Little Red Hen

When The Saints Go Marching In - Or, Who Dat Winning the Superbowl?

2010-02-08T07:07:00.001-08:00

No pictures - I wasn't there. You probably saw the game, anyway.

I didn't have a digital camera four years ago when Katrina hit Louisiana with even greater devastation than Andrew, the hurricane that chopped off everything that was higher than six feet, destroyed the groves managed by my brother-in-law, and filled their home with showers of rain and glass shards from what used to be their windows.

But Katrina did more, and the stories I heard were heart-rending.

I was living in Keller, Texas, then, attending Northgate United Methodist Church, a small congregation in Irving that does so much more than you'd expect from a church its size. A food pantry and clothing closet was ramped up to help the Katrina evacuees that had traveled as far north as the Dallas-Fort Worth area. Folks came in as soon as the doors were open, and they kept streaming in.

Mary Morgan, a friend of mine, and I volunteered to assemble supply bags so that toothpaste, toothbrushes, razors, soap - things you don't realize how much you appreciate till you don't have any - for quick distribution.

Others were dealing firsthand with folks who needed our help. They wanted jobs. They wanted their kids back in school. They looked shell-shocked, but they maintained their dignity. I don't know how they coped.

Then our church got a call to help a family move from Irving to Garland, where government-subsidized apartments had been found to house them. They were staying in a cousin's 2-bedroom apartment. They were a multi-generational family of 16.

By the time you get to N for Northgate, or U for United Methodist or M for Methodist, maybe you've been making lots of phone calls. Maybe they thought we had a church van.

We had one soccer-mom type van and one white Silverado truck (mine.) We made so many trips moving them and their newly-acquired household goods and clothing (all packed in garbage bags....) Once the first round of family members arrived, they found that there'd been a snafu with the government paperwork. One young member of this family, possibly college-age, started another round of calls on his cell phone, mostly waiting as he repeatedly was put on hold.

He was directing the moving operation for his family. What a weight on those young shoulders....

During one of the return trips to Irving, while he waited again on hold, and his cell battery was draining, he told me their story.

His grandmother didn't want to leave their house. The family obeyed its matriarch. They watched the water rise, drowning the dog that lived next door. They fled to their house's upper floors. They realized they had to go.

Packing some family treasures they couldn't bear to leave behind into a few suitcases, they made their way out somehow and escaped. When the young man told me that, I first wondered, "If I had to leave, what would be the family treasures I couldn't bear to leave? Pegasus, the rocking horse my father made. Man o'War's photo. My two best ukuleles, one belonging to my mom, the other made by the late John Ogao. Photos we've never put on computer or posted on Facebook. Things from Hawai`i we can't replace. My wedding photo album. Family Bibles. I don't know - I'd need a trunk, not a suitcase. I'd need my Silverado....

Then I thought, "They don't have suitcases - where were the suitcases? They just have plastic bags...."

This family couldn't get the car started - it was overrun by water. They walked.

They became some of the folks you may remember waiting on I-10 to be rescued. They were there for a few days. Finally, help came. This family, with its few rescued family treasures packed in suitcases, and nothing else.

And when they finally could leave their destroyed city, they were told, "You have to leave the suitcases behind."

And that's why the evacuees fled into Texas with nothing but the clothes on their backs.

But, they had each other.

They were gracious. The grandmother reminded the children to "Thank Miss Beth" for helping them get to their new homes - but the youngsters needed no reminding. The young man, who did manage to get through the government red tape, tried to offer me money, but I couldn't take it. I accepted their hugs, and asked that they'd pray for me, just as I would pray for them.

I never saw them again, but I think of them now and then and hope they did as well as the Keller post office worker who landed a job there after leaving New Orleans after Katrina.

I certainly was thinking of them Sunday night, and all the other folks who sought a helping hand from our church, just to get back on their feet and get their lives going again.

I thought of the kind people at the Louisiana visitors' centers who gave me respite, Community Coffee and a little fluff of auburn-colored cotton during my many trips from Texas to Florida as I rescued my cabin. I thought of the nice Louisiana Mason who gave me one of his state pins when we met up with a Masonic convention in Baltimore.

(I also thought about the Baltimore Colts. . . I liked 'em when they were the Baltimore Colts.)

Some folks said you wouldn't be given a Superbowl just because you survived Katrina. That the Colts' quarterback wouldn't go soft on the Saints just because his daddy played for them years ago.

But then, I thought of all the folks who came into our church, heading to the jobs listings before they got the supplies we gave them just to get them through till their lives restarted again. The Saints weren't looking for charity Sunday night - that would have lessened the victory.

But as they kept saying, they were playing for a cause. And I hope that all those Louisiana folks were screaming as loudly as I was when the Saints marched into their first Superbowl victory.

Umpteen Days of Christmas In No Particular Order

2009-12-25T13:21:00.000-08:00

On an early day this Christmas, I kinda gave this to me:
One Monkey-Cat up in the Christmas Tree.

On another day this Christmas, someone gave to me:
A squished skunk in the driveway,
And One Monkey-Cat up in the Christmas Tree.

On another day this Christmas, someone gave to me:
Vultures on the back fence....
Looking for the squished skunk
That I'd slid into a box
And hauled off to the back yard...
And I'm ignoring Monkey climbing up the Tree.

On another day this Christmas, someone gave to me:
A cold I can't get rid of.....
(---ended with a preposition! --
And I'm too sick to care;)
And the Monkey-Cat's still climbing up the Tree..

On another day this Christmas, someone gave to me:
KENNY HOME FOR CHRISTMAS!
(WHY DO I have this bad cold?)
There's vultures on the back fence,
Looking for the squished skunk.
And Monkey! Please get off the Christmas Tree!

On another day this Christmas, someone gave to me...(well, it was Kenny, not just "somebody"!):
A lovely dinner at Hotel Mac,
Great company with friends,
Two apple-pie-hot-drinks,
A taste of creme-broulet,
More time with Kenny,
---And my gosh what HAS the Monkey done to the Tree?????

