Whitehorse

Hot and Cold

2012-01-04T15:07:00.001-08:00

Kundalini Rising

2012-01-04T15:05:00.000-08:00

Roots

2012-01-04T15:04:00.000-08:00

Where Is Woman's Place? Planet Earth

2012-01-04T15:02:00.000-08:00

Oh You Beautiful Doll

2012-01-04T15:00:00.000-08:00

But I Thought I was Happy...

2012-01-04T14:59:00.000-08:00

Mindless TV

2012-01-04T14:58:00.000-08:00

Just Being Me

2012-01-04T14:56:00.000-08:00

Let Out of the Cage

2012-01-04T14:55:00.000-08:00

Been Down So Long It Looks Like Up to Me

2012-01-04T14:54:00.000-08:00

Dreamtime

2012-01-04T14:53:00.000-08:00

Gemini Rising

2012-01-04T13:52:00.000-08:00

Red Handed

2012-01-04T13:49:00.000-08:00

Write from the Heart

2012-01-04T13:48:00.000-08:00

All Across the Universe

2012-01-04T13:47:00.000-08:00

Woman Time

2012-01-04T13:46:00.000-08:00

What's Inside the Egg

2012-01-04T13:41:00.000-08:00

Where It All Comes From

2011-11-20T12:29:00.001-08:00

Masquerade

2011-11-20T12:25:00.000-08:00

Jesus the Fisherman

2011-11-20T12:24:00.000-08:00

A Hand in It

2011-11-20T12:21:00.000-08:00

Coliseum

2011-11-20T12:19:00.000-08:00

Kaniakapupu revisited

2011-10-23T13:53:00.000-07:00

Actually when I began my adventure I had not meant to go to Kaniakapupu again, but rather to go to another site across Nu’uanu Valley. I followed the map I had been given and found the approximate location of the pre-Hawaiian stone site that I had been told about. Unfortunately,the underbrush was so thick at the roadside (and I had been warned of the presence of feral pigs) that I was loathe to go into the brush and bushwhack alone. Instead I drove a little farther up the valley and across to the other side to see if I could find the trail opening for Kaniakapupu again. With a little scouring, I found the opening in the bamboo and asked the spirits if I could please enter. There is a definite trail, and it wasn’t long until I came upon the pipe lying across the trail and I knew I was in the right spot. I followed the second trail and went directly to the site. There were leis on the marker, along with fruit and some shells left as offerings. I smiled when I saw the shells—Kaniakapupu means “singing shell”.

I wandered around, not so much paying attention to the crumbling structure, for I had already explored it the last time I was there. This time I wandered out into the forest as far as different trails took me—looking for the perimeter of the site. My understanding was that it was built on or near an old heiau site. Instead, what caught my attention this time was rocks.

This rock was definitely put upright by human hands. It was nestled in the fork of a very large tree—and had been there for quite some time. It was off to the side and behind the stone house site. From my readings, I realized that I was looking at a definite “male” image.

This rock may have had a crescent carved on it—or perhaps it was a natural hole in the rock. I couldn’t tell for sure. The crescent shape was one found on the Ali’i’s feathered capes, one of the goddess Hina, the moon. The dark hole beside it was quite deep in the rock, again I couldn’t tell if it was a natural hole in the rock or if it had been gouged out. Interesting….

This rock stared at me as I passed by, and called to me to come back and take its picture. When I looked at it though the camera lens, it seemed to me I saw two eyes looking back at me. The rocks were alive, speaking to me softly, as rocks do.

As I left the site and walked back down to the main path, I came upon a large group of people cutting bamboo. Since this is watershed land, I wanted to question their right to harvest bamboo, which they were obviously doing. But a solitary hiker does not question a group of people, many of whom had very sharp machetes, so I walked quickly through the logging operation, careful to not have bamboo fall upon my head, and got the hell away from them. To ease my mind, I said to myself, ‘It’s bamboo. It’ll grow back.”

Kalai pahoa

2011-10-09T09:19:00.000-07:00

This is one of the Hawaiian poison gods. The story is that a sliver of wood from any of the poison gods, dropped in your food, would bring death. What surprised me about this particular image was the mo'o (lizards) tattooed on his face. Praying someone to death, and helping the process out with sprinkling the food with poison was one way to get rid of your enemy. The poison came from a special grove of trees on the island of Molokai. One of the sacred queens, Kalaniakauiokikilo, who had been taken captive by Kamehameha after the battle of Iao and ridiculed for years, finally took poison rather than live under his reign anymore.

Ka'a'awa Valley and Kualoa Ranch

2011-08-03T09:29:00.000-07:00

They did a have a couple of huts built to show how things might have looked in the old days. There is also a “legend” tour, which I may have to go back and take to find out what I really want to know… or at least to say I’ve heard the tour. They had some native plants around the huts: pandanas to make mats (as in this photo), noni for medicine, etc.

The wrangler at Kualoa Ranch put me on Blu, the lead horse—the one who had just come back from a trail ride. I’m sure he was not any too thrilled about having to turn around and go right out again, however he didn’t protest too much. Rather, he stood still as I mounted him (on the “wrong” side—it’s the way they pulled the horses up to the mounting steps) and plodded along very amicably. He had one speed, which was fine because I could relax and look around. The trail master (on the white horse) had to cut a switch for Craig’s horse, who had decided that he’d rather stay home and watch ‘the game’ than go for a trail ride.

It is said that this valley is the final resting place of over 150 generations of ali’i. Kahekili, the ruler of Maui, asked for no other spot when he came to conquer O’ahu than this because he wanted rights to the whale bones that washed ashore here. Kahahana, the ruling chief of O’ahu, was warned by the priest Ka’opulupulu not to give this spot away or else he would be giving all his authority away. As it turned out, Kahekili convinced the king to kill the priest. Then Kahikili attacked and conquered O’ahu without the bothersome priest in the way.

It is the Valley of the Kings as far as the island of O’ahu goes… many bones of the chiefs are stashed in the caves in this valley. This area was once a pu’uhonua (a place of refuge). It was a residence of chiefs and where they trained the young ali’i. It was also the spot of the beginning and end of the Makahiki procession, in which the king and his retinue circled the island visiting all the villages and collecting taxes. The beach area was also a sacred canoe landing spot and even Kamehameha lowered his sails as he passed.

Kamehameha III sold some of the land to the Judd’s in 1850. Queen Kalama moved to Kualoa after her husband died and tried to operate a sugar mill. Besides the fact that this land is not rich enough for sugar, there was an accident and the workers were convinced that such an enterprise should not be run on sacred land. Eventually the Judd’s bought up over 4,000 acres—pennies on the dollar—and opened Kualoa Ranch. The trail master wanted to talk about movie sets. I was more interested in the spirits and asked about caves and bones. She glossed over that… and I figured they were right in protecting the bones, and that most people would rather be “Lost” than know the history. And so it goes….

Ulupo Heiau Kailua, O'ahu

2011-06-29T00:53:00.000-07:00

This heiau is just off a main thoroughfare near the city of Kailua. I don’t know how many times I have been by this place and because of heavy traffic totally missed seeing it. Legend has it (in other words, no one knows for sure) that it was built by the menehunes (the little people of the islands) way before contact with even the Tahitians. Now, that’s going back a far piece… This top level of the heiau is 140 feet by 180 feet. It sits up on a plateau and from the bottom it is overwhelming. It is located right behind the Y—or, rather I guess it would be more correct to say that the Y built near it—the heiau being first on the scene by maybe 1,000 years and the Y an interloper, as it were. The chattering of children broke the silence, which is probably delightful to the spirits—they seem to like the laughter of children. In the distance are the Oneawa Hills between the towns of Kailua and Kaneohe.

This is taken from the bottom of the heiau—the easternmost side. I was glad that the two people were walking through—gives some idea of how tall this heiau is—a full 30 feet the guide book says, and I would say it looks every bit of it and then some. I was standing across the stream when I took his picture. After I explored a bit, I came back along the path that these folks are walking and looked up the pile of rocks. It was breathtaking—quite an enormous amount of stone. The plants in the foreground are red ti. Ti is considered a spiritual plant—very cleansing.

The flat stones are lined up in a double row and lead down to a spring at the northwest corner of the heaiu. This is the “Menehune Pathway”. The menehune—the little people—are said to have built this heiau by carrying stones from Kualoa, or from Ewa or from as far away as Waianae. If the last two quarry sites are true, then the stones had to be transported over the Pali. From any of the mentioned sites, the stones traveled a long way.

There are two small pools, each about three feet wide, where it is said the priests brought the pigs to be washed before they were sacrificed on the altar of the heiau. The shadow in the water? Mine.

It is thought that this heiau might have been used for agricultural purposes due to the fact that the taro patches are right below it. That would make the taro patches as old as the heiau. In the middle of the picture are a couple of banana trees, and on either side, coconut palms. Even though it was close to the thoroughfare—I could hear the swish-swish of tires on the asphalt and see the cars driving by, it was quiet and peaceful in the taro patch. This is definitely a place I will return.

Pandanas, lauhala, and screwpine are just a few of the names of this plant, which is found all over the South Pacific. The weavers go through a long process—picking up the fallen leaves, taking off the thorns on the edges, washing the leaves, then boiling them, letting them dry, cutting them into the desired width—all to make a hat or mat, basket or sail for the voyaging canoe. One of my students said that the people of Puna, on the Big Island, have eyelashes like lauhala. I looked in her beautiful eyes and saw the same curve. “I take it you’re from Puna?” She just smiled. Another student did a report on lauhala and told of it’s many uses—would that I remembered more…

Cock-a-doodle-do!

2011-06-13T21:11:00.000-07:00

“Cock-a-doodle-do!”

‘Cock-a-doodle do?’ I thought to myself. ‘There must be some mistake. ‘ It had, indeed, been one of those peculiar days when the negative ions had been running amok since breakfast and things were more bizarre than usual. I looked around for said fowl, and seeing none, I proceeded to let the door shut behind me. I noted the slots for outgoing mail directly in front of me, turned 90 degrees to my right and spotted a long line of silver mailboxes, turned another 90 degrees and saw a display of packaging material and a tall metal waste basket. Someone had swiped the pen from the chain attached to the counter—again. It looked like I was standing in the middle of the post office all right, but just to make sure, I went back outside and looked at the sign on the side of the building: Airport Branch, United States Postal Service. Thus assured, I opened the door again.

“Cock-a-doodle-do!”

This time the cry came a little fainter--from the back of the chicken coop—I mean, the package handling area. The other people standing in line didn’t seem to be bothered by the rooster chorus, so I shrugged it off. Still, I wasn’t completely convinced that I hadn’t somehow mistakenly opened the door to the back of the barn. I surveyed the postal workers behind the long counter, each at their appointed cubical, carrying on as if there was nothing out of the ordinary—as if it was just another day of selling stamps, and handling packages coming and going…

“Cock-a-doodle-do!”

Through the very door I had just entered came a large crate, “Live animal” lettered on the side of the cardboard box. Two beady eyes peered through the air holes of the crate. Below the crate, an extended paunch, a precarious place for balancing said crate, but utilized to the fullest, nonetheless. Beneath the paunch, two stubby legs ended in a pair of black zori slippers. Junior Boy, obviously an old hand at this maneuver, swung the crate around and hefted it up on the postal scale in one smooth motion.

“Cock-a-doodle-do!”

From my place in line, I could look behind the cashier and see a cart with several crates lined up, and gauging from the racket, all filled with roosters. The bird on the scale pecked at the side of his carton, desperate to escape the dark prison of cardboard, threatening to get at his brethren and tear them to shreds.

“Cock-a-doodle-do—you son of a bitch. If I ever get out of this joint and get my hands on you I’ll….”

“You and who else?” The second bird answered.

From the back room came a muffled, “Who’s your muther?”

Junior Boy made a hasty retreat through the door and left the handling of the bill to an older man. Uncle Junior wore a sleeveless t-shirt with the logo Club Femme Nude on the back. It might as well have said, “Live animal,” the same as the crate, because the logo of a naked lady, her legs curled around a stripper pole, spoke volumes as to the character of the establishment. Birds of a feather, as it were. Uncle Junior expertly handled the monetary end of the transaction, making sure that he rested his hands under the crate at an angle the postal worker couldn’t see and ever so slightly tipping the crate and rooster up in order to subtract a few ounces from the weight of the bird, as if the weighing in of the rooster equated a prize fighter being weighed before a match. For, in truth, that is exactly what was happening—these birds had been bred for one of the island’s national pastimes: cockfighting. Legally, the birds could be shipped for breeding purposes, but honestly, Uncle Junior and Junior Boy didn’t look like they’d seen the sunny side of the law for years—indeed, Junior Boy was learning from an old pro.

“Cock-a-doodle-do!”

