Visiting the Big Island (a.k.a. HAWAII)

Some of you may have noticed that I haven't written for about a month. Trying to gather my thoughts since vacation has been an uphill battle. Preparing beforehand, the vacation itself, and recuperating afterwards took a huge amount of time. Keeping a journal while traveling resulted in a full-blown travelogue although I'm sparing you many of the details. (If you don't think I kept a list of expenses, addresses, phone numbers, every single dish that Steve and I ate, the books we read, and what movies we watched, you're sadly mistaken!) But here are a few facts:

April 16: Whereas I usually pack light, my bag weighed nearly 50 lbs., having to pack both cool- and warm-weather clothing (many of which were new--one can't experience a second honeymoon in old attire). We booked the airfare, rental car, housing, insurance, snorkeling trip, and luau through www.deltavacations.com. I had the foresight to download two movies.

April 17: We took a cab to the Huntsville airport, arriving at 5:45 a.m. The flight from ATL to LAX, although long, was relatively comfortable. Once there, we raced from plane to plane. The final leg of our trip—LAX to Kona—was miserable. The plane was the same size—a 757—yet, I'm convinced, it held more seats. The travel time was 13 hours altogether. (If you're planning a trip this size, you should include an additional 7 hours to get to Australia!)

Arriving on time, we admired the huts that comprised the Kona airport--and, no, we didn't get lei'ed. We picked up our rental car and went to the lovely condo we'd found through hotwire.com. We then drove to a nearby restaurant that sat on a hilltop overlooking the ocean.

April 18: We ate at a wonderful place called Bongo Ben’s and got on the road again. (Gas was $4.90/gallon compared to our own $3.75.) We drove to Point South, the most-southern tip of the U.S., surrounded on three sides by ocean. 

Our next stop was the Hawaii Volcano National Park; we saw a movie at the visitor’s center and visited the Jaggar Museum where we witnessed steam rising from the caldera as part of the Kilauea Volcano. Since it had turned into a chilly day—63 degrees with a brisk wind—we put off hiking until the next morning. We had reserved three nights at the Lazy Lehua Cottage, a place I found through www.vrbo.com.  Nestled in the rainforest, the place was lovely and private, requiring the warmth of the fireplaces but no drapes. (And all this for $120 a night!) Steve figured out how to get the key from the lockbox and laid it on the table. After touring the upstairs back porch, we went out to the downstairs back porch where he promptly shut the locked door. Oops! He was able to skim over the porch railing, walk around the front, and enter through the (fortunately) unlocked front door.  

We ate at the Thai Thai Garden Restaurant but not until we ruled out the lodge. After waiting for a couple of minutes with no greeting, Steve asked the woman behind the counter if we were in the right place to be seated. He said, “I don’t mean to be rude, but . . . .” and she said, “Are you sure? Because I’m helping another customer.” We walked out.

April 19:  We seemed to get a jump on the other hikers, arriving in the parking lot at 8:25 a.m. The four-mile hike took us down through a crater via switchbacks. With its moon-like surface, we had to follow piles of stones, called cairns, to make our way across and back up the other side via steeper switchbacks, sometimes including stairs. The morning was absolutely lovely, and I eventually zipped off the legs of my hiking pants. When we returned to the lot, we jumped in the car and drove the minute beyond to the lava tube hike, Lasting only about 15 minutes, the walk took us through a small cave made by the flow of lava. Named appropriately, the Lava Rock Cafe was our next stop. We took it easy that afternoon. 

Around 6:30 p.m., we headed to the park again in the chilly rain. We stopped to see the steam vents and then headed to the Jaggar Museum which revealed the perfect vantage point from which to witness the glow of the caldera.

April 20: Packing our backpacks with bananas, water, and raingear, we headed to the park for another hike. Setting out from the Maunahulu Trailhead, we hoped to walk 5 miles there and back. Mostly across desolate moonscape, it didn’t take much rain to convince us to turn around at the one-hour point. We donned raincoats, but the driving rain soaked our jeans below the knees. We stopped at the Pú u lookout but, otherwise, headed back. The sun came out again, and we headed by car down the Chain of Craters Road to see more and more craters. The wind at two of the lookout points quickly dried our pants, so we felt comfortable enough to dine at the Ohí a Café where we ate outside.  