On another day this Christmas, someone gave to me:
A solution for not finding the stockings:
I went and made some new ones;
And these were really big ones;
I even made cat-paw ones,
And where's the coal for Monkey?
The other cats get cookies;
(And yes, there's some for Monkey,
Although he wrecked the Tree;)
I didn't ship folks' presents;
I'm too sick to care;

I'm missing Anita's dinner;
Still to sick to worry;
The vultures have flown off now;
I won't check on the skunk;
I'm in love with my new job -
I'm writing for a paper,
Just like in the old days;
The horses are happy;

They've got their very own pasture;

It's Freya's First Christmas
In her new adopted home;

I didn't need a third yard-cat,
Not counting the neighbors',
Who come and eat the cat food
I set out for Texie and Sadie,

Who now live in cat-mansions
That used to be play-houses...
I hung their mitten stockings
Just outside their doors....

Back inside, the Dog-Cat,
Tired of Little Monkeys,
Is sleeping by the heater,
After eating all her cookies -

She's 20 years old now,
And still enjoys her Christmas...
But now she's sleeping....and...
It sounds like a great idea.....
So.... Merry Christmas - I'm gonna take a nap!

Christmas 2009 - Or...what the Monkey did to the tree THIS year....

2009-12-25T11:43:00.000-08:00

What a beautiful tree! Topped by an angel that's been in Kenny's family for quite some time, with crystal bead garland cascading down from the top, lights arranged in an orderly fashion, and branches loaded with vertical icicles, dangling stars and angels, and an array of other ornaments.

It was nice while it lasted......

Then we got Monkey Help.

Nobody decorates a tree quite like a Monkey Cat. This year's tally...so far...are 5 Christmas balls, 8 icicles, one spray of cherries, 5 ribbons (some chewed in half so if they had been holding ornaments, those, too, were now on the floor....) The skirting around the tree's base has been pulled to one side, and the bottom layer lies wadded up on top.

You'd think that at 4, The Little Monkey - who isn't quite so little anymore - would be bored with tree redecorating. Or that perhaps he couldn't wedge himself into the tree.

But you'd be wrong.

Here, he's halfway to the top, and the only reason he didn't go higher is because I pulled out the camera. Notice the no-longer-beautifully-cascading-crystal-garland.....

This is what our tree looked like on Christmas morning.

Poor tree!

The ornaments are in disarray. You may see some of the icicles are horizontal, as if they were frozen during a stiff wind. The garland is a mess. Some of the branches have been stripped of their decor.

However, Kenny and I were puzzled early Christmas morning. Something else was off. It was if the ornaments had been moved around on the tree....???

When we looked more closely, Kenny and I finally realized the angel on top of the tree was facing the wall. This year, The Monkey - yes, that innocent little fellow in front of the presents - had managed to turn the tree around during the night.

That's some feat, since we always tie the tree to the ceiling beam before we dare decorate it.

He's lucky he didn't get coal in his little paw-shaped stocking this year!

Who....me???

2009-12-13T11:46:00.000-08:00

Would I, your own sweet Little Monkey, do anything to harm the pretty Christmas tree?

Me, wrapping myself up in this box to be your bestest best present ever?

I have no idea who unraveled the skirting under the tree.

Must have been some OTHER Monkey.

Not me.

Nope.

Let the Christmas Games begin!

2009-12-12T11:24:00.001-08:00

The waiting is over! The Christmas Games have started!

Those of you who have read this blog in its Yahoo version know this time of year has its own sport - Monkey vs. the Christmas Tree. The tree comes armed with flashing lights, guardian angels, icicle spears and stars. The Monkey is armed with teeth, claws and a determination to strip the tree of its decorations.

The only reason the tree remains standing at the end of the Christmas season is because it's tied to the ceiling.

This year, Monkey is 4. You might think that with maturity comes a disdain for such childish - kittenish? - sports as climbing the tree, snagging a feathered bird ornament and plucking its tail right out of its body. You would be wrong - clearly you haven't met The Monkey.

The one thing those bird ornaments have going for them is they're embedded into branches, and ornament sprays at the very top of the tree, right at the base of the beautiful angel that has adorned the top of Kenny's Christmas trees since he was a child. (Yes, the angel is tied to the ceiling, too - just a precaution, of course, but we don't want the angel to topple to the floor the way it did the first Monkey Christmas! She IS an heirloom!)

The Games this year started as I dragged our tree out of its box and started assembling this three-part, ceiling-high, pre-lit beauty. I had just placed the middle section atop the base portion and was surprised I wasn't getting any..um...help. "Where's the Monkey?" I asked.

Surprise! Wham! Here came a paw, grabbing at my hand. Chomp! EVERYthing goes into the Monkey Mouth. Stealth Monkey had slipped amid the branches and was getting a head start.

I managed to get all three parts of the tree in place, then lashed the top branches with sturdy fishing line to the wood screws drilled into the ceiling beam overhead. The angel, wings wedged into the fishing line lashings, topped the tree even before I tested the lights.

The ornaments came next. Monkey was VERY helpful....

I may have spoiled the game a bit this year. I've draped our beaded garland vertically. In the past, the horizontal spiral around the tree made for easy pickings for The Monkey and daily replacing the lopsided garland I'd find drooped onto the floor every morning.

But the tree is up and decorated. Its pre-lit white lights shine constantly. Strands of blue lights are on a slow-glow setting, and a set of multicolored lights are on random flash for the moment. The crystal - okay, clear acrylic - ornaments catch those lights when they're on, and reflect the living room's ambiant light when the tree's lights are off. It's shiny and sparkly, just like I like it.

The Monkey likes it, too. He's already taken up residence on top of the double skirting under the tree. His spot. His tree. Who needs presents when you have The Monkey?

It's Just How You Look At Things

2009-10-17T22:08:00.000-07:00

Sway the Limit isn't the easiest horse in the world to own. Today was another day in handling his strangely-wired brain.

It was time to get his and Ginger's toes trimmed, and I brought the pair up from their new four-acre pasture they were awarded after a couple of other pasture mates tried to turn them into hamburger. We love the new spot, but it's not the easiest place to reach, especially during California winter rains. So, rather than have the farrier haul all her supplies the long road to their paddock, I led Sway and Ginger up to a round pen to await their manicure.

Sway was unnerved when the horses in the adjacent pasture raced to greet them - well, to greet Ginger, who welcomed their attention. Sway was furious, so I put him in a pipe stall next to the round pen, and while I left Ginger in the round pen, I tied her near to Sway.