Junior Boy brought in yet another crate. Uncle Junior parked his fingers in just the right spot, the postal clerk weighed the bird, and the roosters (none plucked for eating) piled up higher and higher in the back room. I bought my stamps, hoping I could get out before one of the workers (a very long afternoon stretching out in front of them) went postal. What can I say?

“Cock-a-doodle-do!”

It’s just another day in Hilo…..

Pu'u Loa petroglyphs

2011-06-09T12:52:00.000-07:00

This photo is very typical of the number, size and variety of the petroglyphs at this site near the bottom of Chain of Craters Road. And yet, there are strange elements: the straight line with the sidebars in the bottom of the picture, the “sail” in the middle of the picture, and the “star” pattern beyond. What is typical is the number of piko holes—the circles with the holes are said to represent boys, a crescent represents a girl. Not all holes have a gender determiner. It is said that the father took the umbilical cord out to this site, make a petroglyph to honor his child, put the umbilical cord in the hole and left. When he returned days later, if the umbilical cord was gone, it meant the gods accepted the child and it would live. Maybe the father only made the sign of the boy or girl when it was determined the child would live. (That is purely speculation on my part….)

This rock outcropping caught my eye from afar—it is not “on the beaten trail” and neither was I. What astounds me about this imagine is the red on the rock—that seemingly bleeds through from the molten lava. I also love the idea of this ledge of pahoehoe lava just stopping at this particular place and forming a perfect canvas.

Several of the human images had a circle above or near the head.

These “twins” stand out—they are carved deep into the lava, surrounded by other human figures and many, many piko holes and circles.

This image haunts me because I’ve not seen anything like it anywhere else. It is off by itself, along a pahoehoe tongue. The lava just to the right is rippled, but this one spot made a perfect place to carve.

Another typical section of petroglyphs at this site. Since I had seen the encompassing circle around some of the petroglyphs at another site and noted it for the first time, I was surprised—and pleased—to note it again. At this site there were also several circles that were connected, forming “handcuffs”. There are two examples in this photo.

Three human figures, all with their arms in the “down” position, but arms curved, not like the stick arms at other sites. Only one man has a piko hole in his chest.

This “rose” was another one off the beaten path. As I was leaving, I walked slow and kept looking around for other images. I was not disappointed. This one is up on the top of a low ridge. As soon as I spied it up there, I had to find a way to scramble up and photograph it—quite unusual.

I drove up to Volcanoes National Park, wondering all the way if I should turn around and bag the day—the weather was sketchy at best, and the weather report said “40% chance of rain and/ or thunderstorms.” I figured that I had a couple of hours midday that I might find some decent weather, so I kept driving through the mist at the 2,000 foot level. Even on the way down the other side of the ridge--on the dry side--I had my doubts. The rain forest, of course, was rainy—and windy, and I thought many times about turning around and eating my sandwich somewhere else, but, something kept pulling me on. Down on the plain near the ocean the weather was cloudy but not raining. I grabbed my camera and a bottle of water and headed out. Photographed as fast as I could, knowing my time out there would be limited. After about an hour I got sprinkled on and I had to stop and beg the gods for just a little more time, please... They relented and stopped the rain…but as I looked over my shoulder into the wind, I knew I had to work fast--I would not be granted much more time because Mother Nature had work to do. This is the path on the way back to the car—the mist was, literally, chasing me. I threw my camera in the car, talked to some tourists who were headed out to the field, then got in the car. Just as I shut the door, the rain pelted the windshield and I thanked my lucky stars.

Waipio Valley

2011-06-01T18:59:00.000-07:00

My first trip into Waipio Valley—the Valley of the Kings. The travel brochures say it’s 1200 feet down in about a mile. I don’t know which is worse—going down or coming back up. I guess it depends on the state of your knees and lungs. Suffice it to say, I didn’t go down without help. I took a van down and then went on the mule-drawn wagon tour. Two mules pulled the wagon with 10 of us aboard. Bob, the muleskinner, said mules are much stronger than horses—and much smarter. When they get tired, they quit (that would be the smarter part…)

Looking up the valley—one way in and one way out of the valley. Back in the valley is more taro patches and private land. Bob said most of the people live back in the valley—very primitive back there. Near the mouth of the valley there is electricity. Further up, it’s solar power, propane or candles. In order to get back in the far part of the valley, you have to cross five streams. The mules grudgingly took us through two.

Hi’ilawe Falls marks the 1200 feet drop—tallest waterfalls in all the islands. There has been a drought the last several months, so there hardly any water coming over the falls. The top part of the falls had a little water, but by the time it got to the bottom layer, it was hardly getting the rocks wet.

Some families grow taro, but aren’t always around to tend the patches, which grow up with weeds in no time. The taro is for family use only—no commercial enterprises growing taro. In Kamehameha’s time, Captain Cook estimated there were 20,000 people living in the valley. Tsunamis and floods wipe things out occasionally. The last big population was estimated at 3,000—pre tsunami in the ’60’s. After the tsunami, no one. Slowly the population has grown to about 50 full-timers now.

My friend Lani’s father won a little piece of the valley in a poker game. There used to be a small house, but it burned down. Now there is a tree to mark the spot.

Anaeho'omalu petroglyph field

2011-05-28T12:59:00.001-07:00

This field—over 15 acres—is covered with the stories of the people of old. It was a very hot day as I made my way down the rocky path, stopping every step or two to take another picture. The sun beat down on me and I was glad I had remembered to slather on sunscreen and to bring water. I had not remembered a hat-- much to my dismay—and later realized my scalp was sunburned. All in a day’s work…

Some of these symbols are similar to Puu’ola petroglyphs down at the bottom of Chain of Craters Road in that there are many circles and crescents with holes in the middle—piko holes--signifying the birth of a boy (circle) or a girl (crescent).

There were several lava tubes where the people hid when the kings were fighting—a place for the general population to get out of the way—women, children and elders headed for these caves. The men were drafted into the king’s army, and either came back victorious or not. The petroglyphs were thick, thick, thick around the entrance to the caves. Not one on top of the other—they seemed respectful of what had already been drawn there—but a whole scramble of images right next to each other.

In one area the petroglyphs were surrounded by circles, as if to say “These pictures all belong together.”

These simple faces never cease to interest me. I have seen similar faces in the bottom of Canyonlands National Park in Utah, at Bellows Falls, Vermont, and now in Hawaii. Have always wondered about their alien quality and their similarity….

There are parts of the gray lava that seem to have cooled so fast that the color of the heat stayed in them. This petroglyph was red underneath—very striking-- and the one next to it, not. It seemed to be a natural part of the stone and not something man-made.

Puako Petroglyph field

2011-05-28T12:50:00.000-07:00

Farther up the coast is the Puako petroglyph field. I was there in February, but this time I was able to spend several hours there photographing. The hike out is through the kiawe…there is a path of sorts. The petroglyph field is over a rise and down in a shallow gully. My guess is that there were petrogylph fields all along the coastline: Puako, Anaeho’omalu, and Ka’upulehu are the fields that are left after the a’a flowed down the mountainside. I tried, but was unable to go to Ka’upulehu--Kona Village resort was closed due to tsunami damage.

In this petroglyph field there are many complete bodies—as opposed to the piko holes at Anaeho’omalu field, farther south along the coast. There are many three-toed bodies with long tails at this site—I have been told they symbolize the mo’o. There were also many ‘bird’ symbols—like a bird in flight—simply the wings and the body.

This man seems to be holding a crescent in each hand. The crescent was the sign of the moon goddess, Hina.

Moku'ohia Battleground and Kealakekua Bay

2011-05-28T12:29:00.000-07:00

Moku’ohai Battleground is where Keeaumoku slashed Kiwala’o’s throat open as he bent down to retrieve the precious necklace. The death of Kiwala’s (Kalani’opu’u’s son) paved the way for Kamehameha to begin his serious challenge to the kingdom. I drove up and down the back road, looking for this battleground. When I stopped for breakfast at The Coffee Shack, it became very apparent to me why I couldn’t find it—a’a looks a lot alike up close. It was only as I was able to look down upon the area that I could see the extent of the battlefield laid out below me--the brown area in the middle--fighting in the middle of the a'a flow.

I rented a single kayak and paddled across Kealakekua Bay, deciding as I went that this would be my (late) birthday celebration. I pulled the kayak up into the trees and tied it up. I stashed my snorkel gear and my lunch and walked around the area, knowing that this is where my sacred queen, Kalola, was with her husband Kalani’opu’u the day Captain Cook was killed. It was Kalola, in fact, who begged her husband not to go with Cook. Cook was planning to kidnap the king and hold him for ransom in order to get back a shore boat which has been taken apart for the metal.

This path led up the hill--the hill I avoided traversing because I had rented the kayak and paddled. There are stone walls everywhere—it must have been a large village at one point. Fresh water would have been gotten from the springs in the bay.

This site had beautiful flowers everywhere and I decided this would have been the perfect site for a lovely house overlooking the bay.

Cook’s monument. This little bit of fenced-off soil actually belong to England. In the background, the cliffs of Keoua.

I snorkeled along the coastline with the tourists. The smoke coming from this boat was the hamburger grill being fired up. I was glad to see that the dive boats come to this area—the drop-off is so deep that the tourists are unable to wedge their fins in the coral and can’t damage it. The snorkeling is superb. At one point I saw a school of 200 yellow tang feeding. This basalt outcropping stretches over halfway across the bay and there are many burial caves in the cliffs. How they ever got up to those caves was a miracle—and the story is that if a man carried somone’s bones up there, he had to die so that no one would know where the bones of the ali’i was buried.

Kumukahi

2011-04-23T23:00:00.000-07:00

Out at the parking area at the lighthouse--Kumukahi--the eastern tip of the Big Island. The road out--after I got off the paved road--is washboard gravel. Not bad, but it would definitely discourage the average tourist. On my way in, I passed a hula halau--two vans and a red car--filled with women. It's the opening of Merrie Monarch tomorrow--the ladies out exploring made me smile. I parked, gathered, my camera and some water in a bag and headed out across the a'a and pahoehoe lava. Then I had to come back because I remembered I had printed off a chant from the internet. When I had myself together: my hat on, slathered with sunscreen, and some water, I was ready. There was somewhat of a trail--at least in the beginning. I had on my slippers, so it was slow going, which was fine--I was in no hurry.

It's maybe a quarter of a mile out to the 'road' that runs along the shoreline/cliff. I use the term 'road' loosely--it may be the old King's trail now turned into a fisherman's road--no wonder they all have four wheel drive vehicles and those enormous tires. I saw two big outcroppings and headed for them, thinking they must be the pillars--the chief's wives of the legend--and they very well may have been because he was reputed to have four wives. These seem to have been two of them--and later I met two more.

After I got down to the road along the cliff--barely passable by jeep--I turned left and walked down the 'road'. I saw a man-made cairn with an orange lei on it. At the bottom were two bleached-out caps and two cement markers that say, "We love you papa." I walked up a little rise, thinking I would just go to the top of the rise to see if where was anything interesting: a little rocky beach, some ironwood trees, and the hidden stone wall of Kumukahi heiau. It says in the guidebook that it is pretty well overgrown and destroyed. There was a small palm tree in the middle and from the outside it kept waving at me--not wanting me to lose track of it. Every time I would look away, its energy would pull me back. At first I thought maybe someone was camping out there and moving about, thereby rustling the tree. But upon closer investigation, there was no one there--just the tree inviting me for a closer look. I went to the left of the outcropping of trees--out to the point, which is, literally, the easternmost point of the island. Relatively speaking, it was a calm day on the ocean. Nevertheless, the waves coming in and crashing on the rocks are quite strong--beautiful without a doubt--but strong. Then I walked back toward the stand of trees and inched my way up to the wall along a path. Right at the spot the wall was broken, and peering in through the low-hanging hau branches, it looked more like a fisherman's camp than a sacred heiau.

I stopped and asked permission to enter. Not sensing any resistance, I walked around the spreading tree, all the while moving very slow and looking for signs I would not be welcome. I walked through the middle and out the south side. It is said that the two stones on the shoreline marked the winter and summer solstices and that the heiau had been used for training navigators. The sun rise every morning makes sense... I sat down on a big stone and read to the spirits there--a chant from the kumu hula de Silva--one that she made accessible on the internet-- along with its history and the translation and notes. First I apologized for to any spirits that may have been about for bungling the language so bad, for my spoken Hawaiian is dismal, at best. At my worst, I'm sure I mangle the words so bad that the spirits could never figure out what I'm trying to say. I read along, feeling like I was reading a first grade primer. I'd sound out what I thought was a word and then I'd go back over it and pronounce it easier--as if they were aunties/ teachers looking over my shoulder and helping me out in the worst spots. At times I could almost hear them giggling as I struggled along, determined to read to the end.