We drove north to Hilo at 2:30 where we saw Rainbow Falls—yellow and muddy—and the boiling pots (but didn’t see what the attraction was). Afterwards we ate downtown at the Café Pesto. After dinner, we crossed the street to a park but quickly crossed back when we realized we were in the midst of some pretty unsavory characters. (It was sunset, and the homeless and druggies were settling in.) We also ran into two Hare Krishnas, a sight we hadn’t seen for quite awhile.  

April 21:  It rained heavily through the night but had leveled off by the time we hit the road yet again. Our first destination was the Hawaii Tropical Botanical Garden which we found off a 4-mile scenic drive. There we saw heavenly flowers, a gorgeous waterfall, plants with gigantic leaves that looked polished, and trees showing webs of above-ground roots. Although mostly quite sunny and beautiful, a tropical rain hit. We donned our raincoats and, for double protection, stood under a tree with very large leaves.  

Once we got on the road again, we headed north and then west. On the east, we had seen field after field of lava; on the west, we saw that again after going through desert-like conditions and passing several sandy beaches.

We arrived in Kona about 4. While the accommodations weren’t as lush as the previous two, it had its advantages—most notably a balcony looking toward the ocean just a few feet away! It was also within walking distance to everything we needed--and some things we didn't. (While in Kona, I discovered the delights of a Mai Tai.) 

April 22:  We ate breakfast and lunch at home and explored the sandy/rocky beach next to our condo. We found the Farmers Market. That evening found us at the King Kamehameha Luau where we enjoyed Polynesia dancing, fire-eating, music, and a wonderful dinner.  

April 23:  We walked a mile again to get to the pier for our expedition on the Body Glove. We boarded at 8:45 and ate a hearty breakfast on our way to Pawaí i Bay. Steve signed up for a 30-minute underwater trip (called snuba diving). He loved it, and when he was finished snuba-ing, he snorkeled with me. I had trouble getting out because my right foot cramped with the first two attempts. Third time was the charm, and one of the instructors dragged me toward the shore holding onto a small raft because I couldn’t seem to make it on my own steam. The angelfish and sea urchin were abundant. There was a grill onboard, and lunch was provided. I got only slightly seasick.

April 24:  Our big outing today was to visit a sandy beach touted as the most beautiful beach in the U.S., Hapuna Beach. The sea was beautifully colored and the water was warm, but it has nothing over Gulf Shores! The stinging sand, sent by the fierce breeze, drove us off the beach—but not until after Steve’s head took a blow from a flying boogie board!

On the way home, we passed a sign that read “Donkey crossing for the next two miles during dawn and sunset.” Since this included some serious acreage of lava field, we couldn’t manage where they’d be coming from or going to.

April 25, our last day on the Big Island: We hiked to Captain Cook’s monument at Kealakekua Bay. Being downhill all the way meant it made for a really hot, hard climb to 1300 feet above sea level on the way back. The bay was beautiful; the monument was large. On the uphill trip back, we walked by an unsaddled, rider-less horse, a mongoose, and four horseback riders. 

Since our plane wasn't leaving until nearly 9 p.m., we walked around a lot, taking advantage of free WiFi to download movies for the return plane trip. The trip home was even more painful than the one there, including a self-imposed 5-hour layover in LA. (We each received $400 vouchers for volunteering to be bumped.)

Fall-out from the trip: I experienced crackling in my right ear and Steve had some sinus issues for the next three days. Fortunately, both conditions cleared up fairly quickly.

And if you want any more details, just ask!  :-)

If you read a previous blog, you’ll remember that I recently hosted a multi-family yard sale for our church. The six weeks leading up to it was a lot of fun; I thoroughly enjoyed rhyming at will and seeing my poetry in print.  

