkey-free Christmas.
A Monkey-free home has its Christmas tree prominantly in the window.These trees were beautiful. They were stately. They were elegant. They were not tied to the ceiling. Their ornaments stayed in place all season long. None of the friends of those home-owners were forming office pools on how many days before the Christmas Monkey brought the Christmas tree tumbling to the floor.....Nobody in those homes were documenting each night's damage in blog reports....
and I started pointing out the trees-in-windows homes by calling out, "No Monkeys at that house!" and "Monkey-free Christmas House!"We'd look - perhaps a little enviously - at those elegant trees, and then we'd laugh. And we'd speculate what shape our tree would be in when we got home from the leisurely drive.
Now it's 2008, and my New Year's Resolution is to dismantle the tree and try to untangle the knotted-up beaded garland, and to note ahead of time my bright ideas about decorating the tree so the decor might survive Monkey Attacks a little better.
Things like, "Put the longer garland up higher, so when he pulls on the garland, it's only the short strands he snags. That way, he won't impact the garland all the way up the tree." And, "Save all green twist-ties from the supermarket, and use them to fasten the garland and lower ornaments - and all raffia angels! - to the tree branches." And, "Put the antique 'Santa in a Box' ornament up higher, so that Santa and his box don't become Monkey Toys."
Of course, if I do this, next Christmas's series of Monkey-blogs will be shorter. Boring, even. It also shows faith Kenny and I have that 2008 is gonna be a really good year.
Because I'm grateful for the little fellow's antics. This past year has been one of those "character-building," "That which does not kill you makes you stronger," kind of years.
Times were, just to keep up the Christmas spirit this season, I needed the little Monkey Cat. To illustrate, I'll Monkey-skew one last Christmas favorite as I close the season's "Monkey vs. The Christmas Tree" series.....:
"Come, Little Monkey, Climb up the tree before my spirit falls again,Chew on the stocking,I need a laugh before I deck the halls again now....- And I need a Little Monkey, Right this very minute,Need a Little Monkey, climbing up the tree!That's right, I need a Little Monkey, Knocking down the garland,Snagging angels from the tree bough, playing in the Manger Scene now.He's in the fireplace - He's looking up the chimney for old Santa Claus,Look on the carpet, there's little spots from Monkey's ash-covered paws!Wow!- But Oh-Seven's been a challenge, and we've struggled just to make it,We very tired of fighting and of standing firm to take it,Tired of selling stuff we held dear, of choking down a new tear,Of putting precious things in storage, tired propping up our courage...--And so we laughed at Little Monkey, being very silly,Pawing down the garland, tugging on the stockings,Leaping from the mantle Onto swaying branches,Sending ornaments tumbling, Chewing bows off presents,Crawling into gift bags and pulling out their contents -YES! We needed Christmas Monkey NOW!"
Yeah, I know the last bit didn't rhyme, but it summarized Christmas With The Monkey, the 2007 edition, pretty well. The Little Monkey helped us wrap up 2007 and launch 2008 with smiles and silliness.And, I wouldn't trade that - or him - for all the pretty, picture-window Christmas trees in the world.
Presents for Pretty Ponies!!Apples and carrots and - watermelon! - Oh my!!
If you're a horse, Christmas couldn't get any better than that!
So, Santa, being a clever old elf, gave the elves a break when he planned for Ginger's and Sway's stockings this year. He let the supermarket and the farmers handle the production line for this year's pony presents.I've gotten them - um, Santa's gotten them - brushes and blankets and riding accessories in the past. Not that the horses didn't need them.
In 2004, the best team of cartooning construction workers in the world got these horses the best present ever. Kenny and I got them the Little Red Barn ad the Double Nickel Ranch in Keller Texas that year, but it took a team of DNA cartoonists to fence in the two-acre pasture so the horses could run around and play safely and securely. Now, THAT was a good Christmas!
This was a more modest Christmas for many of us this year, but everybody got presents. And horses are easy to please. All y6ou have to do is listen to them. And, my horses love treats.
At the supermarket close to the Alamo feed store, I found organic carrots. Do they taste better than "regular" carrots? I don't know. But the horses loved them! And the same supermarket had a variety of "baby" apples. These were smaller than the usual size. Sold loose, so I could pick two of several varieties in case they had different flavors.The final treat was a quarter-slice of watermelon. I'd read in a book way back when I had Stradivarius that horses liked watermelon rind. I saved some rind after Kenny and I had eaten watermelon, and put it in a bucket. I hoisted the bucket to his muzzle and asked, "Do you horses really like this stuff?" I asked. Strad plunged his nose into the bucket and didn't come up for air till every bit was gone. His face dropped 10 years, and his main reaction was, "Where's the rest??"
So, if they like rind, they like the rest of the watermelon, too, and so watermelon is always on the list of special treats.
Besides, it's themely colored red and green, like the baby apples were this year. The carrots? Well, they're still orange, but this batch was organic, so maybe that counts as "green."
Didn't matter. As soon as I could pull these things out of the horses' burlap Christmas stockings, they were "dinner," and a chomped-up, gobbled-up and gone Merry Christmas time.
As far as Sway and Ginger are concerned, you can keep the pretty blankets and the new brushes. The old, Hawaiian-print halters are fine and do the job. They don't care if their buckets are brand new or well-worn. Just keep those apples, carrots and watermelon slices coming, thank you, and we'll keep on being good little horsies so Santa fills those stockings the right way next Christmas, too!
Don't forget the Dog!!!"Hey, I got mine, too!" said India, as she nosed about the containers of various cat treats and sniffed at a Morris catnip pillow. She got fuzzy mice, too - as if she ever intends to play with mice, real or fake, again. But they're fuzzy, so if nothing else, they might make a good cuddle toy.
[As some of you may recall, she's nicknamed "The Dog" because as a kitten, she preferred the company of our farm dog, Pele Pono`i, to that of the other farm cats. She picked up Pele's canine habits, licking your hand to show affection instead of rubbing on you like most cats would. When we lost Pele, and moved to California with India and Mace, naturally, she was called "The Dog" to distinguish her from Mace, "The Cat." But the nickname had been applied to her long before we left Florida. And so, nowadays, the indoor cats are a Dog and a Monkey.]
She gobbled down the treats, and then headed for her fuzzy bed in the guest room. She and Monkey have side-by-side beds on my cedar chest. Next to a large window, the beds get nicely warmed by the sun. This makes both cats happy, and provides a place where they both can sleep in peace, with little danger of cat-on-cat (Monkey on Dog, actually) pouncing going on.
She curled up in her fuzzy bed, head resting on the Morris pillow, and settled down for a nice long nap that lasted most of the day. Happy Dog! Merry Christmas, Little Puppy!
I got loot!!!Apparently, Santa thinks Monkey's been a pretty good MonkeyCat this year. He got loot. He got fuzzy mice, catnip mice and several flavors of treats.
Santa's standards for "good" and "bad" must be different for cat behavior.
Monkey had a fine time pulling stuff out of his stocking and throwing and chasing the mice and gobbling up treats. If he could have stuck his head into the treat container...or if he could have simply crawled into it...he would have been happier still.
After all this flurry of activity, Monkey crashed for the day, reclaiming "his" spot under the Christmas tree once we opened all our presents. After all, we got loot, too!
Mele Kaliki-Monkey!Surrounded by presents that nearly crowded out his usual under-the-tree resting spot, the Monkey Cat peers out from below the Christmas tree branches and from among packages galore.
He had to put up with this inconvenience for less than 8 hours, and with that cute little smile on his face, I bet he knows that of everything under that tree, I would always love him the best!
From Christmas Eve to Christmas Day....Christmas (technically) is over for 2007, although if you subscribe to the "Twelve Days of Christmas" (which we do, because, once again, we're running late shipping and mailing....) the next few blogs will keep the Monkey Merriment going.
Kenny and I usually set the presents out and fill the stockings on Christmas Eve, giving Santa a helping hand...somehow Santa, with his huge to-do list, rarely seems to run late. He should write a book about keeping on schedule....
Everyone gets a stocking. Kenny and I have had various stocking incarnations since we first dated. I have no idea where his Han $olo stocking went, nor my childhood ones. Probably dissolving in one of our Florida storage sheds, sad to say. Missing those, we switched to Ninja Turtle stockings, his the fiery Raphael, me the studious Donatello. Those didn't make the trip to Texas, so I made new ones for us while out there. We found Raphael in our pile of California Christmas stuff, but Donnie remains missing, probably mis-packed somewhere.
Sway and Ginger also got new stockings in Texas, made from barn-appropriate burlap salvaged from horsefeed sacks. Texie and Sadie shared another burlap stocking once they became part of the household; India got a new stocking in Texas so that she and Monkey would have a semi-matched set once he joined the family.
All stockings filled to the max, and so many presents under the tree that Monkey struggled to slither into his favorite spot! Kenny and I turned on Christmas music and brewed up some holiday tea so we could sit and look at the blinking lights and the pile of beautifully wrapped gifts.And we speculated how long before the presents would get opened, or whether the bows would remain attached to packages.
True to form, Monkey promptly attacked Texie and Sadie's stocking, because it's burlap and smells of foreign places (like the Texas barn) and faintly smelled of catnip and other goodies. Just as promptly, I moved the stocking to the back door knob, sandwiched between the screen door and the wood and glass one.
Thus deprived of one "toy," Monkey quickly turned his attention to the gifts' bows, picking a particularly luscious red one for his first attack.Don't ask me how, but every bow stayed attached to its present, all through the night. No stocking was harmed. No fireplace screen was pulled down during a Monkey attack on the stockings hanging from its various knobs.
We awoke Christmas Day to the astonishing display of everything just as we had left it the night before. Another Christmas miracle!
A Picture-Perfect ChristmasIt all started so long ago in a barn...a stable...some say just a cave where animals were housed near the inn in Bethlehem.
The horses, Sway the Limit, my dark Thoroughbred, and Ginger, my red marbled Appaloosa, were grazing through the light fall of snow when I took this photograph. That's the prettiest little red barn, iconic down to its red paint, white trim, old Ford tractor, perfect cupola and running horse wind vane.
I always got the barn ready - cleaned, an extra bale of hay cut open and fluffed out, extra hay in nets on which the horses could browse if they wanted to come into the large hallway to escape a chilly night breeze. Christmas Eve was always special at the barns I've owned.
When I got this shot, I promised myself, "This'll be next Christmas's card!" I got them printed up and I sent them out, mostly to folks who never saw the little red barn or who never came out to The Double Nickel Ranch. And I've kept a copy for myself. I don't think any card you could buy from those companies that make Western or rustic or ranch-style holiday cards offers anything prettier than this!
Watch for Christmas Day Monkey antics. So far, he hasn't found where Santa has hidden his presents, but it's been a near thing. The holiday isn't over till the tree comes down (- unless the Monkey figures out how to do THAT calamity during the next few days!)
Meanwhile, we all hope you have a blessed Christmas, a happy and prosperous New Year, and may all your Monkeys be...um...well...---Never mind!
Christmas Eve, 2007Some legends say that on the stroke of midnight, when Christmas Eve becomes Christmas Day, the animals can speak in human tongue.
During the years I've had my own barn - in Florida for 12 years, and most recently for a few years in Texas - I would go out to the barn after the late-night Christmas Eve church service and visit with my animals. Not to hear them speak English...or Hawaiian...or whatever language in which I've been chattering to them lately. Nothing like that.
But, getting a chance to make a late-night visit to the barn became a custom back in 1985, when I just got Stradivarius, my elegant, 17-hand bay Thoroughbred moved to our little Florida place in time to wake up on Christmas Day and have a horse in the back yard.
Every little girl's dream. Sure, it was the same horse I'd had since 1981, but that wasn't the point. Strad was there. In my back yard. On Christmas Day.
And the night before, I'd gone to the barn late at night, as was my custom on any night, just to make sure he was safe and sound before I went to bed. Only, that night was Christmas Eve, and according to the Bible, Jesus was born in a place with a manger - an animal's feeding trough.
I can't imagine what it must have been like for a young, first-time mother, despite angelic assurances that her firstborn would be the Son of God. Birthing had been quite difficult for my mother; my parents had to wait 14 years for their firstborn (me); when my sister was expected, my mother had been hospitalized weeks before her arrival. If we can extrapolate from the Scriptures, Mary gave birth to her first child in a barn.
When I have a barn, I tend to clean it out late on Christmas Eve. Just a habit I acquired along the way. I fluff out extra hay, not only for the horses, but in case anything - anyone - else needs bedding for the night. Of course, had a young, expectant mother knocked on our door, we would have put her in our guest room, not out in the barn. But there are other mothers besides human ones, and other visitors besides Holy Families, and you never know who - or what - might need to bed down in a barn for the night.
My Florida barn is a continent away, and my horses, Sway the Limit and Ginger, are here in California at a boarding farm. Our Texas barn was sold this summer, along with the accompanying house and acreage, in the wake of our return to Martinez.
But, that doesn't mean we don't have animals in the barn.
The Monkey, for instance.
One thing I'll say for my animals, they are family. Even when they're not living at the same place where we do. I think half of Monkey's antics come about because he feels like he's participating in family activities - even if it's not the way we would prefer.
Monkey chatters all the time, so talking at midnight is no big deal for him. It may not be English as we understand it, but the Monkey communicates pretty well, and has a decent understanding of "people language." Even our guests get a chance, from time to time, to chat with the Monkey, and they soon realize that, at least from Monkey's point of view, it's a real conversation.
India, who was our barn cat in Florida and who has been packed, crated, flown, driven and otherwise moved with us wherever we went, was the same type of holy terror Monkey is now. She's grown up to become a saner member of the household, which gives us hope. But, she communicates well, too. A very particular lady now, she makes her likes and dislikes quite clear. And Kenny knows when 4 p.m. is - she marches into his studio, yells at him, and expects him to follow her into the kitchen and pop open a can of food. Beef, specifically, thank you.
Our newest cats, Texie and Sadie, are both pretty conversational, too. Relegated to outdoor life because their tortured kittenhood has left them incapable of tolerating indoor life, they actually are better behaved than Monkey and Indy. Sadie is spending Christmas in the garage, recuperating from a minor infection that will keep her confined for another week as she gets twice-a-day medication. She's handling it all like a trooper. Better than that. She meows as much as the Monkey chatters, and she purrs to reasure us that she understands that pills and confinement are for her own good. She was a dream to take to the vet's....in contrast, Indy at the vet's is your worst nightmare. Texie is just as sweet as her sister, if not quite as outspoken. I may not be able to see my horses in a barn at midnight, but I will be able to see my former barn cats late tonight.
The horses also "get" human language. It surprises me when folks are astonished at how much my horses understand. Horses may not live in our houses, but we work with them and talk to them. They're smart, and they live a long time. They'd have to be pretty oblivious not to absorb some language. In the past, many folks have teased me that I talk to them as if they were people, and that one day the horses will answer me back! I talk to them like they're family, because they are. And, in their own way, they do share the conversation - it's rarely a one-way thing.
This year, Sway and Ginger won't get a late night visit. At this boarding site, you don't get to visit after dark. It didn't occur to me when I got them settled into the nice-sized paddock that it would mean no late Christmas Eve visit. The new digs more than make up for this. Sway and Ginger get to be together. They're cared for by a veterinary assistant who owns the place. They are watched over by the owners of neighboring horses. They have a spot about the size of the Texas place's riding area to wander about as they please. They're 10 minutes from the house. Most of all, they're happy!
I love this photo of Monkey at the manger scene. No, he's not supposed to be up on the mantle. Yes, from time to time, we've had to count the figurines and pull out lambs, a shepherd and a couple of wise men from the fireplace below after Somebody And His Big, White Paws has knocked them off the mantle.
But, this manger scene is a survivor, and no harm has come to it this year. It survived my beloved Athene, the German shepherd who decided Kenny was The Man I Should Marry. When she was a puppy, she chewed up several of the figurines in the original manger scene. They were replaced with figures from another store, and thus the miss-matching began.
would be "mini-camels" for this display. One got his face chewed as well, so I melted other plastic things to give him a muzzle again. I added angels from another manger scene that had lost everything else - a flea-market find. The original set had no barn, and it took several attempts to get a barn that was approximately the right size.
Then, in our move from Florida, the manger scene was left behind, quite by accident. Stored in a shed. The various folks renting our place had agreed to care for our stuff in exchange for living there for free. They lived there for free, but our stuff suffered in the meantime. While clearing out the remains of stuff in the shed last year, I found this manger scene, brought it out to Texas, and rehabilitated it. The greatest damage had been done to the Baby Jesus, but with some self-drying clay, I managed to salvage the little figure. I made a new manger, too. Everyone got a new coat of paint, and last Christmas, I had my old manger scene back in place.
Prior to that, when I couldn't find this one, I bought a tiny set at the Sacramento train station and found a to-scale sized stable in which to house the figurines. That sweet little set is also on the mantle, not too far from the venerable survivor collection.
And, in the photo, the Monkey is looking at the venerable survivor Manger Scene.
It wouldn't surprise me if there had been cats at the Nativity. Only, not one this size, towering over the stable!
I hope everyone has a blessed and happy Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. For those of you who celebrate other holidays at this time, I hope those are happy and blessed times for you as well. May it help you stay connected with friends and family, may it make you grateful for all you do have, and may it be a season of peace and happiness for us all.Even Little Monkeys.

Another threat to the Christmas season....Just when you thought the Monkey was the biggest threat to our Christmas at home, here comes another, even more serious threat.Me. In the kitchen.
Cooking.
And NOT using the microwave, which at least turns itself off automatically. No - this time, I was playing with fire!!!
In ancient Hawai`i, the men, not the women, did the cooking. Only Madame Pele, the goddess of volcanoes, played with fire, and legends still indicate that she merely dug the volcanic pits - it was an elder male god who ignited the fires before Madame Pele assumed reign of the hot spot.
This division of labor, for the most part, takes place in our home, but not for anything cultural or symbolic. It's because I'm a hazard in the kitchen.
I've scorched every non-stick-lined pot and pan I've ever owned. I've baked and fried up more charcoal than anyone firing up the ol' grill. I've set my hair on fire - twice. (I swear, the third time was NOT my fault.)The Crock Pot and the microwave have stopped me from burning down every house in which I've lived. The Crock Pot basically lets you set it and forget it - so what if it cooks an extra 8 hours till you remember you'r making soup? Not only is there no harm done, it probably tastes better for the steeping.
The microwave oven is another set it and forget it tool. Which accounts for my finding cold, dark tea a day or two after I put a cup of water and a tea bag into the cooking compartment and set the time for a minute or so...and forgot all about it. When Kenny and I operated Last Laff Studios in downtown DeLand, he regularly found a "Monday Surprise" in the microwave....another cup of forgotten tea.
When I was in college, there was no microwave, and Crock pots were just making an appearance. I learned to scramble eggs and to make fried rice, because those things are quick, easy, and require no attention span whatsoever. TV dinners were problematic. You warmed the oven, put the metal tray of frozen food in, and waited 30 minutes. Do you know what you can get started in 30 minutes that will have you so absorbed you won't notice the smoke coming out of the oven? Term paper research, conventional homework, cleaning up after the puppy (who later grew up to be the German shepherd who picked Kenny out as my future husband...in part because he could manage a kitchen without burning down the house.)
Kenny is happy with our arrangement. When we were dating, I cooked for him. Once. I made the safest stuff I knew - fried rice, ramen soup, various Asian style stuff I usually wouldn't scorch. He was so polite. But after dinner, he said, "How about next time we eat at your house, I cook for you?" Hey, fine with me, I thought. Then I tasted his cooking, and realized he was being more than polite - he was trying to survive. Athene, the German shepherd, agreed, and would force me out of my OWN DANGED KITCHEN when Kenny headed toward the refrigerator and oven. She was one smart dog. And I couldn't argue against her logic.While in college, I covered (for the school paper) a speaker who advocated natural and organic food as far more healthy than the tv dinners I regularly burned to a crisp. (Well...duh!)
She described the benefits of organic, whole wheat bread, and talked about the wonders of making such stuff yourself. Silly me - I spent more than $4 at a health food store on the "fixings" I would need, and I went home on one of my rare nights-off to start my baking career.
Note - at the time, I probably could have picked up a supermarket loaf of wheat bread for about 35 cents, and was earning a tad more than $1 an hour at the local daily paper as a copy clerk. I had just blown a week's worth of grocery money on this experiment.
But I was going to be healthy, and so I spent my money and an entire evening, trying to make a loaf of healthy bread. What an abject failure! I made something size - and weight - and density - of a red-clay brick.I couldn't cut the thing. Maybe if I'd soaked it in Crock Pot soup for about 3 days, it might have softened up. But I wasn't thinking along those lines. I had wasted money. I'd wasted time. I had a whole wheat BRICK to show for it.
I screamed, I cussed, I scared the dog, and I opened my back door and hurled the offensive whole wheat brick into the woods, realizing later I coulda killed some innocent woodland creature in the process....I haven't made bread since. Oh, there was the time I helped in the kitchen at a Society for Creative Anachronism event, back in the '80s, but that night, I mostly stirred stuff together and passed the mixed stuff off to experienced hands before things turned dangerous. But baking bread from scratch? I'd sworn that off.
But this year, a friend and I attended the Morello Hills church's living Nativity scene a few blocks up the street, and all this has changed...sort of.
Besides the usual tableau of Mary, Joseph and the Holy Baby - a real, wiggly, squealing child, dressed in full, warm, 21st century gear against the night chill - this display had llamas from Laurie Havas's Synergy Farms, where Sway and Ginger are boarded. There were lambs, a Suffolk, noted for its meat rather than good wool, and a Jacob lamb, a little fellow with lovely spotted wool that harkened to the Bible story of how Jacob developed his flock of sheep. A sweet Billy goat kissed my hand. A donkey - a pretty, grey burro - accompanied Mary and Joseph as they sought shelter and accepted space in the stable.
And set up as Bethlehem's town bazaar were booths where children could build a toy-sized manger and decorate it with a star (the carpenter's booth), make a clay Baby Jesus to put in the manger (the pottery booth), and make simple, pan-grilled, unleavened bread (the baker's booth.)
Flour...water...a little oil...a pinch of salt. Moosh together. Roll it out flat. Pass it off to a couple of men manning shallow skillets over an open flame. In a few minutes, you were munching cooked bread.
Start to finish in 5 minutes or so? I might be able to handle that!These activities were targeting the visiting children, although adults were welcome to try. Trouble is, the adults were outnumbered, and one had little time between the procession of Mary and Joseph into the "Bethlehem" site, and nobody wanted to be doing other things when the Holy Family came into view, even if we saw it a few times earlier.
So, I watched, and tried to remember the simple recipe - this much flour, that much water, this much oil, a pinch of salt. I'm good on the "pinch of salt" part, and I THINK the recipe is half-cup flour, third-cup water, maybe it's a tablespoon of oil. You didn't oil the skillet - I remembered that. Do that, one man said, and you'll burn the bread. I don't need help burning bread.
I grabbed a tiny bag of whole wheat bread to give this a shot. I tried to guess the recipe. I have no clue where our rolling pin is, so I tried using a cola can. That flopped, so I just pressed the dough flat with my fingers. I fired the burner under my precious cast iron skillet (you can't burn any Teflon off THAT!!) and tried to slip the flat dough piece onto its surface without accidentally folding it onto itself. I mostly accomplished this.So, what you see above is NOT a photo of those strange Star Trek aliens that landed on Spock and turned him mad. I know they look like that, but those are three "loaves" of bread. Please note the lack of burn marks. Please note we still have a house.
The bread tastes okay. You don't get that "baking bread" aroma that the kitchen-skilled can coax from flour dough baking in the oven. You also don't get the water-on-ashes stench that usually accompanies my cooking. So, we're even.
It's kinda like pita, and suffers no harm if you blend a little sugar and cinnamon into the mix. It's better if you don't use sea salt - if you do, grind it into smaller bits if you decide sea salt is THE way to go. It tastes good with my microwaved soups. It doesn't crack the teeth, and doesn't cost $4 a loaf, and doesn't harden into a brick. It's kinda crispy, and I think it's supposed to be kinda crispy, and by now, I like things that are kinda crispy.
And it happens so fast, I don't have time to get involved in anything else that can make me forget that something's on fire in the kitchen.You know - things like pulling the Monkey out of the Christmas tree....again.
"Have Yourself a Monkey Little Christmas" - Part 2"Have yourself a Monkey Little Christmas,Watch him chew the lights,From now on, our troubles will be in plain sight.....Have yourself a Monkey Little Christmas,Give yourself a fright,As the Monkey pulls off ornaments each night.....Each day, angels and icicles are lying on the floor...Each day, garland's pulled off again....We re-decorate, once more......Tree and we will all survive this Christmas,If the Fates allow...--Oh, NO!! Monkey's climbing to the the highest bough!!!It's gonna beA Monkey Little Christmas now!"
You Better Not...!!!!"You better not growl,You better not wail,You better not playWith India's tail....Santa Claus is coming to town!!!!He's looking aroundAnd he will seeLittle Monkey CatsIn the Christmas Tree....Santa Claus is coming to town!!!!He sees you when you're hangingUpon the highest boughIf you want Christmas catnip toys,Get down from there right now!!!....So......You better not bite,Or scratch on the chair,You better be good----And GET DOWN from there!!!Santa Claus is coming to town!!!!!"Just for the record......I want everyone to see my Christmas tree as it looked the day I assembled it, lashed it to the ceiling, topped it with the heirloom angel, and dressed it up in shimmering ornaments and a line of extra lights to add blinking colors to the stay-on whites that pre-lit the branches.Just for the record: At one time, late in November, this was a very pretty, very orderly tree.
Kenny says the upper 2/3rds still looks pretty good. I say the garland looks lopsided all the way from the bottom to the top - now that I've had "help" with tree-decorating.
Monkey says, "Pretty? Orderly? When did you get so boring???"
Rudolph's Revenge"Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer had a very shiny nose,And if you ever saw it, you would even say it glows.All of the other reindeer used to laugh and call him names.They never let poor Rudolph play in any reindeer games."
So Rudolph, who got tired of all this treatment, contracted with the Monkey to provide a little "incentive" for the other reindeer to back off the bully act and let Rudolph be welcomed in as one of the guys.
Apparently, Rudolph had been reading this blog and knew who to call.And so, the two plastic illuminated reindeer that peer out the windows on either side of the main window in our living room are now on thin ice, as it were.
Kenny found these reindeer decorations at the local Ace Hardware. Apparently, our customary lighted decorations didn't make it from Texas...or, are in a box in the back...somewhere. So, when Kenny went down for some other stuff, he came back with one reindeer. We put the first one up and decided we liked it.
But we have windows on either end of the house, so we needed two.These are simple little decorations that required minimal assembly: pull out the reindeer head out of the box; pull out the two antlers with their dangly ornaments hanging from golden string out of the box; plug the antlers into the sides of the reindeer heads, and push the cord plug into an outlet to light up the reindeer.
And then, watch the Monkey chew on the antlers or play with the disc-shaped sparkly ornaments dangling from the antlers. Watch the reindeer wobble back and forth. Watch the reindeer tilt over on its side.Watch Rudolph, off in the distance, grinning widely.
Maybe this is why there's nothing new and exciting to report about the Christmas tree.
A Christmas Miracle!It's amazing! We're back from the run to Southern California, and the house is intact, the tree is still up, and not a single ornament was moved!!
(Except for the usual slight pull and tug of the beaded garland....)Could this mean the Monkey is starting to grow up?
Not if you'd seen him racing and occasionally flying around the house once we arrived!
I hear tell of folks with cats who, after the folks have been away, will ignore those people for a while. The cats give their people a cold shoulder for a few days, sometimes a few weeks, as punishment for the people having the nerve to leave the cats.
Our cats (you know, the ones named Monkey and Dog...) greet us like long-lost family. This trip was no exception. The growl of the truck engine pulling into the driveway....the tiny beep of the house alarm being deactivated....the squeaks of the screen door and the wooden front door behind it - they all tipped off the cats that The People Had Arrived!!! Oh, let us all rejoice and dance the Happy Feline Dance of Joy!!!!
Then let's tear around the house - well, one of will do this, and then pounce on the people, chatter at them and herd them into the kitchen so they can pop open canned food, and then bite their toes and run so they'll chase us!
Yep, that was the Monkey.
Then there's the Dog-Cat, India, who was right there at the door, happy we were home. And happy to lead us into the kitchen. Then happy to hide under my rocking chair while the Monkey went nuts. Some behavior is unbecoming on an 18 year old veteran. Some things you just leave to youthful crazies.
We kept unpacking despite the in-house antics, and provided the cats with wonderful scented stories to read while we unloaded the truck.
The Trip: First, Manhatten Beach:The trip itself was a wonderful mini-getaway. We ran down a day early to go to the Moon Eyes Rat Fink Reunion, this year at Irwindale Race Track. We got to stay in Manhatten Beach, a place I saw for the first time. It reminds me of the more upscale areas of Daytona Beach - the Seabreeze area, for instance, or parts of Ormond Beach.
I loved walking to the downtown area, where the concrete Manhatten Beach pier extends into the Pacific. It's a round-ended pier (draw a thermometer, then use that as inspiration for the pier design) with a small non-profit aquarium built on the "bulb." The first night, it was pretty cold and windy - it was supposed to rain and, in the heights, even snow, and the ocean below was pounding against this old pier. At the end of this pier, I looked down at the waves - no need to do that! The waves splashed up almost to my face! I jumped back - but then I thought, "I haven't seen the Pacific since I left Hawai`i - maybe it's just saying 'Hello' to me." So, I said "hello" back, then turned, shivering with the cold, to walk with Kenny back to the apartment where we were staying.
We also ate dinner at The Kettle, a downtown fixture. Manhatten Beach has plenty of upscale stores and trendy restaurants. But Kenny liked The Kettle when he first visited there, and I'm right there with him. It's a 24-hour spot, but it's not your usual quick-food/late-night diner. This was luscious! We made plans to have breakfast there before we left - we did, and I'm glad!
Rat Finks and Derby Dolls:
Saturday was a full schedule: First the Moon Eyes show, which was a blast, then the Derby Dolls Roller Derby Championship bout.
At the Moon Eyes show, I worked Ilene Roth's table. Ilene's husband was the late Ed "Big Daddy" Roth, the custom car culture legend - maker of wild concept cars, creator of the three-wheel trike and designer of an entire stable of hot rod "monsters," the most famous of which is Rat Fink.
So, Ed's work was there for the world to see - and buy. Tee shirts, key chains, 'tenna-toppers, banks, artwork. All sorts of goodies. We'd brought down Kenny's huge wooden cut-out/painted design of Rat Fink and Trixie that will go into the Ed Roth museum in Manti, Utah, and be placed in a couch made of a Caddy's back seat. This way, you can have your photo taken with Rat Fink and Trixie! Trixie's new design came out of Kenny's brain, and Ilene and her family love it! (Whew!!)
I had fun working the table. I love working vendors' tables, something I've done since I was dating Kenny and we were selling his comic books and other art. While Kenny painted a toilet seat for the charity auction and painted a monster "Podrunner" on Steve Boyett's laptop, I worked with Ilene's brother, LeGrand, and her sons Wyatt and Cody at their booth.
While I was there we reunited with our good buddy Moldy Marvin (everyone associated with Ed got a nickname. Kenny has several, from simply "Mitch" to "Crazy Rebel" to "Atomic Punk" to the "King of Roth Trikedom." Mine was pretty simple - "The Redhead," or the even more simple, "Red.")
Moldy has his own Ed Roth tribute show, and Moldy and his buddy, Spoony, rode with us to Ed's funeral.
It's been a long time since I'd seen Moldy, and I'm glad we got to meet up again. I also got a haircut from Dena The Queen of Arts, who, with her husband, the striper Jimmy C, were at the booth next door. This couple also worked with Ed a long time. Behind our booths were Robert and Suzanne Williams. Robert's another great hot-rod artist. On the other side of our booth was Bert, selling more of Ed's tee shirts. We had our little "family reunion" and Ed Roth collection of cohorts all in one section.
Before it got dark, Steve and we ran off to a warehouse in the Filipino part of Los Angeles. In this warehouse, a group of women (and whomever they may have drafted to help) have built a roller derby arena. They have this warehouse for 6 months - maybe longer, till the building is torn down.
The Derby Dolls Championship:
This group of women have done everything for their sport just to get a chance to play. They've built an entire league from scratch. Sure, there are other adult sports leagues that are pure amateur. I saw some men's baseball league players, and I give them a lot of credit for working so hard to be good. However, they didn't build their own ballfield.
These women have had to practice skating in parking lots and rooftops just to develop the skills it takes for this brutal sport. Their playing arena is a banked skating surface with a flat center section that also can be skated on, and where the players sit out penalties, make battle plans or wait their turn for a run at points.
The perimeter of the banked skating surface has a railing which may be intended to keep skaters on the banked surface. Yeah, right. The railing took its own hit during the championship bout, and like red-flagged NASCAR racers, the roller derby players had to wait while the damage was repaired to everyone's satisfaction.
The only thing I knew about roller derby was what little I'd gleaned back when the sport was a regular fixture of weekend television. Which was darned little. Didn't much like it, and I soon was working weekends, anyway.
But now I had a friend in the Los Angeles Derby Doll league, "Tara Armoff" of the Fight Crew. The Fight Crew's uniforms mimic flight attendants, but brag they fly the "unfriendly skies" and have slogans promising "death from above." Tara, of course, is a pseudonym, but then all the girls use pseudonyms, and frequently that's the only way they know each other.
When they use their real names, they're regular people with normal jobs, from artists to kindergarten teachers. In costume (the Sirens, who beat Tara's Fight Crew, came out in police uniforms and wearing fake mustaches before the bout.
I remember hearing about African-American fans' comments about Jackie Robinson breaking the color barrier in baseball: "Finally - someone in Major League Baseball who looks like me." There's nobody in any major league club who looks anything like me. I love the game. My favorite player is Miguel Tejada. Until recently, anyone looking like me was banned from baseball - it happened shortly after a woman pitcher struck out Lou Gehrig and Babe Ruth in an exhibition game. I hope one day to see a woman in the majors, but I don't know of anyone on the horizon to break the barrier.
There have been a few women in NASCAR racing, and this sport is trying to groom some women, as well as other minorities, through its lower levels so they can compete in the Cup level. But - we're not there yet.
But in this sport, which is about as rough and tumble as you can get, a group of women in Los Angeles, the Derby Dolls league, have put together the revival of this once-popular sport practically from scratch, right down to making their own playing field, learning first how to skate and then how to take skating to battle-ready level. They skate in skirts and shorts - sure, they have helmets, mouth guards, and arm and knee pads, but they play hard like football players - on skates - going fast - heading for a rail, or, in the case of a multi-player spill, onto hard wood, not grass. Remember the scene in "A League of Their Own" when one woman baseball player slid into base, again, in a skirt, and had a dramatic bruise for a short-term souvenir? All that and more.They do this for fun, not money. They did this from scratch, or as the announcer said, "This is a real DIY project!'
The championship bout featured vendors (wish I'd had more money to bring; wish I knew where I would have put anything I would have bought, anyway) , just to support the vendors who supported these women.) The VIP section (we were there!) got to sit on bleachers; others got to lean on hand-made elevated stands and rails.
The girls (we suspect mostly Tara) made signs and handed them out to fans - "I'd draw blood for Tara Armoff!" "I >heart<>
Bless This Home And Save It From MonkeysA golden bow snagged from the tree in his mouth, the Monkey raced into my hula room, leaped onto the chair that used to belong to my father, and began chomping down on his prize.
He threw the thing around, dropped it beside the chair, grabbed it and put it back on the chair arm, threw it on the floor and pounced on it. I have no idea where the bow is now. This doesn't bode well for the bow.Doesn't bode well for the house, either. We're running off to the Moon Eyes show, where I'll be helping at the Ed "Big Daddy" Roth/Rat Fink table and where Kenny will be painting Rat Finks and other monster characters on no-telling-what.
Then we catch the L.A. Derby Dolls - our friend, "Tara Armoff," among them - at their roller derby bout. I've never been to a roller derby bout before, although I watched them on tv occasionally back when roller derby was THE thing to watch on weekend broadcasts, and caught the "CSI: NY" episode in which the Derby Dolls - including "Tara" - were featured in the opening scenes leading up to the inevitable storyline murder that set up the plot. If you catch that episode on reruns, look for the redhead! That's "Tara."
What I remember of roller derby's earlier tv run was it looked painful. And destructive to the human body. Body slams, trips, falls, folks sliding over rails and down the track.
Rather like what our house will be experiencing in our absence.Yep - we're leaving the house in the hands...paws...of the Monkey and the Dog. Heaven help the Christmas Tree.
I'll update you about our little trip south and what's left on the tree when we get back. I have full faith the fishing line and wood screws will hold, and you better believe we're going to unplug the tree's lights before we leave. But how many ornaments will be left on the branches, and how lopsided the garland will be is going to be anyone's guess. No, I'm not fielding odds or taking bets. You guys want a wagering pool on how extensive the aftermath may be? You're on your own!
Wouldn't it be really funny if we come home and find the tree exactly like we left it?
But What About the Dog???We have a very silly household. We have two indoor cats, the Monkey and the Dog.
And the Dog wants her share of the blog!
The Dog is really named India, after the ink. Like India ink, in contrast to the comic book artists' ink of choice, Higgins Black Magic, India the cat is a "lighter" black. In the sun, she actually has tiger stripes, the way a "black panther" is really a very dark spotted leopard. But she hasn't been outside much since she and we moved from our Florida farm. And, indoors, she just looks like a conventional black tuxedo cat.
She's 18. She lived in the Martinez house from the day we moved in. Once back from Texas, she immediately made herself back at home, which flabbergasted the Monkey, for whom the Martinez house was just another very strange place in a series of strange places he'd been since we left the ol' Double Nickel Ranch.
And, she's a heater hog. Yes, this cat, the Dog, is a hog. As soon as this wall heater comes on, she's hogging the floor space right in front. If it isn't coming on fast enough, she's still hogging the space right in front so she'll have her spot staked out when the contraption finally fires up.
During our first round with this house, Indy and Mace had to share the heater. Technically, they didn't have to share. This particular wall heater is two-sided. I kept putting little carpets on the hallway's linoleum floor so that, perhaps, one cat would take one side, the other would have the other. Nobody wanted the hallway heater side. It's just as hot, but it's not where the people are gathered. So, instead of logic, we had cat-spats over the ownership of the living room side of the heater.
We lost Mace in November 2004. So Indy the Dog knew she wouldn't have to share the spot with Mace, who despite her smaller size and her weakened condition because of kidney failure, kept Indy at bay with the heater came on.
Instead, Indy's dealing with a far more active MonkeyCat. Like that's a problem for her. Monkey's gradually grown larger than Indy, but Indy has seniority. And both of them know it. Oh, he'll pounce on her, and they'll have swatting matches around the corner from each other - full-throttle blows that have no chance of connecting with the opponent. She hisses at him and growls when his playful enthusiasm gets on her nerves. She's carefully developing her image as a demanding, cranky old lady - except when she wants to be petted.
And Indy gets what Indy wants. Such as, equal time in the blog. HER spot on the couch. HER spot at the living room window. And HER spot in front of the heater. Lest anyone think the Monkey runs the show![In case you were wondering, yes, the Christmas tree is still standing. The lower third looks like a rat's nest of garland; the ornaments no longer look lovingly and carefully placed. Above that, the tree still looks prettily arranged, except for spots where the garland, pulled from below, didn't quite get put back where it used to be. But the tree's still standing.]
Lights on MonkeySo, I heard this clattering noise in the living room as I was preparing to teach my Wednesday night hula class. I ran into the living room and looked at the Christmas tree.
It was upright and intact. Well, mostly intact. The crystal beads were on the floor, but they've been on the floor since early this morning, having been pulled down by...who else?....the Monkey.
But there was no Monkey under - or in - the tree this time. But I'd heard something...where was the Monkey?
You can see where. I never got off a second, clearer shot, because he scooted behind the television right after I snapped this shot.
My camera's no-flash settings rarely allow me to capture natural-light pictures in the type of focus I got with the ASA 400 films I used as a reporter. But my flash is so "hot" that I often get very wild-eyed animal pictures, particularly if the creature sees well in the dark, like cats and horses. "Red-eye-reduction" doesn't work a lick with them. The eyes aren't red - they're reflecting the light of the flash. It's another case of a film-loving dinosaur acclimating to digital camera work.
So, I have to be happy with this oddball shot, with the ceiling fan, which had caught Monkey's initial attention, whirling overhead and its light on full bright. I don't know whether it's this light or the flash that's reflecting on Monkey's collar tags.
Monkey is sitting on top of our Direct TV receiver, which is on top of the television. Back in Texas, Monkey climbed all over our entertainment center, to its very peak, where he often curled up and slept.
He's not so lucky here. He can't quite get to the top planks of this entertainment center, because it has a solid back, unlike our Texas entertainment center. In Texas, he would use our tv as a booster to the top. Here, this is about as high as he gets, unless you count the top of the pinball machine in Kenny's studio.
That's what is so alluring about the Christmas tree - it's very climb-able by Little Monkeys. And that's why I'm always happy each morning to see the tree still standing. Even if the beaded garland has been rearranged.....again.
Christmas Tree Defensive Weapon: The CameraIf you can't get a photo of the Monkey "in action" in the Christmas tree, the next best thing to do is go for "artsy."
I went "artsy" after missing a lovely shot of the Monkey standing on one leg, the other three meshed into the branches, and the rest of the body as stretched out as tall as possible to grab an acrylic icicle in his mouth without actually being IN the tree.
I'm learning the best defense of the tree is anyone with a camera in hand. As soon as I point the lens toward him in mid-antic, the Monkey either flees the tree, or he curls up under the tree and feigns sleep.
You can tell when he's faking sleep. His ears twitch at noises. Sometimes he slowly and cautiously opens one eye the slightest little bit.
Real Sleeping Monkeys don't flinch at noises or open their eyes even the tiniest of cracks. Real Sleeping Monkeys sleep the sleep of the dead. You can talk to him. You can pet him. You can pick him up and move him. You can open a cat food can. No reaction whatsoever.
Once he was curled up in the bed next to me, and I woke up to find him there. He was out. Normally, I'm cautious about moving when the Monkey is asleep, because I hate to disturb him. But this time, none of my movements caused any reaction at all. Finally, I began to get worried, and actively woke him to make sure he was all right. He was fine. Dazed and sleepy, but fine. And he quickly went back to sleep.That's a Sleepin' Monk. Maybe Narcoleptic Monk.