As I was coming back along the 'road' on the cliffside, a blue pickup with three young men came bumping along. I stepped off the road and let them pass. After they went by, I chuckled to myself. Here I am with my salt and pepper hair, in a dress, out trapsing through the lava in my slippers. In another day and time, among the superstitious, I could be the incarnation of Madame Pele--an old lady walking along the shoreline by herself. (too bad I never have one white poi dog...) I found the spot along the road where I had come from and headed back in the direction of the lighthouse. As with every trip, it always takes longer to get there than it does to come back.

As I sit here on the side of the hill I can plainly see the ironwood trees that mark the heiau site. Did I see them on my way out there? No. I stumbled on the site by blind luck (mine) and/ or the direction of the infinite (the spirits).

It is said that the heiau was a place where the priests manufactured poison, and that it was a place of interest to King David Kalakaua, who came out and got the flat stones from the floor of the heiau to use as part of the foundation for the 'Iolani Palace.

In the Footsteps of Keoua

2011-04-10T19:17:00.000-07:00

Today I took a drive to the trailhead of the Ka'u desert trail. I wanted to see the footprint of the man who had dodged the lava and made it all the way to Ka'u through the lava desert. First there was a path through the a'a lava--jagged and rough. Then a slight downhill section and then the ropey pahoehoe lava, broken only by a few ohia trees, the trees of Madame Pele. Just a few feet from the highway, I completely lost sight of the road and followed the cairn-marked path through the lava. It was quiet--just a gentle breeze at first, enough to cool me. I was grateful for the scattering of clouds, keeping the sun from cooking me as in an imu. I looked for footprints all along the trail, amazed that anyone could find their way through the maze of lava.

I would like to pretend this footprint is from the king--King Keoua, although there is nothing in the world that would support that--just my imagination. After a battle with Kamehameha, one which neither side won, Keoua retired to Hilo, then decided to head down to Ka'u by way of Ola'a, past the crater of the volcano. He divided his retinue into three groups. The first group made it through the eruption, the second group succumbed to the sulfur dioxide and died where they fell--men, women and children lying unmutilated. The third group found the second. This footprint is bigger than it looks...I waved my size 9 1/2 (but a 10 feels sooo good) shoe over the top of this footprint--and it is easily a 14. Made my foot look dwarfed beside it. And to think that all they were wearing was hemp sandals. As I looked over the Ka'u desert, I marveled at how badly those folks must have wanted to get home--it wouldn't be the route I would have chosen--not by any means.

By the footprints are these "creatures"--pahoehoe lava frozen into shapes that resembled idols, watching over the souls of the people who succumbed to the sulfur from the erupting volcano. The wind blew, the black sand scuttled across my shoe, and yet it was quiet. Nothing moved--not a bird, not a lizard, not a bug. It is truly desert--and deserted. Eerie...

Mo'o, Petroglyph, and a Dead Chief

2011-02-25T19:46:00.000-08:00

Let me explain: this is my shadow—over a petroglyph at Puako. The shadows of the late afternoon lengthened along the trail, kiawe bushes snagging my dress, and sweat poured down my face as I hurried to the petroglyph field. Images hammered out in the lava—hundreds, no thousands. The more I explored, the more I saw. Every angle, every nitch, every bare spot filled with images—mainly people, primarily men; some with arms raised, others with arms lowered. Clearly there was the image of a dog, perhaps a spider, a sail, children, women in the act of birth--the story of a people saved in stone. What I thought would be a quick study turned into the realization that I would be coming back again and again—there is no quick study. There is much work to be done if I am to understand. Much work… and so to unite myself with the work, the image, the thought, the mana, I offered myself to the image. I too, am now a part of that field…and it a part of me.

This is the pond where the mo’o lives at Honanaunau. She is still there—see her making the ripples on the surface of the pond?

Years ago I visited Pu’uhonua o Honanaunau—the last residence of King Kamehameha I. Now that I have been studying Hawaiian history for the past two years, I am beginning to understand what I am seeing—if only through the glass, darkly. Now it is called “the place of refuge.” If a man could run miles across the lava, swim across a shark infested bay, crawl out on the shore, then only if he could make inside the doors of the heiau would he be safe. The idols are in place, next to the sacrificial altar. This day—and for many years past now—the altar was empty, but it was not always so. When the priests deemed it necessary, not only world worldly goods be placed on the altar—bananas, coconuts, a roasted dog or pig, so would they have also sacrificed a man.

On the ocean side of Ke’eku heiau, near the Outrigger Hotel at Keauhou Bay, I walked through the tide pool to get to the petroglyph of the Maui chief, Kamalalawalu. This king got some bad information from his scout and set out from Maui to conquer the Big Island. Alas, many warriors were hiding and the Maui chief was soundly defeated. The captured chief was tortured and finally beheaded before being offered up as a sacrifice.

The Day of Falling Water

2011-01-02T14:32:00.000-08:00

The first day of the new year 2011, I took a drive to the waterfalls. I stopped at Waianuenue (Rainbow Falls), where I had been 11 years previously with Jane. The cave beneath this waterfall is the mythic home of the goddess Hina. It is here that the giant red mo'o, Kuna, forced himself upon Hina and, when rejected, tried to drown her. As she was about to go under for the last time, Maui, her son, came and saved her, leaving his canoe (as a long basalt boulder) in the river downstream. The mo'o hid, but upstream, at Maui's request, Madame Pele threw boiling hot lava rocks into the river to flush out the mo'o. Finally, Maui slew the monster and left the body below the falls--a long black island called Mo'o Kuna.

The Disembodied Voice

2010-08-21T13:13:00.000-07:00

Two nights before I went to Maui, I was sleeping in the Manoa valley—gently dreaming of I know not what. The doors and windows to the apartment were open to catch the cooling summer breeze. I woke from sleep when I heard a man’s voice say, “Hello.” My first thought was that someone had entered the apartment and I didn’t want to open my eyes lest an uninvited visitor present himself. I held still and listened—no other sound—no one breathing. (for I was unconsciously holding my breath) I turned my attention to the open window behind me, knowing that a stone wall was back there, but someone could be standing by the water spigot. Slowly I opened my eyes and looked around the room. No one. Then I turned my head and looked out the window. No one. Then I realized it had been a disembodied voice calling to me from the spirit world. “At least he’s friendly,” I said to myself and went back to sleep, little knowing that a couple days later I would hug the source of that voice. “You need to consider the winds,” he said. “Yes. Great idea. I just finished the book ‘The Wind Gourd of La’amaomao.” Of course—he already knew. I smiled to myself. Thus is the magic of Hawaii manifest.

Shadow of the Voice

2010-08-21T13:12:00.000-07:00

Olowalu valley

2010-08-21T13:11:00.000-07:00

I was blessed to walk through the veil and into the Olowalu valley. I had been to the petroglyph site there several times, but to be able to go beyond—up into the valley where Ali'i nui Kalola Pupuka-o-Honokawailani lived--was a dream come true. In days gone by, Olowalu was rich in breadfruit and taro, a place of refuge, and the home of one of what I have begun to call ‘the sacred queens.’

Olowalu valley

2010-08-21T13:07:00.000-07:00

Olowalu Cultural Reserve

2010-08-21T13:05:00.000-07:00

This organization is bringing back the magic of/to the valley. As I walked into the valley, I blessed the new kukui trees on both sides of the road. They are doing well, and it won’t be long until their shade offers relief from the scorching mid-day sun. Olowalu valley still has a running stream—which many valleys do not due to the controversy over water rights and water transportation systems controlled by the sugar barons. OCR has planted taro patches and many native plants in order to return the valley to its once luscious and productive state. As they work, they teach… passing on the knowledge from one generation to the next. It is truly a beautiful thing to see—the large flat leaves of brother taro welcomed me to rub up against it, like family.

Olowalu lohi

2010-08-21T13:04:00.000-07:00

2010-08-21T13:02:00.000-07:00

As I walked deeper into the valley, the rush of the world fell away. Tall peaks rose on either side, blotting out any noise save the “she’s coming” call of native birds and the gurgling of the stream. The farther I walked back into the valley, the quieter I became inside--until inside and outside were one. To think that my feet were on the same trail as the sacred queens in their flight from Kamehameha after the Battle at Iao… I tried to imagine their flight, how they had climbed up out of the steep valley of Iao, crossed the ridgeline and come down yet another cliff into Olowalu—running for their lives—no doubt crossing the pali in the dead of night. How desperate they must have been! They were fleeing, and I was taking a leisurely stroll. I imagined I could hear the rush as the tall grass brushed their legs, remembering the time I was hiking in upper Palolo and got down on my hands and knees, crawling across the foot-wide precipice because the wind coming up the valley blew me off my feet.

Olowalu trail

2010-08-21T13:01:00.000-07:00

Baptism at Olowalu

2010-08-21T12:59:00.000-07:00

I slipped off the shoes that were killing my feet—not being used to the confines of a closed-toed shoe—and dipped them in Olowalu stream. I bent down and cupped my hand, splashing my face and pouring the cooling water down my back. Then I bent even lower and stuck my head in--fully. I, the Doctor of Divinity, performing the ritual baptism of the self.

Baptism at Olowalu

2010-08-21T12:58:00.001-07:00

Kukaniloko on the Ewa plain

2010-08-21T12:55:00.000-07:00

On the Ewa plain, the Kukaniloko birthing stones are where the ali’I of the islands wished to be born. I first visited them almost 30 years ago when they were almost buried in the middle of the pineapple fields and lost to the world. Now, with the resurgence of Hawaiian culture, the area has been cleaned up and people come to pay their respects. I wandered among the stones in the distance, envisioning the Ali’i camped around the perimeter awaiting the arrival of the child. Many Japanese tour busses pulled up while I was there, one man catching my attention in particular. He placed an offering on one stone that was being used as an altar and sank to his knees in front of it. I had never seen a man pray so reverently. Gods, if the man wants to be a father so badly, I hope you hear and grant him his wish.

Kukaniloko on the Ewa plain

2010-08-21T12:54:00.000-07:00

Papa and Wakea

2010-08-21T12:53:00.000-07:00

The symbol of the father and mother of all the children of Hawaii.

Papa and Wakea

2010-08-21T12:51:00.000-07:00

Friends Who Know the Score

2010-04-25T11:08:00.000-07:00

Where would I be on Maui without my guides—the folks who know their way not only around Maui, but also around an archeological site. I guess I should call them the iwi pickers because that does seem to be their role in life—digging up the bones. Besides being a great resource, they are gracious hosts and good friends. What a lucky girl I am to know them both. Their favorite vehicle is a Jeep Wrangler I’ve nicknamed Whitey, feeling that if I name a vehicle, it won’t leave me stranded by the side of the road (and on back roads Whitey takes us on, it’s a damned good thing!) The picture here is in the middle of civilization, but don’t let that fool you…

Heiau

2010-04-25T11:07:00.000-07:00

This heiau was behind a school. Fortunately for us, school was out that day, so we were able to go through the school grounds and enter the trail unannounced to the school officials. The spirits, of course, were a different matter. It had rained the night before and so the trail was very muddy. We slogged our way through the bamboo, the birds alerting the spirits long before our arrival. We hoped they didn’t wake up the feral pigs as well because as soon as we broke out of the bamboo and got under the canopy of the forest, we could see large fresh tracks in the mud. We climbed over a fence, slipped and slid through more mud—Dee always mad at me for not wearing appropriate footwear—my slippers not what he considers standard issue. Of course, for safety reasons, he is right, and he wandered on ahead as I tried to decide whether to take off my slippers all together and just go barefoot. We broke out of the forest into the clearing—a pile of rocks right before us. The rocks were slippery from the rain and the floor of the heiau too rough to venture up. Clearly the spirits that dwell there did not want to be bothered—the floor being so uneven that a twisted ankle would surely have been the result. Beyond the larger heiau was this smaller one—many times a smaller women’s heiau was behind the larger men’s structure. This one had a more inviting aura, as evidenced by the lei adorning the rock at the entrance. Someone is obviously caring for the structures, keeping them cleared from the encroaching jungle, but certainly off the beaten tourist track. In other words, you’d have to know they were back there…

Wai'anapanapa

2010-04-25T11:05:00.000-07:00

We stopped at Wai’napanapa State Park, which was one of those adventures we had not planned on. I love when the spirit says, “No, you can’t do what you think you want to do—do this instead.” Dee took one look at the tourists and headed in the opposite direction. Since he had dug the sites on the Hana Ranch land, he knew exactly where he was going. He led us down an empty trail that ran through the a’a along the rugged shoreline. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen the ocean exactly that color of blue. If I were to name the color, I’d call it ‘get-lost-in-it’ blue. Down the trail we went, rounding bays and headlands until we were far from the sight of anyone. Allison and I stopped to point out faces and animals in the stone—sea monsters (certainly mo’o) and spirits whose eyes stared back at us from the holes in the rock. It was as if we were the only three people on the island. Since Wai’anapana was an old village site (and the only beach to land a canoe for miles and miles) I imagined us as being old souls walking a path from one village to another. In and out of the forest we went, Dee pointing up into the trees and saying, “There is a heiau up there” or “We found some graves.” Suddenly, it being the windward side, a squall blew up and in less than a minute, we were soaked. Allison scrambled up some rocks and said, “Up here!” I saw her sitting at the mouth of a cave, dry as a bone. I climbed up and sat beside her while Dee, who had already lowered himself down some very steep steps, continued on. Soon we heard him coming back to join us. “I just wanted to see if I could still find that petroglyph,” he said. Again, we felt like villagers taking refuge from the rain, as so many had obviously done before. What amazed me was that the timing was precisely right—the cave appeared just when we needed it. The squall blew by, we crawled down from the cave, and headed back the way we came.