Sway seemed to calm down after that, and behaved as usual when I cleaned their feet in preparation for the trim. But when the farrier arrived, Sway began to melt down. He wouldn't hold still. He tried to rear. He tried to sit down. He resisted everything, and we were about to leave his feet alone - except he's been dealing with a quarter-crack, and really needed my repairs examined, and the hooves reshaped and beveled.

The last time he reacted this badly was 2002, when I was trying to redirect his behavior after he attacked me. But we've come a long way since then, and I could tell by one of his actions that he meant me no harm.

I asked the farrier to give me a few minutes alone. She wisely backed off. Another boarder came by, and I told her, "Now's not a good time," and returned my focus to Sway. He needed quiet, without interruption.

And, I could tell he wanted help in regaining his composure - he dropped his nose to the ground periodically.

Getting him to lower his head was our first breakthrough on the long road to giving him a veneer of normalcy. Some days, early on, the only good thing he would do was to drop his head on command. A technique I learned from Bill Dorrence's book, it makes sense. A horse throws his head up when he's nervous, and lowers it when he's calm.

But Sway was nowhere near calm - in fact, he was on the verge of one of his increasingly-rare breakdowns, when he loses any contact he may have with reality. Lowering his head was his cry for help.

So, I got everything and everyone stopped. And Sway and I talked. We walked a bit, then stopped. He finally began breathing normally, and his heart, pounding so wildly I could feel his pulse on every inch of his body, finally started to slow. I got him to focus on me.

And, finally, he stood calmly, and the farrier could finish her job. He let me pick up his feet - even handed them to me - and once I knew he would tolerate it, I would let the farrier hold the hoof so she could continue her work. She even liked how his quarter-crack hoof was healing, and told me to continue the cotton ball and glue treatment that has prevented the crack from spreading and allowed his hoof to heal. "Keep up the good work," she said.

Ginger's trim was nowhere near exciting, even when she flinched because of arthritis in her 30-ear-old back legs.

I paid their bill, praised the farrier for her patience, and got an atta-girl from her for handling Sway so well. And I led the horses back to their four-acre spot, and they behaved as if nothing untoward had happened at all.

I know not everyone would be able to see today's adventure as a success story. And it certainly could have ended badly. But then, not everyone would understand what this fractious horse was saying when he lowered his head.

Fortunately, my precious Sway and I have learned to see eye-to-eye.

It's Nice To Be Back

2009-10-09T20:19:00.001-07:00

Some time ago, Harlan Ellison called me a writer. Actually, he did more than that. He announced that I was a writer. He proclaimed that I was a writer. He pointed his finger at me, one of many in his audience at his talk at a World Science Fiction Convention, and made sure the rest of the folks in the room knew I was a writer.

I'd prefaced a question to him by saying unlike many science fiction readers who all seem to be working on novels, I wrote stories for a daily newspaper and had no aspirations to write a book. I never got to the question - Harlan took that point and expounded on it. He reminded all the others whose "books" were still rambling thoughts not yet fastened to paper that writers actually write. And pointed out I wrote on a daily basis.

I wrote for newspapers for 23 years, until one office where I worked made life so peculiar I switched to managing Kenny's cartoon studio. And you know things must be peculiar if working in a cartoon studio felt better than working in a career I had loved.

Then Kenny got hired at Pixar. Then we moved to California. Then I needed a job and figured, hey, with all these papers in the Bay Area, getting hired as a reporter should be a cinch.

Instead, it was a bust.

Folks think newspapers have recently run into problems. I got my heads-up on the matter in 1997.

Ever hopeful, I filled the time between applications with office temp jobs, a short-term bartending gig, telling folks about Hawai`i, trying and failing to be a travel agent, and becoming a top-notch cashier until a nasty fall made them send me home for good.

I turned to teaching ukulele and Hawaiian language in Texas, and started my own halau after we returned to California. Love the teaching, won't give up the halau and other students, but realized at last I couldn't survive solely on that pay.

Thanks to Roger Colton, whose keen eye spotted the ad, I applied to the Benicia Herald for a part-time reporting job. Didn't make it on the first round, but when they posted another opening, I got hired. (Thanks Marc! - He's my new boss!) And this is the door I walk through five days a week.

Working at this paper reminds me of working in the bureaus for the Daytona Beach News-Journal and the Orlando Sentinel. Bureaus are office outposts, satellites operating away from the main office, usually in suburbs of the main office's home metropolis. Sometimes the downtown folks look down on the bureaus as not being as prestigious as working at the main office. But for some of us, it's appealing to get away from the big building, compete with the local papers and other papers' bureaus, and meet killer deadlines that make scooping the competition so much sweeter.

As a bureau brat, I got to know more townsfolks a lot better, which can work both for and against you. But, sometimes the residents would remind me that the bureau belongs to a big metro paper, and I wasn't working for the "local" paper - even if none of their staff was born or grew up in the home town.

Now, I do work for the local paper.

The Herald publishes five days a week. It's the home town paper in Benicia, just a short bridge ride from my home in Martinez. It's not on line, and they've ended subscriptions by mail. You get your paper the old fashioned way, by delivery carrier or by slipping a couple of quarters in the paper machine.

Snagging this job wouldn't have happened if it weren't for many friends, because my clips collection had been ruined. Kenny found a few of my surviving clips, some of which were so damaged they couldn't be scanned - I typed them into the computer and printed them out as if they were raw copy. Gerri Bauer, who worked with me in the News-Journal's DeLand office, located some of my stories about Stetson University, where she works now. That included my scoop on Barbara Bush. T. C. Wilder found some of my historic pieces on Eldora, an unincorporated community within the Canaveral National Seashore. Countless folks offered to be references.

I found other co-workers through Facebook who gave me sad news - most of my work has been dumped.

I had written copiously about the Central Florida Zoological Park, where I met Jack Hanna and Stan Brock. Among my stories was one about employees who learned sign language on their own and taught it to the chimpanzees on display. They did it simply to entertain the animals and stimulate their minds, not to make history. But they noticed the chimps were signing to communicate to each other, and were putting signs together to make new words to ask the employees for things. Scientists who had been working with chimpanzees and other great apes were astonished to read the article, which published worldwide by the Associated Press. It had never occurred to those working in labs that apes on display could learn sign language, or that they could learn outside of isolated, one-on-one lessons.

