The Old and the Young

I think it was early September of 1997. Beautiful day in Victoria, BC, just below 80 degrees and bright sun. We were trying to hurry down Humbolt Street to Wharf Street where our bus would arrive in ten minutes.

"Not now, Ross," I pleaded with the five year old boy. "Just another three blocks and we'll be at the bus. Then you can sleep." Ross went limp like a sixties civil rights activist and lay in a whining lump on the sidewalk.

I had my backpack on and an overnight bag slung over my shoulder. John was carrying the packages from the Bay Company. I tried raising Ross up with one hand around his resisting arm.

"Ow!" yelled the little boy. "You're hurting me, Mom!" We gained five feet of progress along the sidewalk.

It had been a long day for the kid. John and I hadn't been to Victoria in years, and we probably should have left Ross with his grandparents. But there was the Bug Museum, the taxi boats of the Inner Harbor, Madame Toussaude's Wax Museum that we were sure he'd like, so here he was.

He liked the Bug Museum, but he didn't like the hotel because it didn't have a pool. He didn't like the wax museum because he couldn't touch anything, and the taxi boats weren't running today. I spent way more time in Munro's Bookstore than he thought I should. John was worried we'd miss the bus back to the ferry because I had to run into Murchie's to get a box of Empress Blend tea.

The Empress Blend is black pekoe and darjeeling teas blended the way no one else can do it. The aroma is deep and floral. The taste delicate and earthy. I couldn't leave Victoria without it, and because of me we were in a rush. But who knew when we could return?

The black cardboard box with the gold embossed logo was tucked inside my backpack. That was sitting nicely, but the overnight bag fell over my shoulder, then to the ground as I struggled with the child. Ross jumped to his feet and ran ahead of us to a wooden bench. He lay down on one end of it and announced he wasn't moving.

There was an old, severe looking woman sitting at the other end of the bench. She wore a muted plaid wool coat and scarf on this almost hot day. Her wiry grey hair lay in neat curls under a brown beret.

"I'm tired," Ross said. "You can't make me move."

The old woman spoke.

"You should take a switch to that boy. You'd be doing him a favor. Worst thing you can do to a kid is spoil him."

I turned to get a better look at her. I saw a face that hadn't smiled in a long time.

"No, you shouldn't spoil him. He won't turn out right. I can tell that for myself, nobody ever did nothin for me, and it's a good thing, too. I always made my own way from the time I was a girl. My folks never bothered to fuss, and then my father passed away when I was a teenager. I joined the army at seventeen and worked my way up the ranks as a trained nurse. I put my money away, as much as I could so I could retire to Oak Bay. And now I have a nice house there.

"Nobody did it for me, I done it myself. If Id'a been spoiled I would have nothin today."

Then she fell silent, watching John try to coax Ross off the bench. John gave the boy a juice box from my backpack and said some soothing words to him.

"Do you have any family to enjoy your retirement with?" I asked her.

"No. There was no time for that and I couldn't rely on anyone let alone a man. Never married, and dedicated myself as an army nurse, I did. I have medals.

"Nobody ever gave me anything," she repeated.

I reached into my backpack for the Murchie's Empress Tea.

"This is from me to you," I said. "I hope it's the kind you like. It is my own favorite."

The woman did not reply, but took the tea and quickly got up and walked away. She did not look back at me.

Ross watched the woman for a moment, got off the bench, took John's hand and we walked the last two blocks to the bus for home.

Lullabye

The southwest wind is really giving the patio doors a shake. The humidity is oppressive, and although I generally dislike air conditioning, the noisy machine does pull some of the stickiness out of the room's atmosphere.

It's been dark for a few hours, and the forecast is for heavy rains and maybe thunderstorms around midnight. The south-facing lanai will be a mess, because this southwest wind, or Kona weather, blows every drop of water that falls from the sky onto the tiles.

But it's kind of exciting. If I can stay awake to see the lighting, the huge torrent of rain drops looks otherworldly, almost like mercury swords slicing through the blackness. I've seen it before.

The geckos have gone into hiding, and the feral cats who have been romancing the past two nights are silent. The queen will not be auditioning the toms tonight. Something's coming and they don't need TV news reports to know that.