Kaupo Store

2010-04-25T11:03:00.000-07:00

This trip to Hana we drove the south shore in the direction the tourists usually take. (as opposed to our trip last summer, when we went against the tourist traffic) After leaving Hana, the road snakes around the dense jungle coastline of Maui, the Jeep pinned to the sides of the cliffs. Even though I had held the image of the store strong in my mind (since I am using it in the novel I’m working on) I was amazed at how much my imagination had taken over—I had painted my own scene, which pleased me because I realized I had grown to know the area in my imagination much better than anything my mind could remember. That little store, out there in the middle of nowhere—sometimes I think about how they get supplies out there. Who is the brave soul who drives an ice cream truck out there? I can imagine a helicopter being an easier delivery vehicle. The store is at the bottom of Kaupo Gap, the last lava flow from Haleakala Crater. There is no other word than desolate to describe it: few houses, few fences, and cattle grates across the rutty road. We assured ourselves of the petroglyph location we had found last summer (a place I want to explore again), and continued on to civilization.

Kukuipuka heiau

2010-04-25T11:00:00.000-07:00

This was a site none of us had been before. Dee had directions, and after we left Pihana heiau, we drove up the coast to Kukuipuka. It seems that spiritual groups have taken over the responsibility for care of the site. After climbing some stairs, we found ourselves in a grassy knoll at the top of a ridge far above the water. Grass has been planted and kept mowed, and both green and red ti plants flourish around the perimeter of the rock walls. Inside the walls there is a pile of rocks that has obviously been used as an altar, as offerings of oranges and flowers had been left. (“Oranges?” I thought. Me, who is currently residing near orange groves in California. “Must be some kind of transcontinental form of offering to more well-traveled gods. What the hell? If the gods of old Hawaii could travel across the ocean from Tahiti, then I guess the offerings can come from Safeway) When I discovered the birthing stone, I couldn’t resist sitting down in the seat, putting my legs up on the rock wall and looking out over the ocean. Imagine giving birth to a child in such a luscious setting. Imagine being that child--what a place to be born! The keepers of the site have planted around the grounds, and Allison spotted a koa tree struggling for survival out on the windblown lawn.

White Horse Writes Again

2009-11-29T11:22:00.000-08:00

For Goddess So Loved the World

2009-11-29T11:21:00.000-08:00

The Eel Story

2009-11-29T11:19:00.000-08:00

Kihawahine Returns to the Islands

2009-08-01T11:36:00.001-07:00

Kihawahine Returns

2009-08-01T11:30:00.000-07:00

2009-07-02T22:25:00.000-07:00

Towards-Full Moon Swim

2009-07-02T22:23:00.000-07:00

It’s true--I’m part fish. I absolutely love being in the water--ocean, lake, pool--It doesn’t matter--I’m at home. When I moved into the place I’m renting now, the sealer on the deal for m was when my landlady said, “And there’s a pool.” My eyes must have brightened up because she then said, “Do you want to see?” She took me around to the pool area, and I fell in love. I was ready to sign on the doted line--yes, a pool!
I swam when it would have been prudent not to--when the temperature of the water got below 60 degrees I still attempted a quick dip. But being fish not polar bear, I had to quit come the end of October. The winter months were long and dark. I would sometimes just go to the fence and stare longingly at the water. As soon as the weather warmed up--not the water, necessarily, but the air--I was back in the water--the brisk 60 degrees seems to be my starting point. Yes, it was cold. Yes, my landlady thought I was nuts. Yes, I was happy.
Since I came back from Hawaii, I’ve been out there several times a day, beginning with my morning wake-up swim, long afternoons “pooling” and now the after-dark au natural dip before bed.
Tonight the coyotes were singing in the foothills, sending their songs to the almost full moon. Yips came from the young ones, longer choruses from the adults. A bat flew out of one of the eucalyptus tree, dipping quickly toward me and then swooping up again. Over in the field beyond the fence I heard an owl hoot. Then everything got very quiet. I slipped off my towel and stepped down into the water slowly so as to barely make a ripple on the water. Back and forth I paddled: breaststroking in one direction, a doing a modified elementary backstroke on the way back. If I take my time--for there is no hurry--I swim making no sound whatsoever. I am as silent as the stars, as the moon. The Big Dipper was off to my right above the pool house, the Pole Star directly over my head. As I swam back and forth, the rising moon was peeking out at me, playing a game of peek-a-boo behind the cypress trees. The stars lit up one by one. I swam until I saw a shooting star dash across the eastern sky. The air was so still I could have sworn I heard it.

Kani-a-ka-pupu: "The Singing of the Land Shells"

2009-06-29T09:41:00.000-07:00

Finding an archeological site can be a challenge. Very often there are hastily given directions as the person is waving goodbye. Their last words are to the effect: “good luck.” So I drove to Old Pali Highway and headed up the road, remembering my first afternoon on Oahu and my sister-in-law taking me up to a pond at that turn off and telling me about the Menehunes. Little did I know how close I was to the summer palace of King Kamehameha III and his second wife, Kalama, in the cool Nu’uanu forest.
The directions were to go .3 miles past the turn-off. It was then I looked down at the odometer on the car I was borrowing and realized that there was no way to read .3 miles--that I would just have to guess my way up the road to the appropriate spot. “Of course,” I said to myself. “Why would I expect it to be any other way? I’ll just have to rely on celestial navigation…” and said a prayer to the spirits that guard the place to understand that my intentions were pure and to help me find the palace. So I drove up the road, and thought I saw the side of a building in the dense bamboo. “Piece of cake,” said to myself as I pulled off the side of the road. I walked back a few hundred yards and saw nothing. “Teasing me, are you?” I said to the spirits and got back in the car. I drove up the road and looked for my next landmark--the water district building. I drove slowly--not having any idea, really, how far three tenths of a mile is. Suffice it to say that I drove back and forth several times, stopping at a couple of different places, getting out, locking up the car, and heading into the brush before feeling the signal from the spirits to turn around. I could sense that I was getting close, but I wasn’t finding just exactly the spot I’d been told about. I just laughed--that’s the part about searching I’ve grown to understand and appreciate. As I get closer to sites, the spirits test things to see how serious I am about finding the spot. I try to keep my sense of humor as I stumble and bumble, knowing that the stumbling and bumbling is part of the trip.

2009-06-29T09:40:00.000-07:00

2009-06-29T09:30:00.001-07:00

Finally I saw it: the opening in the bamboo that I had missed the two other times I’d gone up that road. I parked the car across the road--as per my instructions
--and headed up the trail. I had been told some water pipes were along the trail, so I knew I must be in the right area. I walked up to a stream, knowing that somewhere along the property was a sixty-foot waterfall. I thought about crossing the stream, and actually did get my feet wet, but halfway across the stream I was stopped by an invisible hand. I stood there, letting the cool water rush over my feet, teetering on the edge of a drop-off and peered into the forest. I could see the semblance of a trail, but no water pipes--and then there was the issue of the invisible hand stopping me--so I turned around and made my way back to the safety of the bank. I walked back the way I came for a bit and then veered off the trail, following a water pipe, and headed across an open spot near the stream. I heard rustling in the bamboo and all I could think of was the wild pigs that live in the forest--something I sure didn’t want to meet face-to-face. I stopped dead in my tracks, feeling the hand of the spirits pushing me back to the trail again. On the way back toward the road I saw a trail off to the right. “Oh what the heck? I’ll go up a little ways and see…” and wouldn’t you know it?
I could see the ruins through the trees. I stopped and thanked the spirits for leading me to Kani-a-ka-pupu. I approached slowly, drawing back the veil of time respectfully. I saw the ti plants at the corners and lining the cobblestone approach to what would have been the front door. When there is no resistance, then I know I am accepted--as long as I keep my respect--and I walked around the lava stone and plaster walls and the piles of rocks where the walls have fallen into heaps. I tried to imagine the parties that must have been held there--the forest ringing with music, the smell of the baked pig wafting from the imu The story goes that there was once a party of over 10,000--“271 hogs, 482 large calabashes of poi, 602 chickens, 3 whole oxen, 2 barrels salt pork, 2 barrels biscuit, 3,125 salt fish, 1,820 fresh fish, 12 barrels lu'au and cabbages, 4 barrels onions, 80 bunches bananas, 55 pineapples, 10 barrels potatoes, 55 ducks, 82 turkeys, 2,245 coconuts, 4,000 heads of taro, 180 squid, oranges, limes, grapes and various fruits.”

2009-06-29T09:29:00.000-07:00

2009-06-29T09:27:00.000-07:00

The Pali highway--between Honolulu and Kailua--is one of the main roads that leads from one side of the island to the other, well-traveled at any time of the day or night. It was very strange to be so near the highway that I could hear the whish-whish of tires on the pavement--close enough that I could have walked to the side of the road through the dense jungle. I thought of that line in one of Brother Iz’s songs: what would the ancestors say if they saw Hawai’i now? A modern roadway--following the pass through the mountains--near what was once a royal residence. How many people traveling across the island that day even knew the palace had existed? Not many. I had traveled that road countless times, having lived in Waimanalo for years, and not been aware. Secrets hidden--that’s what I’ve grown to think of Hawaii--so many secrets hidden--and in our modern life of rushing from one place to the other, we--I--fail to know what is just off the roadside, hidden in the forest, awaiting discovery.

2009-06-29T09:25:00.000-07:00

Spring

2009-03-28T11:14:00.001-07:00

2009-01-22T21:31:00.000-08:00

Hawai'i

2009-01-22T21:29:00.000-08:00

I had been so busy getting my grades posted for two community colleges that I really hadn’t paid much attention to the fact that I was once again heading to the island that I love: Oahu. The fact that while there my wardrobe consists of a swimsuit, beach towel, snorkel and fins never fails to make me smile. I threw two loose-fitting dresses in my suitcase and was off to the airport. Roxanne picked me up in the middle of the night—3:45 a.m.—before I (or the sun) was thinking about rising. I am used to the five and a half hour flight, so I just hunkered down in my seat. After a long snooze, I awoke from feeling something pulling on me—not on me physically, but on me psychically. I glanced at my watch, which had been set for local Hawaiian time, and I realized we were about an hour from landing. I felt the hands of the islands reaching out for me—drawing me closer to them, calling me home. It is as if an Auntie is standing at the top of the steps, her arms outstretched to greet me, welcoming me home. I stared out the window longing for the telltale clouds covering the Koolauloa Mountains, knowing we would soon be within sight of land. I remembered my house on the beach in Waimanalo and the many afternoons I spent in the shade of the ironwood trees, swinging in my hammock with Kaohikaipu Island and Makapu’u lighthouse in the distance. Tears welled up and I let them run down my cheeks as I recalled swinging my legs over the side of the hammock and burying my feet in the soft sand. We flew around the southern end of the island, made a right turn at Hanauma Bay and up the populated side of Oahu. The islands are sacred space—the a’ina—moving slowly northwest from the hot spot in the middle of the vast Pacific Ocean. Every time I come or leave the island, I feel a lifting of the veil, allowing me entrance to the special world of the spirits. It is palpable, and I welcome it as I fall into Pele’s embrace. As soon as I got off the plane, I headed for the women’s room, rip off my long pants and shoes and don my muumuu and slippers… aaahhhh… at home and free at last!

One morning I traveled across the Pali—rain beating down so hard that I could barely see the forest on either side of the road—to Waimanalo. I carried with me the graciousness of an old friend who, from Germany, had arranged a massage with a friend of hers. I was very thankful for the massage because my right knee had been giving me some problems, causing me to limp and list in a manner that was causing me some distress. I was anxious to have Christine work out the kink and get me standing up straight and tall again. She welcomed me to her home and bade be lie down on the table. I relaxed to her healing touch and let her manipulate my tired body. When I rolled over on my stomach and she began work on my back, I heard voices—low at first, as if the sound was coming from far away. Christine had some Hawaiian music playing in the background so just to be sure it wasn’t on the CD, I asked her if the song that was playing was an instrumental. “Yes,” she said. “Then they’re here,” was all I said as I sank into timeless space. As soon as I relaxed, the sound became clearer. I heard men’s voices chanting in Hawaiian. I could not make out any words, but the feeling was very soft, like the rain that began to fall, the drops hitting the leaves of the ti plants outside the open louvered windows. I don’t know how long it lasted for I had fallen through a crack of time and anything a clock would have shown me would have been “White Man’s time.” Just as gently as the voices came, they went, and then, were gone.