I wrote many stories about the nation's Bicentennial. I did a series on folksinger Barbara Muller's trek up the east coast, gathering obscure songs along the way. I rode along for a day so I could file a story on the Bicentennial Horse Ride that gathered horseback riders from all over the nation. I chronicled older residents' memories of their lives, written at the prompting of another senior, Nikki Wahl, whose story we always had hoped to tell, but who, instead, sent us to others who, like her, had lived in fascinating times.

I'm sorry those stories are gone, but as I now say, I'm writing new clips. God willing, I will never need to use them. The owner and publisher has told my boss that this paper is a survivor, and I would like to think I'll be a reporter here for a long time.

That's me at my desk, at the end of the week. I've got a story up on the screen, and my steno pad ready for notes.

Best feature on the desk is a photo that Kenny got for me, with the help of his buddy John Field, who may know more about "The Adventures of Superman" television show than anyone who wasn't part of the production. They both knew that when I watched the show, I focused on Lois Lane, played by Noel Neill. Lois wasn't stuck writing for the Society Section, the only opening for many woman reporters when this show was airing. Lois in all her incarnations - tv, movie, and original comic book - wrote hard news, and I found that exciting.

So, when I landed this job, after trying for so many years to get back into the industry, John helped Kenny surprise me with this photo of Noel Neill (posing with Clark Kent doing his side job as a superhero), which she signed "From one reporter to another."

My beats include the city of Benicia, and I'm in the middle of covering election campaigns. I've interviewed the first woman brigadier general in the California Army National Guard. I've written about how our carelessness with trash has caused a floating island the size of Texas, made of plastic garbage, to form in the Pacific. I've filed a story about Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger's refusal to sign several hundred bills until the legislature addresses water problems, and I interviewed our assembly member and county and city representatives about how this affects the Sacramento-San Joaquin River Delta - Benicia is a Delta town.

Unlike Lois, I've also written about a recent style show, but this is because the event was organized by Main Street Benicia, which promotes downtown business - I cover business, too.

The important thing is I've been writing. My by-line is back on Page One.

And, yes, sir, Mr. Ellison - I am a writer!

Happy Anniversary to Us!

2009-09-01T10:02:00.000-07:00

Kenny and I love trains. And one of our favorite rides is on AMTRAK's Capital Corridor from our home, Martinez, to Sacramento, California's capital. It's a ride we like to make for our anniversary. This year, we marked Number 26 in our usual way.

One of our first views came as we crossed the stretch of the Sacramento River at its Carquinez Straits. Beyond the glimmering water are the hills on which our horses, Sway the Limit and Ginger, roam. We had just left the Martinez station, off to the left. Our celebration had begun.

Train rides soothe us. Kenny is working in Southern California. He's working with folks who love having him around. He's getting a chance to direct, and soon may get some voice assignments. Many of the characters he is drawing are those he designed while he worked at DNA Productions in Texas, so like his co-workers, these are old friends. But it's still stressful for him to be so far from home.

I've been dealing with up and down attendance in classes, a quest for more employment, a crisis at my church, and a nasty crack in one of Sway's hooves.

And the last one has stressed me the most. A quarter crack isn't as life-threatening as other situations in which horses can find themselves, but it's ominous enough. This crack, running from the coronet band to the hoof sole, is something like a fingernail that breaks from the cuticle to the tip - except that a horse stands on this "fingernail," and if complications occur, the crack won't heal. That's an ominous spectre.

Fortunately, like Kenny, I have good support - Mrs. Pamela Woods, my first instructor and constant trainer; Eric and Margaret Redmond, breeders of Arabian and Quarter horses who take better care of horses than nearly anyone I know; and a stack of horse care books and updated internet information to guide me. By the time I found a farrier to examine the hoof, initial healing was well on its way.

Kenny and I both needed a relaxing break, and it started with the train.

Our "anniversary suite" was aboard the Delta King. This old paddle-wheeler, along with its sister, the Delta Queen, used to take passengers from Sacramento to San Francisco. It had a rough life afterwards, but was rescued and restored. Docked permanently in Old Sacramento, it is a hotel, restaurant, night club and entertainment venue. It's also a great romantic get-away.

Kenny and I arrived early enough to take in some Old Sac sights before dinner. We stopped by the "Garden of Enchantment," a little emporium of crystals, books, bath salts and incense - definitely one of the best-smelling stores in the district. Three anniversaries ago, we decided to buy some raffia and bead friendship rings as souvenirs. They almost lasted the year. Last year, our 25th anniversary, we bought silver rings with shell inlay that, again, almost lasted the year. This year, we selected heavy-duty wooden rings. Kenny's is a deep brown with lovely grain. Mine is pale with swirls of terra-cotta, decorated with carved lines, circles and holes that remind me of Hawaiian kapa watermarks.

And as we wandered near the Delta King the next morning, we saw these birds. Mynah-kin, perhaps? I love the wild mynahs of Hawai`i; I love Warner Bros.' cartoon mynah. And these characters caught my affection as well.

While I was busy snapping shots of the Delta King and the birds, Kenny was focusing on the yard of the National Train Museum. He's piloted locomotives similar to the one he is photographing.

During our getaway, we also sat on the Delta King's deck to watch the trains cross the bridge above the Sacramento River, and smaller boats pass along the river below. The nightclub band provided just enough background music. So relaxing - just what the doctor ordered!

As a tribute to our honeymoon, we spent a little time watching the NASA channel. Our honeymoon included the first night launch of the Space Shuttle - the late Columbia. Discovery's night launch had taken place shortly before Kenny came home, so it seemed right that in Columbia's memory, we included this mission in our anniversary celebration.

We came home to a pleasant surprise. The Tioga Pass, a private rail car, came into the Martinez station shortly after we disembarked. This is one of my favorite types of rail cars, because its platform allows passengers to sit outside to enjoy the view. Originally part of the Canadian National, it primarily served in Alberta. Like the Delta King, it was sold, neglected and rescued, and like the Delta King, it has a new life entertaining tourists.