We say he's recharging his batteries, because we know a short time after one of these naps, he'll shake the cobwebs out of his brain and go into hyperdrive, tearing around the house, chasing and body-slamming us, and - of course - terrorizing the Christmas tree.
He was merely dozing when I started taking pictures, and he woke up in time to pose. But not so awake that he began tearing off ornaments. That'll come later. When he sees I've put my camera away.
Please Ignore the Monkey Under the TreeThe Christmas tree is still standing this morning.
Acrylic icicles are scattered around the living room, and the beaded garland, which I had twisted around the lower branches in the futile hope that such twists would preserve the integrity of the careful drapes of the garland on the higher branches, had been pulled down and lay in crystal puddles under the tree.
But no raffia angels had fallen and become Monkey chew-toys, the rest of the ornaments were still in place, and the tree was exactly where it was supposed to be. And Kenny's family heirloom angel was safe aboard the tree's top.
I'm compiling little "memos to me" notes I'll slip into the box that holds the tree during the rest of the year so I do a better job of Monkey-proofing the Christmas tree for next year. Such as, snuggling the garland closer to the trunk, rather than trying to do the traditional series of drapes on the branch tips. Hey, it'll work. The crystal-looking beads will catch the lights and amplify them, which is one of my underlying goals for decorating the tree in the first place.
No, my underlying goal has never been to make the Bestest, Biggest Monkey-Toy EVER. That's just been one of the "benefits" of having a Christmas tree in the house.
Fretting about the tree has me jumping when I hear noises that could mean the Monkey is about to pounce on the tree. Kenny was opening one of our windows this morning while I was reading the paper, and I nearly yelled at the Monkey, who was sleeping innocently on the wadded tree skirting, till I saw that the noise came from the window crank.
As far as we can tell, he's no longer climbing the tree. Instead, he simply sits up and pulls down anything within reach. He's a long Monkey, with long legs, able to stretch himself out like a Slinky. So, he has a long reach. He figures this is a compromise - he's not climbing the tree, but he's still able to snag some toys.
If you've visited the house, you know that Monkey has his own toy box - a basket of jingle balls, fuzzy mice, catnip pillows and the rest. At one time, he'd paw through the basket and select a particular toy that would keep him entertained for the rest of the afternoon. Sometimes, he'd even put the toy back into the basket - not bad for a 2-year-old.
But, today, the Monkey has a ceiling-high tree loaded with entertainment, and so far, the temptation is proving too hard to resist.
Nom-Nom-Nom-Nom-Nom[I apologize to Sandy for stealing her title for the photo of the baby polar bear playfully nawing on someone's pant leg. But, I'm not sorry about it!]
"O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree, you truly are delicious..."
Our buddy Jeff Ferris came over and was watching The Monkey play with other things. He finally asked, "Does he put EVERYTHING in his mouth?"
Yeah, pretty much.
Good, old crunchy Christmas tree branches, short fibers twisted around a metal base. A Monkey delight!
Yes, the tree's still standing. We only had to replace a couple of acrylic icicle ornaments we found on the floor yesterday, and...of course, try to put the beaded garland back in some sort of order.Jeff and the Monkey had a good time visiting last night. Monkey and Jeff instant-message each other. Kenny was on the computer, chatting with Jeff one night, when the Monkey hopped up next to Kenny's computer and pressed down the letter P, which immediately popped up as an IM to Jeff. "What's up with that?" Jeff asked. Kenny explained the Monkey had sent him an IM. Since then, emails with Jeff sometimes go like this: "P"....."Hi, Monkey!"....
But, last night, they were able to converse in person. (It kept the Monkey away from the Christmas tree!) The amusing thing about watching Monkey and people converse is that he actually gets involved in the chat. Ask him a question, and quite often he'll do his best to answer.
Of course, you're speaking in a human language, and Monkey is replying in MonkeyCat language. He doesn't see a problem with this. After all, he's had to figure out English words, and he figures turnabout is fair play. He's fairly expressive, though, so understanding what he means often isn't hard.
Some animal authorities say critters don't understand words, but depend on the tone of our voice and our body language to figure out what we mean. I don't buy all of that - too many animals I know clearly have figured out what specific words mean.
But, when it's our turn to do the interpreting, if we pay attention to the tone of his voice and observe his body language, we usually can figure out what the Monkey is saying.
Such as, "If you didn't want a Monkey in your Christmas tree, why did you set it up in the first place?"
I'm done for the night......[We've reached Dec. 1, and the Christmas tree is still standing. So far.]
I'm beginning to think I can't leave the Christmas tree unsupervised.In the bedroom, sorting through boxes (our new hobby since moving back to California...), I heard a crash from the living room. It doesn't take a genius to figure what's going on in there.
When I turned the corner and looked at the tree, I saw strands of beaded garland lying in waves on the floor. A Santa ornament that I'd left in its hard plastic box was on the floor under the tree. The bottom of the plastic box was some distance away. I have no idea where the top is.And, the Monkey was chewing on an angel.
I didn't know whether to grab the camera or a broom, or the usual weapon of correction, a spray bottle. I went for the camera, and by the time I got back, the little innocent was curled up under the tree. All that destruction came from some OTHER Monkey Cat. MY Monkey Cat was nowhere near the stream of fallen ornaments. No matter that 30 minutes later, I would see him batting one of the acrylic frosted balls dangling from a branch.
I caught another "aftermath" shot, then repaired the damage.Then I caught him chewing on light wires. Skip the camera - this called for action! The dismayed Monkey ran into Kenny's studio to hide.All the lights seem to be working, which is good - it's a self-lit tree, except for the multi-color lights.
Monkey's back asleep under the tree for the moment. It's getting late, and I need to rest up for tomorrow's antics....
"I'm SOOOO busted....."[Monkey Vs. The Christmas Tree update: Yes, the tree is still standing. Yes, the Christmas Monkey-shines continue....]
The problem with Monkey Cats...well, ONE of the problems with Monkey Cats...is that, unlike with children, you can't threaten to tell Santa Claus about their misbehavior and expect it to have any effect.At all.
Another problem with Monkey Cats is that when they're doing the thing that would make you mad, they also are doing something funny and photogenic - and you don't have your camera in hand. My batting average for Monkey Kodak Moments is pretty low.
Last night, as the Monkey tunneled under a length of fabric that eventually became a hula dress and then peeked through on the other side, Kenny looked at the Monkey and said, "Is EVERYTHING you do a photo-op?"
Sometimes I get the feeling I should have a camera on him 24/7. Or maybe get a Monkey-cam, like those "baby-cams" and "nanny-cams."Then I could have captured Monkey in "full Monkey mode," body-slamming the Christmas tree. The ornaments jangled, the tree shuddered, and the Monkey was outa there before we could yell at him - or get a photo.
I could have caught him in the act of rearranging the beaded garland...again. Either I'm going to be happy with lopsided garland, or I'm fated to spend some time each day trying to put the beads back where Monkey found them.
I could have snapped a shot of the Great Angel Hunter snagging his prey and dragging it down from its perch on the tree. No, thank heavens, this wasn't Kenny's family heirloom angel. That one still sits on top of the tree, both of which are still lashed to the ceiling by fishing line. So far, so good. The captured angel was rescued before it was damaged, and was put back, a little higher this time, on the tree.)
The best I picture I could get for this update was Monkey "on pause," framed by the beads he finds irresistable, and with a "Dang, I got caught" expression on his face.
"....And Monkey Under the Tree......"[Note from the writer: If you prefer to read blogs in consecutive order, you'll want to read the previous post before launching into this one....If things keep going the way they have been the past few days, this may end up being a short Monkey's Holiday series....*sigh*....]
The 2007 Christmas Tree is up at our house!
The decorations were hung - with much care, thank you! - on the tree while Kenny was running errands. I had "help" untangling the beaded garland.
We found all the pertinent decorations in the guest room closet, where historically we've stashed our Christmas decor and where we managed to cram the stuff in when we unpacked the various loads from the move from Texas. The whereabouts of other stuff - clothing, tools, other day-to-day essentials - is still a mystery. In plastic tubs under tarps? In one of the many boxes shoved into storage sheds? In a box crammed somewhere in the house? But we managed to de-stress a little of the Christmas season by putting the Christmas gear where we could find it.As I pointed out in the previous entry, we'd already anticipating having to defend the holiday decor from Monkey Attacks.
As you have read earlier, I learned long ago how to keep a Christmas tree upright when cats are unable to resist climbing up and pulling ornaments down from the top branches. Last year, I used roofing nails and fishing line. This year, I decided large, silvery roofing nails would be too obvious. I found some wood screws that matched the dark of the Martinez house's beamed ceiling, and used them, instead. Once again, fishing line unobtrusively lashes the tree to the ceiling, and even secures the tree-topping angel, Kenny's family heirloom, safely in place.
Our tree came pre-lit in white mini-lights, although I've felt compelled to add one strand of colored mini-lights. I love the kind that flicker in various patterns. The first night, I played with the settings, and decided to let the lights run through their various patterns randomly. Later on, I put the lights on the calming slow glow that lights only some of these bulbs, then brings others to life in another random pattern. The last couple of years, I've collected light-catching and light-reflecting ornaments and garland, and I had lots of fun placing things so they'd capture both the constantly-on white light and the rainbow of the flickering lights.
The tree was finished! Just before Kenny got home from his errands!And within 30 minutes, Monkey was 2/3 the way up the trunk, aiming for feathered birds and raffia angels.
Kenny raced to the tree's rescue and did his best to convince the Monkey he should drop all ideas of tree climbing out of his overactive brain. I adjusted the disturbed ornaments - you could see Monkey's pathway up the tree.
Those wood screws and strands of fishing line did their job according to plan. Despite Monkey's adventurous climb up, and his rapid scurry down, the tree remained upright.
As became his custom last year, Monkey also sleeps under the Christmas tree, cuddling in on the double layer of felted tree skirts beneath the branches. Some of his napping was real. Some, however, was a sham - I could tell after ukulele class last night that he managed to play with the beaded garland when Kenny wasn't looking.
Monkey, being a cat, probably will have further Christmas Tree adventures before the season's over. I regret that Kenny didn't snap a shot of Monkey amid the branches, bells, icicles, angels, tiny manger scenes and toy horses.
But, knowing the Monkey, I suspect that this won't be our only opportunity to get such a picture.
Have Yourself A Monkey Little ChristmasIt's beginning to look a lot like Christmas around here in Martinez, California.
Kenny expects be working so hard on a storyboard pretty soon, which means if we were going to get the lights up, it'd better be RIGHT NOW.
So, for the first time since we bought this house, we were the first to put up the lights and other Christmas decorations. We started draping lights Thanksgiving afternoon. Our friends, Terry and Lisa, joined in, and had their new, retro-looking lights on their roofline and their front yard fence and gate in short order. Tom and Doris, across the street, do what I'd love to do, keep lights on all year long, so they're always prepared.
Down the street, other neighbors are turning their front yards into displays of lights and deer and Santas and sleighs. Usually, everyone has "decorated up" long before our house shows any sign of celebrating. But, this year, we got started early.
At our house, the icicle lights are dangling from the rooftop,and in the flower garden in front of the living room window, a stick-in-the-ground Santa, present and stocking have "sprouted," along with several silk poinsettias in "full bloom." Two new lighted reindeer peer out the windows, and, inside, ornaments hang from fake-greenery swags that dangle from the front windows. The wreaths are up, indoors and out. We are decorated!
Well...for the moment.
All indoor decorations are under threat of attack. The Monkey is discovering our Christmas decorations...or, as he calls 'em, "Monkey Toys!!"
A few minutes after this picture was taken, he was chewing on an antler of one of the lighted reindeer. He's already been pawing at the garland swags.
Nothing will be safe....
For those of you coming in late to this blog, yes, Monkey is a cat. He got the nickname (his real name is Kamalani, which is Hawaiian for heavenly or royal child) because he would walk around on his hind legs, waving his arms the way nature films show monkeys and chimpanzees doing. I worried what his personality would be like everyone called him "Monkey," and tried my best to keep "Kamalani" an active name.Kenny gave him the nickname.
Nobody calls him "Kamalani" except me.
Everyone calls him "Monkey," including me. Some wars you just can't win.
And, Monkey has grown into his name. And so all the Christmas decorations will be coming under attack before the season is over.We haven't put up the tree yet, but it'll be going up soon. You know where this is headed: "Why is your Christmas tree wiggling?" "Oh, MONKEY! Get out of there!!"
I learned about cats and Christmas trees way back when we lived in our little cabin in Florida. At one time, there was no room for a tree in this one-room cabin, so the tree was put out on the screened-in porch. Only flaw to that plan was that the screen door had an opening, through which the cats learned to come and go. First time I put a tree on the porch, I learned how long a tree would last when under attack by cats. And how many times a night the cats were likely to topple the tree...again.
Since the porch of the cabin was fairly rustic, I felt no guilt in pounding big-headed roofing nails into some of the 2-by-4 supports. Using hay string, I tied the tree in place so the next time the little monsters pounced and climbed the tree, it would stay upright. Needless to say, I learned that pine cones and other unbreakable ornaments were the only ones suitable for surviving cat-pouncing.
This knowledge held me in good stead last year, when Monkey was old enough to hold his own against India and to experience the Christmas tree while we were away or asleep.
I resorted to good-ol' roofing nails and hammered them into the walls and the beautifully rustic supports at the entrance of our dining room back in our Texas house in Keller. But I went "upscale," using fishing line instead of hay string to fasten the tree against the impending attacks. As the old TV ad said, it would wobble, but it never fell down, no matter how high the Monkey climbed up its trunk, or how many feathered bird ornaments he ripped from the tree's branches, or how hard he tugged on the beaded garland.
Monkey is now 2 1/2 or so. He's nowhere near mature enough for me to believe he'll stay out of the tree this year. If Indy were younger, SHE'D be in the tree ahead of him. She's 18, and would rather curl up by the heater and let Monkey get into trouble by himself.
Fortunately, the Martinez house has planking as its ceiling, plus some very sturdy beams. I wouldn't trust nails in the walls unless I hit a stud, and given the size of the nail I use, I wouldn't want to aim for a stud and miss, leaving a big hole in the wall. But the ceiling and the beams should suffice.
Sure, we'll be armed with spritzer bottles to discourage the little fellow from climbing the tree, but we may as well face facts. No matter how we decide to decorate the tree, there's going to be a time or two...or 20....when we'll see an extra "ornament" peering back at us, as the tree gently sways against its nearly-invisible tethers.
Chewing on the reindeer antler and batting at the window garland is just a preview of what's in store for us for Christmas!
So, How Are the Horses?Horses need space.
Once I began working with horses, I began to see that sticking a creature this size in a place the size of my bedroom really wouldn't be as ideal as it seemed back when I was a little girl, begging my folks to let me have a horse and dreaming of having the horse stay in my room.
Some respected authorities say a horse needs at least its own acre of space; some suggest even more as a minimum. We who keep horses know you can keep horses on less space than an acre per horse, but keeping a horse 24/7 in a 12x12 stall, even with a similar-sized paddock, isn't my idea of "spacious" surroundings. Think about living your life in a "half bathroom." You get the idea.
Back when I lived in Florida, many boarding barns would keep a horse stalled at night, but would turn horses out during the day. When I first moved to California back in '97, I was surprised to learn that most California barns didn't follow the same practice. So, the quest was on for any boarding situation that would allow Sway the Limit and Ginger to have at least some part of the day out in the open, where they could move as they please.
Hello. This was California, where the price of land still ranges from "really high" to "Excuse me while I faint!" Furthermore, this was the Bay Area, where finding anything in the merely "really high" category was extremely rare.
So, the horses didn't come out till 2002, and even then, finding a good place with real paddocks seemed impossible. I finally ended up at Rafter M Bar, a place I still love, although it was a bit of a drive to get there, and..yes..it was 12x12 stalls and 12x12 paddocks. But, after trying out a couple of other places, I had to find a place where Sway wouldn't get so infuriated he wanted everyone dead - including me!
Having Sway and Ginger in the back yard in Texas just didn't last long enough. And so, here we were back in California, coping with boarding again. My dear friends at Rafter M Bar are having a struggle on their own, and I had too much to deal with to add more to our plate. So, just after getting the horses settled in, they were shoved into the trailer and on the road again.
The new place is Synergy Farms, less than 10 minutes from the house. Run by a veterinarian's assistant, this new place has large paddocks with shelters for horses. And - oh, joy! - Sway and Ginger could live together in the only paddock available when I stopped by to inquire about openings.
So far, the horses are thrilled. They live between a mini-horse farm (cute little equine munchkins running around the pasture!) and a strip of land with llamas (Ginger and Sway aren't sure what type of strange horses they are - yet). Their paddock is close to the BNSF railroad, although it's screened by trees and layers of blackberry bushes.
Their spot at Synergy has neighbors on three sides, all pleasant horses. Plus, horse owners frequently lead their horses or ride them on the little footpaths that border the clustered paddocks. Off in the distance, up on the hill, is highway traffic, and periodically the skies are speckled with birds. Plenty of things to see.
And, there's space to move. This gets even more important as the horses get older. Sway hasn't backslid into becoming the holy terror he's been at other barns. (In fact, most of the other owners think he's a big, fuzzy puppy. Whew!) Ginger is eating her way back to her proper weight and is quite relaxed. In other words, they're contented little horsies.
It may not be the cutest 2 acre pasture with the prettiest, most iconic red barn in Keller, Texas. And, much to my horses' delight, it isn't the bedroom I had as a kid - the horses have real room to run. It's a really good home. I'm so glad Sway and Ginger are happy!
Ia `Oe E Ka La Hula FestivalI came home from three days at the Alameda Fairgrounds in Pleasanton, CA, where some of the best halau hula (hula schools) competed at the longest-running U.S. hula festival outside of Hawai`i. I hadn't attended this wonderful event since 2003 because of our move to Texas.The famous Merrie Monarch Hula Festival, which takes place annually in Hilo beginning the day after Easter, is the largest and longest-running, but Ia `Oe E Ka La Hula Festival, is quite well-respected, and frequently has a significant number of Hawaiian as well as continent ["mainland"] entries.
Like the Merrie Monarch, Ia `Oe E Ka La, honors Hawai`i's last king. The Pleasanton festival is named for a noted chant that honors Hawai'i's "Merrie Monarch," King David Kalakaua. Unlike the Hilo festival, this one has categories for those 35 and older, as well as categories for those 55 and up, as well as keiki (children's) categories and men-and-women-combined. Dancers compete in groups as well as soloists. Halau also are encouraged to enter in the musicians category as well. And, unlike Merrie Monarch, this festival allows non-U.S. halau to enter, too. Hula is popular worldwide, and this year, Japan was represented by two groups.
The judges are some of the best: Kumu Hula Mae Klein, noted chanter Charles Kaupu and recording artist Keali`i Reichel (the two men also known for their hula).
And the dancers and their kumu hula (instructors) are some of the same who compete at Merrie Monarch.
Kumu Hula Kunewa Mook's Halau o Kamuela Elua, is always a contender, and certainly didn't disappoint this year. If his name looks familiar to a non-hula reader, check the voice credits in "Lilo and Stitch." He also was instrumental in bringing Kumu Mark Ho`omalu to Disney's attention for the movie.
Mark contributed "He Mele no Lilo" and "Hawaiian Roller Coaster." His competition entries were, as usual, intense. The men, illustrating the famous feats of the demigod Maui, rocked the stage - literally. The risers swayed like our recent earthquake beneath his mens' pounding feet. His women were nearly as powerful. some of his keiki (children) were young enough to be "adorable, precious little things pointed every which way and only a vague clue about the choreography." But even the tiniest tyke danced like a seasoned Merrie Monarch veteran.
Other kumu were delightful - Kumu Hokulani DeRego couldn't contain her enthusiasm for the award her dancers earned - the rest were proud, too, even if their responses was more muted.
One Japanese halau, Ke Ali`i o Ka Malu, took the kupuna (older) group honors with a fun, then very touching, tribute to the late Hawaiian singer, Don Ho. The pops medley was sweet during "Pearly Shells," a comedy during "Tiny Bubbles," then became wistful during the late Ku`i Lee's composition, "I'll Remember You." Don and Ku`i worked together until Ku`i's untimely death. Don was the first Hawaiian to have his own prime time tv show. He was entertaining until just a few days before his death this year - a true professional.
So there they were - some of the best hula dancers, chanters and singers in the world, gathering about 30 minutes from my house. You better believe I was there!
I went all three days, and it reinforced the realization that a lot of folks are really glad that Kenny and I are back in California. The hula community here is a living illustration of the phrases in the movie "Lilo and Stitch" about the Hawaiian word, "Ohana." The movie tells us that ohana means family, and family means no one is left behind - or forgotten.
Well, it seems we certainly weren't forgotten here while we were in Texas! You would have thought I was attending a family reunion. Some of the hugs were the type someone gets when a loved one has been away too long - or went missing and has been found at last. No quick air-hug here - these hugs said, "We're never letting you go away again."
While watching the dancers, I met Puanani, who studied with my own Kumu Hula, Kau`i Brandt, when they both lived in the Hilo area. Puanani now lives in Idaho, and has her own group there. She drove 1,300 miles to see this festival. Because I now have my own little hula group, it's like we're "daughters of Kau`i Brandt," and we'll try to keep in touch as good "sisters" should.
And I met Karen Keawehawaii, a wonderful singer whose recorded music had been used as we learned or performed hula with Aunty Kau`i. She was a vendor, selling wonderful, lifelike plumeria hair decorations - and her CD of music specifically for hula dancers. I saw a sign with her name over her booth, but I didn't know what this singer looked like. I just read the booth sign, "Karen Keawehawaii," I thought, "Oh, like the singer?" Some of my friends who knew her personally were standing nearby. They told me the woman behind the table was, indeed, the singer herself! Once I recovered (sort of), I bought her CD and some hair decorations, and sent so many friends to her booth that she sold out of her recordings.
Her daughter, Tracie Lopes, leads Ka La `Onohi Mai o Ha`eha`e, a Honolulu-based halau, who won several honors, including best use of Hawaiian language. By the time the awards were given out, I had visited Karen's booth several times. Hoping to sail through one of the vendors building to say goodbye to some of my favorite vendors before they left, I spotted Karen at her booth and said, "You're going to be so proud!" Her daughter was a few steps behind me, and began sharing the news of the halau's successes with her mother. Winning here isn't easy, and to take home more than one award, especially the language award, during your first time here is a major accomplishment. I slipped away to give mother and daughter a chance to rejoice.
My mother never saw me dance. She never saw me teach, or compete, or do shows. My father did see me dance while I was in Florida, and for that, I am so grateful. But my mother died before she ever could see me dance. After we left Hawai`i, hula was impossible for me to find for many years; but, once I started my quest, I kept searching till I found my instructors, and only get more intense as I continue my studies.None of my friends in the hula community ever met my mother, and no one here met my father. Except for Kenny, they don't know my family, all of whom live out of state.
But I do have family here. I have my little hula group, Ka Hui Hula Ka Hale Hula o Ku`u Hoaloha Hula - we call it "Ka Hale Hula" (the hula house), for short. After working so hard, Kenny got our "hui tee shirts" printed in time for the ladies to wear to the show.
The shirts are aqua - I couldn't get pure mint - to represent the color of my house in Martinez. The printing is yellow, and on the aqua, it comes out looking like gold leaf or "old" gold. Yellow is the color of O`ahu, the island of my birth. It also suggests California, the Golden State, where we're situated; it suggests the yellow roses of Texas and the Sunshine State of Florida, and a little of the fires of the volcano eruptions. Aunty Kau`i also was born on O`ahu, although we both have ties to Kaua`i and Hawai`i Island as well. We couldn't add purple and red for the other islands, and we kept the design simple: a golden lei of lehua, hibiscus and maile circling the name "Ka Hale Hula," with the full name printed below. The ladies liked the results, and said the colors were easy to spot as we searched for each other.
One poignant note about this event: It honored the passing this year of Gordon Allen Lum. Before her death, he was the husband of Ehulani Enoka Lum of the Kumu Hula Association of Northern California. This couple co-founded this hula festival, and carried it on after his wife's death. Her halau, now carried on by family, including Kumu Hula Deanie Wailani-LumVilliados, remains the host halau.
I've often told newcomers to this area, or those new to hula, that if you go to certain events or places here, you quickly will become part of the family. Well, this writer has been away and missed three of these Pleasanton events. I came back to hugs and kisses and loving little chiding - "Now that you're back, you STAY here! Don't leave anymore!" I certainly have family here.
Ohana, indeed, means family, and that truly means no one is left behind or forgotten.
Aloha from Ka Hale Hula!
"The Final Season" - Go See It!!!"There aren't any good, family-oriented movies I want to see!" How many times I've heard that! How many times I've heard people moan that movies are too violent, too "dirty," too foul-mouthed to enjoy, particularly if you want to take your kids along - or, your parents, for that matter.
Yet, so many "family-oriented" movies get lost in the dust, crushed in the box office by special-effects movies, action movies, lust films - the very flicks that caused the bemoaning in the first place.
I have a personal interest in "The Final Season," which came out this past weekend. Kenny storyboarded most of the baseball game scenes. So, obviously WE went to see the film the opening weekend.
And, like his previous work, "The Ant Bully," this live-action movie hasn't had the publicity campaign of, say, "We Own the Night," "Michael Clayton," "Transformers," "Resident Evil" or the latest slasher movie. It hasn't gotten a tenth of the PR that "The Game Plan" has received. Love "The Rock," but for a Disney family flick, it does start off with a star football player getting a "surprise" at his door - a daughter.
"The Final Season" is being categorized in general as one of those "herioc sports films." On one level, that's true, as is the real-life story on which this movie is based. The small town of Norway, Iowa, strongly supports its tiny high school, especially the baseball team that has won 19 state championships, usually against much larger schools. Can it win the state championship for the 20th time - before the school is shut down and its student body absorbed into a school about a half-hour away?
This skews the "David vs. Golioth" story. The Norway Tigers are compared by residents to the New York Yankees - they are EXPECTED to win the state championship, despite the size of their home town and school. The larger competitors are EXPECTED to be intimidated by this bunch of farm boys who spend their off hours loading feed, minding livestock and baling hay and, in general, living clean lives - and living baseball. This team IS the Golioth of Single-A baseball.
But Norway itself is small, and is about to lose the school and its team. The coach who led the team to 12 of those 19 championships makes a devil's bargain - if he agrees to leave, the school board will allow Norway High to last one more year, letting the team play one Final Season. But the board doesn't want the team to go out with a blaze of glory. So they hire a girls volleyball team coach as his successor.
Sean Astin stars as the new coach. He's best known for his role as Samwise in "The Lord of the Rings" trilogy. This new coach knows Norway's history and even became an assistant coach for the baseball team for half a season before he got hired, so he was familiar with the previous coach's techniques. But - he's not the old coach. And he's coming to a dispirited school and an even more dispirited team. And once this season is over - it's over for good.
This movie looks at small-town, country-style life and how it gets slammed by folks from bigger cities, even if the "big city" is Des Moines, not New York or L.A. This movie hits close to home, even if Kenny didn't board the ball games. I saw how increasing growth in Texas keeps replacing hay fields and cattle pastures with great crops of mini-mansions and pointy-roofed subdivisions. And like the folks in Norway, I felt powerless to stop it.
The picture above isn't from the movie. It's from an A's game. The boys played well that night - came back from behind in spectacular fashion, finished it all with a glorious fireworks display at the Colliseum. A storybook ending to the game, if not the season.
The A's aren't a single-A team. They're MLB, but they play on a shoestring budget. But they produce rookies whose names get known, and my first full baseball season in Oakland, they took a handful of rookies and went to the playoffs. Sure, the Yankees regularly make the playoffs, too, but, like it's mentioned in "The Final Season," the A's grow their team - the River Cats in Sacramento is a championship A's farm team. The A's can't afford to BUY a winning team.
"The Final Season" is directed by David Mickey Evans," whose movie "The Sand Lot" got his name put in the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown. We hope "The Final Season" does the same. It's an independently-made movie, done on a shoestring, and it's not appearing in all the theaters where some of the above-mentioned movies are being shown. Here in the Bay Area, we could only find it in Concord, at the Brendan multiplex.
So, without a strong publicity campaign, and playing in less than half the theaters that most other newly-released films are showing, "The Final Season" has got a tough road ahead.
But, I hope that all the folks who long for an enjoyable movie that can speak to many of us on so many levels will seek it out, will find it, and will go see it. You'll see an entertaining story unfold before your eyes. You'll see footage of the actual Norway players inserted as news footage. You'll see the story of a little school in a tiny Iowa town, and you'll see a movie that certainly was a work of love.
Ka Hale o Ku`u Hoaloha HulaAloha from one of the newest hula groups in the Bay Area, "Ka Hale o Ku`u Hoaloha Hula," which meets at my house in Martinez, CA.In fact, I call it "A little bit of Hawai`i in Martinez," and I truly try to make it seem that you've walked through a doorway that lands you in the islands without those long hours on the plane to get in your way.In the picture, at the conclusion of their first show, are, from left, Kealoha, Mea Makamae and Ku`ono`ono. They are my Wednesday evening class. They had been dancing together for less than two months when they did a small "hula demonstration" for a square dance club's anniversary luau.
The club just wanted a little hula demonstration. I explained that our class had just started, but that we might be able to accommodate them. As I talked with the luau's organizer, I realized we could provide the type of show that might suit them to a T - if my students were willing to give it a shot.
Normally, I wouldn't throw brand-new students into a show this early. I would have to ask them to know - truly KNOW - two hulas so they could be performed for the club. I'd pick up the rest of the hula for the little show, and would arrange the songs so that my brand-new dancers would look more like part of the show rather than add-ons.
The kind of show I was planning was the type I cut my teeth on for Aunty Kau`i Brandt when I danced regularly for her at small community shows. Eventually I became the emcee, music provider, costume consultant and even more for those little shows.
I've tried to tailor those shows as cultural presentations. We'd open with a short oli rather than the usual "Aloha - oh, I can't hear you! Let's try that again!" I'd explain the Hawaiian-language numbers in advance so that the audience can anticipate and "see" the way the hands tell the story. I tended to have at least some sort of "theme" to the show, whether it's a trip around the islands or a look at Hawaiian musical styles as they've changed through the years. I didn't want the audience to think there's a final exam after the show! But I did want them to go home with deeper appreciation of the Hawaiian culture - as well as happily entertained!
After years of doing such shows in Florida for Aunty Kau`i, I saw they met all those goals. They are a proven entity, and I can count on them succeeding for situations such as the square dancers' luau.Fortunately for me, my haumana agreed to do the demonstration, in spite of butterflies, cold feet and all.
They bravely did their two hulas at the appointed time, one hula on their own, the second as our "finale" with all of us dancing together.The first was "E Huli Makou," which was composed at a Kona area resort specifically to comment on hula dancers' moves. A fun little dance that uses the last half of each verse almost as a chorus, "E Huli Makou" also is a sneaky way for a teacher to introduce Hawaiian words into a student's vocabulary. And...yes...I do!
Their second hula - our finale - was "Ulupalakua," a paniolo (cowboy) song about a visit to a famous ranch on Maui. I picked it to honor our hostess's home base of Clayton, CA, which still has some horse country out there.
In the middle of the show, the ladies also helped me stage our audience participation number, "Hukilau," as if it were a mini-hula-class. So they had three appearances in all.
Kealoha, Mea Makamai and Ku`ono`ono danced as if they'd been doing this all along. They remembered to smile, and they danced like a team. They got a standing ovation - hooray!! - and praise from the entire audience, none of whom could believe that our little hui hula is so new.To say I'm proud of my students is an understatement. Their performance was such high quality that word of mouth is spreading about our little hula group.
I'm not planning to rock the hula world with my hui hula - I'll let Kumu Mark Ho`omalu do that! We aren't planning to enter competitions, or even stage huge shows with catered meals and ticket sales. There are plenty of halau in the Bay Area who can do that.
When the square dancers kept saying our little show "made me feel like I was back in Hawai`i," I knew Ka Hale o Ku`u Hoaloha Hula had hit its mark.
Congratulations, Mikioi!Several years ago, Mikioi Iwamoto sat with some friends in Berkeley and talked in front of a camera about hula. If I remember correctly, it was supposed to be a clip that would be used in a documentary. It also gave Mikoi a chance to explore forming her own halau.
I never saw how the documentary came out. I know how the halau did!Mikioi comes from a rich heritage in hula - and more. After studying with other kumu hula, she became a pupil of Mark Ho`omalu, whose Oakland-based halau has made it to the Merrie Monarch Hula Festival stage many times; whose chanting and singing style was heard long before Disney hired him for "Lilo and Stitch." She became an alaka`i under his guidance, proficient not only in hula but also Hawaiian arts and crafts. The first time I met her, she still was part of Mark's halau, and was teaching folks how to make `uli`uli, one of hula's most widely-known percussion instruments.
This lovely young woman danced on the stage at Edith Kanaka`ole Stadium during the event that's often called the Superbowl of Hula - the Merrie Monarch Hula Festival in Hilo. Perhaps it was the demands of that level of competition, or perhaps it was a desire to teach on her own, possibly both and quite possibly, even more....she took a sabbatical, worked on a pahu drum, and asked permission to teach. Mark gave her permission. And in good time, Mikioi launched her halau, Ka Ua Lililehua, named for a rain that falls in Palolo Valley of O`ahu.
My own hula heritage began with Kalina D'Errico, who sent me in short order to Kau`i Brandt, who gave me so many opportunities to dance and teach, to design costumes and organize and emcee small shows.
Then Kenny and I moved to California. There, I met Harriet Spalding (Edith Kanaka`ole's niece, by the way.) Instead of pursuing classes with a competition halau, I chose instead to study with this sweet older woman, who carryed on the work started by Aunty Kau`i. A stroke ended her teaching career, and I was looking for my next teacher. A friend told me about Mikioi's meeting in Berkeley. I went. And I loved what I heard. And I started classes with her.
We performed at several events, including the Alameda County Fair in Pleasanton. We learned arts and crafts in addition to wonderful hula. Her mantra was, "No pressure! No stress!" Clearly, this was not going to be a competition halau, and that suited me fine.
Early on, I learned she had a keen sense of humor. I asked her what colors would represent her halau. She immediately replied, "Black and blue!" But, she never worked us THAT hard. Some kumu hula seem to push their haumana (students) beyond their physical abilities to the point they're chronically injured. Not Mikioi.
I was LOVING her classes!
Then I changed jobs and had to work Sundays, when halau classes met. And Mace, my cat, was diagnosed with kidney failure. And I had a fall at work that ended up with my being put on disability. And then we moved to Texas. Every time I thought I could get back to class, another roadblock sprang up, especially that move!
In the meantime, Mikioi's halau has grown. From primarily adults in class, the halau now has young girls, small children, some men. She can fill a stage with her dancers!
She did exactly that this past weekend. Her fifth ho`olaule`a, a tribute this year to the kings and queens of Hawai`i, was a lovely show that taught as well as entertained. Mikioi chanted the first half, the all-kahiko set, done in ancient hula style. Island Breeze provided the music for the more modern auana.
To set the stage for the tribute to the monarchy, halau members made - creatively and from scratch - two thrones, patterned after those at `Iolani Palace in Honolulu. Between these, perfectly framed, hung a feather cape made by hand during the past 10 years by Mikioi herself. When I first saw it at her home, it was still mostly net backing with some feathers. Now, this beautiful creation has been completed and framed.These capes were worn by royalty of ancient Hawai`i. A woven backing first was made. Feathers were gathered, mostly by capturing certain birds and plucking a few specific feathers (for instance, some birds were mostly black, but would have four yellow feathers, and only these yellow feathers would be gathered), and then the bird would be released.I've seen samples of some of these feathers. They're about the size of parakeet feathers. Five would be tied into a tiny, delicate bundle, and these bundles would be tied to the netting.
In modern times, we replicate this for lei by taking dyed goose feathers and cutting off the tips, perhaps an inch long. Even so, making a feather cape is no easy feat.
Some capes on display at Bishop Museum in Honolulu were so long that when worn by one of the tall ali`i, the hem would come close to the ground. Many others were shorter, lying on the shoulders and reaching, in the back, about to the waist. This is more the size of the one Mikioi has made, but just because this one wouldn't drape to the floor, don't think that this has been an easy undertaking! Look at the picture and compare its size to Mikioi and think about it - feathers, the size of little parakeet feathers, tied together one bundle at a time to a netted backing.It has taken this skilled artist 10 years to finish this cape. I know what its future is expected to be, but I don't know how many know, so I am not going to spoil the surprise, if there is one. She told me its destination many years ago, when I first was in her halau. I think I answered, "Oh, wow!"
She has finished the cape. It's framed. It got displayed at the ho`olaule`a, and we all admired its beauty and her artistry.
She's far from being done with the halau. It, too, is a work of art, and it, too, demonstrates her skill and talent, her vision and her artistry.
Congratulations again, Mikioi, for finishing the cape. Congratulations, too, on the success of the ho`olaule`a. And congratulations, most of all, on how well the halau has turned out during the years since I sat in Berkeley and heard you talk about hula.
Ku`ono`ono's TrophyKu`ono`ono is showing off this dove shell lei. She didn't buy it. She earned it. She passed a written test, then danced a hula unassisted, and earned her first shell lei.
You can buy these long, white, beautiful dove shell lei on-line, or at swap meets in Hawai`i. But at our hui hula, we have another path. You can earn it.
I have my own little hula group! There are times I can't believe I'm finally getting a chance to share with prospective dancers the hula I have learned from Aunty Kau`i Brandt, from Aunty Harriet Spalding, and from others who have encouraged me to teach.
I tell my students that I am not their kumu, although "kumu" in Hawaiian also means "source." Some instructors say a kumu hula (hula teacher) should `uniki, or be graduated, with certain rituals. Others - even those who have had those rites - are not as strict. "Kumu `olelo" would be "language teacher;" "kumu holo lio" would be riding instructor. In contrast, the use of the phrase "kumu hula" and who deserves that designation is controversial, part of various debates in the hula community.
But, I've been very fortunate. My kumu hula is Kau`i Brandt, of whom I've written in earlier posts. I asked her what would be appropriate, and she said, "Alaka`i," a word that means "guide," among other definitions.And, that really fits. I want my students to feel as if they're going on a hula adventure, or walking a hula pathway, and I'm their guide. Oh, here's a mele (song), and here's its meaning as I've learned it, and here's a hula to this song, and here are pictures about some of the things talked about in the song. That's not just fluff, as Ku`ono`ono learned when she began studying hula with me.
Many of my students are new to hula. This usually means they're new to the Hawaiian language as well. So, for our first hula, I picked one that repeats part of the first verse throughout the entire song. Learn the first verse, you're more than halfway home. Easy, huh?
But the other side of the coin is this song, called "E Huli Makou," is that it can help you learn Hawaiian language vocabulary. And, I make sure they DO learn. The first verse says "E huli makou," ("let's all turn" is the usual translation) and if you understand "huli," you'll understand what you, as the dancer, should do. The next verse starts, "Imua, imua makou...." and "imua" means to go forward. It's the motto of the Kamehameha Schools. And, in the hula I'm sharing with these students, a hula taught to me by Aunty Lani Valenta when she and I both were studying with Aunty Kau`i, we DO "imua."
The third verse starts "Ihope...ihope makou," and that means to go back, which is what we do in this hula. And the fourth verse is the "ha`ina" verse, that has so much meaning and nearly always is done twice.In between, the song comments about "your eyes (maka), your hands (lima), your body (kino)" and asks that aloha be shared with the speaker. That, in Hawaiian, is repeated throughout. So, once it's all learned, a student has gotten a vocabulary lesson that's going to be useful in the future as we learn more hula.
Ku`ono`ono had to complete a test and perform "E Huli Makou," and this sweet, quiet girl was more than ready to give it a go a week or so back. She nailed the hula, she completed the written test perfectly, and she received my first shell lei award.
No one I teach will go through the entire `uniki ceremony. I have received none, myself, and without that, I can't pass this on. But those who work hard on their hula should be recognized for their dedication, and so I hit upon the idea of awarding dove shell lei.
In certain styles of hula, these shell lei are worn with lovely long dresses. These lei are heavy, once you get a dozen around your neck, and you need to remember to have good posture as you dance with these shells.What would help these ladies remember good posture more than knowing, as their shoulders bear the weight of these beautiful shells, that they didn't go out and buy these lei - they've EARNED them!
Congratulations to Ku`ono`ono!
[I am proud of all my students, the members of Hui Hula Ka Hale o Ku`u Hoaloha Hula, and you'll see pictures of them more and more at this site. I am happy that there are those who want to study with me, and with whom I can share the hula I have learned. We have a little hula demo coming up later this month, and so I have to get back to sewing costumes!]
Happy Anniversary to US!Aug. 27, 1983, with a ceremony that begain at 10 a.m., Kenny and I teamed up on a project that has lasted 24 years - and counting.
We got married.
Ours was an unusual courtship. When we met, I was wrapping up making decorations for a one-day Star Wars/Star Trek convention organized by our little Trek club to raise enough money to pay back the president who funded the group after its first president left with the treasury. If we could raise enough money to pay for the meeting room rent, that'd be bonus. I was part of the planning committee whose bright idea was to stage the event, and at 3 a.m., I was paying for it.
Kenny joined a group of Miami-based fans who would be crashing at my small mobile home, would pay full admission, and would be pressed into service to help us out. He was the only one who hadn't gotten the word: I'd raised three rescued possums for the Central Florida Zoo, and they lived in my house like any other house pet. And I had house pets - a German shepherd, Athene; a cockatiel, Mikki; and a fish tank in nearly every room of the house. Most folks liked most of the pets, but the possums often drew disgusted looks and mumblings of "Big, ugly rats."
I'd warned everyone that they were staying in a home where the phrase "big, ugly rats" should never be spoiken. Only, Kenny hadn't gotten the word - he was a last-minute addition to the ride north to Orlando.Fortunately, this is Kenny, a native Floridian who took one look at my three little girls, cuddled together in their sleep like a wad of grey fur, and said, "Wow! Possums! Can I play with them?"
What woman could resist such an opening line?
He now says I didn't know where he was looking at the time. I contend he was looking toward the kitchen, where Virginia, Rosie and Jali O'Possum were just waking up to peer through sleepy eyes at the folks coming through the door.
As time went on, Kenny and I became good friends. And Athene, who had been taking notes on his demeanor and behavior, made it clear she approved of him. After all, he could cook, and I can't. And he was smart enough to cook for Athene when he came over to make dinner. Pretty soon, Athene started hiding his shoes when he came to visit. She figured that if he couldn't find his shoes, he couldn't leave the house. And she never hid them the same place twice.