And when it came time to label and organize, I also had fun—the camaraderie was well worth the admission price. But we had a bit of a rocky beginning. After only one person showed up on my doorstep to help, I sent out a loud and clear SOS, and the worker bees buzzed in to help over the next day and a half. Organizing them—or, in some cases, the reverse—paid out in dividends. After spending a sleepless night wondering whether mischievous teenagers planned to cart away the many tables we’d covered with treasures and adorned in plastic overnight—we alerted the police in case they wanted to do a drive-by—I recovered enough to sell my first bargain at 6 a.m. Seventeen hundred dollars later, a tired euphoria set in.

I expected to be somewhat consumed by the event beforehand, what with having to sacrifice my garage—and eventually my living room, dining room, and kitchen. I had arranged pick-up by a charity on the following Monday. Once the pick-up was complete, I would wash my hands of the affair. What I didn’t anticipate was continued involvement.

After my clean-up crew packed everything nice and neat, I thought I was through. Dead tired, my husband and I headed toward our next function and out to dinner. Bedtime couldn’t come soon enough. But the next afternoon, I found myself examining the crowded garage. A niggling thought wormed its way into my tired brain: What if I tried to sell this on craigslist? What if I washed that and lowered the price? I just couldn’t believe what some people passed up. My brain might have been screaming, “Clean out the garage!” but my hands laid claim to treasures right and left. Soon the gigantic pile of leftover stuff became two piles: one for charity and one for the next yard sale. You heard me right. My husband thought I’d become unhinged.

So now my garage remains crowded but in a very methodical way, and my attic claims a few treasures of its own. Anyone need a size 14 wedding dress, stroller, Coca-Cola mobile, tailgate net, antique medicine cabinet, rolling backpack, canisters, or motion sensor? How about boxes and boxes of clothes organized by size? You’ll find them on craigslist for a steal.

Keep your fingers crossed!

The odds are pretty darn high that I’ll lose the $540 Mega Million lottery; in fact, the odds are 1:175,000,000. But the way I figure it is if I don’t buy a ticket, those odds go up dramatically.

But here in Alabama, we’re all losers every single time we vote down a lottery. Nearby states recognize that funds generated from lotteries meet a need that isn’t being met elsewhere. Georgia gets 30 cents on the dollar to benefit the HOPE scholarship and preschool programs; while the number seems low, it adds up. Tennessee claims more than $2.2 billion has been raised for education since its start-up in 2004. What does Alabama claim? Moral rectitude. Self-righteousness has never yet paid the bills.

Opponents of a lottery claim that the money generated from lotteries is a poor man’s tax. Living in Alabama, I’ll tell you what’s a poor man’s tax—sales tax, rather than property, that funds education—a sales tax including a tax on groceries. What a ridiculously ineffective way to run the business of education. What a shameful way.

But, getting back to the business at hand—that of winning a lottery—I hear that my chances of being attacked by a shark or hit by lightning are better . . . but I’d really prefer to win the lottery.

After all, I’m willing to bear the burden of a pot of gold.

 

To get our health back on track, maybe we all just need a good scare from the doc

Duke was a lion, a most able king.

He would have been happy except for one thing.