We extended our celebration with meals at two of our favorite restaurants, Mangia Bene, an astonishingly excellent Italian restaurant between the Petco and the KFC, and Hanabi, the Japanese restaurant that substitutes for Ebisu, the long-gone, kneel-down Japanese restaurant where Kenny and I got engaged and had our wedding reception.

The rest of our celebration was spent doing the usual household things. "Our house knows when I come home," Kenny joked as he re-shimmed the front door and repaired a spontaneous leak in the bath tub. We went out to the Pasture at the Top of the World to re-bandage Sway's hoof. We fed horses and cats and did laundry - mundane things couples do when they're together.

Then it was time for one more train trip. I took Kenny to the BART station for his trip to Oakland Airport. "It was tough leaving the Coliseum to take the BART bus to the airport, because the A's were playing, and I could hear the game!" Kenny said.

He arrived safely in San Diego, and is back at work at Omation. I'm back on the job search, preparing for the next round of classes, feeding cats, doing laundry and bandaging a split hoof. And so it'll go until Kenny heads home again.

We've noticed one thing that's changed - we're both looking at our new rings. A lot.

Sorry - You'll just have to use your imagination for this one

2009-08-31T23:22:00.000-07:00

"Picture this--" as Estelle Getty in her "Golden Girls" role as Sophia, used as a prelude to one of her stories. No, not The Monkey lounging on the arm of the sofa the way large cats lounge on the larger branches of trees. He's doing that here, and you don't need much imagination to see The Monkey dozing this way.

Instead, you'll have to imagine the blue curtains we've put in our empty doorways to keep our small air conditioner's cold air in the living room. Imagine the cat-claw snags partway up one panel.

I missed a great shot while talking to Kenny on the phone. I saw the curtain was moving, and I presumed either The Monkey or India the Dog-Cat - or both - would emerge under the blue fabric.

Instead, one panel swung out unexpectedly, and dangling along for the ride was The Monkey. Riding the fabric the way Tarzan swung out on jungle vines, The Monkey took himself for a brief ride.

He swung out several times, causing me to howl with laughter. I was too helpless to explain to Kenny what had interrupted our call. Nor could I get to the camera in time. Before I could unpack my new Nikon and turn it on, The Monkey worked his way down the curtain and was off to other adventures.

San Francisco's Aloha Festival 2009

2009-08-03T22:31:00.000-07:00

When I first moved to California in 1997, the first Hawaiian event I attended was San Francisco's Aloha Festival. I didn't know anyone in the Bay Area's Hawaiian community, and the only one I knew personally was a co-worker of Aunty Kau`i Brandt who had flown out from Florida to help a friend who was a vendor at that event.

I knew some of the performers and some of the kumu hula who entertained that day - I had their CDs, or had watched their Merrie Monarch performances. The two day festival was a wonder, and a preview of things to come.

Cautioned not to jump into any specific hula situation until I had time to look them over, I chose to join Hollis Baker's ukulele class in Hayward. They played during the festival, and I loved their sound and the look of the women who danced during their songs.

During my first class, I sat next to a Hawaiian woman who had a lovely voice and beautiful posture. She urged me to stay after class for hula taught by Aunty Harriet Spalding.

The singer is Pearl Ho`omalu Lopez, and LaDania is her daughter. We've been friends ever since. I ended up singing and playing for Uncle Hollis for many years. Through this class, I met Uncle John Ogao, who made the 8-string ukulele I play. And, I was Aunty Harriet's hula student until a stroke ended her career.

So, it's no wonder that I consider the Aloha Festival an anniversary. It's also memorable to regular attendees: The 1997 edition was its last appearance at Chrissy Field - it moved to the Presidio Parade Grounds the next year.

This year was special in another way. Not since my first Aloha Festival have I not been a participant. When I went to the 1998 Aloha Festival, I performed with two bands - Uncle Hollis's Kaleponi Strings and Uncle Kem Tung-Loong's Royal Hawaiian Ukulele Band - but I also danced with Aunty Harriet's Kaleponi Dancers.

When I returned to California from Texas in 2007, I rejoined Uncle Kem's band, which meets at his restaurant in Berkeley, just in time to perform with the band that year at the festival. However, earlier this year I was graduated from the band, and got to sit this performance out.

It had been a long time since I could attend the festival without bringing Uncle John's 8-string, a music stand and a book of songs. On the other hand, it also meant I didn't have to miss any performances at the festival!

Among the performers were Faith Ako and Kumu Shawna Ngum Alapa`i. Ms. Ako sang for hula presented by Kumu Shawna's halau, Na Pua o ka La`akea. Ms. Ako and her band also had a segment during the festival, during which Kumu Shawna danced "E Waianae," which was composed by the hula instructor's brother, Randy Ngum.

The Aloha Festival is more than a song and dance show. Organized by the Pacific Islanders Cultural Association 15 years ago when the recreated Polynesian ocean-voyaging canoe came through the Golden Gate from Hawai`i, this festival educates the public about Polynesian culture and raises money for scholarships. Each student this year - and four received PICA scholarships - gets $1,000 annually for four years to spend as needed during his or her college career.

The festival has a keiki (children's) tent for fun and educational activities, workshops for adults (including ukulele and slack key guitar classes this year,) and informational booths.

Other booths, of course, give attendees plenty of opportunities to shop - and eat! It wouldn't be a Hawaiian festival without food!

Everyone loves when the hula dancers take the stage - or stages, since there are two of them at the festival. Dressed in lovely red and tan dresses, these dancers of Kumu Blaine Kia's combined halau beautifully illustrate the hallmark synchronized motions of the dance. From the earliest writings by Westerners of hula, observers were fascinated that so many dancers would move in perfect unity.

Frequently the final performer at the Aloha Festival is Kumu Mark Keali`i Ho`omalu's Academy of Hawaiian Arts. Kumu Mark has been called the chanter of his generation, and is known throughout the hula world for his pounding drumbeats and controversial, distinctive chanting style.

He's known in mainstream entertainment fans for his composition, "Hawaiian Roller Coaster Ride" and for chanting the medley called "He Mele No Lilo" for the Walt Disney animated movie, "Lilo and Stitch."

His halau's hula are marked by strong movements that reflect his firm style. Even the keiki (children) dance in precise, businesslike formation - these aren't adorable little kids who get distracted by the thousands in the audience, or watch each other to remember what motion comes next. The tiniest of Kumu Mark's dancers need no motherly "aunty" to help place them on stage. These are dancers performing far beyond their years.