Finally, we two humans took the hint and began dating. It took a five-year courtship before we finally tied the knot. But we rarely lived in the same city, and occasionally didn't even live in the same state - or the same side of the country, for that matter. We wrote letters, made phone calls, traded photos, and missed each other as Kenny tried to get his career going and I logged hours and miles of copy at the Orlando and Daytona Beach daily papers.
By the time we set the date, Athene had died of a brain illness, and we'd buried her in my parents' back yard. Much to my mother's dismay, this meant I wanted our wedding in her house. Ignoring the stress it put on my folks - hey, it wasn't like I could move Athene so she could "attend" the ceremony - I held my ground, and we had a sweet little ceremony in my parents' living room. My mother was matron of honor, my father gave me away. I had Hawaiian flowers and music, and counting the minister and ourselves, we had about 25 folks crowded into the living room and dining room to watch us exchange our vows in front of the Rev. Dr. Craig, then the pastor of the Ormond Beach First United Methodist Church.
Promptly afterwards, as a slight mist fell from the sky - a blessing, in Hawaiian thought - Kenny and I slipped outside with my friend, Marlene, who as a notary had hoped she would perform our ceremony. She got to perform one, all right - we exchanged our vows one more time beside the spot where Athene was buried.
Then we hurried back inside, where my mother was serving coffee and tea and light food for those who wouldn't be joining us for our reception across town at the Ebisu Japanese Restaurant, where we were treated like royalty, and where the ladies had spend hours folding - for me! - the paper cranes that are associated with a Japanese wedding.
That was 24 years ago. We have no possums now, and our "dog" is India, who in the picture is staring at the lovely rose bouquet sent to us by Kenny's folks, Joe and Jeanne Mitchroney. We have four cats, total - India, the Monkey, Texie and Sadie. We have two horses, Sway the Limit and Ginger. Everyone let us run off to the Delta King in Old Sacramento for a little train trip getaway, and they all were happy to see us when we got back. Kenny got a sake set and two bottles of sake - all our others went away when they were fractured during the many moves. Besides, we had to honor the folks who were operating the Ebisu that lovely day so many years ago! And I got a beautiful Hawaiian Heirloom bracelet with a name only Kenny can call me - "Ku`u`ipo," often translated as "sweetheart."
I really am his sweetheart, as he is mine. We still go on dates, and we still hold hands. We always were too far apart for far too long while we were dating, and we need to catch up!
Sometimes I'm asked about how we met...how we knew our marriage would stay solid when so many folks thought we were an odd match.... I tell them about the possums and the German shepherd and Kenny's opening line, and I tell them, "Put that all together, and you know you've found the right guy!" After all - it's never failed!

The Next Best Thing To Hawai`iThat's Teri to the left of the picture, Tommy on guitar on the right, and me, between the two, singing away and playing my precious John Ogao ukulele. We three - and enough folks to make three rows on stage - are part of the Royal Hawaiian Ukulele Band, headquartered at the Templebar Restaurant in Berkeley.
We were singing and playing Sunday, Aug. 5, at the Aloha Festival, sponsored annually by PICA (Pacific Islanders Cultural Association) at the Presidio in San Francisco. Our audience? It used to be 65,000 of my closest friends, but it's grown since I've been in Texas. People sitting on the grassy Parade Grounds till you hit pavement; folks there were standing.
The first time I attended the Aloha Festival, it still was at Chrissy Field, and everywhere we sat was pavement. I had barely been in California a week, and the only way I could get there was by bus, BART and even more buses, but I was determined to attend. And it was worth the effort to get there. I saw hula performed by halau (hula schools) I knew from watching videos of The Merrie Monarch Hula Festival, often called the "superbowl of hula." I heard musicians playing Hawaiian music all day, for two days. I only knew one person, and was surprised to see Ku`ulei there, since normally she's working at Walt Disney World in Florida.One year later, I was performing with two bands and dancing hula with Aunty Harriet Spalding, who became my kumu after I moved away from Florida and Aunty Kau`i Brandt. And I knew folks there, and not just from watching them on tape. I kept attending - and performing - till I moved to Texas.
In the three years I've been gone, we've lost Aunty Harriet. We lost Uncle Gordon Lum, father of the festival's emcee, Tennyson Lum, and co-founder of `Ia `Oe E Ka La Hula Festival in Pleasanton, a wonderful hula competition. We also lost Uncle Hollis Baker, who led the Kaleponi Strings, and who was co-founder of the Northern California Hula Festival. They were remembered at this year's festival with plenty of aloha.
Additionally, the leader of the Royal Hawaiian Band, Uncle Kem Tung-Loong, lost his sister just prior to the festival, and he and Aunty Rosalyn were in Hawai`i. But - the band played on!
Aunty Mary Byers led the band and handled "lead ukulele" duties, including picking during the instrumental portions. The rest of us did our best to back her up. Some were newbies to the Aloha Festival stage.
Tommy whispered to me before our gig began, "Are you nervous?"Nervous? Oh, my dear, anything but! I'd been waiting three years to get back to this stage, to look out at a sea of people who cared very little whether I had Hawaiian blood. They came to see and hear everyone on those stages, and if those folks had the chops, then they got the cheers.It matters to some whether practitioners of an art or skill associated with a particular ethnic group actually are part of that ethnic group. I was born in Hawai`i; my dad worked at the old S.H. Kress store in downtown Honolulu and, for a short time, in Lihu`e. But that doesn't make me a "native Hawaiian" by most definitions - my parents were native Texans and were both haole. To have a haole practice - or more shocking, teach - Hawaiian things makes some folks uncomfortable.That's their path.
Fortunately for folks like me, not everyone thinks that way. My dear friend Pearl Lopez, who is part Hawaiian, part Native American, could care less. Our reunion at the festival brought tears of joy to both of us. So many others greeted me with, "Are you back? REALLY??" and were glad to hear me say, yes, we're back.
Of course, I hadn't NOT been doing island-style things in Texas. I missed making the Merrie Monarch lineup in the Euless halau by one point, which wasn't bad for someone who isn't 20-and-skinny and who a few months before was wrapped in braces after a 2003 fall at work and another rear-end collision. I taught ukulele and Hawaiian language for Grace Evangelista, an instructor who works very hard on the dances of Hawai`i, Tahiti and the Maori of New Zealand.
But in Texas, I had my horses in my back yard, and you just don't take that for granted. If hula and Hawai`i didn't dominate my life there, it's because other things were allowed to come to the forefront. Hawaiian events were few and far between.
In California, we're surrounded by Hawaiian things and events. You can't do them all, because it's impossible to be three places at the same time. During my first go-round in California, Kenny finally got me a Geo Metro simply so he could afford the gas I was burning attending as many of these activities as I could.
We sold the Metro to some good friends, and I'm in a big Silverado pick-up I got when we got the barn and house in Keller. It gets good gas mileage for a pick-up, but nothing like the little Metro.
But there's good news - I've started my own hula school, and it meets at my house. The only gas I burn then is when I move the truck out of the driveway so the students can park closer to the house.
I'm having fun sharing what I've learned from Aunty Kau`i Brandt and Aunty Harriet Spalding and others. I hope to keep it small; otherwise, I'll have to move to a bigger place!
I'm so interested in Hawaiian things, folks often ask me if I wish I could move back to Hawai`i. I wouldn't mind, if I could have my horses in my back yard. On the other hand, I just moved halfway across the "lower 48," and I'd like to stay put longer than just a few years.
Besides, I'm in the Bay Area again, where I am surrounded with Hawaiian things, and my birth state is just a few hours away by plane. I have been back barely a month, and I've already started a hula group, I've performed at one of the largest outdoor Hawaiian festivals in the state (and beyond) and I'm back with the Royal Hawaiian Ukulele Band.And that's just the beginning!
Look what I did!How about that parking job??!!
Until Monday, July 2, 2007, I'd pulled this 4-horse stock trailer from Archie Smith's place, a couple of houses away, to my house, and from the Golden Corral restaurant to my place. That's it.
No big deal - my veterinarians made house calls, and my horses had no reason to leave the two acre pasture that had been their home since Dec. 3, 2004. Till we shipped them out to California July 1. Some things you let the professionals handle.
This gave us the chance to load up the horse trailer with the riding lawn mower and the rocking horse my Daddy made for me when we lived in Hawai`i, and anything in plastic totes that might survive the rain that most likely would hit before I reached Oklahoma.
Kenny and his buddy Corey worked on the trailer up to the last minute - new tires, checking the brakes, decoding the peculiar wiring. I didn't get to clean up the drips and spots from my homemade paint job, but at least it was all one color and matched the white Silverado truck I'd be driving out to Martinez. The trailer got loaded; more stuff was piled into the back of the pickup.
Our barn cats, Texie and Sadie, got new cages for the trip. Not willing to shove them into small carriers, I got large cages the type one would keep a rabbit or guinea pig for most of its life. The cats' huge crate that would have allowed them to curl up in their little carpet "cat caves" wouldn't fit in the feed area of the trailer - those elevated shelves that allow the horses to eat while they look through the forward windows. But with a little fiddling, these cages fit perfectly. The cats' new cages were bungied in tightly - everybody gets seat belts!! - and were positioned so the cats could get plenty of air flow and a good view if they wanted.
India and Monkey were put into the same crates we'd used to haul Indy and Mace out from California. Mace, who died and was cremated in 2004, came along as well, in her cedar box and woven basket.
I packed food for us all so that my stops would be as brief as possible so the cats wouldn't be stressed. I knew once I hit California, I'd be restricted to 55 mph, and I wanted to get to California by Wednesday, preferably during the day, because I knew I wanted daylight to park the trailer at the house.
The first night on the road, I stayed at a LaQuinta in Santa Rosa. The only parking alternative for a vehicle combo this size was to pull straight into the parking lot. Next morning, I'd have to back out and turn the rig around.
Now, those of you who have done this several times know that everything you learned about backing a vehicle by itself is the opposite technique from backing a trailer. Having asked tips from everyone I knew, I was surprised I got to learn this on my own.
It took a few attempts the next morning to figure how to angle the trailer into the access lane between the hotel's parking lot and the parking lot of the businesses next door. That done, I could turn the truck around and pull out. My first 180-degree turn with the trailer!
I took out no gas pumps (one cousin advised me to watch out when filling up the gas tank). I got used to using the side mirrors, since the rear-view was used to check on cats and that huge white trailer front that blocked everything else from view. A professional trucker helped me angle my side mirrors so I could see better, and I added one of those little curved mirrors to the passenger side mirror for a little extra help.Pretty soon, I was quite used to having the trailer following me along. I'd push the "trailer" button that caused the Silverado to compensate for towing, and watch the tach to make sure I wasn't stressing the engine when we finally starting hitting hills. And I set the cruise control on 55 as soon as we reached California, where that's the speed limit if your vehicle has a trailer in tow.
Originally, I thought I would be so nervous about that huge trailer following behind that I'd stay at 55 for the entire trip. By Oklahoma, I was happily cruising at the same speed as surrounding traffic. Having left the broadcast area of KHYI 95.3 The Range, I began playing "radio roullet." When the current station began fading into static, I'd hit the search button. I'd take "pot luck," whatever station came up next, and stick it out for at least 3 songs before advancing to the next station. Usually, I'd stick with that station till it, too, began to fade to static, then hit the button again to see what was next on the dial.
By California, I was getting so comfortable pulling the trailer that the required 55 mph limit on vehicles with trailers seemed horribly slow. Apparently, other drivers thought the same. I had more close calls in California than anywhere else on the trip, mostly because the other drivers couldn't cope well with a truck and trailer that was complying with the law. I'll bet the folks who passed that law didn't realize how other motorists would react to a slower pickup and horse trailer....or how few noticed the signs that said radar would tattle on me if I exceeded 55 mph.
California was the only state that had everyone stop before entry. The officer who came over to check my rig asked, "What kind of livestock's in the trailer?" "Two cats," I answered.
She looked in the back seat of the truck and saw Indy and Monkey, and said, "I see the cats. But what's in the trailer?"
"Two more cats - and lots of stuff." I turned off the car so she could see, and, satisfied, she quickly waved me on. That was good, because the high desert was baking, and only the breeze kept the trailered cats comfortable.
The Best Western in Needles, Calif., had a parking lot with plenty of ingress and egress - fancy words for "I don't need to do another turn-about." As soon as I got parked, I raced the cats into the air conditioned hotel room. Even in the late afternoon, it was so hot the cats began panting as soon as I got them out of their vehicles. Texie and Sadie spent the night in the trailer in Santa Rosa, because it was cool and they could snuggle into their blankets. But the heat in the desert was unrelenting, so that night, everyone got to spend the night in the air conditioned hotel room.
Regardless, I got into Martinez with plenty of daylight to spare. I took the long way around to my home street, so I could park the rig parallel to the street with the truck pointing to the shortest way out.Best laid plans....I had no idea how badly the truck and horse trailer wouldn't fit right in front of my house!
On to Plan B, which meant moving the red Del Sol out of the driveway, and pulling off another 90-degree turn of the horse trailer so I could park it and the truck in the driveway.
I used one of Kenny's work stools to mark the edge of the driveway, and prayed I wouldn't hit his custom-painted mail box, and I cautiously inched the trailer into the driveway and backed it toward the house. I stopped it with scant inches to spare, and had it straight enough to satisfy me - on the first try, no less! The trailer and truck JUST fit without extending into the street.
Now, I'm not saying I'm an expert, but I pulled off my first halfway-across-the-country run with a trailer, all alone except for 4 cats for company and Kenny checking in on my cell phone.
Since then, I've transported my horses to their current place, and have temporarily parked the trailer at that barn. It eventually will go to a trailer storage spot, where I'll clean up its paint drips - maybe even give it another coat of paint, and add a few more reflectors.
I've heard from folks who have said, "How sad you had to drive that far alone!" Maybe some folks would have found the trip lonely, but for me, it was a cool little adventure. I learned a few things, I had some new experiences. I had to stay focused on getting to Martinez early the third day, so there were no side trips, no visits to the roadside attractions, and only one dining experience outside the car or hotel room. But I had fun along the way, and thoroughly enjoyed the trip.
Moving is some fun, eh, kids??If God is kind and I am good - very, very good - maybe I won't have to move again for a while.
I made it from Texas to California, riding "alone" in the Silverado with my 4-horse stock trailer in tow. I put "alone" in quotes, because with 4 cats as travel companions, one is not, strictly speaking, alone.
India, who has been a member of this family longer than anyone except Kenny and me, knew what was up the moment I started putting stuff in boxes. She watched me pack in Florida for the move to California in '97 . She watched us pack from Point Richmond to Martinez two years later. She watched us pack early in 2004 for Irving, Texas, and again late that year when we moved to Keller. So, when she saw us shoving stuff in boxes at the ol' Double Nickel, she watched us work and waited for the day her trips in the travel cage was more than mere "evacuation" while the house was being shown.
MonkeyCat had moved only once in his life, when as an infant just a few weeks old, he was delivered to our house. The only "box" involved was his baby litter box, not yet used as a bathroom, only as a carrying case for his first toys. He fit nicely in the palm of my hand that day, June 9, 2005.
The whole putting-stuff-in-boxes thing confused him. Moving the furniture, when it was sold to our buddy, Corey, freaked him, because we were dismantling his climbing mountains. Once Corey and Kenny began taking the entertainment center apart, Monkey lodged a protest. Even though the top of the center was now on the floor, Monkey climbed on board and curled up, as he did when it was far closer to the ceiling. It was one of his favorite spots, and he was claiming it. The men began tilting the board gently, so Monkey might get the idea he was supposed to leave. Nope. Not until gravity took over was the unhappy Monkey dislodged....
Shortly after that - in fact, the day after we put the horses on the Bob Hubbard van in a 3-inches-in-30-minutes downpour - Monkey, Indy, and our two barn cats, Sadie and Texie, were on the road. Indy curled up in a spot in her travel crate that gave her the best view. Texie and Sadie rode in large wire cages that gave them great air flow and a good view from the stock trailer's front windows - their cages were bungied into the feed platform. Like Indy, the Barn Sisters had made long road trips before, and they settled down with ease for the long haul.
Monkey, who rode in the truck next to Indy, was mystified as the road trip kept going on and on. He chattered at first, then cried. During a particularly easy stretch of road, I put one hand back to reassure him. He grabbed it with his paws and pulled my fingers into his cage and held them there, till I needed to put two hands back on the wheel.
The road trip itself was pretty uneventful. I was thrilled that I ran into no problems along the way. The farthest I'd hauled that trailer was from Golden Corral to our house; previously I'd hauled it from Archie Smith's house two places away from our house - Archie sold it to me. Because of a peculiarity of the trailer's current wiring, I didn't need to be driving at night, although a miscalculation about my first night's hotel meant I was on the road a bit longer than I had hoped.
Originally, I expected to make it to Albuquerque, N.M. But the neighbors' horses had broken out of their portable round pen again, and this time, they got out on Johnson Road, running through traffic. Kenny got them rounded up and into our fenced pasture after someone told us, "Your horses are loose!" Not MY horses - mine should be securely riding in a horse van somewhere between Texas and California at that point!
While Kenny was busy being a horse wrangler, I was calling around, trying to get the number of the folks who own the house where the horses are kept. I finally had to resort to calling Keller Police and Animal Control for this family to be notified. I certainly didn't want them to come by and think we'd "borrowed" their horses!
That adventure made me quite late in leaving the Double Nickel. And, as our railfan buddies say, "Late trains only get later." So, I only got to Santa Rosa, N.M., that night. Stayed at a LaQuinta which didn't have a nice, looping parking lot. Next morning, I got to back truck and trailer, angle the trailer 90 degrees, and do a turnabout. I hadn't done a turnabout since my driving test in high school, and had never backed a trailer in my life. But, ya gotta do what ya gotta do, and slowly but surely, I got'er done and was on my way to Needles, where I stayed at a Best Western that DID have a drive-through parking lot. And 120-plus degree temperature. For that night, Tex and Sadie joined Indy and Monkey in the hotel room.
Because of the cats on board, I packed food and beverages for the trip, cruising into the roadside rest stands for brief bathroom breaks - no more. No shopping at the Cherokee stands in Oklahoma or the Indian jewelry stands in New Mexico or Arizona. I got some fry bread along the way, and that was it. I was on a mission to get to Martinez as soon as possible, not only for the cats, but also for the horses, and Kenny's Corvette.
The horses made it to Martinez a few hours before me. I got the call from Kenny that they had arrived and were safely in the stalls at Rafter M Bar, where they'd stay about a week till I got them moved closer to my house at Synergy, a place operated by a veterinarian's assistant who offers pasture boarding. The folks at Rafter M Bar and the woman who runs Synergy know each other quite well, so I feel a little more confident about this move.
I really like Bob Hubbard as shippers, although at some point, someone didn't get the word about how bonded Sway and Ginger are. Not that they're subtle about it, but somebody kept one away from the other, and Sway rubbed himself raw on his chest and face. Nothing permanent, but once again, it surprises me when folks don't believe what I say about my own horses. Sure, I got no big "name" in training. But - I know my horses....and they acted true to form. Despite this, I'd use Bob Hubbard again in a heartbeat. I just hope we all get to stay settled for a while before we go through this whirlwind again.
Kenny's on the road for a bit, driving an overloaded Penske truck westward. The moving van is somewhere between here and there. I'm sorting through stuff here, trying to figure out what can go to make way for the stuff that's coming out, and not looking forward to some of those decisions.
Indy gave the Martinez house the once-over, and settled in as if the last 3 years were a dream. Monkey took two days to return to his little Monkey self - then promptly tore open the screen on one of my studio's windows, and escaped for a few hours, which horrified me, since he's smart, but has the street sense of a stump. I could see him focused on chasing a bird or leaf and never see the SUV bearing down on him.....
Texie and Sadie were stuck in their cages in the cooler bedroom for a few days, till the temperature quit peaking near 100. I reassembled their huge black crate (something the size one could stash a large dog...) and set it up in the back yard so they could spend a couple of nights secured as they learned the sounds and wafting smells of this back yard. I normally don't let my pets roam, but these cats can't tolerate indoor life. The best have tried and failed to get them to conform to indoor manners. But this neighborhood is friendly to wandering cats. I've already nicknamed a couple of regular moochers, and, so far, everyone is coping well with the new arrangement. Sadie and Texie are sticking close to the house or playing among Kenny's projects in the back. I'm battling ants in the feed dishes, and am designing hanging feeders using wire baskets.
I finally have my laptop trained to talk to the wireless service here in Martinez. The delay in working on this blog has been frustrating, but like many things involved in this move, I am supposed to be patient about such matters.
One bright note in all this has been my return to the Templebar, an island-style restaurant in Berkeley, where Uncle Kem and Aunty Rosalyn serve wonderful food, are hosts to the monthly Aloha Sundays, and lead the Royal Hawaiian Ukulele Band, of which I was a member before I moved. I also was one of the main hula dancers for the group and taught some hulas to other band members under Aunty Roz's guidance. I didn't tell them I was coming. I just showed up for class - only, it was a class party instead of the usual rehearsal. Timing is everything.
Many folks are new, but there were many familiar faces, too. I'd brought my wonderful John Ogao ukulele, since I expected the usual rehearsal, but had nothing prepared for a solo or group effort as some band members had done. But when the Royal Hawaiian Serenaders took the stage - they're a select group from within the Royal Hawaiian Ukulele Band - Aunty Roz asked if I had my ukulele and said, "Come on up and play!" I got to play with the cream of the crop that night. What a welcome back that was!
Kenny and I have grieved over this move, selling the Keller house and barn (the original sale fell through, so our real estate agent, Rob Jones, is having it shown like crazy!) We hate leaving friends and family, and we are sad about all the things we wanted to do that didn't get done, places that didn't get seen....
We said the leaving was heartbreaking, and it was.We also said the arrival, though, will be wonderful.And it is!
The Last Entry from the Double Nickel Ranch.....Nothing says Texas like a barbecue on the back porch....one Dublin Dr Pepper down, and who knows how many more we'd be going through before the meal was done!
Amy Hudson and I got together for a barn-sprucing party, and Kenny wisely made a run to Cousins Barbecue here in Keller before Amy and I ran out of too much steam to go on.
It was hot, of course, which accounts for the fan in the back. And, since both of us are vegetarians, we had everything BUT the usual barbecue meal!
But the fixin's are good at Cousins, and I was getting in the last of the fried okra before I headed out to California, where "fried" is a dirty word and "okra" is suspected to be the name of some alien planet on a Sci-Fi channel series.
I am going to miss this back porch. Our buddy, Jerry Conine, built the railing by hand. Formerly, it was just 2x4 rails, which were precarious to sit on. The flaked paint is part of the original railing; we never got around to sanding and painting it. To the right, you see the reverse of some "gingerbread" Jerry carved by hand. You can tell it's reversed because the number 55, Kenny's NASCAR racing number for which the "Double Nickel Ranch" was named, is seen "mirror."
That sparkly thing on a stick in front of Amy is a CD that went bad. Its mirror-surface was supposed to discourage raccoons and other moochers from stealing the tomatoes planted in the flower pot you can't see in the picture. Sorry...that only worked in theory. I got 2 tomatoes off that vine, only because the raccoons pulled them off while green. Since I'm no cook, I have to delegate fried green tomatoes to someone else. But someone else - that would be Kenny - has been just as busy as I've been, preparing for the move to California, so in the end, I'll probably toss the tomatoes out, in hopes seeds sprout for this home's next owner.
The next owner is going to be surprised by the huge vines of gourds that found our weather much to their liking. He'll get the roses off the "mother" bush and the young "daughter" bush in the front yard, and the Peace rose bush in the back. He'll get the Easter lilies from all my church purchases. If he's lucky, some of the pecans, avocado seeds and cherry seeds I've tossed into the space between the barbed wire fence and the horse pasture fence will take route, and one day he'll have a better crop of pecans, at least, than I ever did.
Leaving the Double Nickel hasn't been easy on Kenny and me. The horses don't have a clue what's coming till Bob Hubbard Horse Transportation rolls its big 65-foot van in front of their noses. Surprise! India, who dates back to being a barn cat at our Florida place, will get the message when we shove her into her carrier, load her in the truck, and don't turn around for the entire day. She's gone from Florida to California to Texas. Monkey will be justifiably confused at the beginning, but he's a smart little fellow, and will adjust after a while. We figure all the short trips during the house showings have him used to his carrier.
Texie and Sadie, our barn cats, will find themselves shoved into travel crates and hoisted into the horse trailer on top of who-knows-what that will help brace their carriers into spots where they'll get some air flow amidst all the plastic totes and other weather-resistant stuff we plan to shove in there.
I'll be traveling during the July 4 traffic mess, and hope to spend only 2 nights on the road. First time hauling a stock trailer past a couple of blocks. I should have had Kenny paint some stick-on signs: "Beware! Novice Trailer-Puller Behind the Wheel!"
I'm going to miss all my Texas friends and relatives. I'm going to miss Amy a lot. We're both horse-crazy - happily, we never outgrew that horse-crazy stage all girls go through. Before I moved out to Texas, and Kenny was there alone working at DNA, he'd go in and visit Amy, who was the Human Resources department at the time. He'd just go to listen to her talk, because she and I sound a lot alike. We're both Geminis...maybe that's it. We saw the horse production "Cavalia" together. We saw the last show of the U.S. tour of the Spanish Riding School in Houston together. And on this day, we worked on my barn, spreading shavings and wood chips and mulch here and there, straightening stuff up so some stranger could come see if my place and he and his family would be a good match.
That bar you see in the back, the one with the fan, is made of 100 year old Texas barn wood from the Cooksey family barn. Its supports are two Jack Daniels barrels. Kenny's going to miss Corey Cooksey and his family. They didn't do a lot with 100 year old wood (we let Jerry handle those duties), but Corey and Kenny hoisted more than one Jack and Coke, both at this bar and the one we had in the house. The indoor bar got topped with Cooksey barn wood, and Corey took that home with him first thing!
The Keller Horse Owners Association, especially Mary Ausley who gave me a "Texas Bragging Bear" to take with me on the trip, have been a blessing. My family - Edward Freeman, all the Burnhams in Graham, J.B. and Margaret Ann who live at the same place I used to visit my maternal grandmother, Willie Edna Carlton (actually, her parents, Mama and Papa Clark also lived at that house, too, and it's the place where my mother lived till she married my father); Sally and Bob, my cousins (I used to call her "Sally Weasel" because she played "Pop Goes the Weasel" on my grandmother's piano...and to this day, I think of her as Sally Weasel, poor dear!; her daughter, Tammy, and Tammy's family, who always made me feel like family; Buddy and Marilyn in Austin; even the family I never got to see.....more things left undone, like getting a picture of 2601 Hairpin Curve where we used to live, or seeing Fort Belknap again, or pursuing the archeological find I made back in '64 to see if anyone followed up on it. Heck, I still haven't seen the Alamo! No fair!
I wasn't born in Texas - only member of my immediate family who wasn't - and one could say I got here as quickly as I could, as the Texas bumper stickers say, having gotten here as a child just before grade school time. And my stay this go-round has been way too short. We thought we'd retire here, but things didn't work out that way.
However short, the time in Texas has been good to Kenny and me and the rest of our family. The horses got to enjoy 2 acres of pasture all to themselves, and the cutest red barn in Texas. I got Texie and Sadie (permanently, now), and they had the run of the barn and pasture as well. We got to rescue Riley O'Possum and have him stick around for a couple of years, the usual possum life span. India made it to another home, and we got the Monkey.
Kenny got to put his stamp on a movie the way no one else had ever let him do. And he's got his Screen Actors Guild card. All credit for all of this goes to John Davis and Keith Alcorn, who see in Kenny his talent and know-how for movie making, and for getting folks enthusiastic about a project.
And I have a God-daughter, thanks to our dear friends Johan and Norma. I head to California with a hand-print of Alisha, and a bracelet of her birthstone, turquoise. Who knew I wouldn't be in the same town as the Klinglers so I could watch this darling little girl grow up? She's smart, fun and cute as she can be; a brunette with gorgeous eyes. I say we get her some bodyguards well before she's 16. All she's gonna have to do is bat those eyes at some young man, and he's gonna melt....of course, I always figured I'd be the one giving her riding lessons....
But, it's time to get over the "what could have beens" and get on to the "Forward Momentum!" that's been Kenny's and my watchword for this change of circumstances. So, folks, it's goodbye to the old Double Nickel Ranch, and hello to Ka Hale o Ku`u Aloha Hula, "The house of my love of hula," for those of you whose Hawaiian is a little rusty. Kenny's already got my hula studio prepped for my arrival. Martinez is a lovely place, with good friends, too. In fact, they're anxiously awaiting our arrival - so - gotta go!
My Daddy's ChairWhen I was a little kid - my "small-kid-time" in Honolulu - my Daddy would have breakfast with us and then go to work at the Kress Store on Fort Street. Being The Daddy, he would have first crack at the large, comfy chair, where he'd glance at the paper before heading out to work.After he had left, the chair was available for others to occupy. The "others" in this case were Mommy and me. My sister, Martha Ann, wouldn't come along until we'd moved to Wichita Falls. So, while we lived in Hawai`i, my mother and I would share this chair after Daddy went to work.
The chair didn't look like this back then. It had the 1940s serious upholstery with the soft fringe so popular back then. Instead of piping, it had fringe around its edges, too. As a horse-crazed person even back then, I would imagine the fringe would be horse mane. As soon as I was able, I rode the back of the chair like a horse, holding on to this fluffy mane, until I grew so large my folks feared I'd topple the chair over on its back.
This chair has been so much more than a chair. Yes, it was one of my many childhood horses, back in the day. But it also has a more important memory associated with it.This is the place I learned to read.
When Daddy left for work, Mommy got a chance to read the paper. My baby arms couldn't turn the pages the way they could, and I can only imagine the fun my mother had, trying to read the paper while I interfered.
But then Mommy would set aside the paper and pick up a children's book out of our collection, and begin to read to us. "Katy the kitten, a small tiger cat, was asleep in the hall, in a ball, in a hat!" my mother would read. Over and over again she would read to me about this little kitten, its awakening to have an adventure - or misadventure - with a saucer of milk that led to its bath, and being dried off. OH! The indignity of it all, for a little kitten! It was all too much, of course, for such a cat as Katy, so she finally returned to the hat in the hallway, curled herself into a ball, and purred herself back to sleep.
Sometimes she read the story of Dr. Goat, who, like human doctors of that day, made house calls. His patients were crows and owls and a walrus and other animals. Then one day, Dr. Goat himself caught a nasty cold. His patients returned his kindness by coming over and cleaning his house and his suit, and making him some soup to eat. This, of course, made the good doctor feel better, and by the end of the book, he was making his rounds again.
She also read to me about Paul the Puffin, who belonged to a sweet old lady who longed for a sunflower for the vase in her hallway, and how Paul managed to make her wish come true.
And we both played with the pop-up book about zoos, which was another favorite because from our house on Kuhio, we could walk through Kapi`olani Park to the Honolulu Zoo. Our house there is long gone, but you can go visit Kapi`olani Park and the Honolulu Zoo today.This old chair may have been in our family before I came along in Honolulu; I don't remember my folks ever telling me whether it was a Hawai`i or Texas purchase. But from Honolulu, it has been with us through several Texas homes and two Florida ones. While in our last Weilenman family home in Florida, it got re-covered in beige during Martha's project to re-finish her room. The endeavor became a school project, as I remember, and Martha's work earned her some recognition for its excellence.
But that was a number of years ago, and the beige fabric, the padding underneath, the webbing and the rest were so far past "tired" that I kept it slipcovered to hide the shreds and tears. In California, it was in a blue plaid that vaguely matched our other living room furniture. In Texas, I found a red slipcover, and moved the chair into my personal library and crafts room.
Now we're California-bound again. And it's time to pack up Daddy's chair. I needed to wash the slipcover, and noticed how dreadful the old chair looked. If you've read Kenny's
blog, http://brotherratfink.blogspot.com/, you will have read about his work on his '65 Chevy van restoration project. Collins, in Colleyville, TX, did the work covering the convertible back seat that becomes a bed, and they did an excellent job. Having friends who have had terrible times with upholstery work, I called up the tried-and-true Collins to see how quickly they could get the job done.
Horrors! - They'd lost 2 men. Texas rains had prompted every boat owner to bring in his boat's seats and cushions for an updating. They were backlogged, and didn't know when they could take the chair - let alone have it ready before our move! I nearly cried - how could I leave the job to strangers, when this was my Daddy's chair???
But, this is Texas, where things are still skewed toward customer service. So, in a few hours, I got a call back from Collins. Yes, I was on the waiting list. But, they might get the job done more easily if I brought the chair in. And got the fabric myself. With their tips on what makes good chair fabric, I recruited my friend Mary Morgan, and we ran off to JoAnn Fabrics to pick a pattern.
She and I spotted the cinnabar and sage, palm and orchid tropical print about the same time. It had an artistic, vintage look. I liked the feel. We kept browsing, but nothing compared to this print. Rather than buy the minimum required, I bought the balance of the roll, in case I made curtains or needed other things to match. I loved the look when I draped a portion over Daddy's chair, and with Kenny's help, we hauled fabric roll and chair to Collins the next day, in hopes they could complete the job in time. I couldn't wait - I could "see" Daddy's chair in this fabric!And now, so do you! Collins got the job done with a little time to spare, and I love their attention to detail. The chair looked just like I imagined. Better still, when I curled up in the seat before we loaded the finished chair into the car, I realized that this would be THE chair for reading my vast library of horse books, Hawai`i research and fictional entertainment.
Shortly after we brought the chair into the house, the Monkey had to start his examination. He posed for pictures, then curled up to sleep. He's not "Katy the Kitten," but this small tiger cat was asleep in a ball, near the hall, in the chair where I learned to ready about little Katy so many years ago.
"That's right, you're not from Texas...."It's an interesting thing, having your house shown to prospective buyers.They don't say things like your friends do. Your friends come over, see Ken behind the bar, at the grill or in the kitchen, and they know goodies are coming. They see India curled up in the olive-green cat bed that matches the Western Wearhouse living room furniture, or get tagged by the Monkey-Cat as he races to leap onto our Western-print, Lone Star bar chairs, and they smile.

Friends see the Lone Stars in the living room coffee table and on the fireplace accessories, and the unusual entrance to the dining room that is original to the house, the refined version of a bunk house look we've given our guest room - including the original painting you see here (by me!) - and the handful of "Roy Rogers and Dale Evans" pictures and memorabilia. They love it.

But then, they're not looking to buy this house.
The showing service our real estate agent, Rob Jones, uses to schedule prospective buyers' visits has a spot where those clients can offer feedback.
Some are the usual - the "Nice, but needs a 4 bedroom." [Hello - it was advertised as a 3 bedroom, and another bedroom won't magically appear.] One client thought the barn would take too much work. [Let's see what YOU can build in a day, by yourself except when your husband comes home at midnight after putting in a 14-hour day at work. Besides - my horses LOVE my barn just as it is!] Others are simply, "Not what my client was looking for."
One client didn't think 2 acres was big enough for the size house he wanted to build. Horrors! The idea of leveling this pretty red barn and cute Texas rambler house is so abhorrent to me that THAT comment still gives me chills. This barn has starred in commercials - you get paid money to watch show-biz at work, they feed you, clean your place, and leave in a few hours, and suddenly, your barn is a celebrity! And your refrigerator is stocked with frozen food they didn't use, and the neighbors are all a-twitter that Show-Biz came to their neck of Keller.But the real head-shaker was the comment that the client couldn't see "past the Texas decor."
I read that, and my mind turned to the Lyle Lovett song. But he's nicer than I am. He finished that line "...but Texas wants you, anyway."The previous owner loved Florida, and had done this Texas house in a very Miami Condo Modern style. It worked for her. She wasn't from Texas, and didn't even love horses and Texas the way her husband did, but she and her husband lived in this house longer than the other owners, including us. I suspect the husband had things more Texas and country, and that she re-did it Florida style after his death.
When we moved in, we felt this house longing for something more in keeping for a place so close to Fort Worth, particularly since it came with bas relief rope motif, the ranch-style entrance treatment to the dining room, and the wood on the walls.
So, we made multiple trips to Western Wearhouse at the Grapevine Mills Mall and to Rustic Ranch in Sanger. No cowhide, no Longhorns, no mounted deerhead trophies, but, yeah, we Texified this place up real good.
But - tastefully. Rustic, yes. Splinters, no.
Think more like your grandmother's place, when she lived in her mama's house in Waxahachie. With just enough of your cattle ranching uncle thrown in so that the furniture is a little more substantial than your grandmother's antiques - but not so stout that the new chairs (with Lone Stars carved into their backs) look out of place as they surround your grandmother's table in the dining room.
Texification - but nicely.
I could understand complaints from clients about our ever-increasing collection of cardboard cartons. We're packing for the move, and it just doesn't make sense to haul a load of packed boxes to a storage unit every day, only to turn around and have it put into a moving truck. We've tried to make them unobtrusive, but 100 packing boxes are gonna show - even though we've tried to use the small size as often as possible for easier lifting. Surprisingly, few have commented on that.
But the "can't see the house for the Texas decor" person missed the point. Honey, you ARE in Texas.
For those of you outside the Lone Star State, let me fill you in: You can hardly open up a phone book and find a single yellow page of ads that doesn't have a Lone Star, a Texas flag, a map of Texas or the portrait of a Longhorn incorporated into at least one listing. Some do it all. Go into a restaurant with a bar, and you'll see the map of Texas in neon behind beers that have no ties to the Lone Star State.
Your neighbors (and we) have Lone Stars on their houses for no particular reason. They fly the Lone Star Flag on days that aren't holidays. Radio stations brag that they play more Texas music, and KHYI "The Range" proudly announces that unlike the other country stations "who are owned by Yankees," it is own by Texans. The local Chevrolet plant still produces vehicles bearing the stickers "Made in Texas - by TEXANS."
The most "California" spot I've visited here is Southlake's "downtown." It reminds me of the Bay Area's open-air malls. Californians are moving here like crazy, and I'm sure they're enduring culture shock. And we see them in Downtown Southlake. But Downtown Southlake can't escape where it is - scattered here and there throughout Southlake are huge fiberglass Longhorns. Painted up, like the "Painted Horses" and other sculptures other towns are doing to make themselves distinctive. In Southlake, it's Longhorns. Well, yeah. It may look like Corte Madera or Mill Valley in Marin County, but it's still Texas.
Don't know where that client came from. Not particularly interested to know. Hope it finds a home in one of those faux-European subdivisions that can insulate you from being around so much Texas stuff.
And I guess this bit of rebellion sounds funny from the sole member of my family not born IN Texas.
I'm a white woman born in Territorial Hawai`i (I moved away before I got to experience the school time "kill haole days" my friends told me about later). I spent part of my early childhood in Texas explaining that, yes, I was American and being told repeatedly that I'd never EVER be a Texan. Part of me kinda feels out of place no matter where I go, even though somehow I always make every place become home, whether I'm wanted there or not.
But, by golly, this is Texas, and this house is a Texas Rambler style ranch house, on Johnson Road in Keller, Texas (doesn't that just sound like a Texas kind of place??) and, hell, yeah, we decorated it in Texas decor.In preparation for the showings, I took down my framed tapa, my hula pictures, my paintings of Dave Feiten's back yard gazebo in Berkeley (one of my favorite California spots) and Aunty Hartley's painting that so closely resembles the western view from my Florida place. I boxed the collectibles and all the personal things that folks say turn off prospective buyers.
I've kept up the huge framed photograph of Man o'War and Will Harbut on Faraway Farm, near Lexington, Ky. The larger bathroom still has the seashell decor that the previous owner, Kitty Ishel, loved so well; the photos of dolphins, egrets and other seashore scenes on the wall are from the Texas Gulf Coast, but easily could have come from Florida or Hawai`i as well.
"My" room still has a few Hawaiian things I can't bear to pack just yet - A Hawaiian Hello Kitty, the ipu (gourd drum) given to me by everyone in Grace Evangelista's hula group here in Keller, and all the ukuleles.The master bedroom is pretty neutral, with Ashley Furniture's bedroom suit with an old fashioned looking patchwork quilt as the bedspread. The master bath has a soft Southwest print treatment on the walls and old barnwood trim, but I took down all but one of Kenny's Elvgren "cowgirl" prints he had on the walls.
The guest room still has Sam Savitt's prints of Champion, Silver and Trigger, as well as a collage of Roy Rogers and Dale Evans, and the cowboy painting above the black metal bed.
And the living room still has the Lone Star treatment, with Texas quarters pounded into the 100-year-old Texas barnwood that tops Kenny's bar; the Lone Star lamps from Home Depot that sit on the Lone Star end tables from Rustic Ranch.
Funny,.....friends from New York and Chicago and other non-Texas places thought we'd done the place up just right. And, frankly, anyone who "can't see past the Texas decor" needs to keep right on looking. And driving. Past the border, maybe.
They're not gonna like all these Lone Stars and Texas Flags and Longhorns they're gonna see everywhere around here, anyway."That's right, you're not from Texas" - and it shows.

The Countdown Is On......These two innocents are out grazing east of the prettiest red barn in North Texas. Sway and Ginger know I keep shoving them into their side pen periodically, and by now they just figured that it's another one of those "crazy people things" that Kenny and I do from time to time.Normally, when they get put in the small pen, Ken is mowing the pasture. Normally, when I do this, they're wearing saddles and it's a work day for all of us.
And, when we first moved here, a trip to the small pen was the only outdoor exercise they got. The big, stout horse fence hadn't been built, and the barbed wire fence along the property line couldn't keep the neighbor's cattle out, let alone would it be likely to keep my curious horses in.
So, the side pen, with cattle panels clipped together, lengths of rop and stretches of that white webbing you put on lawn chairs marking the limits, became a play pen the horses could use if I were standing by, supervising their every move. Sure, it was more freedom than they had while running loose in the barn - but not by much. Still, the horses didn't mind. They were miserable being boarded, and the folks getting paid to care for them apparently were miserable having them around. This was better, and the horses became happy again.
They're even content when I herd them from the big pasture and into the side pen. This happens frequently, as prospective buyers come to look at the place. At one time, I would have made sure the horses were kept away from visitors because Sway would want to tear off their arms. Now I have to pen them up, because Sway will want to be helpful. He's gone from a holy terror to a sweetie-pie who'll curl up in your lap...except that he's a 1,000 pound horse, and a bit much for a lap pet. And Ginger would offer to give you the best back rub you've ever had....except that means you'd have rub marks on the back of your nice, clean clothes.