I was sitting on the lanai of my rental condo one evening, watching the lightening storm that was drifting across the mountains and over the Ewa plain. After a few minutes it dawned on me that I was not watching heat lightening—that these were jagged streaks and that they were heading in the general direction of the main power plant on the Waianae coast. The light in the kitchen behind me flickered once and I decided the smart thing to do would be to unplug my computer. I got up, shut down my laptop computer and put it away in its traveling case. I returned to the lanai, leaned back in my chair and watched the storm. Just a few minutes later all the lights in Waikiki went out. I had no hurricane preparedness kit: no candles--not even any matches--no transistor radio. I looked around and thought, “What’s the worst that can happen?” There was no place I needed to go, nothing I needed to do, so I simply sat and watched the traffic on Kalakaua grind to a snarling halt. Then my cell phone rang and I was able to use the ambient light from the parking garage across the street to find my purse. When I answered the phone, I expected it to be one of my friends in Honolulu, calling to ask if I was OK. Instead it was my friend Hiroe from Tokyo. “Are your lights out?” she asked right away. “You’re all the way across the Pacific and you know the lights are out? How weird is that?” I laughed. Instead of claiming the cosmic intelligence I tried to give her, she confessed that she had been talking to a friend who lives in Waikiki when the lights went out. She called me, knowing that I would think it was a pretty good joke. She told me that the lights were out on the whole island and wouldn’t be on any time soon. After we finished chatting, I sat on the lanai and was able to see the stars—something that is never possible in Honolulu, and especially in Waikiki, because of all the lights. Finally the deep black sky hypnotized me to the point where I felt I’d better crawl out of my chair and head for bed. The next morning I got up and flipped the switch—still no power at 6 a.m. The sun came up around 6:30, and having no running water (electric pump, I surmised) therefore no coffee and no toilet, I decided that was enough reason (and there was enough light) to make my way down the eight flights of stairs to the street. Tourists were scouring the shops in search of coffee and food, but not much was open at that hour—even Starbucks was closed. I went over to Kapiolani Park, knowing some friends would be meeting in the park and they would have all the answers to all my questions. Sure enough, they had the information about the power outage, when the lights were to be turned on, a hug and a freshly brewed cup of coffee. Ah, the Coconut Wireless… When I got back to the condo around 9:00, the light was blinking on the microwave—power restored. I threw out my small container of milk and checked the freezer. Although I understand that some businesses and homes were gravely effected by the loss of power, my loss was that my Melona ice cream bar had melted. Instead of eating it from the stick, I had to put it in a bowl and eat around the stick.

My dear friend Lani, who was raised on the slopes of the dormant volcano Haleakala (“House of the Sun”) of Maui, invited me to Mauna ‘Ala for He Ho’ohanohano No Ke Kuini Ema Kaleleonalani—the celebration for Queen Emma’s 173 rd birthday. It was drizzling rain in Waikiki that morning so I was positive it would be raining inland in the Nu’uanu valley. When we arrived at the mausoleum grounds, Lani handed me an umbrella and went to join her Daughters of Hawaii group. The Royal Hawaiian Band was playing under a canvas canopy while a beautiful wahine danced hula. Gentle rain began to fall as the crowd gathered. One elder couldn’t move her walker fast enough to get out of the rain, so I walked over and stood beside her with my umbrella over the top of both of us until she was rescued and taken under the canopy and given a seat next to a trumpet player. A soprano from the Kawaiahao churh shared her beautiful voice. Then the Daughters of Kamehameha, in their long black dresses and hats, proceeded up the steps of the chapel. The Daughters of Hawaii, in white, followed. When they were all in the pews on the right side of the chapel, everyone else left their shoes on the steps and entered on the left. Part of the gathering was to honor the board of the Queen’s Health Care systems. The service was short—not much mention was made of the Queen—and we exited the church in the order we’d come in. The hosts had seen to the orderly placement of shoes (much unlike the usual method of kicking off your shoes and leaving them by the door for everyone to trip over…). I was one of the last ones out of the chapel, but I heard the trumpeting of the conch shell as I was scurrying to put on my slippers. The gathering had gone around the side of the church to the granite monument, which stands behind the chapel. Representatives of the civic groups respectfully delivered leis to a man who then draped the garlands across the face of the tomb. Both while I was in the chapel and again when I was at the tomb, I asked for permission from the spirits that guard the islands to be allowed to speak about Hawaii in my next book.

After the ceremony at the monument, we went up to Queen Emma Summer Palace for a tea party. I had forgotten about the bookstore behind the Summer Palace but as soon as I saw it, I smiled and went inside. I was browsing through the books and piled a few on my arm for purchase. Who should come in but the lady with the walker. Evidently she remembered me being of assistance. “What kind of books are you interested in?” she asked. “History,” I replied. She turned to the cashier and said, “Give this woman my discount. My name is Auntie Mary.” And so, Auntie Mary’s kindness gave me the opportunity to buy two books for “free.” Lani had gone in to the room where we were to have a tea party and I came in just as they were saying the prayer. She had found us two seats at a table, and after we filled our plates we sat down to eat. At our table were three Hawaiian women: one told us she was 91, the second was 88, and the third (the youngest) had been raised on the island of Lanai. They started to “talk story” as the rain poured down. It was as if we had been transported to their lanai (in fact, one woman had lived next door to the Summer Palace most of her life)—we were all old friends who had stopped by to visit until the rain let up. One woman regaled us with story of meeting Madame Pele as she had been chased back to school after she and a friend had decided to play hokey one afternoon. That same auntie had worked for Lani’s uncle in the pineapple factory on Maui. Time stood still as they shared stories, each telling adventures that they had not been witness to, but had been passed down through their families. As in all good things, the end came too soon. Lani and I gave them our aloha, put up the umbrella and headed for her car. As we were driving away, I glanced at my watch what had seemed like visiting with those ladies all afternoon had not been that long. As they are able to do, the Hawaiians stopped time so that we could “talk story,” then catapulted us back into “White Man’s Time.”

When I think about leaving Hawaii, I start to get all choked up. It’s like I can’t bear the thought of stepping foot off the island—the Mainland is but a fairyland place that I had once been, but has faded into the mists like Avalon. All too soon the days rolled by and it was time for me to board the plane back to California. As the brave little soldier I can be, I strapped the seat belt around me and settled in for the red eye flight. We taxied down the runway and I was surprised that I wasn’t crying—usually the tears were flowing copiously by then. As the wheels left the runway, the tears started and it was all I could do to hold in a plaintive wail. The plane pierced the invisible veil at about 1,000 feet as I was whisked away into the starry night sky.

2008-11-12T15:52:00.000-08:00

Free At Last

2008-11-12T15:49:00.000-08:00

All those years I marched for civil rights finally came to fruition in our new president, Barak Obama. I look past the color of his skin and see a man of principle, a man who has ethics and holds values similar to mine: a man who remained calm while the Republicans did their best to play their usual dirty tricks; a man who took a day off and flew 6,000 miles to visit the woman who raised him; a man who made sure his grandmother got to see her great grandchildren last summer. (surely the family must have known that she was terminal at that point) That, to me, said way more than any political stance he has taken—although I agree with most of those too.
A few weeks ago one of my ESL night students asked me who I was going to vote for and I replied that, as a teacher, I choose not to bring my political opinions in the classroom (I admit that my values come to the forefront at times, but if our current president, George W. What’s-His-Name does not uphold those values, then it is a blot on his name, not my value system) I told her, “I’ll tell you after class—out in the hall—as a private citizen, but not while I’m behind the desk in the roll of a teacher.” She understood, dropped it for the rest of class, and then cornered me as soon as I walked out the door. “I’ve already voted absentee,” I said. “For Obama.” She smiled and seemed satisfied.
I love the way I found out the results of the election. I was in the classroom that Tuesday night, as usual. It was around 9:00, Pacific Standard Time. Although I ask the students to turn off their cell phones, I allow the parents in my class to keep their phones on vibrate in case of a family emergency, so I didn’t think much about it when this same woman had her cell phone on her desk. It vibrated, she checked it, then stopped the class to announce, “Obama just won! He got 2,700 votes in that special thing.” I said, “Oh, he received 270 electoral college votes?” “Yeah, that’s it!” So, I found out the next President of the United States from a woman who may or may not be a legal immigrant of this country, she being a transplant to California from our neighbors to the south.
The next day I got a congratulatory note from a former student who has been home in Japan for over a year. She was an ESL student of mine at the University of Hawaii several years ago and went on to get her associates degree in business while her visa was valid. She said,
Congratulations, Marilyn ! I am very happy to hear that Mr. Obama
will become next President of United States. We saw the historical
moment , and you are the one of them who made this history. After
I hard that his wining, I felt the air is lighter. Japanese TV news
showed us the wining speech of Mr. Obama at Chicago a little bit.
I moved it. He is amazing! And I am glad that you did not dust off
your passport.

I just want to say thank you to you, Marilyn. Thank you for teaching
me English. I am so glad that I could understand his speech today.
Thank you for having me as your student of your American History
class in Hawaii. Because you taught me about the history of race
discrimination with open mind, I could share the delight with people
like you, today, even though, I grow up in Japan.

Between the two women, I really felt an international connection—like my daily rounds as a teacher carried farther than just jumping through the next academic hoop; that I had made a difference in some people’s lives other than passing the next test. The international connection came to fruition—that we all share this earth together, and what affects one affects us all.
For a couple of days after the election, I, like many of my friends, said they found themselves shedding tears—of joy, of relief, of feeling like the steam had been let off the top of the pressure cooker of this country. The night I heard of the election results in my classroom, I was able to hold in the tears for half an hour in front of the class, but on the way to the parking lot they rolled down my cheeks and I cried the whole 45-mile drive home. The next day I found myself thinking about the results of the election at odd moments during the day; upon arising the air felt lighter, the sun shone brighter, the clouds skittered lightly across the sky. When I got home from work on Wednesday I sat down to eat my lunch and turned on the TV and happened to catch a newscast of the election results. They showed the clip of Jesse Jackson with tears streaming down his face. Having marched with Jackson and Dick Gregory in the ‘60’s, the relief in his eyes and the tears streaming down his cheeks started me crying all over again.
The day after the election, my landlord put up the American flag out on the fence, next to her Obama/ Biden poster. She said she was finally not ashamed to put up the American flag anymore—that she was proud of her country again. Sad state of affairs, isn’t it? That Americans had become so jaded and ashamed of their country that they would not hang out the national symbol. I knew exactly how she felt. I still cannot sing the Star Spangled Banner—too much violence in it, but America, the Beautiful takes on a whole new meaning again.
As I was driving on the back road to Santa Paula to work the day after the election, I saw a piece of plywood painted red nailed to the fence. I had my eyes on the road, so only caught the last word of the short message, which had been stenciled in big white letters: Socialist. I thought, “Uh oh. Not everyone was thrilled with the results of the election. I won’t jump to conclusions, but will drive slower and look for the sign when I go to work on Tuesday. Unfortunately, it was near the gardens of the best Italian restaurant in town. Oh well. I know how to cook spaghetti sauce…

2008-10-25T08:50:00.000-07:00

Shawna, Queen of the Tree Tops

2008-10-25T08:36:00.000-07:00

It seems, once again in my life, a black cat has adopted me. When I moved into Live Oak Cottage, the landlady told me I might expect a visitor. “Her name is Shawna, Queen of the Tree Tops,” she said. “She doesn’t come down to the ground much—she mostly lives in the trees. She is feral, but friendly. She won’t come in the house, and you’ll probably never be able to pet her, but she’ll come around outside.”

I moved in about a month ago--on a Saturday. The next morning as I was making coffee in the kitchen, I looked out the window and saw a black cat on the landlady’s roof. Figuring that must be the famed Shawna, I went to the door, stood on the front stoop and presented myself. She halted and watched me intently. I spoke softly—she wouldn’t have been able to hear from that distance, but I figured her spirit would understand—“I’m the new person who moved into the cottage. You may come to visit any time you like.” I let her take a good look at me and then went back in the house, watching her from the kitchen window. She ambled along the roof-line, sniffing at cedar shakes as she went. Just as I was pouring myself a cup of coffee and doctoring it with milk, I heard a tapping at the door. Figuring it must be the landlady, I went to the door and looked out the screen. No one. I looked down and there was Shawna. She had put her paw on the door and pressed the door against the jam—her way of politely knocking. I opened the screen. She hesitated for a moment and then came in. Since I had the milk out (and nothing else to offer a guest), I poured a little milk in a bowl and set it on the rug in front of the sink. She accepted my humble offering graciously, as is her way. After she lapped up the milk, she took a tour of the house, sniffing around the piles of boxes. I was busy and kind of ignored her, figuring she’d complete her tour and let herself out the open French doors in the bedroom. Instead, when she was satisfied she’d inspected the premises, she meowed and stood by the screen at the front door. Before I let her out, I picked her up and held her, thanked her for coming and invited her to come back again.