Most Hawaiian events conclude with everyone standing, holding hands and singing "Hawai`i Aloha," and this festival was no exception. The crowd then drifts through the vendors' booths for those last purchases or to buy some take-home food.

But that's not the last gasp for me. Since my first Aloha Festival, I've volunteered for after-show cleanup. They call us "Pau Hana Volunteers" [pau hana means after work or after activity], and we are particularly loved. Up till then, the rest of PICA and other volunteers have worked hard to pull off this two-day celebration. And they're exhausted. The Pau Hana crew is the second wind of volunteerism.

With the help of the 60,000 to 70,000 attendees, who do a pretty good job of picking up after themselves, and the Conservation Corps, we sweep through, lugging black plastic bags we fill with whatever litter that got left behind or blew under shrubbery or fell out of overflowing rubbish bins. We separate the recyclables. And we do such a good job that the folks in charge of the parade grounds say you'd never know that anyone had been there.

But we were there. We sang along with the bands, and we cheered the dancers. Some of us also danced when we heard a song we knew - I danced "Waikiki" for one band, and when the musical duet Moana called up all hula dancers for "Ka Uluwehi o ke Kai," I got brought up on stage. We saw friends and shared a great time.

And, as I dropped off my last bag of trash and packed away my gloves, I smiled, knowing I'll never again attend a San Francisco Aloha Festival and not know anyone there except someone who happened to have flown across the country to help a friend in a vending booth.

Where's my air car? When's the next Mars shuttle?

2009-07-16T15:23:00.000-07:00

Back in 1969, I stayed late at the Daytona Beach News-Journal, along with many fellow staffers. The night dragged on till early morning, but nobody was leaving. News was breaking, but we weren't covering it ourselves. We were watching it unfold on the office television. Men finally were walking on the moon.

My Godparents, Thelma and Robert Ross, had bought me astronomy books when I was a child. When I was 9, I'd read all the horse books in the library three times over, and started to explore science fiction. Put the two together, then ship me to Florida, and it's no surprise I was a fan of the space program.

When America began launching manned rockets into space, I was watching the skies at every opportunity I could see a launch. I found High Bridge in Oak Hill when I couldn't get to the Titusville Pier. Other times, my folks and I would walk to the ocean where Ormond Beach and Daytona Beach meet.

I loved the old Saturns. When European rockets raced into the sky like scatted dogs, the Saturns gave us a show. Steam plumes billowed out to each side of the rocket, setting the stage for the slow climb away from the launching pad. The Saturn would gather speed as it rose, and finally began to streak into the sky. We'd wait to see if we could see the stages separate, and to feel the accompanying rumble roll under our feet.

That late-night-to-early-morning in July, we watched as Neil Armstrong climbed down the ladder and touch his feet onto the surface of the moon. We'd made it.

It would be, we believed, the first of many steps onto the surfaces of other worlds. At least it was the first of several such adventures, including Alan Shepard's famous golf swing. For the last of the moon launches, my family and I, including my German shepherd, Athene, gathered at Titusville Pier to watch a great Saturn rise for one last time.

The movie "2001" came and went. The book "2010," like its predecessor 2001, was published and likewise was turned into a movie. And went.

Walt Disney's preview of the Experimental Prototype City of Tomorrow, with "people movers" and other futuristic devices, was shown to us on tv, but as a concept, it went, too....replaced by a theme park of the same name, EPCOT, that has nothing to do with experimental cities that had been planned to house Disney employees.

We've stopped making the great Saturns. The Space Shuttle, which had no dreams of extending us into deeper space, has taken its turn in our space program, and soon will be retired. We've remotely explored our neighboring planets, but we have yet to go. We're helping to build a space station, but it's even closer to Earth than is the moon - so much for building a station in the area of space called "L-5."

Even as late as the 1960s, we thought by 2009 we'd have air cars and a station on the moon, if not a regular landing spot on Mars or one of Jupiter's moons. But then, back in the '60s, we all thought that peace, love and flowers in our hair would win the day, and people would be a lot nicer to each other, too.

The dreams aren't ended...they're just taking longer to accomplish.

On the other hand, when I was watching our first lunar landing take place, I remembered that my father had ridden his paint mare, Trixie, to school. And in his lifetime, he saw us break many barriers. He saw the first atomic bomb. He saw planes that broke the sound barrier. He joined his family in watching little Telstar travel unblinking across the sky. He saw the end of the poll tax and the integration of schools and lunch counters. He saw our country criss-crossed with interstate highways, the growth of hotel chains, the rise and fall of train and luxury liner travel, replaced by jets. And he saw men walk on the moon.

My Administrative Assistant

2009-07-02T18:44:00.000-07:00

The Monkey thinks I need help in my office. If I get more Monkey Help in the office, I'm never going to get anything done. Here The Monkey is watching a Kenneth Patchen poem emerge from the printer.

If only watching were all The Monkey did. The topmost photo shows that the printer has its green light on. That means everything's fine. But The Monkey never believes the printer is capable of working on its own. So Monkey peers into its inner workings, and offers it a "helpful" paw.

Figuring that there must be more to this poem than just one page, The Monkey has decided to dig out the rest for himself. Notice that the green light has turned to yellow. The printer is protesting Monkey's helpfulness, but very little deters my "administrative assistant."

The printer should be back from the repair shop any day now.

New addition to the Yard Patrol

2009-06-26T14:23:00.000-07:00

If this little newcomer curled up in our back yard, she'd disappear - her colors are the perfect camouflage for our summer-dried grass and fallen oak leaves.

She's got a few tabby stripes, including most of the forehead "M," but the rest of her is a blend of white and a dilute tortoiseshell blend. She's got long, soft hair that picks up any plant matter that's no longer rooted into the ground.

Her coloring vaguely reminded me of a Maine Coon Cat or Norwegian Forest Cat. Going with the Nordic inspiration, I nicknamed her "Freya." She likes the monicker, and responded to it immediately.

She showed up with an unfortunate collection of ticks and a hankering for dinner.