So, we get a call that the house is being shown again, and I run outside to lock Sway and Ginger into the side pen, grab Monkey and India the Dog-Cat and shove them into their carriers and put them in the truck, swipe down the house one more time, and head out for places where cats and I are welcome.
Nothing lasts forever, and it's time for Kenny to get Real Work, and that means California. And before long we'll be leaving Texas. And Bob Hubbard, the professional horse movers, will pack Sway and Ginger up again, and we'll be back at Rafter M Bar Ranch, a short drive from our place in Martinez.
They won't have their little red barn anymore. No more families of barn swallows flitting in and out from the nests. No more days that start with Ginger greeting me at the gate, then escorting me to the barn where Sway already is in his stall waiting for breakfast to be served. No more switching the radio on so Sway can hear Rangers baseball games. No more ending the day with a walk to the barn to make sure the kids are all right.
We'll be boarding again.
Tex and Sadie, our barn cats, are coming with us. We're redoing the back area in Martinez once we get re-settled, and in the middle of it all, I've got to figure out what would best simulate a barn loft for these cats who have come to love farm life. Oh, I could have left them in the barn, but when you sell, you don't get to interview the prospective buyers, and I wouldn't be comfortable putting these two in the hands of strangers. Nor would I want to place them nearby. What if they ran across the street to get back to the red barn - but didn't make it?
Our Martinez house has 1/3 of an acre, and the BNSF railroad running in the back, with a large alley way between our property line and the greatly-elevated tracks.
And there's stuff for cats to play with back there - Kenny's truck (he calls it a truck. I call it "truck parts.") Ed Roth's fiberglass trike body molds. The dune buggy body that came from the same mold as the one made for the tv rock group The Monkees. Maybe the cats won't miss the barn THAT much.
But Sway and Ginger are going to miss their home, and there's no doubt about that. I'm trying to come up with strategies so Sway, in particular, doesn't backslide and become that arm-ripping monster, and Ginger, who at 27 moves better when she's kept outdoors instead of in a 12x12 foot stall, doesn't get creaky and sore during confinement.
To leave our ranch-style home, with its big back porch, its young pecan trees so full of promise, its big, shady mulberry trees in front and back, its newly-planted gourd vines that have been flowering so profusely that I had hopes of having a Hawaiian-drum making party....all this has been a real bittersweet ending to a move that seemed to be one that would keep us in one place for many years.
But we're people, and we can cope. We can quote phrases like, "You gotta go where the work is." And, "The leaving is so sad, but the arrival in California will be a celebration." And, "All our California friends and neighbors are saying, 'What took you all so long? Come on home!'" And, "There's so much Hawaiian things to do in California, you can't do it all!" And, "I have one halau that is saying, 'Hurry up! You have a lei hulu to make, a Victorian costume to make, and plenty hula to learn so you can be in the September show!' And I have another friend who says, 'I have about 5 ladies who want to learn hula from you - you'll have your own halau!' And they also want some bellydance for fun, as well."
And, of course, all of that is true. And I am looking forward to working on our Martinez house, because Kenny says we're going to re-do it all Hawaiian style, and he's going to re-do his garage, and Jerry will get to come down and work on it, and all of this is going to be a fun adventure.It'll be good to see all my friends at Rafter M Bar, but I haven't figured out yet how to tell Sway and Ginger that they are moving....again. From my Florida place to Margaret and Eric's farm; from there to three different California barns, and from there to three different Texas places - the last being our dear "Double Nickel Ranch." And now, they're leaving behind the open space of two acres and a barn of their own and heading for two 12x12 stalls with 12x12 attached paddocks, and no pasture freedom at all. Rafter M Bar takes good care of horses, and the place is a quiet, out of the way place where I feel the horses are safe. It's all family owned and operated, and the other boarders watch out for each other and everyone's horses.
There's an old song that asks "How're ya gonna keep 'em back on the farm after they've seen Broadway?" But Buffy Ste.-Marie has an answer I've paraphrased, "All the lights of Hollywood can't compare to an acre of green." How can I take them back to California after they've experienced Texas?
To quote a bunch of folks around here, "You gotta do what you gotta do."
I don't care that some folks in California will snicker at my accent, or deduct IQ points for ever "y'all," "fixin'-to" and "yonder" that I say, or cringe at the phrase "get 'er done." I'm sad, of course, to leave friends and family behind.
But, my big obligations are to go with a good will, and to find ways to help these beautiful horses re-acclimate to life in a boarding barn again.
Na Honu o ke KaiWho would think that in the middle of Keller, Texas, you could find a band of ukulele musicians who play and sing Hawaiian music? But, there they are - this time on stage at the Irving Arts Center spring festival.
They are "Na Honu o ke Kai," a group of loyal students who show up every Sunday afternoon, their Hilo-brand ukulele in hand, to sing everything from the industry-standard "Tiny Bubbles" to "Wahine `Ilikea" and "Ulupalakua."
Nope - these kids are NOT afraid to wrap their mouths around Hawaiian words!
They learned this last summer, when they met at the home of our sponsor, Grace Evangelista, who operates the Grace Wahine Dancers and whose website is http://www.gracehuladance.com/. It's a lovely troupe of hula and ori (Tahitian) performers, but something was missing - live music. Thus our ukulele class was launched, and these musicians have been studying hard for nearly a year.
Sure, we started easily enough - "Pearly Shells." They worked hard to keep their instruments tuned, and practiced diligently to strengthen their fingers and develop the callouses that keep fretting fingertips from becoming too sore ply playing.
And then I threw them their first curve. Oh, sure, you can sing "Pearly Shells." But the song isn't just "Pearly Shells." It's also "Pupu A`o Ewa," the shells of Ewa, an area of the island of O`ahu "west" of Diamond Head in Waikiki. I put "west" in quotation marks, because once you become familiar with island directions, you learn that "west" and "east" don't work when you're talking about an island. In fact, directions more likely are given, "Go Diamond Head -- " or "Go Ewa -- " so it's presumed you know where Ewa is.
So, there they are, trying to figure how to switch from the C chord to the F chord and the G7 chord, and I'm telling them they must pronounce the Hawaiian words, too.
Not only that - they need to know what they're singing.
Sure, you can pronounce Hawaiian words phonetically. In fact, it's fairly easy to get started. You pronounce all the vowels as if they were Spanish or Italian (a-e-i-o-u become ah-eh-ee-oh-oo) and the consonants about the same as in English, with W taking on a V sound now and then. You usually accent the next-to-last syllable, except those with the macron, or kahako symbol, above a vowel. Classically, the kahako is described as making the vowel "long," but in English a "long" vowel and a "short" vowel have different sounds. In Hawaiian, the sound doesn't change, the vowel is just "said longer." I told the class, "Pretend it's an accent mark that just got flattened out." Close enough! The students also had to deal with another mark that doesn't appear in English, the ` mark. No, it's not a backwards apostrophe; it breaks up vowel sounds. For instance, "pau," pronounced "pow!" means finished. But pa`u is pronounced "pah-oo." Put a kahako (macron) over the a and the u, and you have "pAH-OO."
Yep, these brand-new musicians had to deal with stretching strings, tender finger tips, finding chords on a fretboard, coordinating their strumming to make sure they were on the beat - AND they discovered they were starting a foreign language as well. No pressure!
The beautiful thing was how well these adventurers accepted the challenges, and met them.
During their first show, at one of Grace's recitals, they also were expected to march out in line, play their music well and sing accurately, find each song in order swiftly, stand and bow in unison, and leave the stage in an orderly fashion. You would have thought they'd been doing this for years instead of a few months.
Before the recital, I told them, "You're not just a music class, you're a band. You need a band name." The students mulled their favorite Hawaiian emblems and chose the turtle petroglyph design you can see on window stickers, fabric prints, even Hawaiian seat covers and many other places. We all got white pendants of this turtle design, and I made music stand covers (okay, they really covered the backs of folding chairs that served as temporary music stands...) of ivory sea turtle designs on an ocean-blue background.
Of course, I didn't want the band members to be the "Sea Turtles." Not when they're playing Hawaiian music! But Na Honu o ke Kai means Turtles of the Sea, and that's the band name. Okay, I've been known to say, "Go, Turtles!" and "Yea, Turtles!" and - with apologies to Peter Laird and Kevin Eastman (who are buddies, so I don't think they'd mind) - "Turtle Power!"
But the band members are a dedicated bunch, and they practice, and they challenge themselves, and they work hard. They've gone from watching the clock to see "are we done yet?" to wanting to play even longer. They love to launch themselves into "Hawaiian Roller Coaster," our two-page sheet music of Hawaiian and English words and chords composed by Mark Ho`omalu for "Lilo and Stitch." They knew "Lilo and Stitch," and now they know Mark Ho`omalu, too.
As you know, we're moving. No more presenting a class on Kumu Mark, or who Don Ho was and how he helped popularize certain modern Hawaiian songs. No more helping them clear the hurdles of complicated Hawaiian words. No more describing how the cattle ranch Ulupalakua got named for a runner carrying breadfruit on his back.
"Who's going to teach us?" one student asked as I told them we would have to leave. Grace knows enough now to carry on the class she has sponsored in her own home all this time. But I'm going to miss them.In California, Hawaiian musicians await my return. I have spots in bands waiting for me. I'll be a member, a singer, a player. But, till the end of the month, I'm a teacher, and it's tough telling my students goodbye.
Instead, we'll sing "Aloha 'Oe" in English and Hawaiian, especially the line "until we meet again."
Aloha no, e Na Honu o ke Kai! Pa`ani `oukou me hau`oli!
Moving Isn't for WimpsWhat a beautiful back porch! Horse shoes, Lone Stars, even (although it looks reversed here...) the "55" symbol of the "Double Nickel Ranch," the name we gave our 2 1/4 acre piece of Keller, Texas.
Those are Cracker Barrel rocking chairs. Those of you who know the Cracker Barrel restaurants probably have rocked on one - or several - of these as you waited for your turn at the restaurant's home-cooked meal, or as you took one last relaxing rest before you headed your car back onto the highway on a long road trip.

They’re greats for barbecue parties with lots of friends, and just as nice for quiet evenings when Kenny and I just want to sit on the back porch, have a cool beverage and listen to the horses muching on the grass just a few yards away while the crickets provide a little evening music and the fireflies twinkle off in the distance.
I have a date with one of those chairs one evening before the end of May, but it won't be today. Today, I'm wrapping breakables, packing boxes, and scrubbing down the place as if I were expecting my mother for a "surprise visit." My mother being long gone, I have another reason for all the activity. We're moving back to California.
It's breaking my heart to leave. I'm not done with my return to Texas. I still haven't toured the Alamo. I still haven't been back to Fort Belknap. I haven't visited all the relatives, nor have I seen anyone near often enough. I haven't turned the pasture fence into a white, three-rail showcase fence, and I haven't replaced the property line's barbed wire fence into something equally pretty. I never got up to The Bluffs in Young County to see whether it's all developed, or whether I could find the unusual, oval-shaped holes in strange patterns that I discovered carved into the rock up there. Nor have I found out if anyone's figured out what they were. I never got any Tyler roses to grow, so I could look at yellow Tyler roses during a thunderstorm. Here in Texas, we have a song about thunderstorms and Tyler roses....and another about the Yellow Rose of Texas.
And I don't know how much of this I'll get done before it's time to go.But Kenny and I have adopted a saying about this next adventure - the leaving is horrible; the arrival will be glorious. Our California buddies are awaiting us with open arms and repeats of the question, "What's taking you so long?" The jobs are awaiting Kenny's decision. And Mikoi and the rest of the halau are telling me to hurry up, so I can make a Victorian hula costume and a feather lei for adornment, and learn all the hulas for the upcoming September show. I guess we're wanted!

We're looking...again...for a pasture-boarding spot for the horses, who really don't want a 12x12 foot stall with optional 12x12 foot "paddock" after having a two-acre grass pasture all to themselves. They won't be living in my back yard anymore - you can't put horses in a 1/3 acre back yard in Martinez. And trying to find a good home when you're half a continent away is a struggle.
The home for ourselves is easy - our little Martinez house is still ours, fully furnished, waiting for us to come home. Our neighbors are past ready for our return. And Kenny's decided once we get back, we should re-decorate the house "Hawai`i to the Max!" India, the dog-cat, knows that house in and out. The Monkey, who's never been much farther than from Keller to next-door Watauga, will be quite surprised about his new summer adventure, but I bet he'll handle things just fine, once he gets over his astonishment.
Sadie and Tex are still a question mark. If certain folks buy our place, they may inherit some barn cats. I'm still figuring to pack these two up and cart them out to California, same as the Dog and Monkey. They're not stupid outdoor cats, and I think they'd adjust fine to our Martinez house.
But those are questions to be answered later. The big question is how to pack up all this stuff, when we weren't planning on moving from here for years. But you have to go where the jobs are, and there's nothing working for us here. Sometimes you really don't have much of a choice in some matters.
So, now my life is full of packing strategies, box labeling, figuring what would be "pretty ambiance" for folks viewing the house and what is too personal to help the sale of the house. Do I leave the Sam Savitt prints of Silver, Trigger and Champion, and my watercolor of a cowboy riding out to a mesquite tree? Do we leave the brown metal "Happy Trails" sign up? The beautiful C. W. Anderson print of a mare and foal that my cousin, John Charles Creviston, gave me when I left Texas the first time? How about the cowboy hats on the entrance to the dining room? What about the rocking chairs on the porch, or the Jack Daniels barrels bar we have out there?
I don't know. I've never sold a place before. We still own the 5 acres and cabin in Florida, and we still own the house in Martinez. I get traumatized thinking about having a yard sale, so you can imagine what fun this is planning the sale of a house!
Part of me is thinking to leave the Texana and horsey stuff up. If it offends somebody, then they probably weren't interested in looking at the cutest little red barn in Texas. And if they weren't interested in the barn, and keeping horses on this place, or watching wild rabbits scamper around the pasture, or seeing the barn swallows flitting through the skies, or hearing the mockingbirds trying out new songs, I'm not sure they're the kind of persons who would enjoy the changing colors of a Texas sunset sky as seen from the back porch while they're rocking in those Cracker Barrel chairs.
And the Duke's Ho`okahiko Award goes to.........Aunty Kau`ihealani Brandt!!
And I was there to see my kumu hula receive this award!
The Duke's Ho`okahiko Award is given annually by Duke's at the Outrigger Waikiki, to someone who embodies the traits of Duke Kahanamoku, who himself was an ambassador of Aloha.
Duke Kahanamoku was sheriff when we lived in Honolulu. By then, he had already done so much in his life. He was known throughout the islands for his surfing ability, having ridden all 7 of Waikiki's waves in sequence, and as far as I know, he's the only one to have accomplished that. He'd taken his surfboard out to rescue passengers from a sinking boat. He saved many, but was always regretful for those he could not save. At an age at which some athletes consider retiring, he became an Olympic gold medalist. And he shared his love of surfing throughout the world.
Surfing was an old sport of Hawaiian kings and queens, done on enormous long boards of koa and other woods, with no skegs, for centuries before the brawny, blond dudes of Southern California began taking to the waves and singing about "Surfin' USA" and their "Surfer Girl" - and those who follow the waves owe Duke big time.Duke is memorialized at Waikiki by the restaurant that bears his name, and a statue of him and his long board that most often is draped with lei. The statue, on the beach, is controversial because Duke faces away from the water, in contrast to the usual custom of never turning your back on the waves. But it was a gift of love, and photographs well with the ocean and the setting sun in the background. You see his beautiful, kind face, and the Pacific Ocean he loved so well.
At the base of the statue are his own words: In Hawai`i, we greed friends,loved ones and strangers with ALOHA, which means love. ALOHA is the key-word to the universal spirit of real hospitality, which makes Hawai`i renown as the world's center of understanding and fellowship. Try meeting or leaving people with ALOHA. You'll be surprised by their reaction. I believe it and it is my creed."
He also is memorialized in the Ho`okahiko Award, which honors those who exemplify the finest traditions of Hawai`i. Pualani Mossman Avon, whose face graced many tourism promotional pieces and who, with her family, demonstrated Hawaiian hula and crafts at Lalani Village, a series of grass hale, was its first recipient. Those who followed her include the noted singer and entertainer Genoa Keawe; educator, author and founder of the Hawaiian Music Foundation Dr. George Kanahele; kumu hula Nona Beamer; lauhala weaver Esther Westmoreland; and ukulele makers Sam and Fred Kamaka, whose Kamaka ukulele are internationally known.
Unlike these other recipients, Aunty Kau`i no longer lives in Hawai`i. But her reputation starts there. A noted hula dancer on her native island of O`ahu and a graduate of Kamehameha Schools, she moved as an adult to Hawai`i Island to open the first Tahitian dance school in Hilo. Her family recorded the classic "Polynesian Pot-pourri" album - still available on CD, by the way - that became an audition standard for dancers. Her reputation well-established, she moved the family back to O`ahu to open the International Market hula shows, where they were spotted by the Disney corporation.
Disney hired the family for shows at Disneyland. They expected to remain there, until Disney realized the family, with Aunty Kau`i in charge, was needed to open the Polynesian Resort Luau, and sent them to Florida.
At this resort, Aunty Kau`i reaches thousands of visitors each year. She teaches hula. She demonstrates crafts. She gives tourists a little taste of what it's like to have their own Hawaiian aunty.
And she doesn't stop there. She teaches hula to the children of the entertainers. She teaches hula to cast members (Disneyese for "employees") who aren't part of the show. She teaches other adults and has convinced the company to let her students dance Wednesdays at the resort and its Ohana restaurant. She travels out of state to teach mainlanders who might otherwise not get authentic hula instruction.She had the nerve to ask Disney to build a pa - a hula performance platform - to give her younger dancers a showcase for their hula. It's a nice pa - landscaped with soft grass and red-blossomed bottlebrush trees. She endorsed Disney inviting Dr. Kanahele to train resort cast members in Hawaiian values so that the resort is more than just another hotel, but with palm trees and hula dancers.
She promoted a monthly ho`olaule`a, or arts and crafts show, where visitors can see Hawaiian skills being demonstrated live. The resort celebrates Lei Day - other mainland hotels simply call it "May Day." But as the song goes, May Day is Lei Day in Hawai`i - and at the Polynesian.
Beyond Disney's borders, she's been involved in the Central Florida's hula competition and its annual Ho`ike. She's been a board member of Na `Aikane o Hawai`i, the Florida based educational organization that also serves as a "Hawai`i Club" for Hawaiians, other islanders, and those who wish they were back in Hawai`i.
She's called the Polynesian Resort's First Lady and Disney's Ambassador of Aloha.
She's called many other names of affection, because people throughout the world have come to love Aunty Kau`i. She's Mom to her beautiful children, and she's Tutu to her grandchildren and great-grandchildren.
And, much to my delight, I get to call her my friend and mentor.Fortunately, those in charge were swayed by the efforts of those who wanted Aunty Kau`i to receive the Ho`okahiko Award, even though she has not lived in Hawai`i for many, many years. To paraphrase what was said during the ceremony, Hawai`i has given the world its Aunty Kau`i to teach it about Aloha.
And those who have met her, truly, have seen Aloha.
Time for some hula!Since leaving Florida and California, I haven't had the opportunities to dance hula here in Texas. The clients want "all Hawaiian" girls, and the younger, slimmer set. This being Texas, there aren't nearly enough pure Hawaiians to satisfy the clients. But convincing them is a whole 'nother ball game.
That's okay. When I go to Florida, I get to dance for Aunty Kau`i Brandt at the Polynesian Resort at Walt Disney World. Not bad for a haole-girl! But, hey, THIS haole-girl was born in Kapi`olani Hospital while her dad was busy at work at the old downtown Honolulu Kress Store on Fort Street.
Had my birth been nearly anywhere else, both my mother and I probably would have been lost. So, one could make a legitimate claim that I owe my life to Queen Kapi`olani, consort to the last Hawaiian king, David Kalakaua, and sister-in-law to the last Hawaiian monarch, Queen Lili`uokalani. During her husband's reign, Queen Kapi`olani established a hospital because so many mothers and children had been lost in childbirth. Her focus was, of course, Hawaiian mothers and babies - na kanaka maoli - but fortunately, her gift to mothers and babies was a blessing to my mother and me as well.
After a few years, Kress decided to move my parents back to their birth state of Texas, and they brought their firstborn along with them. I remember knowing when the important company was coming: My mother would prepare the sterling silver knives, forks and spoons, and my father would prepare the old 78s, my mother's slides, and his own 16mm films of Hawai`i. This really was a dinner and a show.
Needless to say, there wasn't much hula in Texas back then. In fact, since my mother never learned to dance hula, I didn't start lessons until I moved to Florida. I met Karina D'Errico, who has a wonderful school on Florida's west coast, in Redington Shores. But that was a 4-hour drive each way from my little cabin near DeLand. So, when Karina discovered Kau`i Brandt was teaching just an hour away, she sent me to Aunty Kau`i with her blessing.
I owe Karina big time.
And I owe Aunty Kau`i even more. She took me under her wing and picked up where my mother left off in encouraging me to pursue my love of the Hawaiian culture. My mother never saw me dance, but my father did, and at one of Aunty Kau`i's shows, I got to dance "Ke Kali Nei Au," popularly known as The Hawaiian Wedding Song, with my father in attendance. It was one of my mother's favorite songs.
In the picture, I am performing "Pu`uoni`oni," with four water-smoothed volcanic rocks called `ili`ili. The song has varied stories as to its origin, but the one I like best says it's composed by Hi`iakaikapoliopele as she begins a dangerous trip to bring the chief Lohi`au to her elder sister, Pele, the goddess of the volcanoes. She looks at her sisters as she is about to leave, and ultimately asks Pele to remember to care for her people, her most precious possessions.
If it weren't for Aunty Kau`i, I certainly wouldn't get to dance at Disney, and I wouldn't be doing "Pu`uoni`oni." And I might not have been encouraged to chant at the edge of the crater that is said to be Pele's home, when I made my first return trip to Hawai`i after so many, many years away. I thought about making a lei to leave at Halema`uma`u, and Aunty Kau`i approved of that thought. But she had another thought as well - "You should chant," she said.
I hoped she'd let me get by with a short, sweet (emphasis on short) chant, but, no, she wanted me to chant "Aia La o Pele i Hawai`i." Six verses. And, it isn't wise to mess up a Pele chant. She's one of the few spirits constantly spoken of in present tense in Hawai`i, probably because the lava still flows there - the most recent eruption having lasted more than 20 years.
I had two weeks to nail the chant, and I became preoccupied with getting it done. I hadn't ventured into chanting - the recitation of the old songs, called mele, to which hula dancers perform in the old style called kahiko. And my first assignment would be to chant at the edge of Halema`uma`u? No pressure - much!
When I finally arrived at the crater's edge, I remembered my mother's story of a lava flow that occurred in the Territorial era days and had threatened an old Hawaiian woman's home. The authorities begged her to evacuate, but she refused, saying Madame Pele would let no harm come to her. Sure enough, after the lava worked its way to the ocean, the authorities ventured toward the location of the woman's home, and saw that the lava had split, gone around the home, then rejoined on its way to the ocean. And with that picture in my mind, I sang the song that proclaims Pele dances at Maukele.
Each trip to the volcanoes gives me more and more insight to the chant's story. I have seen the lava break through the ground, cascade into the ocean, create glowing red "skylights" inland and miles of white steamcloud in the air. I've heard its sounds and felt its warmth. People ask me if I'm afraid - respectful, yes, but not afraid.Those who don't get as absorbed in Hawaiian and hula study as I wonder why, as a Christian, I talk about Pele in the present tense. Uncle George Na`ope, who taught Aunty Kau`i the chants she has taught us, reminded us one time that God creates everything, and among the creations is Pele. My mother respected her, and at her funeral, our broken-hearted ministers began her eulogy, "This was a saint..." Some Hawaiian stories say Pele was killed by her sister in a great battle at Haleakala on Maui, but in the end, Pele began to live on as a spirit. If nothing else, I respect the culture of my birth lands, and would learn to perform the various types of hula if nothing else than because of that.
However, the reason I get to do any of this at all is because of Aunty Kau`i, who encouraged me to learn and do more, to stretch the boundaries and to refuse to be limited in my training.
On a wing and a prayer and through the generosity of friends, I am heading out to Waikiki to see Aunty Kau`i receive an award that recognizes her lifetime efforts to train all people in hula, to inspire tourists, in Hawai`i and in other states, particularly Florida, to appreciate the Hawaiian culture. She loves to teach children, but fortunately for me, she doesn't define "children" by a certain age. She is so deserving of this honor, and I am so proud of her.
I had to move from Florida, and in pursuing more hula education, have studied with some wonderful instructors in California, Hawai`i and elsewhere. However, I will always be a Kau`i Girl, and I am so glad that Aunty Kau`i Brandt is getting this wonderful honor, and that a lifetime of teaching and sharing is being recognized. And I feel so blessed to be invited to attend, and so happy that things came together so I could get the chance to go.
In Memory of MaceWhen I met Mace, she was a tiny cast-off kitten, shivering in the middle of Grand Avenue in Glenwood, Fla. I was coming home from a late night as a reporter at the Daytona Beach News-Journal, and Grand Avenue was the last section of paved road I'd drive before turning onto what then was rough hardpan Lime Street. I frequently would catch animal-eyes reflections on Grand, and sometimes would pull over to shoo the little critter into the nearby woods. That night, I pulled over to reinact the same routine.
Only, this time, the animal didn't shoo. Instead, she raced toward me, leaped into my arms, mewling piteously, placing her arms around my neck as if she would never let me go.
Had she had her wish, she would have lived her life wrapped around my neck, being carried in my arms, never letting go.
I shouldn’t be greedy. She was 18. And she wasn't expected to survive the hour, let alone the day, she got her diagnosis. When Dr. Gurley and I celebrated my having Mace in Christmas 2003, and then for a full year after diagnosis, we talked about her chances of living so long. No one wanted to speculate, but I don't think either of us expected to have those celebrations.
I think of her daily, but moreso this past week, when so many pet owners heard the chilling news, "Your pet has kidney failure." The supposed cause, as I write today, is tainted wheat from China that was used by Menu Foods in its various brands of cat and dog food. The current thought is that somehow rat poison was introduced to the wheat, but as of this date, the investigation continues, because there are still many questions to be answered about the cause.
While the cause may not be determined entirely right now, the result is no less chilling to those pet owners than Aug. 22, 2003, when I heard that Mace had kidney desease and renal failure.
Kenny had just accepted the job at DNA in Texas; I was still in Martinez, Calif., because at that time, we didn't know how long he'd be working out of state. I woke up, put out food for India and Mace, and she didn't come for breakfast, and, in fact, didn't come when she was called. Something was wrong - she normally didn't leave my side, and now I couldn't find her - and she wasn't responding to my calls. When I found her, I was stricken - she clearly was quite ill.
I raced her to the closest veterinary hospital, because I didn't want to drive over the hills to the last veterinarian we'd used. Muir Oaks Veterinary Hospital was just up the street, and, yes, they'd look at her right away. Dr. Gurley, a beautiful woman with a kind demeanor and soft voice, took one look at my little cat, and started treatment. I was sent home while the tests were being run. When I returned for consultation, I was given the horrible news.
I had lost Mari and Panda to kidney failure, and all I knew from those experiences was that it was a death sentence. I lost one immediately after diagnosis, and the other within a week. At no time was I given even a chance to battle the disease. And now it had hit Mace. I sat down and tried to breathe.
But Dr. Gurley gave me options I hadn't heard before, and on borrowed time and money, we gave her the go-ahead to try. Mace lasted the day - which shocked everyone. She lasted till the weekend - more surprise. She made the trip to the weekend emergency hospital, where she'd get 24-hour care, shots, IVs and the rest, that Muir Oaks normally didn't provide. She survived that, against all the veterinarians' expectations, and returned to Muir Oaks. After a week, her "numbers" were such that there was talk she could go home. I went in for another consultation, and it was brutal. And it was a gift. And I will love Muir Oaks and Dr. Gurley forever.
I was taught how to stick a needle into my cat subcutaneously so she could get filled up with Lactated Ringers, often called LRS. You get that quite often when you have outpatient surgery. (In fact, when Kenny had some minor surgery and was connected to a bag of Ringers, I asked if I could take the balance home. Denied! I coulda used it! Ringers in California is pricey!)
The same technique would be used for shots. I learned Mace's heart was enlarged and racing 90 mph. She also was suffering from hyperthyroidism, which oddly enough, was an ally to the one kidney that was partially operating. That was a concern, but wouldn't be handled till the kidney failure was addressed. While her BUN had been brought down from "off the scale" to 170 down to 97, and her Creatnine went from 11.4 to 8.7 to "high, but....," these numbers were nowhere near the normal rates of 3.5 for the BUN or the 2.3 for Creatnine. Another concern was her weight - she'd dropped to 5.8 pounds. Technical data? I would learn that my notes on such technical data would be key to Mace's future. That, and my ability to "dart the cat" without breaking down. And Mace's acceptance of a whole new lifestyle.
And Dr. Gurley - who was the first vet who gave me a chance to battle kidney failure, and who gave me the battle plan. All I had to do was to do as I was told. All Mace had to do was not to fight it. Dr. Gurley was our general. I was the drill sergeant, following and giving orders. And Mace was the passive warrior.
The war took amusing turns - such as going to a "people" hospital to pick up her doses of Epogen, the same drug that got Lance Armstrong into trouble with those bicycing racing bosses. It's used to build up red blood cells in cancer patients during chemo. Mace needed it to combat the anemia caused by the kidney failure. I couldn't believe the cost of this drug, and I wondered how cancer patients afford human-sized doses. Fortunately, cat-sized doses are quite small.
And Mace learning to walk on a leash. "Learning" is too strong a word - I put her in a harness and snapped on a leash, and Mace went along with the whole things as if it was quite natural. It gave her freedom to explore her environment. At Muir Oaks, she decided to explore the kids' play area, and would examine the doll houses, the childrens' chairs and other things in the room. She'd pick the exam room she'd prefer - didn't always get her wish, but it was funny to watch her express her preferences. Later on, at Las Colinas, she would ask to examine the oversized restroom. I never knew what she was seeking, but something about it amused her. Occasionally, while we were at an apartment in Irving, Tex., we'd take her on our strolls to the mail box. She'd accompany us, pausing to sniff at smells we couldn't detect, and once took time to observe, but not chase, a toad that had hopped out from the lawn. She hadn't seen a toad since her days as a barn cat. She was a city cat now, and not much into chasing them. Food now came from a can, and there was no need to work for her supper. The toad was no longer prey.
The war brought me closer to a friend, Karen, who was dealing with kidney failure in one of her older cats, Tom, who Monkey resembles in shape, color and personality. She sat me down, told me what to expect, and warned me not to laugh - or cry - when you loaded your cat subcutaneously with fluid, because it'd create a huge blob under the skin that would slide around to the tummy, or down a leg, or wherever, and until the cat's body absorbed it, would give the cat the look of wearing part of a clown suit. We called the daily routine the Kitty Pit Stop. I realized that the higher I hung the Ringer's bag, the more quickly the fluid would flow into Mace. I took a C-clamp to a book shelf, cushioned up a chair, and made an odd fashion decor statement in our living room. Watching tv while I "filled up the cat" seemed to distract and becalm both Mace and me. Karen's reassurances helped me adjust to the routine more quickly, which made it much easier on Mace.
I had bought a little notebook from the Hello Kitty store and chose it to log in her numbers, her weight, her medication records, everything the vets said - sometimes I got Dr. Goldy when Dr. Gurley wasn't in. I still have the notebook, with notes starting Aug. 22, 2003, till the end, Nov. 16, 2004. The notebook became the key, an essential tool. I knew with every visit whether we were making progress or were looking at a setback. As time went on, I recorded other blood counts, temperature levels, heartbeat rates (I used to buy cheap $6 stethoscopes, but couldn't find one in Texas, and got the "good kind" for a hundred bucks - ouch! - at the nearest chiropractic college. But, boy it works great!
Mace earned the nickname, "The Miracle Cat" from every vet who saw her. She earned their respect, admiration and love. Her picture was put on the Muir Oaks bulletin board. Dr. Gurley got a kitten and told me, "I found my 'Mace.'"
One time, during an office visit with Dr. Goldy, she was talking about various good and bad signs, various options about treatment. I was busily taking notes in my little Hello Kitty book. Suddenly, Dr. Goldy stopped. I looked up - what?? "Look at Mace!" she said. I looked, alarmed. But Mace was sitting beside me, looking intently at me, as usual. "That cat really LOVES you!" the doctor said.Mace had gotten to her, as she also had gotten to Dr. Gurley, and to the others in the office...as she would get to those in Dr. Hague's office, the Cat Hospital at Las Colinas, when we moved to Texas.Mace was named after a character created by Marlene Becker. I don't know if her novel will ever see the light of day, but she let me read parts of it, and I fell in love not with the main characters, but with a fuzzy octoped alien who rode on the lead character's shoulder like a pirate's parrot. When I met Mace, and she clung to me so tightly that I didn't need to hold her as I drove the rest of the way home that night, she reminded me of Mace the alien - who turned out to be a girl, too - and so I named the new tortoiseshell kitten after my friend's fictional character.
My Mace was even more devoted to me than the character in my friend's book, who eventually went on her way. My Mace would not leave my side. She started as a barn cat at our Florida farm. She would greet me at the door when I walked out to feed the horses. She insisted on being carried, and so I learned how to feed horses one-handed. If I was outside, this little cat would be by my side the whole time. I'd drive up after a day at work, and the first to greet me would be Mace. Our little cabin in Florida at the time was just the old, 1920s section, and there was barely enough room for Kenny and me, so all the other animals were kept outdoors. It wasn't a bad life - trees to climb, fence top rail to walk, barn and cabin roofs on which to sleep, five acres of sandbox and places to explore, lizards and birds and mice to chase - or eat.
When Kenny's career took him to California, we gathered the cats up, got them their health certificates, shoved them into cages, and flew them to Oakland. They got there 3 hours ahead of me after my flights were canceled but our "luggage" went on ahead. Only when I realized they'd arrived safe did I breathe again. Mace and India promptly adjusted to indoor apartment life - the heater in the apartment came on, and they were hooked. They'd never seen a litter box and rarely had eaten canned food. But they behaved as if they'd been proper indoor cats all their lives, and had no interest in the hubbub of the urban outdoors. They moved to our house in Martinez, and loved that it had a two-sided heater - one side for each cat! Things were fine till Mace got that horrifying diagnosis.
The vets and Mace trained me well in our battle. I logged numbers left and right. I learned that Mace preferred the larger needles, which made the fluids enter her body more quickly, rather than the smaller needle that we thought wouldn't hurt so much. I learned to quit being morose in front of the cat. Mace learned to say the word "No" quite clearly, but that was all the protest she would give. I learned not only to brush her teeth (and not use the rubber brush you put on a finger - but an infant toothbrush sufficed quite well!) but also to "pick" them so that she wouldn't suffer secondary infections. Amazingly, Mace let me do this!
I learned that Mace wouldn't eat the special diet food for kidney patients. I learned that Sheba is a good alternative, but she wouldn't eat that, either. She liked her Fancy Feast Tender Beef, and that was it - until Kenny introduced her to cold cuts and salmon, and she regularly conned him out of his lunch. On days when, despite our best efforts the kidney disease was getting the upper hand, I learned to make beef and chicken broth from scratch and spoon feed her. I learned to smash Tums EX and Pepcid AC into smithereens and blend it with Hi-Vite vitamins and gravy, and, using a syringe, to squirt these oral meds into her mouth. I learned to wrap her in a towel, ignore her plaintive, "No, no, no...." till we got her situated at the "pit stop station" and started the whole routine that would keep her alive.All this focuses on the struggle, the battle. But, in reality, this was 10 to 15 minutes out of a 24-hour day. The rest of the 23 hours, 45 minutes, Mace had a good, happy life. She played. She fussed at India. She moved people off "her" section of the couch. She slept with me. She climbed onto the bed - sometimes with stepstair help, sometimes in a flying upward leap. She claimed her spots and not even India, who's always had a bit of a cranky streak and who is twice the size of Mace at Mace's peak weight, would cross her. She had first choice of foods, whether it was cat food or "people" food. And, since the veterinarians were more concerned with keeping her weight up than making her eat prescription foods, she got whatever she wanted.
She became a case study in the treatment of kidney failure in older cats, especially those who get treated at home. Because Dr. Gurley, Mace and I made a good team, other pet owners down the road may get a chance to fight to keep their cats alive. Not bad for a little kitten someone threw away on Grand Avenue so long ago.
When Kenny's career brought us all to Texas, Mace and India rode with us as we drove Kenny's Tahoe from California. We stopped along the way and visited Ilene Roth, wife of the late Ed "Big Daddy" Roth of "Rat Fink" and Kustom Kar Kulture fame, and Mace and Ilene got to visit. Once in Texas, Mace began treatments at the Cat Hospital at Las Colinas, in Irving, under the care of Dr. Hague. Mace not only handled the road trip well, she made us howl when she protested riding the final day in India's crate, when Kenny loaded the cats and didn't notice the two crates had been labeled. Furious, she took the foil-tray litter box, dumped out the litter, and bent it into a freeform sculture that, had it not been used as a litter box, I probably would have kept and labeled "Mace's Revenge."
Not bad for a cat that was battling such a serious disease!
The road trip wasn't Mace's only Texas trip - she'd flown out twice before, while Kenny was working at DNA Productions. This time, she rode in the cabin. We got wanded down, her crate was inspected, and the security folks marveled at her wide-eyed but calm demeanor. She'd meow twice at take-off, curl up and sleep during the trip, and wake up just before landing. She loved the Texas visits.
As we were beginning to move into our newly-bought house in Keller, we realized Mace finally was losing the war. Kenny told me, so wisely, "Take her to the house, so she'll know where we'll be. I did, and stayed there. We set her up in the master bedroom's huge walk-in closet, and I stayed with her till the end. And, funny enough, it was that big heart finally giving out that brought her life to its inevitable conclusion. She gave a strange, startled cry. I held her in my arms, and she clung to me as she had done from the beginning, trying so hard not to let go. I asked God to watch over this noble cat's spirit, no matter how hard Mace tried not to leave. She tried so hard to stay with me that I no longer believe animals don't know about death.
She leaves a legacy in her case study. I don't know that anything learned during her struggle will help those whose pets are suffering from eating the tainted food. But I know that some animals have been helped, and some veterinarians now give more pet owners more options in their animals' treatments - because of Mace.
Nose ArtIt may be a little hard to see, but scrawled in the dust on our television screen is a kind of "monster" drawing - alien body with eyes on stalks.I spotted the little drawing in the lower right hand corner of the tv when I was about to wipe the screen clean. "Kenny? Did you draw this?" I called out.
"Draw what?" Kenny answered. Kenny, as you may know, draws "monster art." He was a long-time associate with the late Ed "Big Daddy" Roth, creator of "Rat Fink" and lots of other characters, as well as the builder of some of the wildest-looking cars ever. When I saw the eyes on stalks, I thought, "Kenny's leaving me a hint to wipe the screen," but nicely - or, while slipping in a DVD, Kenny had gotten bored and had doodled the drawing on the tv.
But Kenny wasn't the artist of this particular drawing. Seems that the Monkey Cat, who has been known to watch tv and who sometimes jumps up on the entertainment center for a closer look, has decided to try his hand at cartooning.
Or, rather, his nose.
Monkey's medium-of-choice is the dust that gathers on electronic screens (this tv in particular) and his tool-of-choice is his nose. You can't try your hand at something when you have paws!
Sad to say, this isn't going to be a permanent addition to our decor. Eventually, I have to clean off the tv. However, I'm trying to find a way, other than digital photography, to preserve Monkey's first cartoon.
I'm trying to figure out how to transfer it on to paper - no, not to post on the refrigerator, but to frame and put it on a wall! My cat, my house - why not??
Shoot - I not only want to figure out how to transfer it onto paper, but I'd love to use it as a tee shirt design!
Monkey's first "painting" - I'm so proud!
Oh, Monkey!!Cute little innocent Monkey Cat!
Oh...I wish!
There he is, playing in a box of kraft wrapping paper. Fun stuff that crinkles and rustles when you tunnel underneath. And beneath the kraft paper, lovely cardboard to shred into confetti.
Boxes of kraft paper pretty much keeps Monkey-Play contained in a cardboard playpen.
But boxes don't keep Monkey-Cats contained.
Oh, sure, there's the yogurt-maker box that quickly became a Monkey-Toy. He barely fit in the box, and as soon as he swooped in, the lid flopped on top of him, giving him a great secret hideout that lasted till we tired of tripping over the small box, wherever it slid.
For a short time, the yogurt-maker's box kept Monkey fairly contained in his new hiding place.
But that didn't last long. Monkey got bored with the box, we got tired of tripping over the box that showed up in unexpected places, and soon the retired toy hit the recycling container.
But....when Little Monkey-Cats bore of one toy, you can bet a new toy will replace it soon enough.
And we found out yesterday morning what the new toy our Monkey-Cat chose.
We awoke to find our entire house festooned with toilet paper. Fluffy bits in the dining room, ribbons of the stuff strewn throughout the living room. The paper was woven in and out of furniture legs. The bathroom look like somone had sheared a lamb in there.I suppose some folks would have been mad at the Monkey. But by then, exhausted from his all-night party, the Monkey was curled up asleep. That was a blessing.
Usually the sight of mops and brooms bring out his inner rascal, and he attacks them with wild abandon, then slides into the accumulating dustpile before we get it moved into the trash can. On more than one occasion, Kenny has watched our broom become a Monkey Dust Mop, and I've watched Kenny continue to sweep the floor with the Monkey firmly curled around the broom bristles.
But this time, cleanup was quite conventional, except for our laughter. Monkey apparently had had a big party the night before, and much to our relief, was sleeping it off in the guest room.
The Pretty Little Cabin in the WoodsSo you want to know why it's called "The Little Red Hen Construction Company and Arts Studio"??
When I was a little girl, I heard my mother's telling of the story of a little red hen who wanted to bake some bread. She asked her friends and neighbors for help in preparing the soil, planting the seeds, harvesting the grain, grinding the flour and, ultimately, baking the bread. With each task, the little red hen was told her friends and neighbors didn't have time to help. In my mother's telling of the children's story, when the bread was baked, and its fragrance reached the friends, they came to the Little Red Hen's house and asked to share in the bread. In conventional tellings, these folks were refused. In my mother's version, the Little Red Hen shares some of her bread with these folks.
In either case, the Little Red Hen has to do it all herself.