Like a lion should, he looked so strong.
But when he spoke, his voice came out wrong!
All within sight expected to hear
A really loud roar—but, goodness!  Oh, dear!
He meowed instead!  What a shock!  What a bore!
A puny meow!  Not a terrible roar!
Duke went to Alice, his neighbor and friend,
Hoping that she had advice she could lend. 
He knocked on her door and asked, "What should I do?
I sound like a kitty.  I might as well moo.
Meowing is fine if you're just itty-bitty,
But big as I am, sounding small is a pity."
“You need a nap,” she said with a frown.
“Put on a nightcap, and take off your crown.”
“But I cannot do that—I can’t up and quit!
My subjects would notice; they might throw a fit!”
"Well, do what you must," said the friend with a shrug.
"But meowing like that just won't work, you big lug.
A king should not yip.  A king should not moo.
And meowing is something a king should not do!"
"I know.  Oh, I know!  Oh, I have to make noise!
I want to scare girls!  I need to scare boys!"
“Well, good luck with that!” and Alice said, “Bye!”
“So long,” Duke said, with a great big sigh.
He walked away slowly, his thoughts all a'jumble.
"What should I do?" a bird heard him mumble.
"Are you talking to me?" asked the bird as she fluttered.
"I couldn't help hearing your voice as you muttered."
"My problem is this," said the king to the bird.
He opened his mouth and out came one word:
"Meow," said the king.  And the bird said, "Good grief!
Who stole your roar?  We must catch the thief!"
"A thief did not steal it," the lion said sadly.
"I just open my mouth, and my roar comes out badly.”
"Meowing is something that kings should not do.
A king should not yip.  A king should not moo!”
"I know.  Oh, I know!  Oh, I have to sound mean!
Meowing like that just makes me sound clean!"
Duke walked away slowly, his tail drooping down.
Instead of a king, he felt like a clown.
“I should NOT yip or moo or meow.
I need to roar loudly.  I need to roar now!"
He thought to himself, "Now, what are the facts?"
A light bulb turned on, and he stopped in his tracks.
"A doctor!  A doctor will help me, I know!
To Old Doc Magee, I must go.  I must go!”
He went to his doctor to look for a cause.
The doc looked him over from his tail to his paws.
"Now, what's wrong with you?" asked the little old guy,
As he looked in Duke’s throat, and he tugged on his tie.
"I just cannot roar.  All I do is meow.
I need to roar loudly.  I need to roar now!”
“Everything's fine,” said Old Doc Magee.
"But I’m sure I can help you.  Here is my fee."
The lion looked down at the bill in his hand.
The roar that came out could be heard through the land!
It was loud!  It was fierce!  It was mean through and through!
It was NOT a meow or a yip or a moo!
“I thought that would do it!” the old doctor crowed.
He grabbed his hat then, and he raced down the road.
Duke started to chase him but stopped in his tracks.
Cause these were the absolute, positive facts--
Duke never had yipped, and he never had mooed.
And, thanks to his doctor, he no longer mewed. 

Purposeful poetry

Some of my readers know my love for rhyme. And some may know I’m behind this year’s humongous yard sale on April 7 to END ALL YARD SALES! (Well, I wish!)

I’ve been advertising the up and coming sale in the UUCH newsletter, pleading for help and donations. To review the weekly alert, read below:              

Week One:  It’s No Bunk . . . I WANT YOUR JUNK!

Tidy your closets, your cabinets, your drawers.

De-clutter your sofas, your shelves, your floors.
Don’t leave any stone unturned.
What’s underneath may well be yearned
for. Can you not see the value it has?
Whatever it is has a certain pizzazz!
One man’s junk is another man’s treasure,
So don’t deny someone the pleasure
Of buying your stuff. It meets a need.
Clean up now, and do a good deed!

Week Two:  This is no bluff . . . WE WANT YOUR STUFF!

Look in your closets, your desks, your cubbies.

Look under your children, your dogs, your hubbies.
Look for the stuff that you no longer need.
Give it to us, and you’ll do a good deed!
The things that you donate are for a good cause—
Stuff that is perfect and stuff that has flaws—
Maybe it’s no way to run a concern
But it is OUR way, and I’ll be dern
If we don’t make a pile of money—
So give us your stuff. Be a sweet honey!

Week Three:  It’s your duty . . . BRING YOUR BOOTY!

Don’t forget to clear your attic.

We need junk for each fanatic.
Bring me stuff that you find crummy
Bring it all—don’t be a dummy.
Books and toys and shoes and blenders
Pickup trucks with dented fenders
Pots and pans, an old George Foreman—
Sell them to a dude named Norman.

Week Four:  Kid you not . . . WANT JUNK A LOT!

Look in your attic, your basement, your shed!