Lying on my bed, I listen to the wind. It sighs, it cries, it gusts in booms and slaps against the cinder block building, like unmeasured prelude. The storm and it's overture have not yet arrived.

I close my eyes.

And when I open them the sun is bright, and the easy tradewinds have returned. Morning song is soft and all blue ocean and sky. The blue of clean and washed and new.

No hint of last night's deluge and I have no memory of it.

The lanai is underwater, though, so fetch the mop.

Poker Face

I remember very well what the fortune teller said to me last week. But I did not understand when she held onto my hand and repeated, "You must now make your eyes see clearly what your heart does not want to acknowledge."

I know my eyes got wide and I could feel a little butterflies in my stomach. "See what? I don't know what you are talking about."

"I think you do," she replied. And that's all she would say.

Cecil and some friends were still playing cards at a picnic table shaded from the hot tropical sun by ironwood trees. There were five middle aged men drinking beer and eating boiled peanuts, like they did every Sunday after mass. My husband usually lost whatever money he brought to the table, but it was only ten or fifteen dollars, nothing to worry about. Good cheap entertainment, and it kept him busy while I had time with my own new friends making the dinner.

The move to Kahului from Honolulu had been sudden. Cecil had gotten into some bad company at Matson Shipping where he worked in a warehouse. Between my job as a waitress and his job as a team leader, I thought we were doing pretty well. We put some savings aside, and we'd bought a house last year. No sickness in the family, children growing strong.

Some guy Cecil worked with knew we had that money put aside and talked to Cecil about investing in a plate lunch restaurant near the Matson building they both worked in. The friend, Brian, was so sure this idea would make them both rich.

"We can work the plate lunch from five a.m. to two p.m. then we're done for the day, man. And we can write off any food we take home for the family. Business expense, yeah? And think of all the cash that comes in. The goverment doesn't need to know about all of it."

"Cecil," I said, "I don't like this dishonest stuff. If we owe taxes, we should pay. What do you know about selling food? What does Brian know?"

No matter how many good reasons I had for staying out of this partnership, Cecil and Brian, and then Brian's wife, Angela, had winning argument.

"Ok," said Angela. "I don't like two sets of books either. Let's you and me run the books and we can keep it honest. There will be plenty of income to keep us and the tax man happy."

And worn down, I consented. I liked Angela. She was energetic, optimistic, and wanted to be my friend. Soon, we did everything together, and it felt so good to have that closeness. We called the plate lunch restaurant Pa'uli, or Blue Plate.

But just in case, I found an accountant who would oversee the set up in the office, and who would teach us organization. I'm not afraid to say when I don't know something that I need help with it. Angela said she was pleased that we were learning alongside each other. We worked hard. We made good product and we made good sales. Angela and I got tips, too, and we put them in a jar for splitting at the end of each day.

The men both quit Matson and worked in the kitchen.

One time when we were making dinner at Angela's house, I saw a bag of rice like the kind we used at the restaurant. She cheerfully admitted that she'd taken it home.

"It's a business expense. You should take some home yourself." I wondered where the pork came from, and the sodas she gave to our children. I asked Cecil about it when we got home.

"If Angela says it's ok, it's ok. She and Brian are very smart business people. You could learn a lot from them." I'm sure I looked shocked, but Cecil did not seem to notice. Angela this, Brian that, it's all I ever heard from Cecil. The three of them were thick, that's for sure, and I felt a little like an outsider.

"Brian says there's a store for sale on Kaneohe side. If we jump on it, we can buy it for almost nothing." I told Cecil I did not want to do that. I explained it was too far away, and we hadn't been doing what we're doing long enough to know if we could take on more.

Cecil said, "It's a goldmine. We have to do this. Don't you want to have nice things? You could visit you mother in Manila twice a year instead of just once a year. We can go on cruises and send our children to private school."

I said it was just too soon to take on more. Then Cecil lowered his eyes and said that the store was already under contract, he'd signed my name to the purchase and sale agreement. Brian had said he should do that because it was easier to ask forgiveness than permission in these cases. He thought I'd be grateful in the long run. It's good business.

Angela came over about then with a bottle of champagne.