I found myself thinking of that story one time I needed a storage shed built on my property in Florida, back when I still lived there, and there was no one to help. I built it alone, with very little skill. It looked awful, but it served the purpose. Eventually, Kenny had a better one built and he decided to tear down my lopsided shed. He figured it'd take three good blows with a hammer to fall. It took three days instead.
I don't invoke the "Little Red Hen" approach often - I'd rather things be done right. But sometimes, if you want something done at all, you have to do it yourself.
Reclaiming this little cabin wasn't exactly a solo project. Those of you who have been reading this series of stories remember last year, when Jerry and I lit out for Florida and a week of pure labor and very little sleep. We reclaimed the interior - plugged the gaping holes in the floor, laid down floor tiles atop the naked wood, painted the porch floor, lined the porch walls, banished to oblivion the odd patches of garish neon Day-Glo green from the cabin's original main (okay, ONLY) room and restored the brown to what once was ancient, stained wood.
The kitchen got new flooring, curtains, and friendly yellow paint, a real light fixture instead of a dangling light bulb, and light switches that didn't hang from loose wires. (What I call a kitchen had a hot plate and coffee maker, a sink and, before we left, one tiny functional refrigerator that survived being abandoned who knows how long - and full of food, to boot. Oh, THAT was pleasant. What was more fun was trying to reclaim the larger refrigerator that was abandoned at least that long and full of stuff I can only presume was food...at one time. The tiny one cleaned up nicely and freshly and cleanly. The larger one was hauled off, along with the rest of a car-sized pile of junk that mostly belonged to folks who had previously stayed at this place free in exchange for keeping the place up. Well, there you go.)
The bathroom got another makeover - beige paint, curtains that coordinated with the shower curtain, a latch on the pocket door, massive wall repair and new flooring. The toilet got fixed so it flushed properly.
If Jerry Conine hadn't come, nothing would have been done right, and probably not all this stuff could have been done. So much for the Little Red Hen having to work solo all the time!
But, I didn't get to paint the cabin exterior. Jerry had used a sprayer to scrub off the flaking paint, so the poor little building looked even worse on the outside than when we arrived. And, my fence was in horrible disrepair. And that's been bugging me for an entire year.I had friends who did their best to get the cabin painted during the past year. They're not like the various animals in the children's story who refused to help. But one thing after another spoiled their plans to gather paint and get it on the side of the cabin. Right up to the end, others were trying to "get'er done" by the 2007 Daytona 500. But....it just didn't turn out that way.
Fortunately, I also had friends who were willing to help in other ways, and armed with a nicely fattened gift card and the blessings of my dear husband, I lit out solo on Valentine's Day [Kenny was down for the count with the flu and a storyboard deadline] for my little cabin and the Daytona 500 - and I couldn't have begun to tell you which had me more excited.
I had packed food, I had packed paint (that was supposed to be used on the inside of the Keller barn...but that'll wait) and an extension pole. I packed a heater and a sleeping bag. Kenny's parents already had delivered a 1,350 foot roll of barbed wire and a small microwave (any cooking device that shuts itself off is my buddy.)
I arrived early Thursday evening and set up shop, emptying boxes and trying to figure out how to make a padless futon frame the most comfortable bed. [The futon pad went the way of the rank refrigerator and the other pile of trash.] I puttered around, hanging three paintings of tropical flowers I'd done to improve the cabin's decor, and sipping steaming tea while the new heater began to warm up the chilly building.
I had to reacclimate to the sounds of the Florida woods. It's like the farm and I must reacquaint ourselves with each other the first evening. The CSX and Amtrak rumbled periodically in the distance - very welcome sounds. The animals and birds and bugs in the distance made familiar sounds and noises I hadn't heard since last year, and I kept trying to place them. Suddenly I was surrounded in a pleasant, rustling noise I tried to interpret....oh! Rain showers on a metal roof! I had to stop to absorb this lovely sound that was like an old friend coming to visit after too long an absence.
The first full day, Friday, was the start of the real Little Red Hen projects - painting the cabin. I found the old paint supplies and topped the extension pole with a roller and began covering the flat sides of the lapboards with semi-glossy paint. I got most of the paint on the cabin, some on my glasses, some on my clothes (covered in a garbage bag, but the sleeves got dripped on) and none in my hair - I wore a shower cap in what was probably my most unflattering look ever.But the main cabin body is lap board, and that has flat sides alternating with recesses, and those recesses looked as neglected as ever, no matter how I tried to work the roller edges into the crevaces. It was useless, and in the end, as pretty as the rest looked, those unpainted areas troubled me. I dragged out my extension ladder and attempted to climb its heights with brush and paint bucket - and promptly realized after about 10 steps up that no WAY was THAT gonna work. I trembled as I nervously returned to the safety of Mother Earth, and sighed at dismay at my lack of courage and those long lines of unpainted wood.
Saturday was the "Ho`olaule`a" (a Hawaiian cultural presentation) at Walt Disney World's Polynesian Resort, and I got to participate, thanks to my kumu hula, Kau`i Brandt, who always invites me to dance when I am in town and available. It got my mind off the painting, and I got a chance to learn some hulas and reunite with Aunty Kau`i's longtime and new (to me) students. Perhaps that relaxing time gave my brain a chance to concoct a method for solving the painting problem.
Not all paint brushes have bristles. Some have sponge applicators. What if I duct-taped a sponge mop to the extension pole and pressed the paint into those long, narrow "slots" of wood? Off to Wal-Mart for a sponge mop and duct tape, and I found just the ticket: O-Cedar's mop with a barrel-shaped sponge. If it worked, great. If not, I had a nice new floor mop.
I taped the mop's entire handle to the extension pole - the head was attached in a way that gave me no alternative. I diluted the paint to make it work better with the sponge, and I began pressing the paint-loaded sponge head into the creases under the long boards. BINGO! It worked as if the mop had been designed just for this purpose. It also solved the problems of trim, of the tops of window frames, and of other little problem spots the roller couldn't handle. And when the paint dripped, I simply "mopped" along the flat boards to give them a second coat. As the day wore on, I found spots that needed touching up, and I just kept at it till the cabin was covered in shining white paint.
THAT was what I'd come for. I wanted that little cabin to know how much I love it, and now it gleamed inside and out.
But - that wasn't the only big task I needed to do. The fence had taken hits from trees and bush hogs and heaven knows what else. I was amazed, as I walked my old pasture line, how much of it was still standing and intact. But I was dismayed at the gaps and holes. And I dragged out the overwhelmingly-heavy roll of barbed wire. And I began to know first hand how "snuggly" barbed wire likes to be, how it clings to your clothes and to itself and to anything else that it ought to be ignoring. And how it resists going where you actually want it to go. I thought of it as a confused child instead of a malignant, spiny monster, although I tended to call it "dragon wire" after a while....all in all, the scrapes and cuts I got looked worse than they were, and they were nothing compared to what I used to get when handling chicken wire. I was at this task about one full day, and was ecstatic when it finally was done.
I walked around the screened porch and decided to give the ceiling and supporting 2x4s a layer of paint, and got some leftover stuff from the barn that was just enough for a good, decent coat. I'd have run paint on the outer edge of the 2x4s, but they were covered by the screening, and it would have involved the extension ladder.
I redid the skirting around the cabin (in part because it's supposed to be black, till I dripped white paint all over it!) I repositioned the stuff that had slipped, and sprayed it all black to cover the drips so it wouldn't look like a Dalmation in reverse.
In the middle of it all, I got to the Daytona 500! I loved how driving there from DeLand is nowhere near as frustrating as coming from the beachside, from Orlando or from places north. The Boy Scouts got my parking money, and I found a good home for Kenny's ticket, and on Row 24, Seat 24, I was surrounded by Jeff Gordon fans - just like me!

Jeffey didn't have as good a day as his finish would indicate - it was a battle for him; his teammate Jimmie Johnson [Kenny's favorite] had a less enjoyable day; nor did most of our preferred drivers have much luck except Mark Martin. OH, it looked like he was about to capture his first Daytona 500, only to be denied in the last few seconds by bare inches.
I also got to spend some time with Kenny's folks, who took me to Bellini's, a wonderful deli/restaurant run by Scotty who used to be one of Kenny's race team sponsors. What a delight! The food was as good as ever, and Kenny's folks want to travel out from their Ocala home more often, not just to check on the property, but to check out more items on Scotty's menu!
And I reunited with my colleague from back in my newspaper days, Cathy Vaughn. Two reporters who never dreamed we'd have any other career, we also have animals and being in Florida and sharing the loss of the gallant Barbaro in common. We toasted friendship and my "construction" successes (Sangria! Plum wine!) during our various dinners together.
I did some other puttering around the cabin - setting up solar lights on abandoned tent poles to make electrical "tiki torches." I tarped this, secured that, fiddled with a few other things. I also took some time to video the place, to photograph a sunset from its palest pink beginnings to the time the lower part of the sky turned to fire. And I sat on my pretty, freshly-painted porch, with a hot cup of tea, this time not to ward away the chill, but to sip while I soaked up the once-again familiar sounds of the whippoorwills, the bobwhites, the various woodpeckers, the various hawks, the owls, the water-side bugs, an occasional gator, and the lovely train trundling on the western property line of the prettiest five acres in Florida. In the end, I didn't want to leave for at least another week, and I think my little place in Florida felt the same.
Like the Little Red Hen of my mother's version of the story, I didn't have help doing the actual jobs of wrangling the barbed wire, slamming a pole-rigged sponge mop against the side of the cabin, or eliminating a rat's old bedding from the back of the dryer. But, unlike the original Little Red Hen, I had plenty of help from friends, family and, of course, Kenny, who got me there and back again.
The story of my next trip there shouldn't become a litany of jobs accomplished (except for a little cosmetic work I want to do at the entrance to make the drive in look a little prettier). Instead, it should be the story of a relaxing stay in my pretty little cabin in the Florida woods.
BarbaroSway the Limit, my 1984-edition, Florida off-the-track Thoroughbred, lost his cousin early today.
His cousin was Kentucky Derby Winner Barbaro, who lost an 8-month battle to survive a devastating accident during this past year's running of the Preakness Stakes.
Dead at 4, Barbaro leaves no children to pass on his awesome genes. But he leaves a powerful legacy for someone who spent so few years here on earth.
He leaves behind the gallant efforts of Edgar Prado, his jockey, who must have been the first human to realize something horribly wrong must have happened when Barbaro's hind leg shattered during the race. Edgar was the first person who take action. He managed to bring the horse to a stop. This horse weighed in excess of a thousand pounds and was intent on winning, as he had done six times before. Barbaro's speed probably was in the range of 40 miles an hour. And Edgar, his clothes, plus the saddle, pads, bridle, and the bits of iron used in racing when all horses must carry the same weight, weighed a combined mere 126 pounds. Try stopping 1,000-plus pounds going 40 mph when you weigh little more than 100 pounds yourself - especially when that 1,000 pounds has a brain and doesn't want to stop.
Barbaro leaves behind Michael Matz, his trainer, who used to be a Grand Prix show jumping rider we would watch - and even met - during the times we attended the American Invitational in Tampa, Fla. Mr. Matz was wonderful to watch at the Invitational. Later on, he would become famous for rescuing a family's children after a horrible crash of a commercial airline in which he, too, was riding. He became the trainer of racing horses, and Barbaro was his first Kentucky Derby candidate. Barbaro won in grand style, and talk quickly turned to the possibility of a Triple Crown champion.
Barbaro leaves behind Gretchen and Roy Jackson, his owners, who bred him as well. They were the ones who ultimately decided that Barbaro's trip to the Pimlico stables wouldn't be his last. They decided to send their critically-injured horse to the University of Pennsylvania, to the George D. Widner Hospital for Large Animals at the New Bolton Center, where Dr. Richardson would begin the long treatment which we all hoped would end in victory for this beautiful horse.
Barbaro leaves behind a group of fans from more than 50 nations who have joined together under the labels "Friends of Barbaro" and "Barbaro Nation," who have overrun what once was a small website set up by trainer Tim Woolley to let folks know about the horses he trains.

He happens to operate his racing stable in the same complex that Michael Matz uses to train his horses. His folks run into Mr. Matz's folks. And horse folks talk. And so, Tim and his folks began posting Barbaro updates. One thing led to another, and soon the Barbaro updates and readers' responses overwhelmed the little website.
Those of us who were frustrated by the lack of conventional media coverage on this soon found this website and checked it regularly, if not daily. We bought rubber "Barbaro" bracelets. We lit virtual candles - thousands of them - in his honor, from this page. We wrote blurbs of encouragement for Barbaro and for each other. Mr. Woolley gave us a chance to use his website, and we did, big time.
I found out about Barbaro's fate when Kenny turned on the computer, clicked onto the internet and suddenly said, "Oh, I'm so sorry." He didn't need to say anything else - we knew that an infection had occurred in the broken leg, the one which so recently had been released from the cast that had protected the 20 to 30 screws that held its shattered bones together. The "good" hind leg had lost upwards of 80 percent of its hoof to laminitis, another type of hoof inflammation, and for both legs to be impacted at this time had not been good news. Another surgery had been performed, placing a different type of protective device on the shattered leg, and the gamble was that this type of shield actually could re-break the knitted bones.
What was the final straw was that laminitis had hit both front hooves, literally leaving Barbaro without a leg to stand on.
Horses aren't people. You can't flip 'em on their backs and support their broken legs in casts and slings. You can't let them lie down to recover. Large creatures can't stay bedridden the way humans can - their internal organs can't handle it. Horses are meant to be upright, standing creatures, and they have few alternatives to this. Even the sling, which Barbaro would ask for when he became tired, wasn't a 24/7 option. Horses need four functional legs.
From the get-go, we knew the odds were against Barbaro's survival. The wonderful thing about this experience is that the Jacksons gave their beautiful horse the best possible chance to live. The medical team at UPenn didn't stop until the Jacksons finally decided enough was enough. They had promised Barbaro they wouldn't make him suffer needlessly. Barbaro himself provided his doctors and his owners with signs he was a willing participant in the battle - he usually had a hearty appetite and a good attitude; he was even frisky, at times.
I don't know what signs Barbaro may have given his owners that the fight should end. Perhaps they made the decision on their own, realizing that if laminitis had hit three legs, and the fourth had suffered such a major setback, then the cause was lost and there was no need to ask their Kentucky Derby champion to suffer. I know all too well what it is like to lose a family member who isn't human. I know only too well what it is like to wake up the next day and to realize the world feels strange and alien, because the family is no longer intact, and the world has lost some luster because a bright light no longer shines here.
I'm going to the barn in my back yard. That little black horse you see in the picture is waiting for me.
The news now is just repeating itself on CNN and ESPN. ESPN didn't even bother to carry the UPenn press conference or tell us they weren't going to carry it, which meant I missed the CNN live broadcast.

Barbaro didn't make last year's "top 10" stories in sports as noted by conventional sports news folks. They've done some nice tributes today, but I've seen them all now.
A better place for folks like me is Tim Woolley's site - bless him for the generosity he has shown by letting Barbaro become its top story for eight months and, undoubtedly, more. And for me, even better than that, is to head for the back yard, through my metal gate, and out to the little red barn with white trim, where my pretty Appaloosa mare, Ginger, and Barbaro's little black cousin, Sway, will take my mind off this very, very sad day.
Loft Sisterhood of the Pretty Red BarnLook at those pretty cats on our back porch! The black tuxedo is Tex; the grey is her sister, Sadie.
They don't belong to us. But they do belong right where they are. And, they belong in our pretty red barn with white trim, and, very specifically, they belong in the loft. They're our barn cats, and quite happy with their adopted lifestyle, thank you very much.
These two didn't have a very happy start in life. As kittens, they lived with a family where the children must not have been well-supervised. That's the only excuse I can think of for children being allowed to throw baby kittens into the street in front of traffic.
That's all I know about that family. And it's a good thing. I've been known, when I hear of animals receiving horrible treatment, to shake my fist like Scarlett O`Hara, screaming, "As God is my witness--" and threatening ill on the perpetrators.
For instance, my darling precious Stradivarius, my soul mate in horse form and exactly the horse I predicted I would have back when I was 7...only, it took till I was 10 years out of college for us to meet....at one boarding barn, the farrier who was the manager's buddy trimmed his feet so short, the soles of his hooves were pink. He took a single step out onto the crushed shell hallway and crumpled to his knees. No one besides the horses were there when I pitched my fit, screaming and cussing this man, his ancestry, his progeny and anything else I could think of at the time. I wanted to grab my dressage whip and hunt him down and flay his hide till my arm was tired. I wanted to take his tools of the trade and trim HIS toes in the style he had done to my horse.Fortunately, after my rants subsided, I realized my first job was to get home (this was pre-cell phone times) and call Mrs. Pamela Woods, my first riding instructor, and learn what treatment would best serve my beloved horse. Fortunately, too, by the next day, I was in control so I could be diplomatic when I told the barn manager that I did not want his friend anywhere near my horse again. (Hey, that's still more diplomatic than skinning the man with a riding crop, right?)
Now that you have a clear picture of how I react to animal cruelty, you understand why I'm glad I didn't hear about those children until later.Tex and Sadie (who may have been named Alexis and Mercedes - or perhaps Lexus and Mercedes? - in their youth) were rescued before they could be squished under car tires. They circulated through a Northern California pet rescue system until they reached our friend Karen, who has as soft a heart about animals as we have, but she is a much nicer person than I am.
By the time she got the sisters, they were "young adult" cats, and their names had evolved to "Tex" and "Sadie." (This is still in Northern California, by the way. Tex wouldn't come to Texas for a few years.) They actually became nice pets, but they had behaviors that really didn't make them suitable indoor cats.
Tex is a shredder. Is it fabric? Well, it WAS fabric. Now it's confetti. Didn't matter what, if it could be shredded, Tex was the cat for the job. She has claws and knows how to use them, and is quite happy to do it, too.
That wasn't the worst of it.
Sadie is a sprayer. They'll tell you that only males, particularly unneutered ones, are the cats that spray. We've had "visiting" unneutered male cats who could visit our homes with no territorial markings going on. We've owned unneutered males (who later were neutered) who weren't sprayers before they were altered.And I've known female cats who sprayed with no regrets or conscience. I don't know how you break them of it. The ones I knew were half-wild (maybe all wild...) in temperament, and perhaps they just weren't meant to be indoor cats.
Karen, bless her heart, dealt with all this until work brought her to Texas. She brought her stuff, cats and all, to the apartment where she first lived out here. While she was at work, she kept the cats shut up in the bathroom. After a while, she realized this wasn't doing the cats, the bathroom or her any good. But she didn't want to take these two sisters to a shelter. The probability of a shredder and a sprayer getting adopted into a good home would be.....just about nil, right?
But by then, we'd bought our little place in Keller. I call it a "little place" because in Texas, 2 1/4 acres is not a "ranch" or a "farm." Doesn't really pass for a "ranchette," either. It's a nice-sized back yard big enough for our horses and our pretty red barn. Sure, we still call it the "Double Nickel Ranch" after Kenny's NASCAR racing number, 55, but we don't for a minute take the "ranch" part of the name seriously. And neither should you.
So, back to the cats' dilemma. Karen called us up, desperate. She asked if we'd be interested in trying Tex and Sadie out as barn cats. After all, they'd spent a good chunk of their time at her home in Northern California as yard cats, and were pretty wise in the ways of outdoor life. Maybe they could adapt to barn life?
I was happy to give it a try. We didn't have barn cats at the moment. India had retired from the barn cat career years before, and we hadn't gotten the Monkey yet - and he's got the street smarts of roadkill - yes, he can shake hands and sit up, but can he stay out from under oncoming traffic? We think not. He's not a candidate for a job as barn cat.
To start, we kept the sisters in our woven-fence-wall feed room in their huge traveling crate. This crate is big enough that a Great Dane could fit in it, if he were careful. We put a small litter box, their food and water, and their stacking "kitty cave" beds in the crate, slid the back of the crate into a plywood box to give them a sense of security, and left them to learn about the sounds of a barn.
As far as I know, they had never seen horses. There are people who think horses are huge animals. Imagine seeing a horse for the first time - and you're a cat.
The coyotes that patrol through the back pastures howl, but so did the coyotes on the hills near Karen's old home in Northern California. Tex and Sadie no doubt had encountered other animals outdoors, and they had developed good outdoor-life skills. They also had lived near traffic, and I prayed that they would be smart enough to stay away from the street that runs in front of our house.
After about 10 days of confinement, Karen and I let the cats venture out of the crate. We kept everything in place so they could return to this "home base." They seemed cautiously curious about their new home. At least at first.
Then Sadie panicked, scattered, and we didn't see her for three -quarters of a year. Just as promtly, Tex made herself at home.While Sadie was on her nine-month "walkabout," Tex adapted to barn life. She quit quaking under Kenny's John Deere riding lawnmower, and became bolder in running from one barn spot to another. She explored the pasture. She tried to herd the horses. She began running from the barn to the back porch. She started patrolling the barn of the neighbors next door (who, after losing their cats, are thrilled to see her stalking mice.)
And she began to learn new skills.
Horrified at heights at one time, Tex tentatively began to climb the carpet-covered pole that would take her directly into the loft. This pole has horizontal "perches," and she took her time about climbing to the succesively higher platforms. She finally reached the loft, and began to explore the barn's "upper floor." She turned some stored car seats into her personal kitty beds, and so I set up a feeding station up there as well as on the porch and in the feed room.
I thought, "Well, we may never see Sadie again, but Tex has taken to barn life."
Out of the blue one day, I saw Sadie streak through the barn, and I was able to tell Karen her grey kitty was still around. We were astonished. Weeks later, we saw her in the pasture between the barn and the porch, and we would catch glimpses of her nearly daily. I could get within 30 feet of her, and called that lucky.
One day, we saw her on the porch. A week later, when I popped a canned food lid, Sadie boldly came up to the bowl, standing on my feet to get to the food. I carefully stroked her, and she arched into my hand. The walkabout was over. Sadie was home to stay.
Tex hasn't always been so sure about having Sadie back in "her" barn and pasture. There have been a few hisses and swats. Sisters are like that - you abandon YOUR sister for nearly a year and see how happy she is. But mostly they get along fine.
This winter has brought particularly tough weather to this area. But these two cats would rather be in the barn than in a house, even during the freezes. In anticipation of winter, I went up to the loft, where we have little drafts, and set up an old fashioned "insulated bed" - corrugated cardboard, lined with those loose-weave "kitchen" rugs and plush pillowing, and with a burlap feed sack draped diagonally across the top. I brought a large pet carrier up to the loft and outfitted it similarly so both cats would have comfy warm beds upstairs. The stacking circular kitty caves are still in the feed room, but now are lined with fleecy blankets, too. When temperatures dropped to the 30s...then 20s...then teens, I began slipping those one-use chemical heat packs under the top layer of bedding, and the cats kept as toasty as if I'd given them each a 24-hour heating pad.
How happy are they as barn cats? Both Tex and Sadie come up to the back porch and may meow at the sliding glass door if they want dinner refills. But they don't want to come inside the house, even during the freezes. (This is a good thing. India and the Monkey and Tex and Sadie might be more than this house can handle!) Tex and Sadie are quite content to live in the loft, in the feed room, in the pasture and on the back porch. Nobody fusses at them for "bad" behavior...and oddly enough, the habits that got them in trouble as indoor cats don't seem to show up now that they live in a barn.
In fact, I've reminded Karen - who still owns these sisters - that she could take them back anytime she pleases. But I warned her, if she wants HAPPY cats, she first has to buy a place with a barn! She comes and visits them as often as she can, relaxing on our back porch, rocking in one of our Cracker Barrel wooden rocking chairs, often with at least one, if not both, of her precious cats in her lap. She sees how happy they are, and after watching them play in the pasture and the barn, she agrees.
As far as Tex and Sadie are concerned, houses are fine, if you happen to be a human being, but a barn? Oh, that's God's gift to cats!
Reflections on TransformationsWe're on the eve of a new year. We're all going to mess up dating our checks for a while. We'll flub saying "2007" for a month or two, and wonder how 2006 slipped away so quickly. Then one day, being in 2007 will feel perfectly normal.
And shortly after that, ball players will gather for spring training, and Kenny will be happy again. So will other family members.
Kenny's friends know he goes through withdrawal as soon as the last out is made at the World Series. Baseball is over till Spring Training. NASCAR keeps him happy till the championship is awarded, and he's thrilled this year - "his" driver, Jimmie Johnson, took the Nextel Cup crown.
But that's all in the past, and spring training can't come here fast enough. Even living in a football state, Kenny still longs for baseball.So, this year, our friends Tom and Mary Morgan got him a replica of a vintage baseball game that fits nicely on the bar in our living room. And Kenny began playing it. We used to play an arcade version of this game in San Francisco, at the Cliff House area until the arcade game collection moved elsewhere in the city.
In the desktop version, the "baseball" (scaled down to a metal marble) can land in depressions that mark doubles and triples. Holes in the board mark the outs, and the ball falls through the holes and rolls back to the player. But doubles and triples hold the ball in place. Ordinarily, the player has to pick up the metal marble and place it into the slot that stands in for the pitcher.
But at our house, and rather quickly, in fact, this ball game became a two-player game, and not in the conventional sense in that one player represents the home team, and the other player represents the visitors.Nope - at our house, Kenny has a bat boy. Okay, a bat cat. More specifically, a bat Monkey.
Monkey likes sitting at the bar. We don't serve him drinks - it's immoral to slip him alcohol, and he doesn't care for milk. He's been known to filch a few treats when we eat at the bar, and at times, he just seems to enjoy the company.
When Kenny started playing the ball game, Monkey hopped up to catch the action. Pretty soon, he wanted to play. And rather quickly, he assumed the role of bat boy - batting the balls out of the double and triple depressions so Kenny could continue the game.
Monkey has shown a talent for partnered games - he plays "catch" at times when you roll a jingle ball toward his paws. He will bat the ball back to you, and expect you to return the favor.When did Monkey decide he liked team sports? When did he decide to play baseball? Was it while he watched televised games with us last year?
This led me to wondering, "When did Monkey stop being a cat?" I don't mean, "When did Monkey stop being a cat and become a Monkey?" I know that day. Little Kamalani was walking around on his hind legs, and Kenny began calling the little kitten "Monkey" and "Monkey Cat." The nickname stuck.
I protested in vain. The precedent had been set: Long ago, India was nicknamed "the Dog," and responds as easily to "Dog" and "Puppy" as she does to her own name. Brought up by our German shepherd, she still exhibits dog-like behavior a decade after that dear dog was laid to rest.
But I wasn't wondering that, as I watched my husband and our youngest family member play with a Christmas game. I was wondering, when did Monkey stop being a "cat" and become "family"?Have you ever visited friends and played affectionately with their pets, but you still see a dog, a cat, a bird? Yet, when you return home, and are greeted by your own pets, you don't see them as animals, but as family?
I marvel at times at how thoroughly our lives become intwined to the point that it doesn't matter what species we are, we are family.Monkey is our overactive, rough and tumble youngest family member. He's a chatterbox who talks to his toys, to the walls, to the floor, to things out the window we don't see. He talks to the barn cats, to the skunks, and in quite a different voice, to strange cats and the raccoon that periodically comes up to the back door to peer in to see what the people are doing inside.
India started off as one of our Florida barn cats, and we've had her since 1989. She began life moving through a series of houses, where other cats hated her so much she was passed off to us, since we were a better option than death. To live with us meant becoming an outdoor farm cat. No, our cats didn't like her, either, but with five acres to roam, usually the cats could coexist without excessive friction.
Farm cat life at our place was pretty good - climb what you want, sleep where you want, scratch your claws on anything except the horses, and get fed even when you don't catch anything.
At the age of 8, Indy discovered all that would change. She and our other barn cat, Mace, were expected to adapt to apartment life when we moved to California. No problem - by then, we were family. Where we went, Mace and India were at home. They handled moves within California, and then the move to Texas, with grace.
You'll read that cats are attached to place and that dogs are attached to people. Nobody told Indy and Mace this. Mace would have sewn herself to me had she been able. India adores everything about Kenny. Maybe they're no longer cats. They don't fit the stereotype.
You'll read about cat independence. Jokes abound on the Internet and in cat books about how aloof cats are, and what little regard they have for their housemates.
Maybe India and Monkey aren't cats anymore. They love interacting with us. India reads over Kenny's shoulder. Monkey likes to have conversations and play baseball.
Then there are the larger members of our family.
When did Ginger stop being that Appaloosa mare from Orange City? When did she become more like a sister than a pet?
Was it the day she realized I can't see in the dark, and she started making fun of me? Sisters tease each other. Was it after we moved to California, but boarded our horses in Florida for a few years in case Kenny's career sent us back there? When I would go visit my horses, Ginger would place her head against my chest and hold it there at length. Then we'd walk around the pasture, but at no time would Ginger break physical contact with me. Sisters miss each other.
Now we're all living together in Texas, and every morning, Ginger greets me at the gate. We share a hug, then we walk, my arm over her neck, to the barn. When did she stop being just a pretty mare?
In the barn, waiting for the two of us, is Sway. A puzzle who has been a challenge to untangle, and who probably will remain a puzzle to some degree for all his life, Sway has an inherent good nature that keeps us encouraged during the difficult times.
He's such a beauty, everyone who sees him loves him at first glance. And he's personality-plus. On a good day, he's the sweetest Thoroughbred "puppy" you'll ever meet. Let him miss a good night's sleep, and he becomes grumpy and hazardous.
There have been folks along the way who have wondered why I have kept "Mr. Excitement" all these years. Why not trade him in for something normal?
Well, you don't sell family. You don't trade in family. This is something we learn as children when we would love to swap our siblings or parents for another set. Sway's the little brother who sometimes gets into little troubles. You don't abandon your troubled little brother.And, like the Monkey, Sway has something in common with Kenny. They all have to wait till spring training. Some time ago, we discovered Sway loves the sound of baseball broadcasts. Lucky for us all, we live where the Texas Rangers games routinely make the air waves. When did Kenny turn us all into baseball fans?
One very wonderful day, a Thoroughbred I renamed Stradivarius came into my life. I remember the first day I rode him. I remember the day I went out to see him again, the day he was offered to me. I remember after he was mine wondering when our relationship would change from horse and owner to family.
It happened the day I lost the German shepherd, Athene, who had been in my life 11 years and who picked Kenny out as my future husband. Up until then, he was impossible to catch. That day, however, he met me at the gate where he was boarded, and in that instant, our relationship changed. He stopped being my horse and began to become my soulmate.
I don't remember when Athene stopped being a puppy and became such an exceptional character that she might have become a candidate for study had we been so inclined. She was so smart that she understood right and left, correctly identifying right and left even in mirror-image; she understood above and below and other spacial relationships. She picked up nouns in about 3 seconds, verbs (usually it meant work...) in about 60 seconds. She knew whether a dot in the sky was a plane or a bird, and she knew birds in the sky were the same creatures she'd chase out of shrubbery.
Her inability to speak human language frustrated her. She chafed at having to be patient when she came to me indicating she wanted something. It meant we played a version of "20 questions" to find out exactly what she wanted. It meant I had to guess, and once I hit the right item, she let me know.
Navigation? She needed to go a place only once to have the route imbedded in her brain. One time my father drove us to the Central Florida Zoo from my parents' house in Ormond Beach. The zoo had a special "night viewing" so visitors could see nocturnal creatures playing in their habitat. Athene, who was known by zoo employees, joined us. When we left, my father missed the turnoff to Interstate-4, the highway we'd used to get to Sanford. The rest of us, chatting about the animals, hadn't realized Daddy had passed I-4. Athene caught on and began to raise a fuss, convinced we were getting ourselves lost.Daddy didn't believe he'd passed the turnoff. All the girls in the car, especially Athene, were convinced he did. The humans knew that we could continue on the road we were traveling and - eventually - reach Daytona Beach. The way home would be considerably longer, but not all was lost.
But Athene had never taken that road to Ormond Beach, and she had no faith that the humans could get home unassisted. Her cries became louder, and nothing we said could calm her. In supreme frustration, she leaped into the front seat and grabbed the steering wheel with her paws.
At that point, we figured it would be smarter to turn around, pick up I-4 and go home that way, even though Daddy was sure the turnoff had to be somewhere up ahead. We reversed the first opportunity, went back, slid onto I-4, and went home with no other incident.When did Athene stop being just a pet? It took my parents longer - they didn't live with her - but eventually my entire family saw this beautiful, long-haired German shepherd as something far more than "a dog."
I've observed this in other family members. Shortly after we got our Florida farm, we were offered Buddy, a wonderful Morgan-Quarter cross horse Kenny had come to love at a barn where I had boarded Strad. Buddy and Kenny bonded in a way he had never felt attached to a horse before. Buddy was perfectly named - you couldn't ask for a more loyal or trustworthy friend.
We also had a cat, Sheraton, who bonded with us before we had a clue he was "our" cat. A young kitten who had been hanging around Sheraton Inn, Lee Road, Winter Park, he picked us out of a crowd when we stopped by to visit friends. He acted as if he'd known us all his life, and we ended up with a little tiger striped cat. With Sheraton, there was no period of adjustment. He came into our lives as a member of the family, and that was that. He watched cartoons and train videos with Kenny, as Indy would do later. He never left any room for doubt that he was a full-fledged family member.
At our barn here in Keller, we have two barn cats who belong to our friend, Karen. Tex and Sadie gradually are changing from cats to family. The transition isn't 100 percent yet. Tex adapted well to barn life almost immediately. Sadie spent 3/4 of her first year here out of sight, horrified by our presence. One day, her attitude toward us changed 180 degrees. From finding us terrifying, Sadie now walks over us to get to her food, climbs into our laps, encircles our feet.
I'm observing how our relationship evolves. I love these cats as if they were 100 percent my own. But when I look at Tex and Sadie, I still sorta see "cats." Maybe it's because they're still Karen's cats, and I'm trying to remember that, periodically. I realize I don't see them yet through Karen's eyes.
But Karen's had these cats through thick and thin. She met them a little while after they were rescued as kittens from a family whose children threw their little pets into the street in front of cars.
She's worked hard to turn this pair of skittish sisters into affectionate, happy cats - and they are. They'd be with her still, if only they could have coped with living in rental homes. But neither behaves well under those circumstances, and Karen had to make a tough decision- to allow the little sisters to try life as farm cats.
Fortunately for everyone involved, Tex and Sadie have decided barns are the best busy box a cat can have, just as Mace and India learned so many years ago. Unfortunately for Karen, Tex and Sadie (unlike Mace and Indy) have decided our barn is so delightful that if Karen ever decides to take them home, it'd better be a home with a barn! It's funny to think that Karen might have to buy a house with a barn to keep her cats happy. And I wouldn't be surprised if one day she does exactly that!
Karen sees Tex and Sadie through the same eyes we see our own cats and horses. They are family, and you take care of family, no matter what it takes.
We wish all your family, whatever the species included in its makeup, a happy, prosperous and blessed 2007. And, for Kenny's sake - and Sway's and Monkey's, too - a quick return of baseball!
Merry Texas Christmas, Y'all!At the first Christmas, folks gathered around a manger in a stable. It might have been more like a barn, or as simple as a cave.
The picture is of my barn after this year's light snow. It's a classic red with white trim home to our horses, Ginger and Sway, and to our barn cats, Tex and Sadie. This picturesque barn looks a lot like those depicted on some modern holiday cards.
I love going into my barn on Christmas Eve, thinking about that young couple 2,000 years ago, and that Holy Baby who wasn't born in the safety of someone's house, but in a stable, surrounded by animals. Fitting...in Genesis, we read that animals were created first. They are our older brothers and sisters.
Here in Texas, Christmas certainly is celebrated. Store owners and their shoppers in our community don't hesitate to wish each other a "Merry Christmas" as well as the more generic "Happy Holidays." It seems that most folks around here don't seem to take offense at seeing Christmas trees, and, in fact, they get really bowed-up if you want to relabel them "holiday trees."
The "Religion" section of the paper includes other midwinter celebrations; the paper's columnists talk about various ethnic traditions regarding midwinter and Christmas in particular. Some tell how a Chinese family used to incorporate their customs, the Latino neighbors' traditions, the European celebrations and others into a culturally rich - and most delicious - experience.
I haven't found anyone I've met around here who would get upset if you started mixing your metaphors and put a menorah next to a manger scene. Me, I'd get all warm and fuzzy about such a blend.Back in our Daytona Beach days, Kenny and I would attend the annual Christmas Eve party given by the Kapinos family where the menorahs and Christmas trees shared space in the family room. The wife is Jewish, the husband is Catholic, and the family is one of those stand-up kind you're honored to have as friends. As Mrs. Kapinos's mother reminded me, "Your Jesus was one of our boys." One year I'm going to get around to putting a menorah next to my manger scene in honor of her reminder.
Around here, you never know what kind of blend you're going to see when folks put up their decorations. And we're not talking personal, private decorations you don't see till you're welcomed in. I'm talking what's out in the front yard, all lit up for the world to see.
I bet you didn't know that the star pattern that guided the Three Wise Men to see the Holy Child was shaped like the map of Texas. I didn't know that, either. But some folks around here have a manger scene illuminated by a constellation of lights shaped remarkably like Texas. Well, we ARE living in the Lone Star State. Could it be that the Christmas star eventually would become the Texas Lone Star?
I bet you didn't know that Texas longhorns were present in that stable in Bethlehem. Me, neither - till I saw some other yard displays that had the usual Holy Family, the lambs, the donkey, the oxen, the camels, the shepherds, the Wise Men, and a couple of longhorns clustered around the manger.
I bet you thought reindeer pulled Santa's sleigh. I mean, I can name the usual eight, and I know all the words to "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" including the kids' rejoinders. "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer had a very shiny nose - like a light bulb!" Nope, nothing about longhorns in that.
I also know that not too far from Graham, Texas, at Fort Belknap, the old Butterfield Stage Coach Line would switch from horses to mules to pull the coaches, because west of Fort Belknap, the terrain was so tough that it would kill horses - only mules could survive the trip. But, no, nothing about longhorns pulling sleighs came up in my eight-grade research about the stage coach line, either.
But you and I have been misinformed.
I now know this, because what to my wondering eye should appear but - my gosh, Santa's sleigh - pulled by a longhorn steer??
Well, of course not, silly! Santa's sleigh is loaded down with so many goodies, it takes more than one longhorn to pull it through Texas. So, depending on the yard display, you'll find anywhere from two to eight of the gigantic creatures laced to a sleigh.
I'm not above toying with our own manger scenes. But ours are the on-the-shelf, indoor type. One tiny scene is on top of the fireplace mantle. One year, I found tiny plastic horses in my stocking. That was the same year I bought a tiny manger scene to take the place of my original manger scene that had been left behind in Florida during our move. The little plastic horses quickly were added to the tiny stable. I mean, nobody said there WEREN'T horses present that night.
Years later, we found my Florida manger scene in our damaged storage shed, and it had taken a beating - again. It had started as a beautifully carved and painted set. In the years I have owned it, it has had to evolve from the original.
Its first damage came at the jaws of my then German shepherd puppy, Athene, who turned a few of the elements into chew toys. Gone were two wise men, the camels and the Baby Jesus. That year, some stores sold individual manger scene characters, and so the full cast was restored quickly enough.
But the years spent in storage in a damp, pest-ridden shed took its toll on the figures, and I discarded the stable entirely. Again, the one who took the brunt of the damage was the Baby Jesus. I could get all philosophical and make comparisons to the symbolism of the Eucharist, but I won't. I think it was just one of those things.
In the end, I took some clay that can be baked in the oven, and shaped a body to attach to the only suriving parts - the head and the right arm. I simply filled in some gaps and created the rest to resemble an infant in swaddling clothes. Since time also had stained the baby's face dark, when I refreshed the paint on the other figurines, some of them changed complexions, too. This is a very "diverse" Manger Scene.Does that make it a Texas manger scene?
I don't have a Lone Star or Map of Texas or longhorns; just the usual folks and animals. I don't have snow on the stable the way those made during my childhood had. (We now know that the Holy Land is more likely to have palm trees and sand, not high-mountain pines and snow. The original setting resembles Florida more than it does Minnesota.)
But Texas is a pretty eclectic place, with various Christmas celebrations reflecting the many cultures of folks who have settled in here. A week ago, I danced at a Christmas hula show put on by a group that is as diverse as it comes. The leader originally started dancing in the Philippines. Many of her students are from there. But the group is a true rainbow, all colors, all ages, all places of origin, including Texas. Our ukulele group sang carols in English, Spanish and Hawaiian. Our dancers celebrated the cultures of Tahiti, New Zealand and Hawai`i, and danced hulas to many Christmas songs as well.
Texas is big enough to provide room for all these celebrations.And Texas seems to be friendly enough to make the hassles of the season from becoming too much to handle. A line at the post office, the electronics store, the discount department store? No problem. This is Texas. Texans love to talk. Give us half a chance, and we'll launch into stories. Give us a queue of folks waiting for the next clerk, and by the time it's finally our turn at the counter, we have turned our line into an impromptu family reunion. Our swapped stories preserve our sanity and keep us entertained.
To be honest, I have loved Christmas no matter where I am, and I miss some of the old experiences of places past.
I miss driving to the Granada Bridge in Ormond Beach to look at the holiday display of “Christmas trees’ – conical shapes made up of strands of blue lights floating in the Intracoastal Waterway (the Tomoka River) at the base of the bridge. I miss seeing the Chestnutt display in Daytona Beach. The Chestnutt family long ago sacrificed its front yard to make a series of life-sized animatronic displays that start with a manger scene, continue with a variety of Santa scenes, and conclude with a Christmas morning scene of children playing with new toys.
I miss the "Poverty Christmas Party" our studio gave each Christmas Day, and, of course, I miss the Kapinoses' Christmas party, which Mrs. Kapinos's mother, Miriam, and I would close down as we chatted on enthusiastically till 3 in the morning after even the teenagers were staggering off to bed.
I miss Christmas in the Bay Area, with majestic Mount Diablo occasionally dusted with snow; with the caroling by our ukulele bands and the hulas we did, shivering, at night on Solano; with the obligatory trip into San Francisco to visit the Buena Vista for its Irish coffee sets and the rides to and from on the cable car, where tradition insists you also sing carols as you cling to a pole so you get the best view of this incredibly beautiful city by the bay.
I miss our friends in those places.
But in the short time we've been in Texas, we've made some wonderful friends here, too. We're truly blessed.
My God-daughter, Alisha Klingler, and her parents, Johan and Norma, stopped by for a visit, and Alisha saw her first cat - Monkey Cat, of course - and Monkey saw his first pint-sized human. He's barely half a year older than Alisha, who just turned a year old herself, and these two youngsters stared for some time, amazed by each other.