I didn't need another cat...we have The Monkey and India the Dog-Cat inside, and our former barn cats, Texie and Sadie, living in Kenny's Iron Garden in the back. Plus, the Moocher Brothers from next door, Snippet and Flash, who must get served meals first so my own outdoor cats can eat without harrassment. These all get fed in the morning, so not to tempt the evening prowlers - the raccoons, skunks and opossums that mostly coexist with humans in our neighborhood.

These cats have a job - keep the yard free of gophers. We've used a variety of non-explosive, mostly non-toxic methods to rid our yard of gophers, and our neighbors have experimented with even more creative methods. Nothing worked - except the cats.

We haven't seen a gopher or its hole in a while, so we weren't in the market for another cat. But nobody told this lonely little fuzzball, who wandered up and mewed plaintively for a bite to eat.

I didn't need a cat, I said. I wasn't going to get it a collar, I said. I pinched off the ticks and dripped flea and tick repellent into the fur - that much I could do. And pop open another can of food....after all, if I didn't, then my own cats would be deprived of food. I wasn't going to give this cat a name, I said. I called it "Munchkin," a generic name I use for anything that wanders through our yard, including my own Yard Patrol staff. I wasn't going to get attached, I said.

Surely, this cat belonged to someone....

But if she did, she apparently belonged to no one now, I concluded after many weeks of feeding the newcomer. Surely no one would allow this lovely longhaired kitty to wander around, foodless, collarless, collecting ticks and debris in her fur.

I found a reflective collar I'd gotten on sale some months ago, and put it on her. No one's taken offense at this and removed it. Nobody's posted any "lost cat" flyers with her image.

She's now a regular for the morning Yard Patrol Breakfast Gathering. She cruises around the house. She longs to come inside, so I suspect at one time she might have been an indoor cat. But she fusses at The Monkey when he peers out at her, and I wouldn't dare upset the Dog by adding another cat indoors.

So, she's stuck outside with the rest of the Yard Patrol. She seems to be accepted by Texie and mostly is ignored by Sadie. She's still working out a relationship with the Moocher Brothers. Unlike the rest, who are all short-haired, she gets combed out every morning. Unlike India, who resists such attention, Freya seems to like being groomed.

I didn't need another cat in the yard. But it's a decent-sized back yard, and apparently this little girl needed a place to stay.

My New Ride!!!

2009-06-12T10:33:00.001-07:00

White Glove Delivery Service doesn't kid around when it takes a birthday present from Washington State and delivers it to California, even when the shipping means a side trip to White Glove's headquarters in Salt Lake City, Utah.

They wrapped this baby up in a cocoon of quilted pads and bound her to the truck's interior wall. Nothing was going to happen to this two-wheeler on their watch! Then they cautiously rolled her down the ramp - "Red's Silver Rose" finally reached the pavement at her new home, Martinez, California!

She's a 2005 Honda Reflex, a motor scooter that can reach speeds of at least 70 mph. Sleek as something designed by starship engineers, this is a highway-legal "maxi-scooter." In some countries, despite the placement of the gas tank and lack of foot pegs, she'd be called a motorcycle.

I've had a motorcyle since 1991. Loved it. I'd ridden a few short trips on the back of Kenny's Honda Shadow 1100, the one he took cross-country on the famous, or infamous, ride by four of the Mirage Studios clan to San Diego ComiCon. Three came out of Massachusetts, including "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles" co-creator Peter Laird, who instigated that trip. Kenny left on one of Florida's stormiest nights, hours after completing the safety course and getting the motorcycle designation on his license. They got back nearly a month later, full of stories about their adventures. The Las Vegas story and "The King Orders Food at a Restaurant" stories always get laughs, as does the quickie stop at the Grand Canyon, where Peter proposed they return by way of Canada to avoid another run through the desert.

I understood the fun of the motorcycle by that point. But I also realized I hated being on the back. They have a special name for the passenger seat, and I think it's more for how it feels to go that fast without seeing where you're going, periodically hitting your helmet against that of your pilot, and not getting enough warning when the wheels are going to roll over something that's going to send your lousy back into horrible spasms.

While Kenny hunted down the bike he'd buy for this trip, I'd sit on a variety of motorcycles. I never felt comfy on any of them until I spotted this cute red Suzuki Savage in Jim Walker's used bike department. I kept coming back to this bike and sitting on it - wow, it felt different! Finally, I figured it out - it FIT! And, come Christmas day, she was mine!

I took the motorcycle safety course (don't get on without it!) and was taught by the most wonderful of instructors. A former WW2 war bride, she and her husband got into Gold Wings, then Harley tour bikes. When she was widowed, she sold everything that didn't fit on the Harley, and took off on an 18-month ride, covering 36 states, looking for a new home. She found it in Port Orange, just south of Daytona Beach, Florida. And she promptly got a job teaching us rookies how to ride motorcycles - AND how to cruise along at about half-a-mile an hour, so we could look GOOD doing the slow ride cruise down Main Street during Bike Week. ---And, I DID! Parked it at Boot Hill, our favorite biker bar, across from the Main Street cemetery, now that they don't flinch at non-Harleys in their parking lot. Big, burly bikers watching over your ride......nice!

I rode her all around Volusia County, up to some of the bike events in Flagler County, out to Kenny's folks in the Ocala Forest. Kenny and I took our bikes up to CrackerCon in Jacksonville, which is more than 100 miles away from our Glenwood home. That was a pretty good trek for me. But the greater challenge was the then-unpaved Lime Street, on which I had to dodge soft sand and stay steady when the crushed limestone road became a mile of washboard surface.

And, oddly enough, my Savage was absolute heaven for my cranky back. On a stiff and painful day, I could take out my bike, ride her around, and some time along the way, I'd be at a red light and my back would pop like firecrackers and adjust itself into comfort and mobility. Ahhhhhhh! How do you spell relief? M-o-t-o-r-c-y-c-l-e!

Fast-forward to this year. It's been a while since I rode a bike. The Savage probably is beyond repair, and has been stored at the Martinez house for some time. Kenny's had a few bikes since his original Shadow; he got a Sportster while we were in Texas. After a short ride as a passenger, I realized this wasn't for me; it was another back-killer. I was thinking that getting back on 2 wheels would be a long time coming....

Till one of "those" birthdays started to come around. You know, one that ends in "0"....