I went back to the business of unpacking and forgot about her. Twenty minutes later I heard the unmistakable gravely “meow” of a tomcat and peeked out the screen. There sat Shawna. She meowed once, my introduction to her gray and white sidekick, Phil. I opened the door and they both came in, Shawna leading Phil to the sink area. Phil meowed and the meaning was clear, “I’ve come for my milk.” I poured him a splash of milk, which he devoured while Shawna sat quietly in the middle of the kitchen floor. After he finished his treat, she took him on a tour of the boxes. I stopped what I was doing and followed them around the cottage, almost able to hear their conversation. “…And this is the couch—it goes here, and the chair… in here is the bedroom, Phil.” Again, I thought they would just march out the bedroom doors when they were done, but no. Shawna has a strong sense of manners and decorum. She brought Phil to the screen door again and asked to be let out. They were guests and they would leave the way they came, thank you very much.

Since then, Shawna has been a regular visitor at the cottage; Phil less so, but then Phil is old and feeble. The landlady, Barbara, said he was very ill last year and barely made it. He used to be the tom of the neighborhood, taking on all comers. Now he is an old man, skinny, frail, and a little on the grumpy side. Phil comes over when he feels like it, but won’t come in the house anymore. He prefers his treats on the porch—a few crunchies with his milk.

The other cat that claimed Live Oak Cottage as part of his territory was the neighbor’s orange tom. I would see him come through on his morning rounds when I would be sitting at my desk writing in the morning before work. Last Saturday, as I slept in, a coyote made a visit to the estate, boldly trotting up the lane and nabbing the orange tom right off Barbara’s porch. She had just come downstairs and was in the kitchen when she heard the tom yelp. She ran out, waving her housecoat to scare the coyote. Tiny Barbara must have stirred up quite a ruckus because the coyote dropped the cat and trotted away. She scooped up the terrified cat up, coyote drool dripping from its neck, wrapped it in a towel, and marched down the lane to take him to his owner. As she got to Foothills Road, the coyote was sitting across the street, waiting. She stared it down, hoping that she wouldn’t be attacked as she turned her back on it to go up the road to the neighbor’s driveway. She delivered the cat and came back down Foothills, then turned and headed down the lane. She felt, rather than heard, something behind her and looked over her shoulder. There was the coyote, following her up the driveway.

As I sit here this morning, Shawna rests on the braided rug at my feet after having had her morning crunchies and splash of milk. She slept in the house for the second night last night, gracing the overstuffed chair that Barbara left. Knowing how incredibly "street smart" she is, I figure that she's decided domesticity trumps feral, live trumps coyote lunch, and she's made herself at home.

2008-07-30T12:59:00.000-07:00

Volunteering at the Writer's Conference

2008-07-30T12:56:00.000-07:00

I show up early the morning I am to volunteer for Agents and Editors day at the writer's conference. This is the way it works: people pay $35 a pop in order to pitch their story to an agent for 10 minutes.
Tables for two are set up in the back half of a cavernous room at the hotel--five rows with four agents per row. (the other half of the room still has rows of chairs set up for the evening lecture--sorta funky, right--a less than professional setting when you consider the cost of a hard-back book). Is it noisy in there? You bet. Are people nervous? Is the Pope… Do bears…

I must digress and say that I do understand the nervousness of the writers--I really do. At my first writer's conference I studied the agents carefully, picked two that I thought were just right for me, forked over my hard-earned money, and stood in line. However, one of the agents I had signed up for was unable to attend at the last minute due to a family emergency. A well-meaning volunteer (with strict orders not to refund money) placed me with another agent. I sat down across the table from the agent du jour, smiled, made eye contact and held it--precisely as I had been taught--and began my well-rehearsed pitch.
The agent listen briefly, then narrowed her eyes and squinted at me in a manner that suggested she thought I'd just landed my space ship on the lawn, bolted up the stairs, and plopped down at her table.
Her attitude was disconcerting, to say the least, but I continued on.
Finally she had the wherewithal to stop me and ask, "Are you pitching a novel?"
I nodded. I must be doing something right, I thought, for she had perceived the nature of my efforts.
"I don't handle novels. My company sells craft books. Do you knit?"
So I must confess that experience toughed my tender writer's skin. In hindsight, I can laugh--the Writing Gods gave me a quick lesson in not taking staking my life behind the pen on success at the agent's table.

This year at the writer's conference, there seemed to be agreement among the heads of the committees that everything be done at the last possible second, thereby adding even more stress to an already stressful situation.. The first order of business that day was to get the agents placards on the tables in alphabetical order. The head of the committee grabbed said placards and ran up and down the aisles, placing the signs thus:
F G H I J
E D C B A
Our job, then, was to the "boss" to see that she was thinking too far outside the box--that this was not a matter that required creative thinking, but one of logical order of instead of B behind A. Thusly:
A
B
C
Someone shoved a pile of papers in my hand and said, "Put these on the agent's tables."
"OK," I said and began my assigned task.
In the meantime, the agents (having flown in from New York on the red eye) were arriving, One agent, her luggage trailing behind her like a comet, asked for the most direct route to the bathroom so she could freshen up. Others buzzed to the coffee pot. Only after their physical needs were met were they willing to look at their sign-up lists, scanning down the list to see what time they could cut out early for a round of golf or shopping on State Street.
Because I have done this sort of work before, I made sure that the piece of paper I was putting down matched the name on the placard. I was going along fine--until I got to "S." Thank God it was in the last row that the alphabet disintegrated. Every file clerk knows S-A comes before S-I. The S-A agent (the one with the luggage) had parked it beside her table and was in the john. Thinking I was helping out, I wheeled her luggage to her new table at the head of her row, instead of the middle. The poor agent, usually quite on top of things, came back to "her" table and threw a fit because she thought her luggage had been swiped. I got her settled down at her new table, and pointed out that she was no longer at the mercy of the airlines, and assured her we were there to assist her in any way possible.
Oh yes, one other glitch in the system: two glitches actually. Six popular agents had cancelled before the conference, thereby disappointing those who had signed up on-line. Who knows why they elected not to show: previous commitments, not worth the increased airfare? There was never any explanation that passed my ears, but at least we knew they would not be present and the sign up sheet had been adjusted accordingly a couple of days earlier. What we didn't know until the last minute was that one agent was not coming. She represented literary fiction, and therefore her docket was full. Her husband, an attorney, had arrived, however.
"I told you I wasn't going to Santa Barbara," I heard as he held the cell phone away from his ear as he grabbed a cup of coffee. I mulled over the apparent lack of communication in that marriage… What was the poor guy to do? By default, he was forced to agree to see the people that had signed up to pitch to his wife. He leaned his golf clubs against a chair, thereby throwing away a perfectly beautiful afternoon on the links and setting him up for a day in which, I'm sure, his first thought to an aspiring writer is going to be "No."

The drill is this: I am stationed in the hallway outside--at the beginning of the slaughter ramp, so to speak. My job is to call out "9:00! 9:00! 9:00" announcing the time for the people who have their appointments. Then, "9:10, 9:10, 9:10." I keep this ten-minute interval announcement up all day, joking that I'm practicing for my interview as the Amtrak station master. My clear speech and diction are an important part of the job since I am afforded neither a microphone nor cattle prod.
After the writers have checked in with me, they are allowed to pass an invisible line to the next holding area. There they mill around until Volunteer Cheryl gives them the next set of instructions: "This is your big chance to talk to an agent. When we open the door, you will stand behind the table for two more minutes. When we release you, you will go to your table. You have eight minutes to pitch to your agent. When you hear the first whistle, that is the eight-minute mark. It's time to wrap up your pitch. Another whistle will sound at the ten-minute mark and a trap door will automatically open up below your chair if you have not vacated the table." Unfortunately some writers actually believe the line about the trap door, and the look around nervously, wondering what the hell they have gotten themselves into. These writers are the smart ones--at least they are listening. Most people are so nervous that the instructions float over them like a leaf floating down the babbling brook.
Finally the double doors open and the writers are prodded into the next holding area behind a row of tables. Really, the agents are just people with a job to do, but due to their exalted status and the pedestals they are given to perch upon, one could do no better strolling in the gardens of Versailles. The air in room is stifling and you could cut the adrenaline with a knife, but this is a rarified environment the time clock is ticking away at the steady beat of a little less than $5 a minute. The writers' nervousness increases with the proximity to the agent. In this last and final holding area, they are given further instructions which sails over their heads like paper airplanes in the third grade. If they have made it this far and not fainted, they will be allowed to see "their" agent.
The eight minute whistle is blown by Tim, the timekeeper, who is sports an aloha shirt designed with cream-colored skulls instead of the standard hibiscus flowers, giving everyone a taste of his wicked sense of humor. He stands on the far side of the tables, holding a stopwatch and a silver Army whistle. He brings the whistle to his lips with a flourish and blows at the eight minute mark thus signaling the agents to stand, shake the writer's hand and say, "Nice to meet you," thereby clearing the table for the next sacrificial lambs…er, authors.

Presumably the writers have dressed in a business-like manner, have arrived sufficiently early, have availed themselves of the bathroom to my right (nervous bladder syndrome strikes men and women in equal proportion), have their appointment sheet in hand, know the name of the agent they've paid to speak with, and have practiced their presentation. There is potential for disaster in so many steps of the process…

The sheaf of papers I hold is set up by agent's name, not author's name. Seems simple enough to me, but no--the writers don't think like that at all. They are so nervous that they invariably blurt out their name first and assume that we consider them as important as they have pumped themselves up in their minds to be (in order to subject themselves to this process in the first place). They are insulted when I don't automatically recognize them (for the important "wanna-be" they are). They shove their name badges under my nose and adopt the stance of "I'm so important I can't imagine why you haven't recognized me--however I will do you the service of stating my name."
I ignore the name badge and flip through my of papers and ask, "Who are you seeing?" Their minds go absolutely blank. Thus begins the mad scramble in their notebooks or briefcases for the sheet with their agents name on it. (Many have signed up for more than one agent (can you see the masochistic tendency among writers?) and they haven't a clue who is when. The paperclip goes flying in one direction, the precious manuscript they were holding in another, a man comes out of the bathroom and innocently steps on page 1... and the anguished shriek of the author echoes down the hallway. They stumble over to a chair, plop down and dissolve into tears.
I stare straight ahead and say, "Next?"

"Which agent are you going to see?"
"Fred."
"Fred?" I inquire, for we had no one named Fred
(neither first name or last name) on our lists.
"Fred," the author insists.
"Are you certain?"
"Fred!" he shouts.
"Would you mind looking at your paper please?"
Then began the aforementioned search. Finally he found his paper crumpled at the bottom of his briefcase and thrusts it at me. "Fred!"
I look at the paper. "Paul," I correct, unable to say the last name (we had two Pauls) before he snatches the paper from my hand.
"Paul," he mutters and backs away.

It amazed me the outfits people managed to throw together for what was, basically, a job interview. One young man wore a t-shirt that exclaimed "F-CK YO-" (since he was panting as he came down the hallway, my guess was that he had slipped on his shirt in a hurry and had run all the way from the car, banking on the "U's" to catch up with him). I wasn't sure that fashion statement was going to get him an agent...
Nor was I so sure about the woman who threw together a delightful ensemble consisting of multi-colored yarn woven into her uncombed hair, a neon green flounced underskirt (think of the half slips under 1950's poodle skirts), blue striped tights and turquoise patent leather boots. She may have been wearing some sort of top--I failed to notice--but quite honestly, maybe not.

The authors I had the most sympathy for were the elders of the group. Their eyesight dimmed by years of reading and writing, their hearing impaired, their gait faltering, they clutched their memoirs to their breasts. Asking them to hurry, or follow instructions, was out of the question, and so we afforded them the dignity they deserved. However, not everyone was so considerate, as the young are prone to be, thinking the world revolves around them and there is not going to be enough. An agent gained a thousand points in my favor as he, no spring chicken himself, watched a young author dash down the aisle toward him, bowling over an elder. Above the din of the room I heard the agent say, "A memoir at twenty? Honey, you haven't lived long enough."