Kenny and I have lived in the same place since our official move here in 2004. That's another blessing we definitely don't take likely, and it doesn't matter where we live, it's wonderful to be together.
My horses live at our place in Keller, too - awesome, after having them in Florida for so many years and being boarded in California after that. And on Christmas Eve, I get to be with them in that pretty red barn.I'll think of that young mother and her experiences 2,000 years ago. But for me, that little red barn in my back yard is a pretty nice place to be.
"...And Monkeys Under the Tree......""I'll be home for Christmas....you can count on me....We had snow (but it melted)....and mistletoe (still growing on some trees; I'd trim it off if I could, but I can't reach it....) and Monkeys under the tree....."
Okay, we know that's not how the song originally was written, but the composer didn't live in our house, where the tree is cabled to the ceiling with fishing line because Kamalani MonkeyCat would rather get into trouble and be corrected than avoid doing the things that earns him a plethora of "Get Down From There!!" shouts and a couple of squirts from a water pistol.
The water would help the tree if it were fresh-cut, but ours is fake. It's adorned with clear acrylic beads, icicles, angels, birds, one Pegasus and other ornaments. It's topped with Kenny's family fabric and composite angel that he remembers from his childhood. Clear acrylic beads catch the tiny white lights that were built into the tree. Most of the stands are working - there's a set on the bottom row we can't encourage to light, but it's no big deal.
We added a little color - the angel is gold; I have one gold-toned Holy Family ornament on one side (an acrylic Holy Family on the other side), and red acrylic bows and a few red translucent globe ornaments. Two red birds and one white bird are nestled near the top (they were lower, but then Monkey found them, pulled them down and played with them. They all have nice new feather tails....)
Our house's previous owner left behind some gold-toned bells that look as if they were metal, just as the acrylic ornaments look like crystal. We also have a few solid-colored ornaments as well.
Our house has a strand of straight white lights along the overhang roofline. Kenny bought enough icicle lights to go from corner to corner, but I didn't realize it, and I hooked up the straight line ones. I looped more straightline white lights into garland, and set it all on the front porch railing, garnished with one wreath and some bows.
The lamp post out front has a white-lit wreath with poinsettias; the door has an unlit wreath, and the white post and rail fence along the street has green garland wrapped like a candy cane or barber pole. At each post is a silver bow with a red bell.
Inside, the front door has a green and poinsettia wreath (we catch you coming and going...) and garland on the entertainment center and the fireplace mantle. Both garlands have colored tiny lights. The entertainment center's garland has gold bows and trim, and lots of red poinsettias. The mantle garland has red-print bows and small. printed-foil covered ornaments that look like they may have come from Russia or possibly India.
By Kenny's bar, we've hung a wreath that's made of a lariat, wooden ornaments in the shapes of horses, boots, cactus and the map of Texas. It's wound with tiny-leaf holly and berry garland and silvery wire with foil stars that imply barbed wire gone decorative.
The stockings are tacked to the dining room wall - one each for Kenny, India, Kamalani MonkeyCat and me.
And the barn isn't left out. I still have the metal decorative stockings to hang, and more garland to string along the work arena fence, but Ginger and Sway have their stockings on their stalls.
Sway was toying with behavior that would have earned him a lump of coal from Santa (bounced off his hard head, if I were the kind to do such a thing) when, during our post-Thanksgiving ice-snow-and-freeze, he decided he hated being blanketed, and fought it with a vengeance. Were I mean, I would have let him suffer in the 18-degree nights, but I couldn't stand the thought of his being cold.
So I struggled with his threats to bite and kick during blanketing, because usually he threats without connecting. He struck out with a hind leg, and this time he connected with my leg. It could be called a "glancing blow," since nothing broke, but it's painful enough....and....I'm supposed to dance at a Christmas show this weekend.
Once it warmed up enough that I could stand staying longer in the barn, Sway and I had afew "Yes, you will behave while being blanketed" sessions. Within two days, he was ignoring the entire process. "Blanket? On me? Yeah...whatever...." Two days before, he was acting like a lunatic. Now he's acting like a docile old kids' pony, even if I hurl the blanket, straps flying, buckles clanging, onto his back. Now he doesn't even flick an ear. "Blanket? What blanket? Is there a blanket on me? Oh...okay...whatever...."
Ginger, being as always, Queen of the Universe, handled the cold weather with stoicism and blanketing with grace and charm. As usual. I don't know whether she ever felt a blanket before she was 13; Sway's been blanketed at least since he was 18 months old. Yet she's the one who acts as if this has been normal routine since her birth.
No, her blanket isn't gold brocade with ermine trim and a crown. Or white with gold-embroidered angel wings and a halo. But it should be.....she deserves it.
Yes, we'll be home for Christmas, and yes, our entire family will be home for Christmas. No running to a boarding barn for Christmas surprise. No waiting in the airport for Kenny's plane to arrive. No to any of that. Again this year, we're very lucky to be living in the same address - all of us!
"Christmas Eve will find us where the Java Log, mini-lights and barn lamps gleam.......We'll be home for Christmas - for real! Not just in a dream!"
Merry Christmas to all of you! I hope you have a blessed and peacful holiday season, however you celebrate it.Thanks to "Texas Terry""Texas Terry," as two-time NASCAR driver Terry Labonte often was called, didn't wait till the end of this season to retire.
Instead, he decided to wrap up his career at Texas Motor Speedway in Fort Worth in the 3rd race from the grand finale in Homestead, Fla., where Jimmie Johnson took the championship.
Texas did "Texas Terry" proud, bringing out celebrities and showering Labonte with presents before the race. His souvenir trailer in front of the speedway was turned into a huge greeting card - fans grabbed felt markers and signed its sides with good wishes for his retirement and expressions of gratitude for the fun they had watching him race.Labonte won the Cup championship twice, 12 years apart. Some drivers never win it once.
The championship has undergone many name changes since NASCAR was born in Daytona Beach so many years ago. At one time, back when racers sometimes wore jeans, white tee shirts and sneakers, it was the Grand National, rather like the much older steeplechase in Aintree, England.
Then as sponsorships grew, it became the Winston Cup, named after the cigarette line that poured money into the competition. I'm not a smoker - never have been - but I've been a NASCAR fan since my family moved to Daytona Beach in 1964. And I liked the way the name "Winston Cup" sounded.
My love for stock cars and super speedways never crossed over into tempting me to smoke. But some folks decided it might tempt others, and eventually the top category of NASCAR racing took the name Nextel Cup.
(Nextel and Sprint merged, and as a disclaimer, I must say Kenny and I have Sprint service for our cell phones, mostly because Sprint provides better service when we're in our Martinez, Calif., home. We started with a competitor service, and had to stand in the middle of our street - literally - to make and accept cell phone calls. So much for using cell phones in the house in an emergency - so we switched! And now our phone service supports NASCAR. Good enough for me!)
"Texas Terry" didn't exit his racing career alone. He knew his fellow Texans would give him a strong send-off, and he was right. His son, Justin, and up-and-comer in NASCAR, drove one of his dad's old race cars on the track while the field circled under the yellow flag prior to the official start. Terry, in a specially decorated car commemorating his career, drove along side. Elsewhere in the field was Terry's brother, fellow racer Bobby. Justin peeled off, as did the pace car, prior to the start, but I managed to catch the photo during one of the father-son laps.
Terry didn't win - that would have been nice, but one of the fiction books. Tony Stewart's No. 20 Home Depot Car was on rails, and other riders attempted and failed to match the race's leader. Terry's car had problems, but he managed to keep it out on the track and finish the race. He might not have finished in front of the pack, but in the hearts of his fellow Texans, this gentleman certainly ended his career as a winner.
Now retired, Terry Labonte is either on his Texas ranch or out in the Carolinas. He says he's going to spend time hunting and fishing and taking it easy. My dad, if he were here, would chuckle at that. Daddy often said that before he retired (at 83...) that he had time to mow the lawn, paint the house, pull the weeds out of his gravel driveway and do other chores. Once he retired, he said, he didn't have time to do any of that stuff.
I wonder if Terry will find himself so busy with ranch chores and honey-do jobs that his fish hooks get rusty and the hunting rifles become decor in the gun case. Or, maybe he'll have so much fun hunting and fishing that he's got to hire someone to mow the lawn, paint the house, pull the weeds and do all those barn chores that come with owning a ranch.
Heck, he's a former NASCAR champion. He probably has folks that do all that stuff for him, anyway.
I'm betting he'll spend more time with his family. During all the pre-race hoopla, you could tell his family means a lot to this man. And if the pre-race laps he took with his son and his brother out there with him are any indication, it's a safe bet there'll be plenty of family get-togethers in Terry's future.
No matter what, we're going to miss "Texas Terry" on the track. He was - and is - one of the good guys.Waiting for Spring TrainingYep, that's the MonkeyCat, Kamalani, watching the World Series. While Monkey was watching on the inside, Sway the Limit was listening to the World Series on the radio.
Guess it's appropriate that the winning team's manager, Tony LaRussa, established his Animal Rescue Fund (ARF) in the San Francisco Bay area - I guess back when he coached the Oakland Athletics.
Because of his connection to Oakland and more importantly for his charity work for animals, I was pulling for his team, the Cardinals. Kenny, following his usual preference for AL teams, hoped the Tigers would win. But it was no hostile rivalry in this house, because the World Series always is a bittersweet event. The final game of the World Series means baseball is over till next year, except for Hawai`i Winter Baseball (it's back!!), which isn't broadcast in our area.
Kenny got me into baseball when he took me to Baltimore the year the Orioles began playing at Camden Yards. I'd never been to a professional game, and the last one I'd seen played by adults had included donkeys, too. Trust me, baseball isn't improved by adding donkeys because they never quite get into the game. I learned this quickly in Baltimore, and by the first half of the first inning, I was begging for a program so I could keep score, and a radio so I could listen to the "color" broadcasts. Top that - literally - with someone handing me a free ball cap as soon as I entered the ball park, and I was so hooked! Who knew baseball was this much fun?
And who would predict that in 2006, I'd be the one glued to the World Series while Kenny was on a business trip to California?
The World Series, and baseball in general, is a big deal at our house. When Kenny and I got married, his beloved Orioles won the World Series later that year.
Some years later, he and I would attend a World Series game in Atlanta between the Braves and the Indians. If I thought I'd been to a baseball game before, I learned quickly that there's regular-season baseball, there's post-season baseball, and then there's the World Series, with each level dramatically racheting up the excitement level.In Atlanta, while the team was trying to win the league championship, fans could bang on a drum set up outside the stadium. The drumming went 24/7 till the end of the World Series. Need a shirt or a bandanna? No problem. Sponsors were tossing them out to anyone passing by. Coretta Scott King and Tom Selleck sat with Ted Turner and his then-wife, Jane Fonda. Did you know that when she was married to the owner of a baseball team, Jane Fonda went through the stands after the game, gathering plastic cups, just like the rest of us do? It was intriguing to pause in my own search for souvenir cups to watch this movie star gathering used cups, too.
One special World Series for me was the year the Red Sox won. Unlike Kenny's mom, I'm not particularly a Red Sox fan. For me, it had nothing to do with the teams involved. But it was the last year Mace and I sat on the couch to watch the World Series on tv. And she snuggled next to me, and India perched on the arm of Kenny's chair, and we four watched the Sox's drive to victory. Not everyone lived to see the Sox win the Series, but this little, determined and courageous cat sat beside me for every game.
We figure Sway likes the sounds of broadcast baseball because the radio coverage resembles the noises of the race track. And we can tell he enjoyed his short racing career. Next time you hear a baseball broadcast, listen to it as if you were a former race horse: The shouts of the crowd and the excited calls of the announcer when a well-hit ball might become a home run. How would this differ to a Thoroughbred from the sounds of the track crowd or the announcer's excited voice as he describes the horses' drive toward the finish line?
On the other hand, he may simply love the game like the rest of us do. All we know is he will stop what he is doing, including eating, to get close to the radio to hear the game till it's over.
This year, little MonkeyCat started watching baseball. He tends to like home runs. He positioned himself on the ottoman in such a way that he could watch the tv directly, or view its reflection in the nearby window. Some of my pictures would indicate he's ignoring the game, till you see the reflected image on the windowpane that had caught his attention.
Baseball is over for the moment. We're watching football and NASCAR in the meantime. The cats are nominally interested in these sports, but Sway is holding out till Spring Training. To him, none of these sound like baseball - or the race track. Like the rest of this family of baseball fans, he's just going to have to wait.Don't you DARE call him a "Big Ugly Rat"!!This camera-shy little fellow is named Riley O'Possum. We first met about 18 months ago at Master Made Feed Store in Grapevine, TX. A woman had spotted the little guy, who was much smaller then, by the side of a highway, and had brought him in, wrapped in a baby blanket. She was shopping for milk replacer and a bottle, in hopes of rescuing the underweight and shocky baby.
I saw her and her blanketed bundle while I was shopping for horse feed, but I'm not as baby-oriented as some folks. But then I heard the man at the counter say, "Ma`am, that's gotta be the ugliest baby I ever saw!" I ran up like a shot - I had to see what she had brought in. I made such a fuss over the little guy that she asked if I wanted him. She was probably grateful to unload the burden. And, given that she was going to feed him with a baby bottle, I relieved her of having to comfort her young daughter after the baby possum died. Baby opossums don't have a sucking reflex - you have to use a syringe to feed them. And I should know.
Back in Florida, as a de-facto volunteer at the Central Florida Zoological Park near Sanford, I got to raise 36 of them, all orphaned when their mothers were hit by cars. I took in more, but a possum younger than about 6 weeks old can't survive without their moms, at least in my experience. Marsupials, they're born after about 13 days' gestation; the babies migrate to the pouch where they attach to a nipple and have milk pumped into them. At about 6 weeks, their eyes start focusing and they can survive in a human's care, IF the human knows what it's doing. That means providing a source of warmth, because the baby has little temperature control. It means feeding every two hours (yep, EVERY 2 hours!) and helping the baby go to the bathroom. After about two months of this, I would be exhausted from waking up every two hours to feed a passle of possums, and just about that time, the babies would try lapping formula from a dish.
The first three I successfully raised were about 6 months old when I realized they were strong enough to be freed. At 6 months, they were spoiled by climate control and room service, and had no intentions of fending for themselves in the Florida woods. They had absolutely no possum instincts at all. They did not want to climb trees - they feared heights. They had no taste for the Number One possum food,
persimmons. When I read that possums like to wade in shallow water, I filled the tub about half-inch deep and put the three girls in - they were horrified.
I finally realized that simply to take them to the veterinarian's or to visit my parents, my possums had to be transported to and from the car in a garbage can so they wouldn't know they were "outside." I also realized that future possums, if they were to be released into the woods, would have to be kept wild. That wasn't easy - but it meant they could live on their own later on. But the first three were confirmed house possums.
They're pleasant, even if they aren't the smartest house pet. Only one was smart enough to play - she'd chase a broom. They're affectionate. And they naturally smell like baby powder. If possums were cuter, they might catch on as novelty pets. I don't advocate keeping wildlife as pets - there are enough domestic animals that need homes. But these were orphaned animals who needed help early on just to survive, and I'd been "volunteered" for the job.
Technically, these three always belonged to the zoo, since I wasn't licensed to care for wildlife. They made appearances to promote the zoo, since they were completely tame. They never minded being petted, so long as I was right there. I was their "mom" as far as they were concerned. Virginia, Rosie and Jali were mine till the end. Not many folks go to a zoo to see a possum.
Possums normally live about 2 years in the wild. Each of my trio reached 3 - one hung on till 4.
During that time, I met Kenny. Having possums in your house lets you know who your real friends are - they're the ones who do NOT point and scream, "OOOH, YUCK! BIG, UGLY RATS!" at your precious babies. (Anything you rescue and have spent feeding every two hours, on the two hours, around the clock for at least two months have become "your precious babies," and they certainly are not "ooh-yuck-big-ugly-rats!")
Kenny had accompanied some friends who traveled from South Florida to Orlando to attend a science fiction convention my club was sponsoring, and they were crashing at my house. And all had been warned: I have a German shepherd; I have a house full of fish tanks; don't hassle the cockatiel, and my possums LIVE in my house, and anyone who even whispered "big ugly rats" would be invited to sleep outside. Only...Kenny hadn't gotten the message.
Fortunately, Kenny said the right things when he spotted "the girls" curled up asleep in the kitchen. "Wow - possums! Can I play with them?" he said. [His running joke now is that I didn't notice where he was looking at the time. However, he had a 6 foot 1 girlfriend at the time, and she would have killed him had that been a real double entendre!]
Since we're both sentimental people, we began collecting possum toys. There aren't many of them, not like toy bears or cats or parrots. But we have a few - we even found one during our honeymoon, and our honeymoon pictures show the smiling little toy dangling from our rental car's rear-view mirror.
I keep telling women who dispair of finding a nice guy that if they raise a German shepherd, keep a bunch of fish tanks, rescue a cockatiel and, finally, learn how to raise orphaned possums, they'll be all set. The first man who walks into their home, looks at the possums, and says, "Wow, POSSUMS! Can I play with them?" - THAT's the guy you marry.
That's also the kind of man who won't flinch when you come home from a feed store, years later, with a starving little fuzzball with a sprained leg, a little guy who will need 24-hour care for a few weeks, and special attention till he's big enough to be set free. Kenny didn't bat an eye when I set up a travel crate, had to buy a heating pad, stuffed hay into the cage and started mixing formula. He also didn't fuss when I had to get up all hours of the night to feed the little fellow.I named him Riley after the young daughter of the woman who rescued him. And it became obvious as he grew healthier that his mom had warned him that people were terrible things. He'd threaten us with an open mouth, and he'd promptly get a mouth full of milk replacer. Baby possums have tastes, too, and milk replacer formula just doesn't taste like mom's home cooking.
A little older than some of the others I'd raised, Riley started outgrowing his cages. Once, I switched cages a little too soon, and he sneaked through the bars and out into the house. Kenny found him later in the day, curled up in the over-the-head Wookiee mask in my closet. I guess that was the closest thing to a pouch he could find.When he was about three months, we started putting Riley's cage outside so he could acclimate. And we finally put him in a large travel crate. Once again, he escaped, and this time it was for good.
We would see him now and then, but rarely. We'd call out to him, and when he heard his name, he'd look our way. He'd trundle along, rarely fearful, but since he never liked being handled, he wouldn't approach us. We'd be grateful for any "Riley sightings."
We see him fairly regularly of late. At 18 months, Riley's getting on. He's probably hitting our porch for leftover barn-cat-food because it's easier than scrounging bugs and fruit and whatever he's been dining on all this time. I'm glad he's still around. I had been regretting that I never got any "baby pictures" of him. I wish I had gotten a few - back then, he would have had to turn and face the camera. Now he's his own possum, and so far, this is as close to a "face shot" as I have gotten. Like many animals, he hates the camera.

After so many years, though, it's nice to have a possum back in our lives."Piggy Fink" and the Good Guys Car ShowWhat do car show attendees have in common?


Sunburns. There's no way you can slather on enough SP65 to ward off a burn. (Maybe I should call it STP-65, or WD-65, just to keep the theme going?)Once past that commonality, all limits are off. If you haven't been to a car show, you might presume it's full of pierced guys with tattood gauntlets on their arms, combat boots on their feet, and motor-oil streaks on their tough-looking faces. You may presume their groupies - if any women actually attend such shows - would be Betty Page look-alikes with their own versions of piercings and tattoos.
They're there. But, boy, are they outnumbered! You'll see couples strolling hand in hand, and families with children in tow. Car show folks come in all colors, all ages, various degrees of financial security, and all levels of piercings and tattoos - including many who have none!The Dallas-Fort Worth area is getting pretty diverse. Attendees at the recent "Good Guys Lone Star" car show at Texas Motor Speedway, Fort Worth, reflected this diversity. And, of course, those attending this show weren't just Texans. Folks came in from hundreds of miles away just to get to this show.
Most are folks you would see every day. Moms and dads pushing kids in strollers, or pulling them along in red Radio Flyer wagons. Those red wagons weren't just brought to tote the younsters, but also to hold anything the parents decide to buy.
Teens and early-20s folks mingled with grandmas and grandpas, admiring the cars. The lucky ones had cars entered in the show - they were allowed to drive their show cars on the track! No show car entered? You could ride the track in a specially-designed race car outfitted with passenger seat, but driven by a racing pro at near-racing speed. Can't afford the expensive ticket to do that? The track offered rides in a vehicle that looked like a tram you'd ride to and from a distant parking lot, but this one takes you around the track a lot quicker than the parking lot tram! Or you could test drive a new car - just not on the race track! - and get a free tee shirt as a bonus.
Sure, a few of the car-show participants wore the grunge look. Others went with counter-culture vintage. But most participants looked like proud mamas and papas of the "baby" they have on display.Some are independent enthusiasts - they have their pride and joy entered in the car show, but they're focused on their particular car, and don't have any club affiliations.
Others have joined with fellow afficianados of a specific car model, industry brand or era. You can spot the car clubs easily - find two or more "easy-up" tents decorated in small banners or sheltering folks in identical shirts, and most likely you've found a car club.
The Good Guys show at TMS was a blend of folks, but the cars on display and for sale had a definite Chevy tilt. This would have pleased Kenny, who is a "Chevy man" from way back, had he been able to escape his booth to browse the car displays.
Did you want a '57 Chevy, THE iconic vintage car? Okay, here we go: We got yer "dragged from a horse pasture" rusto-machine on up to yer "completely restored to concourse level." We got yer "rat rod" and your "trailer queen." And everything in between. Which model '57 Chevy, and what color? It was there, with Chargers and Challengers and chopped Mercs and goes-on-forever Auburns, vintage Fords and sleek '60s GTOs serving as supporting cast.
Have I lost you? "What's a rat rod? What's a trailer queen?"
A rat rod appears to be one step ahead of that "drugged outa the pasture" rust-covered mess that had to be trailered in because it's just not all there, or, if it has all its parts, they don't all work. You know, what a car enthusiast would call a vehicle that has potential for restoration. (We've had a '49 5-window Chevy truck since 1996, and I'm still waiting for it to graduate from "candidate" to "fully restored." It actually drove under its own power when we first got it. Kenny calls it "a truck." I call it "parts.")
The difference between a rat rod and a "has potential for restoration" car is the owner of the rat rod makes his car look like this on purpose. And the result is a show car with a category of its own.
Rat rods frequently are painted in a flat black or flat rust brown, although there's a satin finish, often black, that folks are starting to use. I also saw some pastel "rat rods," again in flat finish. Rusted body parts often are left that way. It can be a down and dirty (read: less expensive) way to get a show car. Some car shows, such as Billet-Proof in the Bay Area, specifically target cars that could qualify as "rat rods." Many young women who have gotten into finned '50s cars are tending to "rat" their show cars.
These girls may be the reason that some rat rods are getting upscale art treatments. I saw exquisite pinstriping and beautiful flames and scallop designs on a few the flat-paint "rats" at the Good Guys show. And some of those stripes were over rust pimples! That meant the artist has exceptional brush control.
A pair of apparent rat trucks were "rats in disguise," I was told by their owners. These vehicles were restored to look like trucks that had been salvaged "as-is" from a repair garage and a mortuary from days long gone. Everything visible on these two was deliberately old, faded, and dusty-looking inside and out.
But anything you couldn't see was top of the line - A/C, XM, top of the line power trains. These trucks had been driven to Texas from Arizona and New Mexico by their owners, a couple of like-minded buddies who love the look of a rat rod, but prefer to drive in style and comfort - and with the peace of mind of knowing they're driving completely sound vehicles!
"Trailer queens"? They're as far from rat rods as you can get. They are gleaming so brightly they ought to glow in the dark. They're spotless. They look like they are fresh from the show room floor (only, those show rooms date from the '60s, '50s, '40s, and in some cases, even farther back in time.) . They are packed carefully into trailers to ride to shows. It's not because they couldn't get there under their own power, but because their owners wouldn't take the chance with these beauties. They are precious beauty queens.
You might not want to touch a rat rod because it looks dirty and you wouldn't want to chance getting road grime or oil spatter on your fingers or clothes - not that these cars really are dirty.
You wouldn't touch a trailer queen because signs posted around it warn you away. Fingerprints on that gleaming surface? Horrors! Besides, its owner has his or her eye on you, watching where you might try to put your hands. The father of a 16-year-old girl sometimes has the same look in his eye when he meets his daughter's date at the door.
(Should you have read one earlier edition of this blog and were wondering, no, there was no '57 Plymouth - Savoy or otherwise. *sigh* The search continues....)
Kenny didn't get to see much of the show - the cars, the arts and crafts exhibit, the commercial vendors or the food stands. He was busy in the swap meet area, a long row of folks with car parts, car-related decor items, for sale. This is where you shop for those "potential for restoration" cars, as well as those in better shape. This is where you find the right wheels or tires or seats for that car you're restoring.We had a garage full of spare parts we needed to sell, so Kenny got a booth, parked his restored '65 Chevy van, and set up shop. The show lasted 3 days, and so did our space in the swap meet. But by the end of the first day, we'd nearly sold everything!
So, in desperation to keep a full-looking stand, he started painting characters on stuff. Toilet seats, bar stools, tool boxes, a motorcycle helmet, even a piggy bank. He airbrushed tee shirts "the old way," in a style that had earned him the praise of Ed "Big Daddy" Roth.
Ed is - was - the legendary creator of the character "Rat Fink" and his pals, monster-looking folks characterized by sharp teeth, drooling tongues, bug eyes and warty, hairy hides, depicted in hot rod cars with absurdly over-sized engines and towering gear shifters. Ed also made amazing fiberglass hotrods, such as the "Outlaw," the "Mysterion" and the "Beatnik Bandit. " Ed pulled Kenny into his stable of artists who assisted him with designs. While we lived in California, Kenny worked with Ed at a lot of car shows, and they'd sit side by side, painting characters on toilet seats and garbage cans. A lot of those sold at auction to aid children's hospitals, particularly the burn hospitals.One day Ed asked how Kenny did his old-school style tee shirts. When told Kenny did them by spritzing some color onto a white shirt, then air brushing the character around the colorful swirl, Ed gave the resulting art his blessing: "Ken GETS it." In the end, and much to Kenny's shock, Ed put Kenny in his will, making him part of the Ed Roth estate, as one of the caretakers of Ed's legacy.
Back to the show: As stuff kept flying off the table and the ground in front, Kenny kept going digging out stuff to paint. He found a piggy bank. It was a classically smooth-lined ceramic pig that, unfortunately, had ++ marks for eyes. In the cartoon world, that implies the piggy is dead!
So, Kenny "finked it up." He gave the little pig big, wide eyes, a great toothy grin and (hey, it's a car show!) side pipes. He painted the words "Piggy Fink" along its back. The tame-looking bank now had a wild and very-much-alive new look. Kenny set the bank on his table first thing Sunday morning, and hadn't finished arranging his full display before "Piggy Fink" found a new home.
Kenny did get to see some of the show, after all. And he did it the fun way! If you want to see all the cars at a car show, the easy way is to find a spot on the exit road, particularly a shady spot, before the show closes for the day. Grab a tall drink, plop yourself down on the ground, and watch the parade of passing cars. You'll see them all, the easy way. Get your camera ready. It's an amazing parade!The Monkey: A Progress Report[Sorry I've been away for so long. It's been a crazy few months. "The Ant Bully" premiere came and went. "The Ant Bully" also came and went. DNA Productions made a great, quality product on time and under budget. Kenny - others, too, but I know Kenny best - put his heart and soul into this movie. Most of those who saw it loved it. And I think we were lucky it did as well at the box office as it did, given the publicity campaign it got....or, to be blunt, didn't get.
I think the distributing company's publicity department should be fired. I think all of us who were skilled reporters and who now can't get jobs anywhere despite our writing skills should be hired as their replacements - Cathy, this one is for both you AND me. And I think we should be allowed to launch a publicity campaign for a re-release of "The Ant Bully," and let's get it right this time. I would like the distributor to go forward with a sequel and a tv show based on "The Ant Bully," and put DNA in charge. Like THAT's gonna happen. And, as Kenny says, "That boat has sailed. We planned a party, but the folks who were supposed to send out the invitations never got 'em in the mail. We have to move on."
So, let's move on to the Monkey Cat. He's cute, he's fun, and he's a better subject for this column!]
OH! The Monkey!
There he is, sleeping with his toy sock monkey. The sock monkey was his souvenir from our trip to the premiere. I saturated it with catnip, tossed it toward the Monkey Cat, and watched the fun begin. This is a picture of Monkey sleeping it off....
Monkey deserves a break. He's been a busy little boy. And I don't just mean his crazed solo "Monkey soccer" games he plays around the house with whatever toy he has on hand.
Monkey has been "in training" for a few months. Some folks smugly tell you that cats refuse to be trained. Some cat owners brag about the disdain their cats have for walking on leashes or performing tricks. I don't let those folks talk to my cats.
My first experience with a trained cat was when we visited one of Kenny's model train buddies, and I saw their cat sit up like a dog for treats. I decided right then that my two barn cats were just as smart as their cat, and so I got some treats and launched a campaign to convince my cats that they, too, could sit up for cookies.
It didn't take long. They got the message. Do this, and get a cookie. 'Nuff said. Pretty soon, sitting up was their way to ask for a cookie.My precious Mace, the tortoiseshell "Miracle Cat," also learned to climb and descend ladders on command. India, our "dog cat," never saw the value of that trick, but she was our first to learn to shake hands. I decided to try to teach her this trick because she has so many dog-like behaviors after spending so many years in the company of our German shepherd-husky cross. That's why we call her our "dog cat." And that's why I decided she should learn to shake hands.
It took a while for Indy to get the gist of what I was asking. If I grabbed her paw, she'd nip at my hand and fuss at me. She ate so many treats during my training attempts that we finally had to put her on a diet. She still can be a little moody about being asked to shake hands, but after a couple of years of work with her, and if she's already sitting down, she'll offer her right paw into your open hand at your request. Without a nip. And you don't even have to give her a treat.
After observing Monkey for about a year, I decided it was time to launch the youngster in a training program of his own. He's becoming a clever little lad. He has a couple of short baskets that serve as his "toy boxes," and he's been known to paw through a basket to select a toy. Occasionally, he actually puts his toys back into one of the baskets. That's rare, but then he's not quite 2. Can your children do better than my Monkey Cat?
Maybe because he's younger than our other cats when I began working with them, perhaps because he's quite smart, or possibly because I've gotten better at training cats, Monkey is on a roll.
The first trick, of course, was to sit up for a treat. He got that down in less than a week. Like the other cats, he now uses this trick as a communication method to ask for treats. He likes sitting up so much that he occasionally sits that way to get a better view of things. This makes him look like a tiger-striped meerkat.
Occasionally he goes beyond sitting up, and stands on tiptoe. Usually this is so he can reach the top of a kitchen counter in hopes of pulling some sort of food onto the floor - or his head. He's aware that walking on the kitchen countertop is forbidden. But tapping the top of the counter and pulling down unidentifiable things that might be food seems to be okay. That's because he usually does it when our backs are turned.
Since Monkey earned this nickname because he walked on his back legs, waving his arms like a monkey, I figured he might be a good candidate for shaking hands. We've been working on this for many weeks. Like Indy, he thought at first he should nip the hand that's picking up his paw. And, like with Indy, I'd have a treat ready to encourage him to perform the trick properly. It took a while for him to believe this useless gesture was exactly what I wanted. I rejoiced the day he gingerly offered me his right paw, looking at me as if to say, "You really want me to do this?" He got the cookie pay-off and lots of praise. He may think I'm nuts, but he also knows what "Shake hands!" means. Now he readily offers you his paw if you ask for it.
Like Indy, Monkey won't shake hands unless he's sitting down. So, I decided to venture into a new trick for the little Monkey. Why not teach him to sit down on command? Like before, I armed myself with treats. Unlike training dogs, however, I can't push down on his rump and say, "Sit!" Cats react differently to that, and to train any animal efficiently, you have to know what is his most likely reaction. For instance, you can point at something, and your dog is more likely to look in the direction you're pointing. Your cat will try to put his nose on your pointer finger. That's what's likely to happen, and a smart trainer builds on his student's natural behavior.
So, instead of pressing down on Monkey's hindquarters, I simply held a treat and said, "Sit!" until he got bored and confused and sat down on his own. Good Monkey! Have a treat!
This has been going on for a couple of weeks. Monkey's gotten "Shake Hands" down so well, he doesn't need a cookie payoff to perform the trick. "Sit Down" is still a bit new, and he still needs his bribe - and I have to be quite patient - for this to work. But I have no doubt that in a few weeks, he'll have this command down pat.
What's next for the little Monkey?
I need to start taking him to pet stores to work on his leash training. I'd gotten away from that, and I need to begin leash training again. After all, after "sit down," "sit up" and "shake hands," I'm wondering what else this little Monkey Cat would like to learn.
Hmm...He's a natural chatterbox. Maybe I can get him to speak on command?
"The Ant Bully" Premiere at the Chinese TheaterHOLLYWOOD - The “red carpet” rolled out in front of Mann’s Chinese Theater in Hollywood actually is green – at least it was for the premiere of “The Ant Bully.”
The front of the theater was bannered in “Ant Bully” promotions, and the front of the theater was carpeted in green to simulate the lawn on which the movie’s action takes place.
But the velvet ropes that would cordon off the public from those who would attend the premiere were red, and we got to enter that maze of ropes and see “The Ant Bully” at the Chinese.
This movie is based on John Nickle’s book of the same name. It’s the story of a young boy, Lucas, who is picked on repeatedly by the neighborhood bully because he’s small. Frustrated, Lucas turns on those smaller than he, the ants that live in a mound in his front yard. Equally frustrated, the tiny ants team up to save their colony. Their wizard ant, Zoc, voiced by Nicholas Cage, creates a potion that shrinks Lucas down to ant-size so he can be brought to the colony and be judged. The Queen Ant, voiced by Meryl Streep, decrees that Lucas must learn ant customs before he’s restored to full size. But Lucas realizes he's sentenced himself and the entire colony to a far worse fate - he's hired an exterminator to destroy the ants in his yard.
Ken Mitchroney, my husband, is quite involved in this movie, a Warner Bros. release you can see either in conventional movie theaters or really big and in-depth at your nearest IMAX theater, where it’s shown in 3-D.
Kenny wasn’t on board at the beginning, when Tom Hanks got the movie rights to the book, or when Tom called John Davis and Keith Alcorn of DNA Productions in Irving, Texas, to make the movie. Kenny didn’t join the team until 2003. But since then, it's been his life.
Best known for his work on such movies as “Toy Story 2” (Did you like Jessie the Cowgirl? The way the toys used traffic cones to sneak across the highway? The manic rescue at the airport?), Kenny brought his comedic training and classic film sensibilities into the studio, and John and Keith gave him permission to use them. There’s touches of Michael Curtiz, John Huston and a lot of “Lawrence of Arabia” in “The Ant Bully” – heady stuff for a so-called “kids’ flick.”
The theme of this movie is “teamwork,” and the studio walked the talk. John Davis directed the film, but he listened as much as he ordered, and was open to suggestions from others in his studio, all for the good of the cause. The various departments worked hand in glove on this project, again as a team effort.
Such film stars as Ricardo Mantalban (he’s the Head of Council, and I want my talking Head of Council toy RIGHT NOW!) were so cooperative in the recording booth that, for instance, when Ricardo uttered a line and wasn’t satisfied with his own sound, he’d ask John to let him do a retake.
Kenny and I saw the movie in Dallas at a wrap party for studio employees. The picture above, of Hova’s ice sculpture, was from that event. We thought that would be the only special occasion we’d attend, so we were thrilled to learn we had tickets to the premiere. We flew last-minute to Hollywood.
Our first adventure in Hollywood took place at the Kodak Theater, where the Academy Awards ceremonies take place. This was a showing for the press, critics and such supporters as Jelly Belly (they’ve issued their special “sweet rocks” edition of Ant Bully jelly beans.)
We sat with DNA teammates, good friends we hadn’t seen much since their jobs on the project had ended and they found work on other Hollywood projects. They were seeing the movie with fresh eyes, since hadn’t attended the Dallas screening. They were happy and proud of their work.
Then it was back to the hotel for a dress change for the more formal premiere at the Chinese.
Dress was labeled “casual,” but I’d invested in a red “glamour” gown and by golly, I was going to wear it. “Casual” for me that day meant “no tiara.” I've been to wrap parties, special advanced showings and other local premieres, but this was the real thing! In Hollywood!Kenny suited up, too, but switched to a sweater instead of a dress shirt at the last minute. His finishing touch was his black fedora. Cagney and Robinson would have been so proud. Kenny wondered if they were the last men to wear a hat to a premiere at the Chinese.
“Casual” also meant we left the Travelodge in Burbank in our rental car instead of cruising by in a gleaming limo from an upper-crust resort.
We weren’t celebrities – a few took pictures and no one asked for autographs. But we got to walk through the velvet ropes as if we were stars. We found our reserved seats and explored the awaiting gift boxes of cookies, Chee-tos, Ant Bully tattoos, activity books and souvenirs and a box of Jelly Belly “Sweet Rocks.”
Others attending came to the premiere for the same reason we did – to see the real star, the movie. They reacted just as we had hoped at the parts Kenny loves best: the first wasp attack that ends in Kenny’s firecracker gag; the final battle for the mound’s survival; and the scene in which Lucas’s mentor, Hova, realizes her sweetheart, the wizard ant Zoc, has sent Lucas away, which leads to a memorable episode inside the belly of a bullfrog,
And I heard the movie work its magic. Behind us was a family with some vocal, restless children. It occurred to me this would be a test of the film’s ability to entrance its target audience. Soon after Lucas was shrunk, the children began asking their parents, “What’s happening next?” and before long, they were so absorbed in watching they had forgotten to speak.
We got to see “our” movie in one of the most famous movie houses in the nation. We were in the house when Tom Hanks addressed the crowd in praise of the work done to adapt the book to motion picture form. Julia Roberts (Hova), Nicholas Cage (Zoc), and Zach Tyler (Lucas) attended as well.
And we got to meet the book’s author and illustrator, John Nickle.I was most concerned about Mr. Nickle’s opinion, since the movie goes far beyond his elegantly simple children’s story. Not every author is pleased with what Hollywood (or, in this case, Irving, Texas, and Hollywood) does to literature. But this author was thrilled: “It’s beyond my wildest expectations!”
I also learned that Mr. Nickle has Florida connections, having lived in Cocoa Beach, among other things. Kenny is a South Florida native, and we still own our place in DeLand. At that, Mr. Nickle slipped through the crowd to catch up to Kenny and thank him for his work as head of story and director of digital photography.
We didn’t have much time after that to mingle. The Chinese is a working theater, after all, and it had movies to show to the public. We soon found ourselves being shuffled out of the way of the paying patrons. Our roles had been reversed, and now we were the ones to make way. We saw a handful of imposingly large men carrying canisters of “our movie” back to Warner Bros. Studio, and we knew it was time to go.
Like Cinderella at the ball, I’ve traded in the glittery necklace, the satin gown and the sequined shoes for jeans, tee shirt, barn boots, a mucking fork and a litter box sifter.
It's good to come home to Texas and the rest of my family – India DogCat, Kamalani MonkeyCat, Sway the Limit and Ginger. They had been in good hands; a dear friend, Mary Ausley, was our star babysitter, but I missed them. I wouldn't trade daily life with them for all the limos and glass slippers in the world. And I've been married to my own Prince Charming since ’83, and he doesn’t mind stacking hay, pouring feed or setting fence posts - so long as we don't hurt "the money hand."
What happens next in Kenny’s career is up to those who really count – the movie going public and its reception of “The Ant Bully. Hwever, for one Sunday afternoon, we were part of the gilded glamour of Hollywood, watching “our” movie make its debut at the beautiful Chinese Theater.
And it was fun!
Starting the day....with horsesEvery morning I live the childhood dream of nearly every little girl.Once the cats are fed, but usually before my first cup of coffee, I slip through our back porch door and walk toward a small pipe gate. Before I can put key to lock, often just as I close the back porch door behind me, I hear sweet voices.
My two horses, Sway and Ginger, are nickering their greeting.
It's a soft, gentle sound. It's a great way to start each day.
No two days are the same. Sometimes the horses have wandered to the far end of the pasture. Since their pasture is only two acres, they can see and hear me. But at that distance, it may take the creak of the gate to catch their attention. But when they realize I've entered the pasture, they come running. And calling to me.
Now, what little girl hasn't dreamed of going into a pasture, where her horse has been grazing at liberty, only to have this horse come to her at a run? Then, as her special horse nears her, he slows down and calls to her, eagerly waiting for her to throw her arms around his strong but graceful neck?
Double that image, because I have two horses! And every morning is special. Sometimes I even get pony kisses. This is a gracious gift Ginger bestows with the dignity befitting the queen she believes she is. For Sway, it's an accomplishment. He has worked hard to remember that hands are for kissing, not for biting. Horses give each other certain nibbles as a sign of affection, and for years he couldn't understand why we objected to his expression of love. Each kiss from him is a triumph.
In the picture above, Sway is just leaving the barn after breakfast. He loves the barn. He'll sleep like a rock in his stall or in one of its open spaces. He also loves baseball. Like many barns, ours has a radio. During baseball season, we have it tuned to KRLD AM 1080, which broadcasts the Texas Rangers games. Anyone watching him would know when baseball is broadcast. As soon as he catches the sound, he heads into the barn, nose pointed toward the radio, and there he'll stand until the game ends. What's a ball game without snacks? We often throw him some hay - no peanuts and Cracker Jack for him! Sometimes he eats it; other times he's too wrapped up in the game.He's been known to ignore a full feed bucket to listen to broadcasts, both here and in the Bay Area of California, where he listened to the Oakland Athletics games. Often he'll stick around for the post-game summary replay.
The only logical conclusion we've reached is that the broadcast sounds like the race track, and he's an ex-racer. We believe that my own early baseball experience, which involved a game played on donkeys, has no bearing on his tastes. (Besides, as much as I love donkeys, they don't improve the game of baseball as much as you might think.)
The morning greeting starts my day with a smile, and watching my horses enjoying their barn, their pasture and their baseball broadcasts keeps the good feeling going.
If Sway's hobby is listening to baseball, Ginger's hobby is being the self-appointed "Neighborhood Watch."
She is attuned to every nuance of sound or movement. If we're in the house, we can tell where the neighborhood activity is going on, because like our barn's wind vane, she's pointing its direction, and the activity has her undivided attention.