Kenny would be working in Southern California, and wouldn't be here that day. But he wanted to do something special. Boy, did he ever! He negotiated with a friend, and managed to get this scooter sent to our place just in time for my birthday! Isn't she a beauty???

Now, when I first heard "scooter," I pictured the little commuter models I'd seen at car shows. Those little Cushmans and Vespas are cute little chairs-on-wheels, and the Honda Helix isn't bad-looking, but I'd been on a motorCYCLE, and I wasn't much interested in one of those little, in-town commuter models. It wasn't till I spotted a Reflex photo on-line that I thought, "Hey, that's not bad-looking at all!"

I saw some larger scooters while Kenny was in Portland, and then spotted a Silver Wing (the Reflex's successor) in nearby Walnut Creek. Hey, these things look sleek! Massive bodies, motorcycle-length. Highway-legal. Futuristic lines. Yep, I could go for one of these!

Once I heard that this new ride was coming, I started my research. I may not be able to give you measurements and weights and other technical data off the top of my head, but I've got it written down. I joined the Reflex Owners Yahoo groups, and found out most members are men! There went the wimp factor - these scooters are ridden by guys!

And what a bunch of nice, informative guys they are! I pelleted them with questions - what's the difference in riding a motorcycle vs. a scooter? How's the handling? What adjustments in your riding style did you make? What did you have to get used to? Can I do the K-Mod by myself, or is this something better left to the professionals? Do you like the low windshield, and if not, what are the alternatives? How's it for long distances? When do you get used to riding an automatic? With no pegs? And no tank between your knees? I've ended up with a computer file chock full of these Reflex-veterans' tips, suggestions, heads-up warnings and enthusiastic encouragement. They're glad to have me on board, and I'm glad they're happy to share their experience and wisdom.

I stopped by the local motorcycle shop - a really cool place full of choppers in various stages of assembly. I needed a cargo net and other luggage bungie straps for making grocery runs or trips to teach class, and found 'em there. There won't be much I can buy there - it's target audience is the Harley crowd, of course - but they sell some accessories I can use down the road, and they promised they wouldn't mind a girl parking her Japanese-made scooter in front of their biker store. I told them they reminded me of the wonderful bike shop we left behind in Keller - only, unlike Frank's store, this one has no fridge with a Rat Fink painted on the door.....yet....

The scooter has a new name - "Red's Silver Rose." She has some silver and black rosebuds decaled onto her wind screen. Ed Roth always called me "Red," or "The Redhead," and he always liked "Hon-doos," as he called this brand. I've already taken her on a short jaunt around the winding streets of Vine Hill, the neighborhood of Martinez where we live, and down Morello Avenue to Ace Hardware, where I got keys made for my horse trailer and - oooh, with roses! - a key for the house. I've added them to the scooter's key ring.

And she came with some accessories. Our friend, who sold the scooter to Kenny, had a special "Beth" key fob made for this. She tied a rainbow of curled ribbons and added a "Happy Birthday!" card to the key ring as well. Red's Silver Rose came wrapped up in protective padding, and wrapped up like the birthday present she became!

And - finally - I'm back on two wheels again, and OH! - does my back feel better!!!

Here's looking at you, kid!

2009-06-04T12:37:00.000-07:00

Practicing what I preach

When I teach hula, I tell my students, "Practice facing a wall with an 'audience' - pictures of folks smiling at you, or a shelf of Beanie Babies, dolls or other stuffed animals. And I practice what I preach. Just ask the Monkey.

Hula as a performance art

Hula always was a performance art, from the earliest of times, and all students need to pretend, from time to time, they're dancing for a crowd. Some never want to do shows; they dance hula strictly for personal enrichment, and that's fine with me. But when you practice before a "pretend" audience with supportive, smiling faces, this imaginary "show" sometimes inspires a dancer to put a little more spirit into her practice.

Smiles, everybody!

So, I tell my students to practice facing a wall, because walls and corners guide a dancer in hitting her marks when the choreography goes beyond simple steps from side to side. And facing an audience of smiling people - or animals - is encouraging.

...and a Monkey!

And, just to prove to the students I mean what I say, I began putting photos and smiling stuffed characters onto a shelf my haumana face while in class. And, the Monkey, who is a big fan of my hula classes, decided to hop onto the next shelf up, just to get a better look at their performance!

Moving - even just a blog - is always crazy

2009-06-02T13:09:00.001-07:00

Nobody asked me if I wanted to pack up 143 blog entries and move 'em. I've shoved 'em all into - okay, not the horse trailer, but into an enormous document in my "Documents" file. I've downloaded them the way Yahoo! 360 told me to do, and shoved that into my "Documents" file.

Then I went to my Blogger account and tried to follow the rules for unloading all this into my Blogger version of The Little Red Hen Construction Company and Arts Studio....

"It's easy!" they promised. I should have known better. Moving is never easy.

You can't get from Point Y to Point B (Yahoo to Blogger) by simply cutting and pasting and expecting your pictures to be delivered at the same time as the text from your "Copy&Paste" document. Nope - the pictures got lost in the move.

You can't get from Point Y to Point B using the Yahoo 360 Download "moving company." Somehow, when the Blogger moving company comes to unpack your download and move it into your new blogging home, they can't get the box of copy and pictures to open, and they simply hand you an intricate "error" label instead.

I'm getting a little frustrated with the "Can't get here from there" routine.

Bit by bit, I'll be taking the massive 1-143 blog entries from Yahoo! 360 you can read below, and I'll be relabeling their titles and trying to find ways to get their pictures back on their "walls." The entries read a little peculiarly when the copy comments on a photo that isn't there - such as the one about why Floridians call California hills "mountains" because of the cute little photo of the cute little sign on a cute little lump in the road in my cute little Florida community...which you can't see because the cute little Yahoo!360 decided to close its cute little shop.....

And, of course, I'm handling all the repairs myself. The "pros" - Yahoo and Blogger - aren't being particularly helpful at this point. If they were, I wouldn't be handling this the hard way.

Now you know how the "Little Red Hen Construction Company" got its name. When it comes down to it, I may not be able to hammer a nail straight, or make storage shed walls meet each other at 90-degree angles. But sometimes, when you wanna get 'er done, you gotta handle the job by yourself.

Just like the Little Red Hen in the childhood story.