2008-06-26T08:39:00.000-07:00

Bareback Under a Fullish Moon

2008-06-26T08:38:00.000-07:00

The other night I sat bareback on my friend's quarter horse, Peyote, and gazed at the night sky. Peyote stood perfectly still as I draped my legs over him and settled behind his withers. I let my legs hang down his broad back and then relaxed into him until I felt a blending of sorts--horse and rider melding into one. From that point on, neither could move without responding to the other.
The moon was still a few nights from full, but bright enough to cast slight shadows in the arena. As it rose over Sulphur Mountain I felt an old yearning to throw my head back and howl. "Yip, yip, yip, aaaahhhhoooooo!" It is hard to tell directions in the San Antonio Creek valley where the horse ranch is because of the steep sides of the valley and the abundance of live oaks and pepper trees, but I could get my bearings by the moon rising on my left. Therefore, I reasoned, Peyote and I were facing due south, the Big Dipper was slightly to the northwest. When I lean back and rested against Peyote's quarters, I could follow the line from the end of the Dipper to the Pole Star directly overhead. I had my reckoning then and I swiveled around, looking for the "w" shape of the constellation Cassiopeia.
I let the hackamore reins go slack, signaling to let Peyote remain still. I spoke to him in a low, soft voice. He twitched his ears and listened to my voice as I patted him on the neck, in the same place, with the same speed and pressure. It wasn't long before the rhythm of the pats and my gentle voice hypnotized him. He hung his head and dozed off, every once in a while waking up enough to swish his tail.
A couple of times when he woke up he turned his head to look at me as if to say, "Are you still there? Let me know if you want to do go anywhere--otherwise, I'm going back to sleep." When I did not move, then he dropped his head again and rested.
I was hoping I would see the bright eyes of a raccoon at the neighbor's artificial waterfall--since I could hear the pump humming and the water gently cascading down the boulders-- but it must have been too early in the evening for the little bandits. It was just me, the horse, and the vast universe.

2008-06-26T08:29:00.000-07:00

2008-06-19T18:20:00.000-07:00

Sitting in the Lap of God
It's now been three days since I sat, naked, in the lap of God.
My friend Maggie took me to the back country outside Santa Barbara--somewhere between the Santa Ynez Mountains and the Sierra Madres, in Los Padres National Forest. Our destination was a sulfur hot spring. We packed our peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and headed out in her pickup on Tuesday morning. Santa Barbara is right on the Pacific coast with the Santa Ynez range behind, so our first climb was up through the neighbor-hoods, then around hairpin turns and switchbacks to the 2,000 foot ridgeline. From the top, the road, though paved, was one lane wide. On the right side I could look down and see the city, Stern's Wharf sticking out in the ocean, and the blue Pacific stretching before me; on the driver's side, the rolling mountains of the continental U.S. stretching as far as I could see: the San Rafaels and the Sierra Madres. (I still forget that there is a whole continent behind me, accustomed as I am to living on an island in the middle of the Pacific) Last summer the Zaca Lake fire burned through the Sierra Madres--we could see the scars of the burn about half way down the west side of the mountain range side--the gray rocks sticking up like a backbone, reminding me of the buried blue whale that is being uncovered by the surf down near Ventura (but that's another story…). We headed down, down, down into the valley between the mountains. After about forty-five minutes (impossible to tell distance--the windy road makes for slow going), the paved road ended and we continued on a dirt road. The ranger service had posted signs warning that the next day all the roads into the Dick Smith Wilderness would be closed, due to fire danger, no doubt. We felt very blessed to have chosen this day for our journey. The only sign of human life was a forest ranger driving to his encampment. He stopped us and asked if we were planning to camp, making sure we were aware that the area was going to be closed. We assured him we were there just for the day. He waved us on as we passed his house and headed for the hot spring.
Water is still running in the streams this time of year--the last of the flow. Soon the creek beds will be nothing but rounded stones showing where seasonal water flows. In the Northwest, we don't think of creeks and rivers drying up, and we build bridges over flowing water. Here, they pour slabs of concrete in the riverbed and we drive through the water (if there is any--in this case, now only about an inch deep). We passed a small lake and I saw sunken hoof prints in the mud and could imagine deer coming there in the evening to drink.
Maggie took a right fork off the main dirt road onto a little used dirt road--no fresh tracks. We had left the world long ago, but were now entering magic space--a place where no one had been for a long time.
"It's not far," she said as she pulled up under the shade of a lone pine and parked. We grabbed our lunches and towels and hiked a short way into the springs.
Some kind souls had hauled in some plastic pipe to divert the springs, then hauled in cement and gathered river rock to build two pools beside a sweet little creek in a quiet canyon.
Mid-June in the creek valley was hot, but I was anxious to take a dip in one of the rock-lined pools. I stripped off my clothes, ready to sink in the warm water up to my neck. I eased myself up on the edge of the pool. I tested the water with my toes, then put my foot in up to my ankle. The water was hot, but I thought I'd adjust once I got in. I slipped off the side of the pool and eased myself down. And quickly eased myself out in less than a minute. There was no way I was going to be able to stay in that tub. Between the warmth of the day, the sun shining on the pool, and the temperature of the springs, I would have been boiled to tender perfection in no time.
Instead, I tiptoed across the stepping-stones in the creek and found a flat stone between two large sandstone boulders a little ways downstream. The perfect spot! I made myself comfortable, leaning back against one of the boulders and let small waterfalls pour over each shoulder. For company I had a bluebird, a scrub jay, and the smallest hummingbird I've ever seen. Oh yes, and about a thousand flies. I was glad I'd brought along some white sage, and after I smudged the flies seemed to disappear.
The flies were bothering me at first, but after I smudged with white sage, they seemed to disappear. It was then that I began to melt into the surroundings, no longer smelling like an outside entity, washed clean of civilized ways. The water covered my outstretched legs, leaving my torso dry.
Taking a deep breath and letting worldly stress wash downstream, I sank lower on my rock. The water was the perfect temperature, being warmed from the overflow of the sulfur pools. I let it fall over my breasts. Then I sat up and leaned forward, splashing water over my shoulders, feeling the rivulets run down my spine, wishing I could bathe this way every day.
I sat on my rock, facing downstream, most of the afternoon. Every once in a while, a slight breeze rustled through the cottonwood trees near the creek bank. Then the sharp scent of nature's perfume would waft through the air, reminding me of the Lombardy poplars along the lane at the house on Miller Street. (It's funny, isn't it, how smells evoke other times and places?)
Totally at home--me, with my naked butt firmly planted on Mother Earth. I had removed my watch
when I tore off my clothes, preferring Earth time to man-made time. I had no place to go and nothing tugging at me to be done. I was nature's child now.
I witnessed the water skippers sliding across the creek, the occasional leaf floating by. The sunlight peeked through dappled shade to reveal colored pebbles in the creek bottom. The only sound, the babbling of the small waterfall flowing around the boulder I rested against. When I turned my head and looked back up the stream I saw a ribbed rock sticking up out of the ground, reminding me that we were on the edge of the San Andres fault line. Creamy blooms of the yucca dotted the steep sides at the head of the valley, the only accents in the dusty chaparral.
Maggie came to find me after the afternoon shadows had traveled across the surrounding hills. "It's time to go if we want to get out of here before dark."
Why is it that the trip back always seems shorter than the trip to? When she started the truck, I glanced at the clock to see how long it would take us to return to civilization. She drove an hour and fifty minutes. Later I tried to pinpoint the spot on my gazetteer. I was able to trace the first part of the journey--the marked road--on the map, but when the road went from a solid red line to small dots, I knew I might never find the springs again. All I carried out with me are memories.