Is there a new calf in the pasture next door? Is someone harvesting pecans? Is the garbage truck pausing at the home of a neighbor three houses away? Have the barn swallow eggs hatched? Ginger knows.She's clearly the pasture boss, the queen of all she surveys. She keeps Sway in line when he doesn't behave up to her expectations. She is the one who decides how long we'll stand and talk, and when it's time to head to the barn for dinner.
When Kenny and I first moved out to our five acres in Florida, I often said that the day of a horse owner whose horses live at home is bracketed by a set of parentheses. It starts in the morning with the horses' first feeding and the owner making sure nothing happened overnight. The day ends with the owner making a final check before going to bed.
And, just as in the morning, my horses are there to greet me, nickering softly, pausing for hugs. Then we all head out to the barn together for one more visit before turning in for the night.
That's Funny, You Don't Look Like a Dog!We have a dog. She's a little small for the German shepherd she believes herself to be. She's an "aspiring" German shepherd, but she's been "aspiring" to be a German shepherd since 1989. Hope springs eternal, especially in the heart of the cat.
Her name is India, after India ink. She came into our lives shortly after the death of a rescued little black kitten, who we named "Higgins Black Magic" - after the intensely black ink cartoonists use - lost his battle to survive. Like Higgins, this newbie was a "tuxedo," black with white paws and white front. She had a jagged white snip on her nose as well, but unlike Higgins, she was not quite as intensely black - in the sun, she's black with black stripes, the same way a black "panther" is a black leopard or jaguar with even blacker spots. Does that make her a "tuxedo tiger"?
Indy didn't have an easy start in life. She, her mother and littermates were abandoned by their initial owner. The litter was brought to the DeLand, Fla., police department and intially, she was adopted by a patrolman. But his family had an older cat, and the patrolman's idea, to give the older cat a young companion, was met with bitter resentment, and the new kitten had to go.
This happened several times - the little black fluff would be brought to a new home, the established cat took offense, and suddenly the cute kitten was an indesirable in the household. By the time my newspaper colleages decided to surprise me with a new kitten, this little girl had learned that cats weren't her friends! Our house proved no different - we had two female cats who were a few years older than she, and they "welcomed" her with the same lack of warmth as in the previous homes.
However, at our Florida farm, there were two big differences. I wasn't going to dispose of the new household member, no matter what, and she eventually would have a five acre farm to call home - plenty of room to find her own space even with two other cats already in place.I kept her inside for several weeks, until I thought she could cope with the great outdoors and the other cats, but when she was large enough to hold her own, she took to barn life the way many cats do. "Wow, a busy box for kitties! And nobody tells me 'Don't do that!' in the barn!" She had trees and a barn and a house to climb. She had trees and fence posts to scratch. She had several roofs on which to nap. She had a 5-acre, sandy-soil "litter box." She had snakes to catch, lizards to eat, birds to chase (and, occasionally, to capture) and mice to play with until they expired.
And she had two cats to deal with. And they wanted nothing to do with her. However, she also discovered the German shepherd, Pele, who didn't mind at all being buddies with a little black cat. Before long, the two were inseparable, and we began noticing that Indy started behaving more like a dog than a cat. We also noticed that the kitten would purr, but didn't meow. In fact, she didn't have any "nice" vocalizations for her first 4 years. Hiss and cuss, yes. But a nice meow was rare then - and is rare today.
I was worried when the cats and I moved to California, where we first lived in an apartment. Neither India nor Mace had lived indoors for any length of time, and suddenly their five acre home was gone. They had to cope with a conventional litter box, no trees to scratch or climb, and - for the first time in their lives - rules! Fortunately, the heater came on shortly after the cats were released into the apartment. From that moment on, they were completely acclimated, and the only question was who could get to the warm heater first. Later, we bought a house in Martinez, CA, and it had a bonus - a heater on both sides of the wall so each cat had her own nice, warm spot! By the time we all moved to Texas, Indy and Mace were old hats at "indoor living."
Folks giggle when they hear us call our "dog" and see a black cat come into view. That is, until they watch her a bit. She'll move more dog-like than cat-like. She'll walk, then stop, then scratch her side with a back leg, the way dogs do. She'll lick you to show affection, but won't rub on you as most cats will. She'll shake hands fairly often, and even sits up for treats - but, then, all our dogs and cats do that. Before long, they're calling her a dog as well.
She's not the easiest cat or dog to handle. She can be quite particular. Except for Kenny, most humans can scratch her in just a few places. She likes her food and water handled in just a certain way. And while she will meow a lot more now than in her younger days, she's more often ready with a growl or a hiss - her version of, "No, thank you!" After all, nobody spoke nicely to her as a kitten, and she picked up kitty cuss-words early on, and has kept them in her vocabulary.Since being spayed as a youngster, she has made every trip to the veterinarian a challenge. It brings out the very worst in her, and she becomes quite dangerous to handle. I now suit up in a barn coat and leather gloves, no matter the temperature, and I greatly regret having lost my fencing mask somewhere in our many moves - I could use it. It took me years to figure out that, if I'm bundled up so she can't rip me open, I'm not scared to put my hand in her travel cage when it's exam-time.
I may not be afraid, given all my armor, but most veterinarians are horrified! Sure, I would tell them what to expect when we brought my little darling to their office. In fact, I would be pretty graphic - so I thought! And the vets would assure me they were used to "bad-acting cats." But time and time again, even before I opened the carrier door, I could see the vets turning pale at the banshee screams coming from the dark inside. I'd reach in and make the grab, and pull out an animal whose ears had disappeared into her skull and her eyes were black with fury and terror - not even a hint of her golden irises. Claws fully extended, teeth at ready, and the shrieks getting louder and more unearthly. "Sure, you said she would be upset, but we weren't expecting THIS!" most would say.
When we moved halfway across the country and needed health certificates, of the two cats, our "miracle cat," Mace, had volumes, in part because of her kidney failure. Her exam was a breeze and provided even more paperwork for her files. Indy's was a quick summary that mostly said, "Could not perform test...uncooperative patient...teeth are apparently in excellent condition." Dressed in all my layers, I held down Indy and would pull out whatever appendage the unsettled doctor needed for tests or shots.
Only Dr. Hague at the Cat Hospital at Las Colinas has been ready for her - when we walked into the exam room, I saw long leather gloves on the table, and I smiled. FINALLY, someone believed me! The exam went astonishingly quickly and efficiently. Indy was dozing in a mask of tranquilizing gas, a blessing that lasted just long enough for me to return her to her travel cage before she was fully awake - and fully outraged!
If she is a dog in her own mind, she is very nearly a one-man-dog. She adores Kenny. When he walks into the room, her entire demeanor changes. Her bright-white whiskers wave toward him as if they were full of metal filings and he were a magnet. Her eyes go soft, and the second he sits down, she's snuggling on his arm or purring in his lap. I may be the one who initially brought her home, which means, I'm okay. But I don't rank nearly as high as Kenny in her eyes.
At least until night time. At night, she hops up into the bed and initially gives Kenny all her attention. But as we all fall asleep, she curls up next to me, wraps her paws around my arms, and pulls my hand underneath her head. Thus snuggled in, our precious little cat-dog purrs herself to sleep.
Remembering ErinWhen I was attending Daytona Beach Community College, my best friend was Erin. Anyone who knew me then knew Erin. She was full of personality and my constant companion. She also was my 1957 Plymouth Savoy.
Purchased from a high school classmate with my own money and a small inheritance from my grandmother, Erin was my first car. People either get sentimental about their first cars, or they hate them because they were stuck with undependable rattletraps. Some people might say I am sentimental about Erin. But those who knew her have never forgotten her, because she was much more than a “first car.”
Some might say she was like Stephen King’s “Christine” – but nice. Some compared her to the car in the old, brief television show, “My Mother, the Car.” But no one disagreed there was more to Erin than met the eye. She was more than just a mode of transportation.She isn’t the beautiful, flamed – and flaming - car you see above. I wish she were. It would mean that no matter who owns her, she’d always have a good home. But look at those lines! People consider the ’57 Chevy THE classic ‘50s car, but the ’57 Plymouth had beautiful lines. This car had no bad lines at all! Its fins were not just décor, they were based in solid engineering design. I didn’t care that, at the time, the car was merely an “older model,” not vintage or collectable, as she'd be considered today. Her model still is beautiful, as this example from the recent Rat Fink Reunion clearly shows.
She had a wonderfully curved windshield. Sit in a car with a windshield that wraps around well into its sides, and you’ll be amazed at the increased visibility it gives you, particularly when you return to your modern car with its door supports blocking your view. Erin had side window vents that focused cooling breezes directly onto the driver. I am sure there’s reasons why automobile manufacturers did away with that window design, but I don’t agree with them.
Her rear view mirror was attached firmly to the dash, not above. Ralph Nader would never be able to claim that anyone was hurt by that mirror,. Had manufacturers kept that design, we wouldn’t have to keep sticking our rear view mirrors back on the windshield with “permanent” glue that can’t survive weather extremes. I've wondered how many accidents have happened because drivers are startled when their rearview mirrors suddenly drop off the windshield.
Erin's hand brake could bring her to a full and complete stop. Have you used a modern hand brake in an emergency? There isn’t any point, so don’t bother. It won’t stop your car. That’s why it’s now called a “parking brake.” It may keep your parked car from rolling away, but it won’t stop your moving vehicle. Erin’s brake, however, worked efficiently even when the foot pedal brake quit, I would discover during one drive home from school. There's another mystery - why can't a modern hand brake stop its car?
The coolest thing about a ’57 Plymouth was its automatic transmission. No “PRNDL” with an unsightly stick sprouting from the column. Instead, on the left side of the dash face was a panel of push buttons. Since the ’57 Plymouth was nearly the size of a starship, this push button transmission completed the illusion that you and your vehicle were only temporarily earthbound.
And fast? She could shut down new Corvettes from a red light stop. How fast could she go? I never tried that. I was still living at home with my parents.
Those were qualities Erin had in common with her other ’57 Plymouths of the Fury era.
They were not what made Erin special.
I disccovered Erin was special one day when I tried to start the car and nothing happened. No slowly fading growl of a dying battery unable to spark the engine. Nothing but a click. For no good reason at all, I locked my door, fastened the seat belt, patted her dash and said, “I love you. But I have to get to class now.” I tried to start her again. Suddenly her engine roared into action.
Eventually, I learned, I had to go through this routine to get her to start. No locked doors, no fastened seat belt? No ignition!
One of my friends, who frequently rode with me, had trouble opening the passenger door one day when I dropped her off at her job. “Erin, please let me out! I have to go to work!” she exclaimed. And suddenly the door opened with ease. Another time she and I were riding with friends and guest who wasn’t familiar with Erin’s quirks. Suddenly, the Daytona Beach skies opened to a rainstorm, and this guest was getting wet. But he couldn’t get the back window to raise. (Remember when all cars’ back windows actually rolled up and down?) My girlfriend said, “Erin, please, we’re getting wet, and we need to roll the window up.” She reached back and turned the crank. It was awkward for her, but the window rolled up normally.
The spookiest ride happened when she and I had wrapped up a guitar-playing gig at a local coffee house. Again, I was everyone’s taxi, because Erin could carry six people with ease. And a classmate needed a lift home. We weren’t fond of him and his outspoken views, but we didn’t want to leave a classmate behind. But Erin wouldn’t start with him in the car.
I told him to get out, and do what I say, no questions. I’d start the car; he was to walk along as I drove slowly, then we’d open the passenger door and he’d hop in. It worked, we thought, when Erin didn't stall.But we hadn’t fooled the car.
She started backfiring. I can imagine now that her exhaust might have looked like the beautiful flamed car above. Taking this man home first would be the most roundabout of routes home, but suddenly it sounded like the better plan. We all rode to his place first, backfiring all the way, until he got out of the car. Then one by one, we got everyone else home. Silently. In fact, considering that the rest of us were women, and we'd had a good show at the coffeehouse, the passenger compartment was quite silent. The rest quickly noticed that Erin had stopped backfiring. Deeply unsettled by this, they were quiet the rest of the ride home. As for me, I knew I wouldn't try to fool Erin again.
I was so young when I got Erin that to keep insurance rates vaguely reasonable, my parents put her title in their names. I had sworn I’d never sell her, and technically, I kept the promise.
When I moved to Orlando to finish getting my college degree, my parents didn’t trust Erin as my sole transportation. Instead, I went through a series of disappointing cars that, to me, were far less dependable than my beloved Erin. With those cars I learned more about car repair: what solenoids do and what happens when they quit; how to keep an overheating car running till you can get to a safe place to let it cool down (or get back to Orlando from the Florida Keys); how a car sounds when its exhaust system has fallen off. I’d limp these things back to Daytona, and head out to the place where Erin was being stored just to take a ride in the car my folks didn’t trust, but that I could drive with complete confidence.
I didn’t understand until later why the folks at the service station where Erin was being stored were always amazed when I would drive off in her. I hadn’t been told that she was being kept there in case anyone wanted to buy her. Only, no prospective buyer could get her started. Me, I just showed up with my personal set of keys, got in, and off we’d go on a tour of Daytona Beach roadways, no problem.
While I was living in Orlando, I’d check in with my folks, and would always ask, “How’s Erin?” One day, my folks told me she was sold. I freaked. I screamed. I was on break at work, and I don’t remember how I regained my composure after all the hysterical crying and screaming. I don’t remember the rest of the night working at the newspaper. I was stunned. I was numb. And I never got details of who bought her or where she went. Perhaps my parents didn’t dare tell me anything else.
Kenny and I go to car shows together, and he attends others without me. I'm always looking for a ’57 Plymouth Savoy with the three-speed pushbutton transmission. Any ’57 Plymouth is rare at shows. After many years, I have seen two myself; Kenny has seen two others. And I still dream some nights that Erin shows up in the driveway.
Her Majesty Ginger, Queen of the UniverseHer Majesty the Queen of the Universe wants her story told.And when the Queen speaks, her servant complies!The Queen’s name is Ginger. Since she is a proper lady, we won’t tell her age, although she’s “superior in age” to her pasture companion, Sway the Limit, my little Black Beauty of a Thoroughbred. How appropriate that my little Black Beauty has Ginger as a companion!Ginger is a marbled Appaloosa mare. She’d be a bay if she were solid-colored. A marbled Appaloosa looks as if someone had intended to paint the horse in the standard blanket, only the painter didn’t wait long enough between coats, and the paint colors ran together a bit. Unlike Sway, Ginger isn’t a registered, papered horse, but Appaloosa colors don’t lie.And, as Ginger tends to point out…repeatedly…human beings don’t have any papers to prove they’re the superior species, either. In fact, she doesn’t remember receiving proper notification of the referendum that supposedly put us on top, and she’s still debating asking for a recount.After all, how can humans be the “superior species” and yet be so…well, to put it politely, deficient?I’d been passing myself off as the person in charge of my Florida barn, keeping custody of the locked feed room, using my hands-with-thumbs to open latches, writing lists of things we needed to run the barn properly and keeping records on the horses’ health, and using language to teach the horses proper manners.What “deficiencies” did I have?Well, for one, I can’t see in the dark nearly as well as my horses! Ginger discovered that fact one evening. At that time, she had an aversion to being in a stall, having spent the first 13 years of her life in an open pasture and only a run-in shed for shelter. The idea that we’d close her into such a confined space if only for mealtime horrified her, so we began to feed both horses outdoors, much to their mutual satisfaction.I bought large feed tubs that wouldn’t tip easily, and fed the horses from their individual tubs. As horses will, Sway and Ginger occasionally moved these tubs to different spots. This posed no problem in the mornings, because I could spot the buckets easily. At night, even with our security light, I had greater difficulty, because the security light and our trees and plants created long shadows, and usually, the tubs were obscured by the darkness.One night, when we had guests (of course there would have to be witnesses), I was trying to find the feed tubs. I had a bucket of feed in each hand, but nowhere to pour the dinners. And I needed to get back to our company. In frustration, I called out, “Where did you two put your tubs?” And it hit Ginger in that instant that I truly couldn’t see them.Rather than sympathize, she took the opportunity to make fun of me. From that night on, she would make a great show of leading the “superior human” to the feed tubs I couldn’t find on my own. It was so obvious what she was doing that non-horsey friends who occasionally saw Ginger in action often asked, “Is that horse making fun of you?”“Yes!” I’d snap. “And don’t encourage her!”It wasn’t until Kenny’s work took us to California, and the horses were boarded in Florida for five years before being shipped west, that Ginger cooled her sarcastic “guide horse” act. Instead, by then, when I’d fly out to visit, she would come to me, press her head against my chest and stand there for moments on end, till she’d finally start to graze again, still in physical contact till it was time for me to leave.I’d always wanted an Appaloosa, and a mare in particular, since I was a child and had dreamed one night of such a horse saving my life. After college, when I began serious training in horsemanship and barn management, I learned more about the personality of different breeds. I discovered that part of me loves the anticipation, the keenness and the “ask, but don’t order” personality of the Thoroughbred. And part of me loves that aspect of the Appaloosa that requires you to prove you are worthy to be in the presence of one of these horses. They’d read your application for ownership and would call all your references if only they could. They can – and do – administer a “pop quiz” some time during your first trail ride, just to see if you’re as hot a rider as you claimed to be. But once you convince them you’re worth the effort, in their mind, the deal is done.When I first met Ginger, I had just lost Stradivarius. The men who buried Strad for me told me about Ginger, and I went to see if she’d be a good companion for Sway. I was still distraught from losing my equine soulmate, and had forgotten my English girth. My girlfriend, who came so I wouldn’t just agree outright to buy the horse, drove back to my barn for a girth. The owner’s wife had taken off with his barn keys, so I used one of my own bridles and hopped on this mare bareback till my friend returned. Just as well – Ginger had never been ridden English before.In fact, she was lucky to have been trained at all. Her original owner neglected her as a foal, and a neighbor, a former New Yorker of Italian heritage who had moved to Florida and had bought a ranchette before realizing how much lawn that meant he’d have to mow, asked if the young horse could come to his place and graze down the grass. Sure, the original owner said. And so, Ginger grew up at the ex-New Yorker’s house. As the filly grew to adulthood, this man realized she needed training, and sought the help of neighbors. In Florida, this is astonishing, because usually, folks who move south from “Up North” rarely ask the locals for advice. Instead, they usually prefer to tell the locals, “That’s not how we did it Up North.” This leads to bumper stickers that say, “We don’t care HOW you did it Up North” and “If you [heart] NY, take I-95 north.” But this man loved Ginger by that time, and wanted to do right by her. Eventually, he would buy her at a higher price than you would have thought, seeing as he was the man who made her the horse she was by that time, but he was willing to pay to become her official owner.She was for sale because his wife’s horse had just died, and he realized his wife probably would not want another horse. And he didn’t want to ride alone. But he wasn’t going to let Ginger go to just anyone.And that’s how I found myself riding this mare, bareback, for about an hour before my friend arrived. Midway through this ride, I asked my speckled mount, “Do you think you could go English?”“What’s that?” she asked.“It’s like plow-reining, and lots of leg aids, and I’ll post when I trot.”“Show me.”I did, and asked, “What do you think?”And, as I came to learn later would be her response to any challenge, Ginger gave out a deep sigh and said, “What am I, chopped liver? Of COURSE I can do that!”My girlfriend arrived with a girth, Ginger found my English saddle acceptable, and after riding this mare bareback for an hour, I was told by her owner that it was the first time she’d been ridden in a year! Had I known that ahead of time, I might have been more cautious. But she'd behaved beautifully, and I couldn’t get the $400 asking price down fast enough. If she was like this after not being ridden in a year, then should I have back problems and not be able to ride for a few weeks, I was still guaranteed a good mount. And my husband would be safe on her – Kenny rides, but hasn’t dedicated his life to horses, and his work schedule doesn’t give him many opportunities to be on a horse.Yes, she gave me my pop quiz, and she asked the deadliest question of all: “What do you do if I rear?” Of the three main riding misbehaviors of running away, bucking and rearing, I was taught rearing is the worst offense, and normally, I won’t ride a horse that rears on its own. I explained clearly to her how detrimental this would be to our relationship, and with that issue out of the way, we’ve been devoted to each other ever since. After all, that IS the Appaloosa Way.I came to learn that Ginger is the Mistress of All She Surveys, and she surveys a lot. If she could hold a pen, she’d be taking notes. The “Aha!” moment she had, when she concluded correctly I couldn’t see in the dark, has been just one of many that I’ve observed. She watches everything, takes it all in, and invariably comes to the correct conclusion, usually before the rest of us have a clue.Her “I can do that!” attitude comes from her opinion that there is nothing I could ask of her that would be beyond her capabilities, despite her lack of intense formal training. So, at the 2003 State Fair of Texas, when I first saw Robert Liner drop the bridle off his mount and ride it using a rope looped around the horse’s neck, I said, “Ginger can do that – she goes Western, and it’s just neck-reining!” I bought a lariat at the fair, cut it to length, and asked Ginger, “Want to try?” she gave me her usual sigh and response, and there I was, after not having ridden her while I was away in Texas, doing circles and serpentines and halts and backing, riding her with a bareback pad and a rope around her neck. “This is supposed to be a challenge? Guess again, Thumb-Girl!”
Any similarity of Ginger's behavior to that of the horse Lucy in Wiley Miller's "Non Sequitur" comic strip is strictly coincidental - but uncanny!I have pictures of me riding her in California, and her form in some of the shots is of a well-trained dressage horse – head perfectly on the vertical, back legs well underneath. Dressed in conservative English tack, she can look absolutely elegant. At liberty, she can perform the beautiful floating trot. Not bad for a little Florida country gal who never attended equine finishing school!Not long ago, a neighbor, Victoria, stopped by to ask questions for her school report on horses. I answered her questions, then asked if she and her sister would like to ride Ginger. It’s one thing to research a subject; it’s quite another to experience your topic first-hand. Ginger was the epitome of a gracious hostess, and while I held a longe line for safety’s sake, these two beginner riders asked Ginger for some complicated moves, and she responded beautifully. The girls were thrilled, and recently Victoria gave me a treasured, hand-made wall plaque as a thank you.Recently, I was injured by what should have been a minor rear-end collision, except nothing is minor when you have 3 herniated disks and other back problems. For a while, I was walking on 2 canes, and I wasn’t sure whether I should dare enter the pasture. Kenny fed for me for a few days till I felt confident enough to venture out in the middle of the day, when the horses wouldn’t expect dinner.Sway came up first, looked at the sticks leading from my hands to the ground. “Wow, look who just caught on! Four legs ARE better than two, aren’t they!” He was happy to see me, and proud I’d joined the quadruped clan. And he bounced off through the pasture after our visit, happy I was back.Ginger’s take was completely different. “What are these?” she asked, nosing each cane its full length. “What’s wrong? This isn’t right! You don’t use sticks when you walk. You’re HURT!” She watched me hobble about, and instantly became my “Mother Hen.” Once I stopped to rest, she raced over to Sway and chewed him out. I wasn’t privy to the exchange, just the result: Sway came back, all ashamed of himself. “Gosh, I didn’t realize you were hurt! I’m sorry!” and wouldn’t leave till I caressed his beautiful head and told him it was all right.“Nurse” Ginger stood by, acting in part like my caretaker, making sure Sway’s enthusiasm wouldn’t damage me further, and in part like the mom who has to take a misbehaving kid somewhere to make his apologies.I’m getting better. I feed them myself now. I get escorted to the barn by Ginger, who lets me grab her mane for security as we walk from the gate to the barn.
Some might say that behaving so deferentially to a servant might be acting below one’s rank. But when you are the Queen of the Universe, you can afford to be generous.
My Little Black BeautyHe’s not tall, at least for a Thoroughbred, but he’s dark and he’s definitely handsome, and he’s all mine. His name is Sway the Limit. And we’ve been training each other for almost 13 years.
I’m partial to Thoroughbreds, particularly retired racers, and have been so since I was a little girl, reading books about Man o’War and Exterminator and others by the writer and artist C.W. Anderson. After college, when I first started to learn hunt-seat equitation, a tall, bay Thoroughbred was the epitome of a show hunter. My first, Stradivarius, was all that and more, a soul-mate and everything I said “MY” horse would be, back when I was 7 and still had stars in my eyes. I was nowhere near 7 when I got Strad – 10 years after becoming a newspaper reporter. I got him when he was 17, and he died of cancer at 29.
I sought widely for his successor, and a racing trainer who knew me well told Sway’s then-owner: “If you decide to sell your horse, you want this woman to buy him.” I got a phone call out of the blue from Sway's owner.
It was a hard sell. Strad was 17 hands, dignified, well-trained and well-mannered. Sway, I was told, was 15 hands, 9 years old and not really suited for his owner – someone could have said he wasn’t suited for anyone. Later on, I would wonder if my trainer-friend had more confidence in my abilities than I do.
When I went to the barn, I saw a dark, beautiful face stand out in the crowd. Manners? He stole my girlfriend’s drink as we walked down the line of stalls. He passed physical inspection, he rode smoothly after a 30-minute longe session, and his price was right. I presumed his difficulties came because he was being handled by someone who didn't understand the typical thoroughbred mind. Or, perhaps it was because both she and this horse were in training to learn a new discipline, and sometimes it's better if one member of the "team" knows the rules of the game.
I was confident that any behavior problems he might have, I could work out. Besides, would my trainer-friend recommend I buy a hazard?
I gave him great presents – a 2½ acre “pen” instead of a high-walled stall and a tiny 12-foot-square paddock. His first three days were spent at a dead run, no stops except for scant sips of water. He was like an uncoiling spring. Shortly afterwards, I brought him a companion, Ginger, my Appaloosa mare. All this AND a girlfriend, too!Shortly after he arrived at my place, I realized Sway had bigger problems than I’d faced before. He had tantrums. He was defiant. Everything aggravated him. And he bit – or would try. I refused to let anyone visit him – not even the farrier to trim his feet – until I convinced him through patient and repetitive training to behave properly.
A few years later, Kenny’s job took us to California, and the horses were taken to Margaret and Eric Redmond’s Arabian Farm, where they would stay temporarily until we found a good place to board. I knew I could trust Margaret and Eric completely, and both horses flourished under their care.
“Temporarily” ended up being five years, and in the end, it took three tries in California to find a decent boarding barn for Sway and Ginger. The first place had nowhere to work the horses, and promises were broken left and right. The second place looked hospitable but the care was spotty, and Sway became a terror again. I ended up installing chains and webbing across the stall doorway so that when he charged the door, he wouldn’t be able to break it off its hinges. When I worked him on the longe line (having him walk, trot or canter on a long rope attached to his halter), he’d battle every command, bucking and kicking like a hooked billfish.
Some trainers will say if you can “throw” a horse so he’s flat on his side just once, the horse will respect you. Sway got “thrown” three times – once when I was hand-walking him to a nearby park to graze. When he tried to run out toward a highway, I stopped him the only way I could, landing him flat on his side on a sidewalk before he could get creamed by a semi. Sway hadn’t read the book that said he should be docile after that. Clearly “throwing,” or any other conventional trick, wasn’t working.
I’m an avid reader, and had been researching through my stacks of books from old trainers, ranging from Xenophon, a horse trainer who lived in ancient Greece, to the trainers of the U. S. Cavalry, to the European trainers of similar eras, through my collection of training and riding magazines on up to the current batch of trainers with tv shows, websites, books and DVDs. I consulted in person with several trainers. In the end, I realized what they taught me would help with any problems I might have with Ginger. But, as for Sway, I knew those techniques would only make matters worse, and I was tiring of the battles.
I pondered this beautiful horse’s personality, wondering where the answer might lie. Who must have done something so horrible that he was chronically angry? The only hint I had to his past was that no one had owned him longer than ayear, and, at one time, one owner would overwork him for shows until he would go lame. But we never showed, and I never overworked him.
But why couldn’t I predict what would set him off? I’ve dealt with so many horses that have been abused or neglected. Some needed plenty of time and extra care to come around. Others just needed to know they’re no longer going to be hurt. Some will remain sensitive to things that remind them of the bad times – certain whips, certain hats or coats, certain saddles or particular environments. Listen, and they'll tell you how to fix their problems. Well, ordinarily....
The trouble with Sway is there never seems to be one specific thing that sends him over the edge – it could be anything and everything. How would I combat these old “monsters” when I could never determine what they were?
I was thinking on this one night as I groomed him. Suddenly, he bit my side so hard that the underlying blood bruise was the size of two pot-holders. I was surprised I wasn’t punctured. And, from that moment on, I didn’t enter his stall without a short, stout crop to block his muzzle should he try to bite again.
And I became ultra-strict. I haltered him with the lead rope looped around the halter for extra control. I took command of his every step outside his stall and adjoining paddock. Every time he stepped correctly, he got an “atta-boy,” but each misstep earned him a stern, “No! No!” I had the crop at the ready to block an attack, but didn’t touch him. I bypassed longe line training and worked him with a standard, 8-foot lead rope.
We would walk up and down the barn’s winding path to its arenas. Each footfall – sometimes side steps, sometimes backing up, sometimes taking two forward steps followed by a halt and stand, was by my command. Each immediate obedience earned him praise, followed by another, firmly-worded command, given quickly so he had to respond quickly so his mind had no chance to wander. I made sure I didn’t fall into a pattern of commands, so he wouldn't anticipate his next step. The few times I had access to the arena or round pen, he got the same strict hand-work. He got his freedom and playtime as a reward, but when returning back to his stall he still had to obey and remain under control.
Because the care was spotty and I rarely had use of the training areas, I sought a new barn. I moved the horses to Rafter M Bar, a wonderful boarding barn, and the only place in the area where I think the horses would be happy.
While there, we discovered that Sway loved listening to baseball broadcasts. He would rather listen to baseball than eat, and it occurred to us that these broadcasts sounded like the track on race day, with similar-sounding crowds and the announcer. Also, Sway could be ridden in this barn’s open pasture. But he would became an emotional wreck when I asked him to be ridden three steps in the barn's covered arena. He could tolerate being ridden only in the round pen, although that, too, was in the covered arena. I wondered if this meant his nightmares came from show training, and not from the track as so many people suspected. But I still couldn't uncover specific causes for his rages.
When another boarder set up a series of trail class challenges in the arena, I used them when I hand-worked Sway. One day, when Kenny had come out to see the horses, and I had turned Sway loose in the arena to play, we saw he “played” by repeating his lessons over the trail challenges on his own while we chatted at the far end of the arena. He went through the entire set-up, then ran to us for praise. At each “atta boy!” he’d go back and tackle the trail set-up again.
Clearly, his anger was waning at Rafter M Bar, and clearly this horse had a passion for pleasing his people. He got to the point I could “play” with him in the arena, and he’d do longe-type work at complete liberty, walking, trotting or cantering in a circle around me as if I had him on a longe line, although he wore no halter or lead rope.
We might have continued our progress except Kenny’s career brought us to Texas. I was willing to move, but not to leave the horses behind this time. We all arrived in Texas the same day. But, again, one thing or another about the new boarding places fretted the horses, and soon Sway went back to hellion mode - pinned ears and threatening teeth and all.
Luckily, we soon found a house with a cute red barn and two-acre pasture, and as soon as the place was secure, the horses found themselves in Keller. By this time, I knew how to tackle Sway's rages, and both he and Ginger fell in love with their new home with us. And this time, it didn’t take so long to bring out Sway’s nicer personality.All this time, I thought I was alone in having a horse with these problems. Nowhere had I run across a horse that raged for no apparent reason. Then my friend Amy Hudson and I went to see “Cavalia.” And that changed everything.
For those who have not seen this show, it’s like “Cirque de Soliel” with horses. Since some of the “Cavalia” organizers have been with “Cirque,” the similarities are logical. It’s a fun show for "horse people," no matter which discipline they prefer.
During the show, when one rider removed her horse’s bridle and rode with a simple band around the horse’s neck, I smiled. Ginger can do that! It’s similar to basic neck-reining. The first horse I saw ridden that way was the famous Rugged Lark, and after watching others demonstrate the technique, I tried it myself with my intelligent and conscientious Ginger.
But Cavalia would have more surprises for me - the best was yet to come: Frederic Pignon, the tall, lead rider and trainer with long hair, and Templado, the snow-white Lusitano stallion with the flowing mane, entered the ring and played. Two of Templado’s brothers also joined the pair, and again, there was play. And I leaned over to Amy and whispered, “Sway and I do that!”
The more I watched, the more I thought, “Maybe we don’t do trail rides or shows, or impress anyone with our jumping or dressage, but Sway and I can do what these stars are doing!”
After the show, I bought the show’s book “Templado: A Star at Liberty,” because it was about Frederic and his stallion. I had barely started to read the prologue when I found Sway’s kindred spirit in Templado: “…rebellious, fearful, misunderstood, difficult to understand and even dangerous.”
Deeper in the book, Frederic’s wife said that the couple often works with delicate, sensitive and complicated horses. (I’ve been told by several people that in the old days, cowboys and Gypsies say the number of whorls in the center of a horse’s forehead indicates how "complicated" the horse is. A single whorl, and the horse can be focused and clear-minded, like Ginger. Two whorls, and he is of two minds. Sway has two distinct and complete whorls in the center of his forehead as well as a third whorl, partially formed, a little higher up on his head. And it's fair to call Sway "complicated.")
But nothing this couple tried – patience, understanding and hard work -, helped Templado behave. Everything was an annoyance. This horse was so sensitive that he had to be warned before he could be given the slightest caress.
Bingo! Finally, after 13 years of research, I was reading about someone else whose horse behaved like Sway - throwing tantrums for no reason.
Maybe there was no single event that outraged Sway. Maybe it was everything, including the normal, everyday training that most horses would have accepted with no qualms. Some have suggested that Templado might be ultra-sensitive because he has a touch of equine autism. Small things that other horses could ignore would grate on a sensitive horse's nerves. Could Sway suffer from the same ultra-sensitivity?
I read this book with desperate urgency. I had found a kindred spirit, not only for Sway but also for myself. How did this experienced, professional trainer deal with a horse that reminded me, an amateur, of my own, precious black beauty?
The answers sound simple, although they are not. They’re almost like the mysterious-sounding Zen koan, particularly the ones that talk about the sword of no sword, the gate of no gate: Stop pondering. Stop worrying. Be aware, be alert, be consistent, but accept what the horse gives you each day.
I learned that a lot of the "technique" I was using through trial and error was the "technique of no technique." It was exactly what Sway needed, and it was strikingly similar to the book's description of Frederic’s work with Templado: Stay in the comfort zone. Allow him great success by praising him for little accomplishments. KISS – Keep It Simple, Sway! Keep up a dialogue, and listen on a deeper level than you've ever listened before. Give him his freedom and let it be complete freedom. Accept him for what he is today, because he'll be a different horse tomorrow. Find what he enjoys and encourage him. And he’ll come to you in his own time.
I am lucky. I have no deadlines for Sway. We don’t show. We don’t trail ride. We don’t have any agenda. But we are having adventures of quite a different sort, and that’s just fine with us.
A friend just asked me why I would keep such a challenging horse. Others have asked in astonishment, “You RIDE him??” Yes, when the time is right. No, when it's not. And, except for the one time I led Sway with Kenny on his back, no one else gets to ride this horse. His peace of mind is too precious.
Yet, if you were to meet him today, you would see the beautiful, soft-eyed horse that captivated my heart so many years ago. You would see a horse who has taught me so much more than all the well-mannered horses I have met or trained.
You would see a horse that an untrained boy can take into a small pen so he can learn about working a horse at liberty and controlling a horse with little more than a pointing stick and his voice.And the horse that taught him this skill is Sway.
My Beautiful Cabin in the WoodsEast of Florida’s Lake Woodruff Wildlife Refuge, and east of the CSX rail line where the old “Orange Blossom Special” train ran, is a little five-acre spot I called home for 12 years.
Until this past March, I hadn’t stayed in its little frame cabin since my last night there in 1997.
I could never forget that last night. The next morning I would pack up two cats and more suitcases and move to California’s Bay Area. Because India, one of our barn cats, was an expert at hiding, I dared not let her spend the night outdoors, and it took her a while to settle in and sleep indoors. She would leave the cabin the next morning safely stashed in a travel crate. Mace, my utterly devoted companion cat, would meet me at the door the next morning (and she did, to get stashed in her own travel crate). Ordinarily, I would have fed my horses with one hand, because the other would be cradling Mace.
But the horses that night were 20 miles away, having been been moved to their temporary home at Margaret and Eric Redmond’s Arabian farm. “Temporary” would become about five years, but I didn’t know that at the time. I just knew Kenny was working at Pixar on “Toy Story 2,” his first theatrical movie, and my life in this tiny cabin, with silly barn cats and pretty horses in my back yard, would end as soon as Kenny’s folks drove the cats and me away from the farm and out to the airport.
During the years I have been away, the five acres and its cabin have been used by others. I thought they would love it as much as I do. Some said they did. We let them use it on the condition they’d pay their own utilities and would keep up the place, which included making sure the storage sheds holding our stuff didn’t leak, and would be treated for pests at least monthly so our possessions wouldn't me ruined until we moved them west.
At first, things went well. But things declined and a lot of our things were ruined and stolen. Since we didn’t charge rent, we never knew when folks abandoned the place. I've been told it's been abandoned for two years now.
When we went to the Daytona 500 this year, I got a chance to see our little place again. We sifted for salvageables, and our surviving possessions barely filled my pickup. Everything else was trashed. I promised myself I’d come back and start to make things right again, and a friend's marriage in March was my ticket home.
The jobs in Florida would be numerous, and most were beyond my area of expertise, but I was determined to make things right. Fortunately, our dear friend, Jerry Conine, wanted a trip to Florida, and I didn’t turn him down when he offered to accompany me. I still wonder if he knew what ordeal was awaiting him at the five acres. But he packed the pickup bed with tools and all our scrap lumber and paint, and we set out early one morning for Florida.
I had hoped that as soon as we arrived, we could repair the cabin steps (there were none…) and throw out all the green, fuzzy, semi-identifiable furniture someone had left behind. The mossy furniture got tossed, but the steps would have to wait. I dropped Jerry off at a friend’s afterwards, and I began to scrub the cabin from top to bottom with pure bleach and the kind of Lysol you’re supposed to dilute with nine parts water. (Sure….) I apologized to the wood floors by mopping them with soothing Murphy’s Oil Soap afterwards. I was exhausted – I was to pick Jerry up in an hour – but the cabin smelled clean, and as I unfolded my army cot to take what little rest I’d get, I realized that for the first time since 1997, my cabin was mine again - hurt and damaged as it was, it was mine.
Kenny had asked me to email him photos to show the progress, or to take some “before” pictures. I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I don’t want to remember how my little home looked at the beginning of the week.
After next to no sleep, I was 15 minutes or so late to pick up Jerry. I was hoping to rest a little that day, because I was to teach 2 hulas at Disney that night, and I didn’t want to be brain dead.
But it seemed that every job we undertook revealed another job that had to be done first. We shook our heads at some of the things we had to repair, but we didn't stop. There’d be no nap that day, and I arrived late in Orlando, but managed to get the two hulas taught and to dance at the Ohana Restaurant afterwards.
The rest of the week-long challenge was the same – I had another trip to Orlando, and that wedding in Daytona Beach. Jerry later escaped to visit friends in Apopka and stop by Eustis for King's Ribs (the best in the state, by far). The rest of the time was spent working, or getting more supplies from the nearby Lowe’s or the 24-hour Wal-Mart.Gradually, the farm grew in beauty. The old barn and the grounds got cleared of trash, old storage sheds were secured. Jerry built real steps and worked wonders inside the cabin. We picked paint colors based on how much leftover paint would cover the walls of which room – and it worked out beautifully.
The bathroom’s walls are a neutral tan - smallest room, smallest leftover paint. But the shower curtain (a survivor) is colorful with a tropical print, and I made curtains of tropical print fabric, so the little room doesn’t lack for color. The floor had never been covered properly, and now it is, in a deep tan-grey blend tile that reminds me of old lava in Volcanoes National Park.
The kitchen became yellow - again, chosen because there'd be enough to cover the walls, but it worked perfectly with a surviving “Matilda Bay Wine Cooler” mirrored picture in yellow and purple with tropical theme art that I'd hoped to hang in the kitchen. The bright yellow walls (where there had been missing, damaged and stained paneling with loose-wire light switches); the mirrored picture; the new, ivory-tile flooring where once there had been open holes or damaged sheet vinyl completely changed how I felt when I’d walk into this cabin.Can a cabin, that probably dates frm the 1920s, go from being sad to being happy? Did it know we were working so hard to rescue it? As it became prettier, the atmosphere really improved.
The main room originally had been a peach-ivory, so that when sunsets through the windows, the warm-colored walls would pick up the sunset colors. But someone had started to paint it highlighter-Day-glo green, and even had painted some of the natural dark wood trim. All we had in enough quantity to do that room was plain old white, and the wood trim had to be painted a dark brown to resemble its original color and match the unpainted stained wood – stripping fluid did nothing but make everything mad and it burned my arm, to boot.
So, the walls are white, the dark brown wood trim again is all dark brown, and the windows, which had lost all their lace curtains through the years, now have curtains of outdoor fabric – the same stuff I’d used on my old army cot. Light olive palm leaf print with ivory orchids with just a touch of red. I hit the local dollar stores and picked up pictures of flowers and tropical-themed prints in colors that worked in the main room as well as the entrance to the kitchen, and then blew my “décor” budget on a lovely watercolor print of an elephant I found at Wal-Mart. I couldn't resist giving the cabin this "present." So the main room has a Southeast-Asian-India theme to its décor, and that works for me. The picture shows how the room was set up while I was there, although it was rearranged before I left, because I brought the cot back to Texas.
Some of the décor looks a little “dorm room,” with a clothes rack and wire shelves taking the place of the cabin’s original cedar-lined closets and chest (why would someone remove them? Where did they go?) But I found some of my original solid-wood tables, and cleaned them up, and they work in the main room just fine.
Jerry even got the screened porch lined and trimmed in dark brown, and I got the unfinished floor painted a complementary sandy tan porch paint – even got the new steps painted, a solar entrance light installed and a little wind chime hung from the roof.
My specialty was painting and décor and scrubbing and shoveling. Jerry worked handyman miracles left and right. There’s no other word for it – he worked miracles and rescued my little cabin. I owe this friend big time.
I would love to say that after all the work was done, we were able to sit out on the newly decorated porch and sip a cup of coffee or tea while the wildlife serenaded us. But we’d run out of time, and we had to return to Texas.
But we WERE serenaded - while we worked. Mated hawks called out as they performed aerial acrobatics. Cranes, with their strange, mechanical calls, visited the lake. Cardinals, blue jays, crows and mockingbirds kept the music going during the day till the whippoorwills took over in the evening, accompanied by frogs, crickets and the gentle gronking of the gators from the lake.