I want your junk, alive or dead--
With thanks to taxidermists!
Perhaps a lunch pail or a thermos?
Kids’ blankies and their car seats?
Or when they get old, discard their bar seats.
And do you have time enough to spare?
Help me out! Show me you care!

Week Five:  You, in the suit! . . . WE WANT YOUR LOOT!

We are a fancy lot, you see—

No monkey here, instead monqué.
Target isn’t what we say
The proper term would be Tar-zhay.
J. C. Pen-náe is at the mall—
But shop with us. You’ll have a ball
‘cause JUNQUE is what we sell.
It’s fancy stuff you’ll think is swell.
Get out your Franklins now and come.
Ignoring JUNQUE would just be dumb!

Week Six:  Final call . . . WE WANT IT ALL!

Call it goods or stuff or treasure

One man’s junk is another man’s pleasure.
Look in your couches, your bureaus, your beds.
Search your car ports, your cellars, your sheds.
Bring all of your stuff and sell it—
Be a fanatic, a regular zealot!
The time for the sale is upon us!
Sell your birds, your snakes, your iguanas!
(Just in case selling pets isn’t legal,
Better hide that doggone beagle.)

BONUS FOR MY BLOG FOLLOWERS:

Call it stuff or junk or treasure,
You know it’s been my pleasure
To rhyme with such a reason
Throughout this yard sale season.
And despite what all may think,
while it’s true I’d sell a sink,
I would not sell my mother,
And I would not buy my brother—
Accused unjustifiably,
I like to rhyme maniacally!

Danger is my middle name

I cleaned my blinds yesterday. Okay, I admit it—an odd spring day in which I’m compelled to clean blinds occurs every, oh, three to four years—and cleaning one’s blinds in and of itself doesn’t constitute danger.  However, listening to Zumba tunes while cleaning one’s blinds may—if one performs fancy maneuvers on the stepstool.

And what of my ambitions of walking to the nearby, yet-to-open Baskin Robbins? Yes, it’s within a half mile of my house. No problem there; I love to walk. But, no, there isn’t a walk signal allowing me to cross the very busy five-lane highway safely. What wouldn’t I do for a heavenly BR chocolate almond cone? Not much. As I told my husband upon the BR sighting, “Good heavens! This could be dangerous!”

But I'm prepared. I already live on the edge:

1.      I eat chocolate. It makes my heart race.

2.      I eat sugar. It leaves me wanting more.

3.      I drink wine. It disrupts my sleep.

4.      I zumba. It causes me to jump around in wild abandon--in other words, I’m an accident waiting to happen.

I don't, however, climb rocks, parachute, ride bulls, dive in caves, snow ski, hang glide, shave my head, or get tattoos.  But, hey, I live dangerously in my own quiet way.

There's no place like home

My  kids + 3 (boyfriend plus dogs) came home to visit last weekend. This is unusual. Our far-flung locations form a triangle, and it’s more common to meet at a neutral spot—or we go to them because they’re just starting out (meaning minimal vacation days) while my husband’s nearing retirement (meaning the opposite).

Having everyone home meant hours of preparation—cooking, cleaning, and, thanks to my husband’s efforts, providing a balloonapalooza. I fixed the crew hearty breakfasts, stuffed them with cupcakes, and cajoled them into wearing complementary clothing for a family photo shoot. I aggravated my daughter and quizzed my son—both have come to expect it. In other words, like Popeye used to say, “I yam what I yam.”

Lucy, an amiable short-haired German Pointer, bounded about with joyous enthusiasm and drank with abandon, as evidenced by the puddles of water she left behind. Although decidedly smaller, Maddie, a feisty Jack Russell, often clung to Lucy’s neck in good-natured dominance. When they left, the silence was deafening.

And that’s the thing. Who needs silence? Playing Yahtzee and Scrabble, hiking up mountains, clinking glasses, talking with friends . . . fun, laughter, and the occasional growl fill a house with love.

So, kids, how about coming for dinner this Sunday? And don't forget the dogs.