M.K. Whitehorse

2008-06-18T07:10:00.000-07:00

"Today's the day," my friend Lucy said as soon as I answered the phone. "If you want to come over, be here by 2:30. That's when the vet is supposed to show up."
"OK," I said. I didn't ask, "How are you doing?" The quiver in her voice was all I needed to hear. Instead, I assured her, "I'm on my way." I made a peanut butter sandwich, threw it in my lunch box, grabbed my boots and was out the door.
As I drove the twenty-five miles to Ojai, I had time to think about Obie, Lucy's black Peruvian Paso. I first met Obie two years ago when I became acquainted with Lucy's horses. Obie was the senior member the senior member of the herd. At that time Lucy had the horses in separate stalls, giving Obie premium accommodations: the stall on the end and the comfort of a pile of straw to lie down on in the barn. He must have been a stunning horse in his day: a white star on his forehead extending to a stripe which ran the length of his nose, a white stocking on his left back leg, lusciously long, thick mane and tail, his long forelock hiding shiny ebony eyes. In his old age he was sway-backed, no longer with muscle mass in his back quarters. His back ergots sunk parallel with the ground because his tendons had separated. Arthritis had set in. His head hung low, his tongue a shocking pink against his dark coat when it darted out in reaction to the pain he felt every time he attempted to step up on the wooden riser to reach his feeder. Even in pain, he was a gentle gelding, ready to accept the handout of a carrot or an apple. He hadn't been ridden in years, but Lucy continued to speak of his flowing gait and tender mouth. "He's like driving a Mercedes," she bragged.
When I got to the ranch, the four geldings--Chester, Peyote, Shaw and Obie--and the mare, April, were finishing their morning hay in the arena. The caramel and white paint, Chester, came to the gate to greet me.
"Lucy's in there with Obie," Hank, Lucy's husband, said as he came down the
driveway.
I pushed Chester back from the gate and entered the arena. Chester shadowed me across the ring to where the other horses were eating. Lucy was combing Obie's tail. "I'm going to cut it off when…" Her voice cracked and she couldn't finish the sentence. Her eyes filled with tears and she turned away.
There was nothing I could say. Not if… when. I knew she had been contemplating this day ever since I had become friendly with her and her horses. She had thought he wouldn't make it winter before last. Then Al, Chester's owner and horseman, suggested taking the horses out of the stalls and giving them free run in the arena, letting them be a herd without metal bars to separate them. The other horses took care of Obie and gave him the status of respected elder. When they were turned out "up top" on the hill, they hung together, taking their time going up, waiting for Obie to hobble behind them.
"Can you stay with them here in the arena with them for a while? I've got some things to do in the house, then we'll let them go up on the hill."
"Sure," I said. "I brought some apples. I'll go cut them up." I sat on a bale of hay, coring and paring the apples. When I looked up five heads poked over the fence, looking at me. I admit it--I've spoiled the horses and they've grown to expect a treat when they see me. "OK, guys. Here I come."
Peyote is the only one who doesn't like apples--the rest gobble the bits from my hand. "Move Chester, you old piggy." I pushed Chester aside so that I could share the apples with Obie. April and Shaw jockeyed for their share, April tall enough to reach across Obie's back. After the bag of apples was gone, I got the brush and spent time with each horse. I was just finishing up with Shaw when Lucy came back to the arena.
"I just a call from Shane, the guy who owns the backhoe. He said he will be over around 3:00. And the vet checked in too. He won't be here until after 5:00. He's delayed in Simi Valley, so we're on hold. What time is it now?"
"1:00," I said looking at my watch.
"Come in to the studio and talk with me while I work on my glass pieces," Lucy said.
"Sure." We went to her studio and I made myself comfortable on the sofa while Lucy wrapped plastic around the bases of her glass sculptures--anything to take our minds off what was yet to come.
"Obie raised April," Lucy told me as she worked. "April came here as a three month old foal with her mother, Sunny, when we were running the horse rescue. It was the coolest thing: we let Sunny out--she was so sick she wasn't going to run away--and April trailed along behind her. Sunny went down the row of horses, starting at Obie's stall. She rubbed her nose against his, then went right down the row of horses--I had about eight then--and did the same thing to every horse. After she'd talked to every horse, she came back to Obie and they stood nose to nose for the longest time. It was like they were having their own private conversation. Then she whinnied and shook her head. He whinnied back. Then she went over by the fence and lay down. She never got up. The vet put her down right across from the barn, right across from Obie's stall. From then on, Obie raised April. That's the kind of guy Obie is."
We heard the rumble of the tractor as it came up the long driveway. Lucy put down the plastic wrapping and tape. She laid her hands on her hips and leaned back, stretching her back, then straightened up. She glanced down at me. "It's time."
"Yeah," I mumbled. I turned toward the driveway and saw a man get out of a pickup.
"Are you coming?" Lucy asked.
"I'll be along in a minute."
She nodded and then left the studio.
I heard her greet her neighbor, Shane, the owner of the backhoe, as the tractor entered the arena. I swallowed and forced the lump in my throat back down. Lucy had already told me that she didn't want any drama--"no crybabies" isn't what she said, but clearly what she meant. My job was to be a steady hand on the rudder, a witness for Lucy, to keep things on course while she processed her emotions. I didn't want to let her down--I didn't want her to see me cry--so I let the tears flow down my cheeks until they dissolved the lump in my throat. I took my time, hoping that I had let the grief out so I could be strong for my friend. I wiped my cheeks with my shirttail and blew my nose on a Kleenex I found in the pocket of the borrowed jacket.
The backhoe men were already hard at work. As I walked down the length of the arena, the backhoe driver shut the engine off.
"This is the hardest clay I've ever seen," he exclaimed to his partner on the far side of the hole. His partner pulled out the measuring tape and dangled it down in the hole. "Seven feet," he shouted over the idling motor. He rolled the tape back up and then handed one end to Hank and stepped back along the fence line to the other end of the hole. "Eleven feet. You think that's enough?" He directed his question to Al. "And rocky too--almost as bad as digging in the bottom of the creek."
I went around the far side of the fresh dirt pile and peeked in the hole.
"It looks good," Al said. "Maybe just a little more on this end. I'd hate to have the horse get hung up in there, you know."
I hoisted myself up on the top metal bar of the corral and watched the last of the dig. I kept glancing up to the top of the hill where I imagined the horses were, half expecting them to be peering through the trees.
After the backhoe guys finished the hole, they introduced themselves and settled in to visit, as neighbors in the country tend to do.
"We're working for some Hollywood star," Jose said.
"Who is it?" Hank asked. He knows a lot of the Hollywood set because of his work behind the movie camera.
"L___ somebody. I don't know her last name."
"Can't be much of a star then," Al said as he hoisted his leg up on the step of the tractor. "Can't call 'em a star lessen you know their last name." He leaned his elbows on his knees and looked up. "If they're really a star, then they only got one name."
"So what's the job?" Hank asked.
"We're digging a 5,000 foot trench. Over there." He took a step toward me and looked through the steel bars on the fence. "I think you can see the place through the trees--over there on the next rise."
"5,000 feet? That's almost a mile," Al exclaimed. "That's a hell of a line to the cesspool. They're gonna have to put a pump or two on it."
"Get this," Luis said as he shook his head. "Her husband doesn't want to see the power poles when he drives down the driveway. We're digging the whole length of the driveway so that he doesn't have to know he has electricity. He can think it magically drops out of the sky or something."
"Sounds like just another person with too much money," I said.
Even Al laughed at that one.
"So, I show up to work one day," Jose said. "No one told me I couldn't go to work on Saturday. They were pushing us to get it done, so I figured I'd just get in another few hours, you know? I started up the tractor and started digging. Here comes the house mananger…"
"They all have house managers," Al said, warming up to the story.
"He's still in his bathrobe. He comes flapping up to the tractor and starts waving his arms at me, screaming. I think maybe there's some kind of emergency in the house or something--maybe he needs help--so I shut the engine down. He's yelling, 'Are you out of your mind? You can't work! It's Saturday. The people are here!'"
"'You don't have to yell,' I told him. 'I can hear you. Now you're making more noise than the tractor.' I swear, the poor guy looks like he's about ready to cry. I ask him what's wrong, and he said Linda the Movie Star--Whateverhernameis--and the husband showed up early and they are sleeping. They positively don't want anyone working when they are at home. In fact, he tells me, they never have any workmen around when they are in residence--only when they are at their other ranch."
"Waaaayyyyy too much money." Al shook his head in disgust.
Jose laughed as he agreed. He continued his story, "So the manager says, 'How did you get past the guard?" Rather than say, 'What guard?' and get them all fired, I just shrugged and pretended that I didn't speak English. I mumbled 'Lo siento.'"
Al picked up a rock and threw it over the fence, signaling that it was time to break up the gathering, send the backhoe guys on their way, and bring the horses down off the hill. Lucy climbed down off the fence and walked slowly across the arena, calling to her horses. "Let's go, Po. Let's go."
Peyote whinnied his reply from the top of the hill.
In the past, her call signals a stampede down the hill, every horse anxious to get their afternoon feed. But this time, aside from Peyote's whinny, there was no movement on the hill. The horses had been watching the invasion of the arena and were not interested in the intruder.
"Let's go, Po." Lucy opened the gate to the pasture the horses were in, then shut it behind her. "Chester, come on. Obie! April May! Shaw! Come on ponies. Let's go."
I followed her to the gate, leaned across the bars, and looked through the scrub oaks to the top of the hill.
"Get a couple of halters," Lucy said to me over her shoulder. "I'm going up top."
I grabbed a halter and came back to the gate. In the meantime Peyote had come down the hill, the scout for the herd. I handed Lucy the halter with the lead rope attached. Hank had come up behind me with another halter and lead rope. "I'll get Peyote and then you take him to the arena.," she said to me. She took the halter from Hank. "I'm going up top."
Hank opened the gate for me and I led Peyote to the arena.
Lucy climbed the steep hill, calling her horses. "Let's go ponies. Let's go."
Peyote was on alert as he followed me through the gate. I let him stop and sniff the air and get a good look at the backhoe and the pile of dirt in the corner of the arena. "Come on Po. Let's go check it out," I said and patted his neck. I took a couple of steps and tugged on the rope. "It's OK, Po. It's not for your today," I reassured him. He hung his head low, ears twitching forward toward the silent machine, then sideways to Lucy on the hill. Then he lifted his head and turned toward me. "Come on Po," I said as I led him to the backhoe. I stopped and stood beside him, rubbing his neck as he sniffed the air. He looked at the machine, then glanced over at the pile of dirt. When he lost interest in the backhoe and looked up the hill for the other horses, I led him away from the corner and back toward the blue plastic feed barrels tied to the fence.
Peyote recognized the red wheelbarrow filled with hay that Al was pushing through the open gate and called to his herd.
"Come on ponies," I heard Lucy call again. I looked up the hill and saw her silhouette on the ridgeline. "Come on Chester. Let's go, Shaw."
Chester came down the hill, took one look at the backhoe and bolted back up the hill. Somehow Lucy managed to get a halter on Shaw and led him down the hill. Reluctantly Chester followed. I knew if she could get those two to come off the hill, Obie and April would follow. No horse wants to be separated from the herd.
A pickup came up the driveway and Lucy waved. "We're over here," she called to the driver.
A woman and a man got out of the pickup and came to the arena.
"I'm glad I'm not too late. I brought some carrots for Obie," the woman said.
Introductions were made as Lucy put a halter around Obie and led him to the gate. Liz made over him, and fed him three fat carrots.
"I had to have my horse put down a couple of autumns ago," Liz said as she pulled on Obie's forelock. "He fell. Nasty break. He was in a lot of pain. It was ugly." She scratched the base of Obie's ears as tears welled up in her eyes. "One of the hardest days of my life."
"Yes, and Obie got your horse's blanket. That sure helped keep his hips warm these last two winters."
Liz broke a carrot into three pieces and fed Obie the first chunk. "I haven't seen him for awhile." Liz ran her hand over his bony ribs. "He's really lost weight, hasn't he?"
"Thank you for saying that," Lucy said. "I question whether I'm doing the right thing, you know?"
Liz nodded. "I know. How old is he?"
"In his late twenties."
"I figured 31," Hank said. "He was about seventeen--maybe nineteen--when we got him--at least that is our best guess."
"He's such a good ole boy." Liz said as Obie munched the last piece of carrot. I couldn't let him go without a treat, but I can't stay to watch." She stroked his neck. "Good boy, Obie." She gave Lucy a hug, and then walked back to the truck.
The hole was dug, the horses fed their evening meal. Al, Hank. Lucy and I gathered outside the gate, each lost in our own thoughts as we waited for the vet.
"It's like waiting for the grim reaper," Hank said to break the spell.
Lucy nodded and shoveled loose dirt into a pile with her boot. Her cell phone
rang and Al, seemingly the least concerned, startled like a colt. Lucy pulled the phone off her belt. "Yeah. Shane left the backhoe here. The hole is done. Whenever…" She hung up as she relayed the news. "That was the vet. He's just leaving Simi Valley. About forty five minutes."
I glanced at my watch and thought about the afternoon traffic on the 101. The vet would be lucky if he made it in forty-five minutes.
"No sense wasting the rocks the backhoe dug up. I'm going to get them for my wall," Hank said, grateful that he'd thought of something to do to pass the time. He opened the gate to the arena and began piling rocks to one side. Lucy disappeared into her painting studio. Al called his wife. I sat on the hay bale and pulled my journal and fountain pen out of my bag. Each of us sank into the things that gave us comfort.

I glanced at my watch when I saw Lucy come out of the studio. We all gathered as she reported, "The vet called again. He just turned on to the 33--he'll be here in about twenty minutes." Hank pulled weeds out of the flowerbed by the driveway, Al took out his handkerchief and polished the chrome on his Harley, Lucy raked hay in the shed, I petted the dog. And we waited.
Soon enough--too soon, it felt--the vet arrived. He surveyed the scene: horses feeding, hole dug in the corner of the arena, backhoe beside the hole. "This is never easy, is it?" he said as he looked into our long faces. He stepped around to the back of his truck and opened his traveling kit, filling three syringes as he spoke. "This actually goes pretty quick once I give the first shot. Here's what I'm going to do. This is a tranquilizer," he said as he laid the full syringe on the gate of his pickup. "I'll give it, then we'll have a couple minutes to lead him over to the hole." He glanced up at Lucy. "You do have a halter on him?"
She nodded, not lifting her head. She could not hold the tears back when she looked up.
"You know the drill Lucy."
She nodded. "But it's always been a rescue horse. Never one of my own."
"I know. We’ll make it easy on Obie," the vet said as he loaded the second syringe. "This is Valium. There can be a little fear right at the end before he goes down. We want to ease him down gently. Plus we went to keep everyone safe. We don't want him rearing up or jerking on the halter." He laid the second syringe beside the first, and then filled the last one. "This one is the one that will put him down. When I give this, he should drop in about thirty seconds. Then it will less than a minute before it's all over."
The vet clamped the three syringes, in order, between his teeth. We followed him into the arena. Lucy picked up Obie's lead rope and brought him to the middle of the arena. Hank stood on one side of his wife, Al on the other side. I stood back a few paces and fingered the scissors and rubber bands in my pockets.
The vet approached Obie slowly. He took the first syringe out of his mouth and poked it in Obie's neck. Obie startled and pulled back on his halter. "Whoa, big fella," Lucy said as she pulled down on the halter. Obie quieted from Lucy's reassurance, and the tranquilizer took effect. She led him away from the other horses, around the side of the backhoe and stopped at the edge of the hole.
The vet removed the syringes from his mouth and turned to us. "Now is the time to say your goodbyes. It won't be long."
I approached Obie. As I patted him I could feel the muscles relaxing. "Goodbye Obes," I said and backed away. Tears filled my eyes. I blinked them back and waited.
Al and Hank stood to either side of Lucy. She faced Obie and held his halter, whispering her goodbyes to him, telling him what a good horse he had been and thanking him for the lessons he had taught her as she pulled on his forelock. She was weeping but held back her sobs so she wouldn't frighten her old pal.
The vet's full attention was on Obie as he timed the next injection. He stepped forward. "The valium takes away the fear," the vet assured us as he removed the final syringe from between his teeth. The vet waited a minute, and then administered the lethal injection. Seconds after the last shot, Obie's back legs gave out and he crumpled to the ground.
Lucy dropped to the ground beside him and laid his head across her lap. "He's
gone," she stammered. "I felt him take his last breath."
I was standing behind Obie and heard a loud fart as bowels relaxed.
"He's on his way to another pasture. He's kicking up his heels already," the vet said as he moved between the horse and his grave. He leaned over Obie's back, stethoscope in hand, to check for a heartbeat. He touched Obie's eyeball. No reaction. He waited fifteen seconds, then checked the heart and touched the eyeball again. He straightened up and confirmed, "He's gone."
For the first time, the dam of grief broke behind the tears Lucy had been holding back all day. She sobbed from deep in her gut and then threw back her head. Her howls echoed off the valley walls, as if by the force of her cry, she could clear a path to the spirit world for her horse. She held Obie's head and stoked his cheek as his bottom lip fell slack.
She glanced up at me and I knew that was the cue to step forward with the scissors I had in my jacket pocket. As she cut, I tied the rubber bands around the clump of forelock and the two clumps of tail hairs when she handed them to me. She cut one hunk of hair from Obie's long mane for Hank and one for me. Then she stood and said, "This is not my horse. My horse is gone and this is a cadaver." She walked the vet to his truck as she thanked him for Obie's painless demise.
It was hard to think that just a minute or two before the horse had been a breathing, warm animal with a personality. And now he was dead, rigor mortis rapidly setting in. There was nothing left to do but bury him.
Obie had fallen near the hole, but at a perpendicular angle to it. His legs were stretched out toward the tractor, so the job of getting his body to the hole took a little bit of figuring. Hank went to the barn and came back with some chains. Al jerry-rigged the chain around Obie's feet and attached it to the bucket of the tractor. I thought they were going to turn him over so they could pick him up with the bucket, but Al had managed to pick him up by the legs and maneuver the tractor around so that he went in the hole on his back. Hank bent way down in the hole and was able to get the chain off his front legs, but had to crawl down in the deep hole and step over a dead horse to unhook the chain from his back legs. The two men cut open three bags of lime and spread them over the horse's body. Al climbed back on the tractor for the last time and filled in the grave.
Lucy was right. Obie's soul left with the last breath. What remained was just a body. Her horse, the one she traveled with to the edge of the spirit world, was gone