I did miss having pets at the farm. That was the whole reason for buying the farm back in '85 – having horses in the back yard and cats and dogs around the barn. But the horses happily live with us in Texas, India’s loving life as a house cat, and Mace, during her last year and a half, became a case study in successful kidney failure treatment. Our dog died just before the move to California, and is buried with our first horses there on the farm.
But when I began missed having pets around the place, a young wild turkey began patrolling the grounds and the ever-present anoles (we call ‘em “chameleons” in Florida) began approaching, gradually getting quite close as I worked, and suddenly I wasn’t alone anymore, even when I was “alone.”
Our area of Florida is getting built up…houses have been built where there used to be orange groves and horse pastures. But the railroad is still there, and beyond it, the expanse of the wildlife refuge. Nobody will build out that way, and the cabin faces the trains and the wild acres beyond.
So at least for a while, I still have my little cabin in the woods, and it’s getting prettier all the time. I can’t wait till the next trip – to paint the outside so the exterior is as cute as the inside. And the trip after that? I'm thinking "vacation." I owe myself that chance to sit and sip a cup of tea on that porch.
Lights! Camera! Ponies!When Kenny and I saw a couple of men walking toward our driveway from the pasture fence in our back yard, we were understandably nervous. We were just pulling into our place after a two-day drive from Florida, and our buddy, Jerry Conine, who had been our critter-sitter in our absence, had left that morning for his Ohio home.
What were these men doing so close to our horses?
Turns out, they were admiring our cute red barn with white trim and its “matching” 1948 Ford tractor. It was just the background they were seeking for a television commercial that called for “Texas settings.”Would we be willing to let them shoot the commercial at our place, using our barn and pasture as background?
Once we determined they were legitimate site locators, we said, “Sure!” After all, there are those of us in Keller, Texas, who love the rural life and strive to keep our precious little bits of "Texas Country" from being swallowed up by the tidal wave of subdivisions and McMansions. Turns out, these show-biz pros agree with our point of view!
They made a return trip with reinforcements later that week. One man looked at our porch – the one Jerry had worked so hard to upgrade the railing – and suggested the porch as the site for the “backyard barbecue” scene.
And, would I let them look at my kitchen? Sure, why not! But to get to the kitchen, they had to go through the living room and dining room, which Kenny and I had transformed from its initial pink and aqua Miami Condo décor to Lone Stars everywhere you look. The new wood floor, the stone lamps with bronze Lone Star shades, the Western Wearhouse sofa and chairs and the Rustic Ranch tables and switchplates – just the living room and dining room they were seeking.
Oh, and the kitchen, with its rope motif cabinetry, was a hit, too!
I figured they liked the place because instantly, each man pulled out a cell phone, punched in numbers and began to talk excitedly to someone on the other end. I figured right.
So, the next week, our house got invaded promptly at 7 in the morning – a ghastly hour for Kenny and me – with Food Services setting up a buffet on our rustic front porch; huge, sail-like reflectors being erected in our back yard, and costuming and makeup operating from our dining room. Cameras and lights were everywhere.
Kenny was there briefly before he left for work. I figured I’d hang at the buffet – available in case there were questions, but out of the line of fire – or camera. We got paid for the use of our house, and I figured I was getting paid to stay out of the way.
That is, until the director of the commercial asked if I could get the horses into the picture. If only I had known! I would have held off feeding their breakfast and used food as a lure to keep my "amateur actors" on their marks.
Sway and Ginger wanted to hang at the far end of the pasture, away from those strange sails and bright lights that had sprung up in our back yard. They ascribe to the Buffy Ste.-Marie “Country Girl” song that says, in effect, all the lights of Hollywood can’t compare to an acre – or two – of green grass.
But horses would enhance the “Texas” country atmosphere of this ad, and their presence was desired. With food, hay, apple bits and baby carrots, they were enticed to wander around, if not stand still, in the background of the “truck loading” and the “backyard barbecue” scenes.
When I wasn’t horse-wrangling - with the help of my neighbor, Becky Folger, who couldn’t resist seeing why our front yard was full of cars and strange equipment - I went back to my original plan to hang by the buffet.
Food Service set quite a spread on the porch, and we were welcome to join the cast and crew at the table. The staff took breaks, gliding on our new porch swing, and the rest of the crew would hit the buffet during their own breaks, so it was a pretty good “stay out of the way, but be available” spot.
The shoot, even with all the scenes the crew had decided to photograph at our house, lasted till just after noon. Then the crew began the take down, repacking and clean-up. They hadn’t messed up anything, but they cleaned as if they had! They even ran the vacuum!
And that’s not all! If you see this commercial, the patties on the grill aren’t meat – they’re vegetable “burgers,” some with cheese. The staff was about to toss away the “grilled burgers” when I asked for them. Hey, I’m a vegetarian, and there was nothing wrong with ‘em!Not only did I get the eight patties off the grill, I got several boxes of “back up burgers.” And would I like the extra soft drinks? The boxed breakfast meals? The cinnamon buns? Two boxes (unopened!) of cereal? Apparently the shooting went so smoothly they had food left over. They offered it to us, and we were smart enough to take it! The horses even got a bale of Ohio alfalfa – one of the props the crew would no longer need after the shoot.
A clean house, a stocked fridge, happy horses, and the knowledge that some of you folks will see our little place and our pretty ponies on television – nothing wrong with that!
The ad promotes deregulation of telephone companies – Verizon, in particular – allowing them to offer you cable-type television service in addition to their usual telephone and internet offerings. You’ll see a gentleman throwing a saddle into his blue pickup, with a cute red barn and (I hope) Sway and Ginger in the background; you’ll see a bunch of western-clad folks barbecuing on the back porch while watching “the game” on television (with Sway and Ginger in the background as well); and a family watching television in their Western-themed living room. I have no idea what happened in the kitchen.
The ad will be shown in various regions throughout the United States – and that’s all we know.
But, for one morning, I got to be a horse wrangler for a commercial and my house and horses got to be featured “stars.” You won’t see Sway and Ginger at shows or in parades, but if we’re lucky, you might just catch ‘em on the tv some night.
Happy Birthday, Aunty Kau`i Brandt!!!“Good things come in small packages,” the old saying goes, and the old saying certainly applies to Aunty Kau`i Brandt, who celebrates her birthday this week. That's Aunty Kau`i in the lower right, with Ginger (want to learn to make a Hawai`ian quilt?), Kanani and her husband, and Kaleo at the Ohana Restaurant at Walt Disney World, where we met up after the Daytona 500.
You may find Aunty Kau`i at Disney World’s Polynesian Resort, one of the few places where you can find her sitting (almost) still. She may be making a lei, teaching a hula or simply making a newly-arrived family feel welcome. She has a knack for making people feel welcome.
I met Aunty Kau`i through hula. I’d been trying to find a teacher since I was 10, but everyone had said no, until I met Karina D’Errico, who operates her dance studio in the greater St. Petersburg area of Florida’s Gulf Coast. I’d drive 4 hours, take 2 days of private lessons, drive 4 hours back to DeLand, and after practicing those dances, return for more. When Karina discovered Aunty Kau`i was teaching a mere hour from my place, she shoved me (nicely!) out of the nest.And Aunty Kau`i has taught me to fly.
Aunty Kau`i’s first hula she taught me was “Aia La O Pele,” a chant to Hawai`i’s volcano goddess. The chant was taught to her by Uncle George Na`ope, a Living Treasure in Hawai`i who perhaps may be best known for co-founding the prestigious Merrie Monarch Hula Festival in Hilo, as well as other hula festivals and competitions.
It meant so much to me to learn this chant. I was brought up on “modern” Pele stories – how she was so displeased when pilots bombed her lava flow that within a year, all the pilots had died. Or the story from my mother of an old Hawai`ian woman who refused to evacuate in the face of oncoming lava. “Madame Pele won’t let anything happen to me,” she insisted. When the lava flow went past and cooled, the authorities when out to see what had happened to the old woman. They saw that the oncoming lava had split, went around the sides of the woman’s home, then the two smaller flows reconnected and traveled down to the sea. No harm, indeed, had come to the woman or her house. Later on, I was to meet a fellow-dancer who said that such an event had happened to her aunt.
At that time, I didn’t know the old Pele stories. But I wanted to learn, not just about Pele, but about the royalty, the customs, the arts and crafts, the language, the music – anything I could get. After all, unlike everyone else in my family, I was born in Hawai`i, after my parents had tried more than 14 years to have a baby. I was their first, and the birth was difficult for both my mother and me. Fortunately, Queen Kapi`olani during her husband’s reign in the Kingdom of Hawai`i, had founded the hospital that bears her name, and the doctors and nurses were expert at handling our critical problems, and we both survived. My mother figured she and I owe Hawai`i for that. “You were born in Hawai`i,” she would remind me. “It’s important, and never forget.” And so I tried to learn everything Aunty Kau`I would offer. I came to learn she teaches more than hula – and I don’t mean her beloved Tahitian dances, or the fascinating Maori ones. She teaches, by example, right-thinking, right speech, a gentle nature, a sense of fairness, a sense of giving, a dedication of giving your best no matter what venue you play.
She is generous in so many ways, and helped me many times when we were struggling free-lance artists. She takes unbelievable care of her students. She is encouraging – if you’re her student, and you get a chance to study something that is out of her area of expertise, she urges you to go! Learn! And come back and share!
Before long, I found myself volunteering to emcee some smaller shows when her usual group of emcees couldn’t make the dates. I studied hard to become the type of hostess that keeps the show rolling, but shares knowledge along the way so the audience can better appreciate the dances they’re seeing. Sometimes she and I would do shows together, and I kept an ear tuned to her emceeing style.
When – finally – I had a chance to return to Hawai`i after many years’ absence, I asked her what would be appropriate to take to the volcanoes. I pictured a trip to Volcano National Park as something akin to visiting someone’s home, and you always take something when you’re visiting someone’s house! But, gin isn’t my style, so I sought Aunty Kau`i’s counsel.
She started slowly. “Make something,” she began. “Make a lei, perhaps.” But she didn’t stop there. “Oh, a chant would be nice!” (Well, yeah, only I had no chant training!) I suggested a very abbreviated chant. “Oh, no!” she laughed. “I think you should do ‘Aia La o Pele’!”
My heart sank. I’d done the dance; I knew the first words of each verse, the “kahea” that dancers call to the chanter. But I had never memorized the entire chant! Furthermore, I realized I had two weeks to get it done. There was no going back.
I worked diligently, but I was nervous when finally I approached the crater called Halema`uma`u, reputed to be the home of Pele and her family. I saw an interesting lava formation on the crater floor, and thought of my mother’s story and Aunty’s encouragement. Since I had no chant training at that time, I simply sang, turning this tribute into a song of love that tells how Pele dances like a goddess at Maukele, how the lava sounds as it rolls over and consumes Puna – and more. In the end, I sang the words accurately, and something took hold there that has set the theme for each trip I make home to the islands.
Each trip to the volcanoes becomes a class. And each "class" takes a line, sometimes even a verse, of this same chant, and shows me, bit by bit, more and more of the meaning behind the words. I would have never had these experiences except for Aunty Kau`i's "suggestion" that I learn the lyrics to this chant.
Had it not been for Aunty Kau`i, I might not have had the nerve to go on any of my hula adventures – dancing at the Royal Hawai`ian Hotel; dancing on the pa (hula platform) at the Bishop Museum, the largest repository of Polynesian cultural artifacts; daring to compete with Karina’s dancers in hula when there was little time to prepare a presentation (and yet, we acquitted ourselves well and snagged a trophy along the way); dancing in front of maybe 50,000 people at San Francisco’s Aloha Festival; dancing in front of Keith Awai’s mom, Aunty Dottie, as she played my ukulele and sang “Nani Kaua`i,” a hula taught to us by her son. (No pressure!)
Her charge, to Go! Learn! Share!, has encouraged me to take seed lei class with Bill Char, feather lei with Paulette Kekuewa and kapa making with Moana Eisele, all superb masters of their arts. I sought out chant instruction, and have had classes with Kekuhi Kanahele, Keala Ching and Mehealani Uchiyama. The latter two also have instructed me in the Hawai`ian language. All this, and so much more.
No matter where I go, or with whom I have studied, I still consider myself “Kau`i’s girl,” even though I haven’t lived in Florida since 1997. And, when I needed it the most, as usual, Aunty Kau`i is here for me again, and this time, I get to do the “come back and share!” part, starting this coming Wednesday, when I'll be back in Florida, sharing some hulas at the Polynesian. I learned a lot during my time in California, from those who also encourage sharing. And it’s time I give a little back to Aunty Kau`i, don’t you think?
Let's Go Racin'!NASCAR's back, and we love it!
Nothing sounds like the growing, growling rumble of race cars responding to their drivers punching the buttons just after Actor James Caan calls them to order with, "Gentlemen, start your engines!" Nothing feels like the energy of fans standing to salute these drivers. Their cheers and shouts can't drown out those engines, but that doesn't stop the fans from cheering as if those drivers could hear them. Nothing rumbles like the vibrations those engines generate. Nothing smells like racing gasoline.
Few sports operate quite the same as NASCAR. NASCAR made sponsorship commonplace, long before your favorite ball park or football stadium suddenly were given new names in exchange for money. NASCAR trains its drivers to mention those sponsors, in recognition that those are the folks paying the bills.
It also encourages drivers to mind the way they speak to the media, something other sports might want to consider implementing as well.Race car drivers still sign autographs, and they credit fans for their suppport. This year, a true car fanatic, Jay Leno, not only rode in the Pace Car - he drove it! I've had my '65 Mustang on the track, but not all the way around, and not up to speed. You can't get around the track without hitting at least 90 mph. What's nice is that fans at many tracks can buy tickets to have a pro driver take you around at speed for a few laps, and that's a thrill! Yep, done, that, too, with the Richard Petty Experience.
And, here's a different strategy: NASCAR starts its season with its best race. The Kentucky Derby is run early in a 3-year-old Thoroughbred's racing season, so early, in fact that Man o' War's owner refused for many years to enter his horses in the Run for the Roses. Major League Baseball, the National Football League and the NBA have their peak competitions at the end of the season. NASCAR starts its season with the Daytona 500, THE race of NASCAR.
Of course, the stock car racing organization has changed the end of its season so that there is more drama in the race for the championship. Some fans like the revisions; some would prefer to have the champions chosen "the old way." I'm happy with either method - I just love racing.
I learned to drive in Daytona Beach, and it shows. I love those license plate holders that go on the front ("I'm not tailgating - I'm drafting!") and the back ("I'm not speeding - I'm qualifying!) Some folks call that device on a car "cruise control." I call it the "speed governor," and use it to help me avoid speeding tickets.
I'm a lucky fan. I have access to tickets to see the Daytona 500, thanks to my father's interest in racing that grew the longer our family lived in the Greater Daytona Beach Area. I also live a short drive - well, it's a short drive except on race day - from the Texas Motor Speedway in Fort Worth, where we have season tickets.
Our little place here in Texas is nicknamed "The Double Nickel Ranch" (even though it's a mere 2.25 acres, which is barely a good sized yard in Texas) because Kenny's old NASCAR racing number was 55.He drove in the featured division, Florida Modifieds, at Volusia County Speedway, a short drive west of the Daytona International Speedway, and he also drove at New Smyrna Beach Speedway, a short drive south of Daytona Beach.
Kenny often says that the only subject which could be called "delicate" when he spoke with my parents as NASCAR. He loved racing and supported Cale Yarborough. My mother favored the Allison brothers, Donnie and Bobby.
Cale and the Allisons got into an altercation in front of the cameras the first time a NASCAR race was televised nationally. Needless to say, my mother and Kenny talked about Richard Petty a lot and avoided bringing up their personal favorite drivers to each other.
I favored Richard Petty, in part because I've preferred Dodges and Plymouths to Fords and Chevys. And on Richard's final year, he signed autographs for fans in sessions so long that it took his family dragging him away for him to leave to make flights. I have a hat with a scribbled "RP 43" - he'd started cutting the autograph down to that simply so more fans could get at least a scribble instead of going home empty.NASCAR is a fairly fan-friendly sport, even though it's grown so much and become more professional since the early days of racing on the beach, or even the early asphalt days when drivers wore tee shirts instead of fire suits and one of the Flock brothers even drove with a monkey in his car during a few races. You might anticipate how that might affect a driver, you'd be right, and "Jocko Flocko" had a short career as an on-board mascot.
And, it has helped improve car designs. NASCAR Founder Bill France once drove into the Phillips 66 service station my father, Don Weilenman, operated on the beachside in Ormond Beach. He pointed to the display of air filters in the station's window and asked my father, "Do you know where those air filters came from?"
My father answered, "From the Phillips 66 Company." But Mr. France was asking if my father knew where the inspiration for air filters originated. And that was those beach races that were so popular - and so sandy! - prior to the opening of the first superspeedway. Air filters were developed to help keep sand out of the cars, Mr. France explained.
That conversation took place in the early 1960s, and NASCAR's designs have helped improve automobile safety in many ways since then. Frankly, I rarely worried when Kenny was racing, because I knew how well his race car was built, how well his fire suit would shield him from fire, how his helmet and other devices would prevent most crashes from harming him.
He also had excellent training at Finish Line Racing School before he entered his first race. I would worry about him more when he was driving to and from the track - or to and from California during those days of his career. I often wished - and still do wish - all automobiles could be built with the safety features of race cars.
Sure, NASCAR has a colorful history dating from its reputed roots in moonshine delivery. And now that the sport is so expensive, it has large contracts with television and sponsors, and is debating where to put its future hall of fame. One might think that with this growth, this progress into slickness, that the fans might be a small part of the event.
Fortunately, we're not a small part. We're a big part of this sport. At most tracks, we're accommodated wonderfully. I miss living in the Daytona Beach area. I miss Saturday nights at the smaller tracks where Kenny raced.
But I was able to go back to THE NASCAR RACE this year, and lucky for Kenny, his favorite driver won.
I love trains.....One of the most beautiful passages written about a train is found in "All the Pretty Horses," by Cormac McCarthy. It comes quite early in the book, and the words evoke exquisite imagry, particularly when it's read aloud to you by someone who truly knows how to read out loud.One of the songs I love to hear when it's played on KHYI 95.3 The Range ("Your 50,000-watt Blowtorch of Twang," A Texas/Americana radio station in Plano) says "I love trains that whisper your name...." I'm such a hard rock'n'roller, I never expected to love any station remotely country, but this oddball station is a law unto itself, and one of its operating rules is that when a train goes by on the tracks outside the station's window, it's time for another "Mandatory Train Song." Sometimes the DJ will open a window and let the passing train sing along. I got lucky one afternoon and heard a hard-rocking "Orange Blossom Special" with a long freight train chiming in when the musicians hit high gear.Once a year, Kenny and I take a lovely train trip from our old home in Martinez, Calif., to Reno, Nev. It's not the famous "Fun Train" that makes a similar trip more frequently. Unlike that train, we don't have a live band or other exciting entertainment.Instead, we have at least one vintage platform car and possibly one other private car. We spend the time chatting, watching gorgeous scenery go by, and drinking Irish coffees and other concoctions by Ben Heine, our King of Beverages.Our hosts are two buddies, Roger Colton and Jeff Ferris, who have teamed up with other friends to offer this special Reno trip annually for some time. My husband, Kenny, has taken every trip, and I've made many of them. And we look forward to them every year. For a closer look at what Roger and Jeff do, visit them at http://www.privatecarservice.net/.On the surface, the trip sounds simple - board anywhere from Emeryville to Martinez to Sacramento; ride the vintage cars until the train arrives at Sparks (next to Reno); have dinner, gamble if you like, and spend the night at John Ascuaga's Nugget Casino; then get back on those vintage cars the next morning in time for the ride back. But the ride is so much more than that.From time to time, I've called it "a land cruise." But the ride is so much more than that.It's become a reunion of old friends and a gathering and welcoming of new friends. It's a throwback to the time when train travel was elegant and travelers dressed for the trip. It's a ride that starts along the Bay, goes past the Navy's "Mothball Fleet", travels along the Sacramento River, rises up until it reaches the snow line, then takes you beside picturesque Truckee, the legendary Donner Pass and into areas where the snow has not been disturbed, except perhaps by rabbits or raccoons.During that time, you may sit on the platform, wrapped in your warmest dress coat, with an Irish coffee in hand, waving at the people who are stopped by the crossing gates or who have come out to the tracks simply to watch a train go past. Most weren't expecting to see a private car, particularly one with people riding outside. "Who are those people and how did they get to ride in that car?" they may wonder.We're artists, writers, computer folk, retirees, freelancers, car enthusiasts, photographers and more. We love the cradle-rock of the train car traveling on the tracks. We love the space the cars give us to walk around, or to sit and relax, or spend some uninterrupted time with a good book. We love watching our friends, dressed in their own vintage attire, waiting on us during the formal dinner. We love listening to the soft music playing in the background - some songs from the era to which the old cars date, some novelty train numbers, always some Hawai`ian as well.We love the quietness. The lowered voices in conversation. The snow banks muting even the train sounds as we pass upward toward Truckee. The gentle water sounds of the Truckee River during the last portion of the trip to Reno. The absence of cell phone rings or computer games.That will come later, we know, once we get to the casino, where the game bells jangle all night long. But the noise of Sparks is only a momentary diversion. The next day, we'll be back on the train, on the way home, soaking up the last bit of relaxation and peace before we must re-enter our normal world. But, please, not too fast. Let us re-live the luxury of yesterday's ride one last time. And the beautiful train allows us that, because that's one thing trains can do best.Helping Hands...er..PawsKittens can be so helpful. This picture shows Kamalani MonkeyCat actually getting out of Jerry Conine's way as he fine-tunes some wiring in our house.Jerry is a buddy of ours who has had more than his share of helpful hands, helpful paws and helpful hooves that end up making the task at hand take longer. So far, Kamalani hasn't been overly "helpful," although he's tended to supervise now and then, or play with leftover wire pieces Jerry's discarded along the way. Or sneak out of nowhere to grab Jerry by the ankle as he walks past.Jerry's experiences led us to use the phrase "Bar helpful" to mean "not really helpful at all." Sometimes this has the connotation of the offender meaning well, but ultimately, if you are any more helpful, we'll have to put you in a cage till we get the job done.At the time, Jerry was working at one of the many incarnations of Stone Hedge Stables, and on this particular day, Jerry was trying to dig a trench so pipe could be laid. It was a long stretch of ditch-digging, and Jerry kept looking back to make sure the trench was straight and true.Trouble is, Jerry didn't look back often enough.The barn's owner, Mrs. Pam Woods (who made a difference in my ability to ride and to care for horses, but that's another story for another day...) had a large Quarter horse gelding, whose registered name was "Possum Bar," but since he looked nothing like a possum, he was simply called "Bar." Bar was something of a "Baby Huey" personality - huge, rarely realizing his own strength, and was always willing to help even if he wasn't quite on the same page as those he was "helping." This stocky horse could creep up on you without a single sound, an unsettling talent Bar employed that day as he sought to help Jerry.Apparently, Bar saw the trench as something dangerous, and when Jerry looked back, he was astonished to see Bar nearly at his back. And Jerry was startled even more to see that while his back was turned, Bar had ever so carefully filled in the trench Jerry had spent so long to dig. In fact, as Jerry watched, Bar used his front hooves to push the overturned dirt back into the ditch. And once he realized Jerry was watching, Bar seemed quite pleased with himself.Jerry, of course, had other words for the incident, and quickly chased off his oversized helper.This time, Jerry's putting in improved lights in our barn, and my horses are quite content to leave wiring to the folks with thumbs. They wander in the barn occasionally to watch, then return back to the pasture. Jerry also is working inside, and while our older cat, India, is letting Jerry do what he wants without imposing her views, Kamalani MonkeyCat is fascinated by Jerry's workmanship. Fortunately, Monkey tends to watch rather than help, which means at this time, Jerry's still on schedule.
The Rules of the GameThe Rules of the Game, According to Cats.Some folks have some peculiar ideas about cats. They talk about how aloof cats are, how dignified cats are, how cats can't be trained. Maybe my cats are different because they're not entirely sure they're cats.The black Tuxedo in the picture is India. She does look like a cat, but since she was brought up by a part-German shepherd, she tends to think of herself as a dog. She shakes hands, sits up for cookies, licks your hand instead of rubbing on it. She even scratches her side with a hind leg while standing, another dog behavior.
She's been called our "dog cat" and "cat dog" since her barn-cat days, long before a cartoon show appropriated her title. She answers to "Dog!" as much as she does to her own name.
The tiger-striped calico is formally named Kamalani, but nobody calls him that. Everyone calls him Monkey or the MonkeyCat, because he started trying to walk on his hind legs, waving his front paws around, resembling a monkey walking on its hind legs.
And, since kittens are pretty goofy anyway, he earned the nickname Monkey that has, for the most part, replaced his lovely Hawai`ian name that means "royal child."
It's been a while since we had a kitten, and I never before had a chance to raise a kitten in a house. The previous kitten - India - was a barn cat, one that learned to patrol the feed room, at least making an appearance, even if she didn't catch anything.
Having Kama in the house full time has taught me that cats play games with actual rules. And, in return for his also learning to sit up for cookies, shake hands and (okay, these two are in the works...) sing for his supper and walk on a leash, Kamalani MonkeyCat has taught me cats have rules to their games.
Early on, I discovered Monkey likes to play hide and seek. Just as in the people version of the game, it isn't fair to peek. I hide my face, and I get stalked. I have to keep my face hidden until I'm pounced upon. To peek early spoils Monkey's fun, and he'll quit, stalking off to mutter and complain until I apologize for breaking the rules.
We're not the only ones learning the rules of the games Monkey wants to play. India the CatDog has game rules to learn, too. She has never been around a kitten before, but at least she no longer wants him dead. Tranquilized, yes. Caged, definitely. But not dead.
She's tolerating him and his games. They play tag, the standard version of chase with few rules. But India and Monkey also play at boxing, a more complicated game.
At first, we were alarmed by the yelling and hissing and all the rapid paw swats the two were throwing at each other. As we watched more closely, we discovered this, too, is a game with rules. And so long as excitement doesn't cause one of the players to forget the rules, this scary-looking play never leads to injury.
The rules call for taking turns. Nobody is to get hurt. Yelling and hissing are permitted. Play stops in case one of the "combatants" has an itch that needs scratching, or needs to smooth down ruffled fur. Play may continue for as long as 3 minutes or until India has decided she has had enough and walks off.
Monkey has been known to instigate the game by leaping, spread-eagle, from the ottoman on top of India when she's asleep or watching television.
We're astonished that Indy, who is Monkey's senior by far more than a decade, hasn't retaliated with her own "rules of engagement." On the other hand, she has set one of her own rules in stone: Don't mess with the DogCat when she's sleeping in her comfy bed. And, so far, Monkey's playing that game strictly by the rules.It's Kapa-Making Time in Texas!
If you think about it, Texas and Hawai`i have a lot in common. To be sure, the kinship might not be obvious at a casual glance. But once you start examining the two states, you'll soon start finding things they have in common.
Texas and Hawai`i are the two states in the union that originally were independent nations. Texas achieved statehood first, but that was after a single decade as a republic. Hawai`i finally was welcomed into the Union in the 1950s - after Alaska, which surprised the islands' residents who had collected all those "49th State" Label 78 records.
The islands were a collection of independent kingdoms from the early migration of the Polynesian settlers until united as a single nation by Kamehameha the Great in 1796. He was born on Hawai`i Island, often called "The Big Island" because it is so much larger than the others in the chain. And so, while each island has retained its own individual name, the chain became called the Hawai`ian Islands. (Had a chief from my home island pulled off the same feat, you might have been planning a trip to the "O`ahuan Islands" instead.)
Both states used their national flags as state flags once they joined the Union.
One might say both states have tasted defeat at the hands of the United States as well: Texas joined the Confederacy, and was among those who were on the losing side of the War Between the States; Hawai`i's monarchy was overthrown by those who had American interests at stake, and Americans were involved in the establishment of the subsequent government that swiftly became the Territory of Hawai`i, an American possession before it was given statehood.
On a cheerier note, both Texas and Hawai`i have their own types of music. Texas has flavored music from blues to Western and everything in between. Elvis may have been the King of Rock and Roll, but just listen to Roy Orbison's voice and you'll know why everyone from Bruce Springsteen (check out the "Roy Orbison and Friends" concert) to George Harrison and Bob Dylan and the rest couldn't wait to sing along with Roy - Five octaves and counting! Near where I live in North Texas, we have KHYI 95.3 The Range pumping out Texas music (with some "Americana" thrown in, just to be generous) and promoting Texas bands and soloists. "Too twangy? Naw!" is one of the station's promotional lines. And you do hear steel guitar more often than not.Of course, the steel guitar was developed in Hawai`i. And when you visit the place of my birth (I just sound "Texas" because my parents were native Texans!) you can tune into "local" stations that play all Hawai`ian, all the time. As with KHYI, you'll hear an island-born vocalist do a cover of a song you know by other artists when you're in "the other 49," but then you'll hear music that is all Hawai`i's own, from the Caribbean-influenced Jawaiian to slack-key to falsetto singing, and all the rest.
And both states have cowboy music - or, "paniolo" songs as they're called in Hawai`i. That's because both states have a proud cowboy heritage. There were cowboys in Hawai`i before the word "cowboy" was coined on the American continent. The Mexican influence started in Hawai`i when men from that country were brought to Hawai`i to round up the cattle descended from those brought to the islands by Vancouver. The animals had multiplied to the point they were hazards, and the Mexican riders first got them under control, then taught the Hawai`ians how to do it themselves. Look up names like Ikua Purdy on the internet, and you'll discover that Hawai`ians became quick learners and could beat those mainland boys at their own game, even on borrowed horses because you couldn't easily haul a horse trailer across the Pacific in those days. I've emphasized the Hawaiian cowboys, or paniolos (a name derived from the word "Espanol") because I'm presuming everyone knows about Texas cowboys!
Residents of both states have a heritage of hospitality that always is remarked upon by visitors. The countryside in both places is filled with beauty, even though sometimes it's in the eyes of the beholder. Both states have people with great state pride, and both state flags are flown often and everywhere. Each place has a mindset that when you're there, you're in a whole 'nother country.
And so, if it seems odd that a red-headed haole (white) girl is kneeling on her Keller, Texas, back porch, pounding mulberry bark into cloth, the way the women of Hawai`i did before they got their hands on cotton, silk, wool and other fabrics - and the way some of these women have resumed doing so the art is not lost - then remember, just because they're thousands of miles apart, Texas and Hawai`i are sisters, after all.
Happy New Year's, Y'all!
Some folks have New Year's Eve parties. Kenny and I did, too. But our party bore no resemblance to the "champagne edition" festivities most people associate with New Year's Eve. Think Tom Sawyer whitewashing the fence, with Becky Thatcher pitching in. Better yet, think Tom, Becky and all the Mark Twain fictional gang rebuilding the fence first!
This fence separates our front yard from Johnson Road. Across the street from us, Castleman Court dead-ends at Johnson Road, with only a stop sign preventing motorists from creating a drive-through into our living room.
We hear that's not the best feng shui, and that we should plant some shrubs along the fence line. We did, and they withered to sticks during our 100-degree 2005 summer. So, for now, our wind chimes will have to do.
But rather than depend solely on the melodic metal chimes, we also count on this post and rail fence to protect us. And it was past due for a makeover. Kenny probed the wood, seeking - and finding - the rotten posts and rails. He bought their replacements and began digging out the mushy parts. It would have been easier, but the house's previous owners had done the proper thing - set it all in concrete.
Once the post holes were emptied, Kenny refilled them with concrete and the new posts. And he wondered during that time, "Will every Christmas and New Year's holiday break involve fence assembly?"But he was on a mission, the same as we both were last year when we fenced our pasture. This time, the mission was as much beautification as it was reinforcing the one barrier between us and anyone running the stop sign across the street.
The front fence, mostly decorative, had become uneven and the paint itself had begun to blister and chip away. Its appearance had started to bug him, and he desperately wanted the front fence repaired before he started back at work.
So, on New Year's Eve, while others were selecting noisemakers and chilling the bubbly, we already had made our own noise with saws and hammers, and we'd popped the tops off cans of white exterior paint.The rehabilitated fence looks fine. Me, I still need more clean-up after the effort, and Kenny could use a good session with a nice, relaxing hot tub, topped off with Ben-Gay or Absorbine Jr.
We plan to give the boards a second coat of paint before we add new street numbers - fancy reflective ones with black trim - out front. But, for the most part, the mission's been accomplished, just in time to welcome the new year.
Christmas DreamThis is every little girl's dream Christmas! Horses in the back yard Christmas morning! Sway the Limit, my off-the-track Thoroughbred, and Ginger, my Appaloosa, got apples, carrots and a variety of cookies along with their Christmas morning breakfast.
They have plenty of halters and lead ropes, blankets and boots, saddles, bridles and pads. Perhaps to horses, all of those things are the equine equivalent of getting socks and underwear as presents. So this year, they got the GOOD stuff - tasty treats with such flavors as apple, watermelon, carrot and sorghum. Yum!
Every family has its own Christmas traditions. Ours starts the day before, with the cleaning of the stable before I go to the late candlelight service at my church. Christmas Eve this year became an arts and crafts day: I made new stockings for Sway and Ginger, for our cats Kamalani MonkeyCat and India, and for "our" barn cats, Tex and Sadie, who actually belong to our friend, Karen Prell. Not to be left out, I also decorated a pretty stocking for my new God-daughter, Alisha, who made it home from the hospital just in time for Christmas with her parents, Johan and Norma.
Our family tradition continues Chrismas morning with serving breakfast to the animals, first the cats, then the horses. I can't wait to fill stockings with apples and carrots and cookies and take them out to the barn, and it's always better when the barn is in my own back yard!This year, Sway and Ginger escorted me to the barn, then entered their stalls and patiently waited while I grabbed the buckets full of grain, pellets and bran - the usual breakfast. Then I added the Christmas treats, to their delight. Thanks to our friends, Mary and Tom, the horses have plenty of cookies to last them past New Year's Day.Our family celebration resumes inside, with the customary diving into our own stockings and ripping open the wrapped presents, and pulling the MonkeyCat out of the Christmas tree (again.)
But for us, nothing starts off Christmas better than that trip to the barn. As a child, I longed deeply to find horses in my back yard on Christmas morning...or Easter, or my birthday, or any day at all. It didn't happen until I was an adult, trained in barn management and equestrian arts, valuable knowledge that makes life easier for horse and human alike. I may have matured enough to realize that, but my desire to have horses in my back yard Christmas morning hasn't waned through the years, not at all. If anything, I'm even more passionate about it, even if the horses that peer over the gate are the same ones I fed the night before...the week before...the year before....It's every little girl's dream, and for me, the dream has come true.
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year,The Little Red Hen
Merry Christmas to All From Our House to Yours!
Gifts from the heart, particularly given by friends who work hard to make your dream come true, can take your breath away. For us at the Double Nickel Ranch (all 2 1/4 acres of it), we got one of those presents last year.
This picture shows my Florida-born horses venturing out in snow, which fell just in time to give us a white Chrismas last year. What an intriguing substance this cold, white stuff is to horses who see it for the first time! But without the help of some courageous friends, who ignored sore muscles, cut fingers and other injuries, this picture couldn't have been taken.
We had friends volunteer - actually volunteer! - to help us fence in our pasture so our horses could romp outside the barn by Christmas time. The gift from our friends was as much a treat for our horses as it was to us. What's remarkable is that these folks are still our friends!These aren't farmers or ranchers or construction workers. These are cartoonists, who work at art tables or desks with pencils, pens, brushes or computers. They rarely, if ever, hoist 80-pound sacks of quick-set concrete, or drill tough Texas clay with augers, or carry and set 8-foot fenceposts, or unroll rods and rods of heavy-duty woven field fence, or stretch the fencing in place with a 2-ton "come-along."
But they worked as if they were getting paid. They worked like they'd get a bonus if they beat a deadline. They worked as if they enjoyed it.We did feed them, and we provided them gloves and tools. And they didn't hate us afterwards.
These folks had a deadline. We wanted the horses out in the pasture by Christmas. The rush was my fault, having moved the horses to our newly-bought property before it was ready. But I had decided my horses, the dark Thoroughbred gelding, Sway the Limit, and the Appaloosa mare, Ginger, would be better off at my place than they were at the latest boarding barn, even though our barn was nowhere near ready and the pasture's fencing was broken, rusty barbed wire that wouldn't keep the neighbor's cattle out, let alone keep our horses in.
The horses were anxious to leave the boarding barn, leaping into the trailer with no hesitation, and behaving mannerly when we put them into our barn. I'd spent two days getting the barn itself ready. Before the horses arrived, I built two stalls; with Kenny's help, I added pipe gates at either end so the horses could move around in the barn while the big, sliding wood doors remained open; and with help we shoveled in a dump truck load of river sand to raise the floor. Until the perimeter fence was done, the horses would remain confined to the 30x40 foot barn.
I also made a makeshift playpen in the area which would become our riding area, but the appearance of heavy fencing was pure illusion, and I dared not let the horses romp without close attention. They got daily turnouts, but their "recess time" was limited. Fortunately, Sway and Ginger were delighted with the new home and immediately settled into the new routine.
We knew, however, they needed their pasture. So as soon as we could get the fencing materials and the volunteers on the property, the construction project began. Tom Morgan, Greg Reynolds, Greg Glaser and my husband, Ken Mitchroney, shared the duties on the 2-man auger. Paul Claerhaut and I set the posts. Paul's wife, Helen, even joined us one day to hammer the huge metal staples that hold the field fence onto the posts. (If I've misspelled these names, please forgive me! I'll correct them ASAP.)
It was a monstrous job. It took two full weekends to accomplish, and that was just to complete the primary fencework. The top rail would come later, thanks to Kenny's father, Joseph Mitchroney, who worked harder than most men half his age. Other details added later would include additional gates, the electric wire, the completion of the work arena and the construction of a small work pen.
And none of this could have happened properly if the City of Keller hadn't given me near-immediate approval of the fencing permit request. They sympathized with the plight and responded swiftly.The Christmas Construction Crew, as we called these friends, earned their "bonuses" of gift cards and first aid kits, and each one was surprised and embarrassed to get anything other than the knowledge that their labor had given my horses freedom to run in their new pasture.
As for me, I once again had my childhood "Dream Christmas" - waking up Christmas morning to find horses in my back yard. It didn't matter in Florida, and it doesn't matter here in Texas, that the horses I wake up to see on Christmas morning are the same horses I fed and watered on Christmas Eve. Many little girls go to sleep Christmas Eve hoping that Santa will have figured out how to pack a horse into the sleigh. Fortunately, I don't have to count on Santa this year. I watched his elves and helpers make that dream come true last year. And this year, I'll wake up Christmas morning, and once again, I'll find two happy horses in my back yard.
It doesn't get much better than that!

And to all the little girls who find out that horses really don't travel well by sleigh, never give up on the dream! Your horse will be worth the wait!
--- The Little Red HenHowdy and Aloha!
Welcome to my world! This is a new blog, so let me tell you what you may find here.

My interests are varied, so you may get tips on how to train a difficult horse, how to fill a hay net in a few seconds without losing it all on the hay room floor, how to get your cat to sing for his supper, how to weave a lei, how not to act like a "stupid tourist" in Hawai`i, how to handle watercolors before they drive you nuts, how to decorate a parade entry on a budget of $25 or less, how to get started in costume contests, and no telling what else!
Also, some of you know me by many different names. In hula, I am known by Lili`u, Kapi`olani and Kaunaloa. In SCA, I have been known as Leija Isilinde of Tirith Kelvar, called Moonsinger. I've been published as Beth Mitchroney, my married name, as well as Beth Weilenman (a name I've never abandoned), and my Texas relatives call me by my full name, Donna Beth, the way the daughter of Native Texans should be called. (I shortened it to "Beth" when I moved to Daytona Beach, Fla., where so many folks had moved from Up North that the community didn't know how to deal with a person who wore a traditional double name. Going by my middle name kept a little of my mother in the mix, since Donna Beth came from my parents' names, Donald and Elizabeth, and I had the bonus of fouling up the school's primitive computers.)
I also have been known by such names as Huenhna Mahuba, Keth jibDoqqul, Jaraan, Sidesaddle Jones, and in an emergency when I was a last-minute substitute entertainer at Dave Feiten's Halloween party, "Madame Fear." For this blog, I'm adding another, "The Little Red Hen," based on how many times I've had to undertake a project by myself and in remembrance of how my mother told the story of the Little Red Hen who asked her friends to help her prepare a meal. None was able to help. In my mother's version, the Little Red Hen invited her friends, regardless, to dinner. A blog you do yourself, most times, but I do invite my friends to enjoy it.
This week, I'm basking in the glow of being a God-mother for the first time. My new God-daughter was born 12/12 and is named Alisha, the daughter of our friends Johan and Norma. Since domestic arts aren't my specialty, and I know more about training horses, dogs and cats, I have no idea what Norma and Johan were thinking. But I'm excited about this new adventure - and praying for the real parents' continued health! Alisha will have access to horses, and I hope to be more like an Aunty Mame in her life, the one with cool hobbies and even cooler cars.
Having a new baby in our extended ohana (family) at this time of year brings a different aspect to the Christmas story. Kenny and I are both Christians, so obviously we celebrate Christmas. We also have a barn in the back yard again, and that always has been a beautiful and humbling feeling, being in a barn Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. It is hard to imagine what it must have been like to be a young, first-time mother who has been traveling for many miles, only to learn that when she gives birth, it would be in a stable, not even a conventional room. Some traditions say animals speak at the moment that Christmas Eve becomes Christmas Day.
On the other hand, since we've encouraged our animals to be pretty expressive, I've contended that my animas "speak" pretty much all year round. I'm no pet psychic, but my animals aren't very subtle and usually are pretty determined to get their points across. All we have to do is to pay attention. I find that's pretty much the case with most animals.
We'll be busy this Christmas. Kenny's been spending long hours at DNA, working on "The Ant Bully," so he figured his Christmas vacation will be chock full of "honey-do" jobs. Since I've been tapped by my church, Northgate United Methodist, as a greeter, a member of the Worship Committee and lately the Communion Steward, I'll be busy as well. (Don't worry - the Communion Steward doesn't bake the bread! Everyone's safe!)
From all of us to all of you, "Merry Christmas!" And because we have many friends of different faiths and beliefs, "Happy Holidays!" and "Season's Greetings!" And to all of my friends in various Hawai`ian communities, "Mele Kalikimaka a Hau`oli Makahiki Hou!"
A me ke aloha pumehana, The Little Red Hen