"Isn't this wonderful?" she said, "We're going to be tycoons! I've been talking to a banker all week about how to pull this off, and he says we can borrow for the new place on the strength of our working restaurant. He's impressed with what we've done so far. We just put them both in one corporation. We'll show the store to you in the morning. I want to know what you think of the color swatches I've picked out."

"Why didn't you tell me about this before?" I asked, my heart pounding. What did I feel? Hurt? Anger? Shock? I wasn't sure. My husband loves me and these are my friends. They all believe this is a good thing.

Cecil explained since Angela has such a head for business, that they thought she should noodle the whole process out and present it. Cecil handed me a copy of the contract with my signature in his handwriting.

Three days passed, while I tried to sort out what I thought was making me feel afraid and unsure. Angela and I continued to work side by side at Pa'uli. She worked every bit as hard as ever and was every bit as cheerful as ever.

At the end of the day, I brought the tip jar to her. "There's no tip money in here," I said. "What happened?"

"Oh," she smiled, "Cecil and Brian said I can have the tip money to compensate me for all the work I did putting the Pa'uli Two deal together. I put a lot of time into that. Didn't you tell Cecil it's ok?"

I didn't answer, but turned my back and shrugged my shoulders. I had to leave quickly so she wouldn't see my face. "Bye! See you tomorrow!" she called after me.

Cecil was at the kitchen table with a beer. He smiled at me, then frowned when he saw how red and angry my face was.

I stood squarely in front of him and said, "You and Angela and Brian can have Pa'uli Two. I will go along with it. Then on the day after the closing I am going to file for divorce and I will not be nice." I left Cecil with his eyes bugging out and got in the car. I drove down to the beach and parked the car. I took my shoes off and put my bare feet in the soft sand along the shoreline. The cool water felt good and the tradewinds felt like comforting arms around me. I must have walked two miles up and down before I went back to the car and home.

I'm glad I have the CPA and a current copy of the books, I thought to myself.

I found Cecil crying in the living room. "Don't leave me," he said.

"Do you want me to unplug this deal?" And he nodded at me. "Alright then." I reached for the phone.

"Angela, this is Carmen. I will not sign anymore anything. You let us out now. Otherwise, I go to the county courthouse first thing tomorrow and file for divorce from Cecil. You will not have clear title on Pa'uli One and you'll lose your earnest money. If you want to buy us out, you'd better do it fast."

And that's when the real Angela and Brian revealed themselves. They yelled, they cursed, they screamed. Violent acts were promised. They said they would ruin us. Our friends told us they'd visited each of them and said we'd cheated them and were bad people. Of course, our friends knew better.

So, long story short, the lawyer got our money back plus some gain and we moved to Kahului. Matson agreed to hire Cecil at that warehouse complex. I still look over my shoulder because I don't know how far Brian will go with his rage.

"We made money on that," says Cecil, "It turned out well in the long run."

Yesterday Cecil brought home a motorcycle. He told me his friend, Pat, said it was a good deal and after all he works hard for his money. Pat's going to buy a motorcycle, too. They should spend sometime riding together because Pat doesn't have it too good at home. He has an unhappy wife who complains that Pat thinks he's right all the time. What's Pat supposed to do? Be wrong?

And I was thinking about this as the five men set up their card game today. Gabriel was there first. He's the guy who seems to get Cecil's money each week. I asked him how he plays cards so good.

And Gabriel said,"Well it's statistics and human nature. A study of both. Some of us are pretty good at it."

"So you're saying you can read Cecil but he can't read you?" I asked.

"Yeah, that's about it."

I think I see something now. And my heart is no longer standing in the way.

Rebel

It was the third rain of the fall season in Livermore, CA. This was semi-arid country about forty miles east of San Francisco. Rolling hills of working cattle and sheep ranches and a scientific community associated with the University of California supported a nice little town.

But three rains between September and November was a lot.

I sat quietly at my desk in Mrs. Mettler's second grade class, twirling my hair and trying not to get caught looking out the window instead of at the frumpy teacher with the brightly dyed red hair. I didn't like looking at her because she had strong features, that awful red hair and her eye makeup was always sliding into the deep wrinkles in her pasty skin. Her voice was grating.

On rainy days, she took delight in turning the day away from spelling and math lessons to story telling and games. Like it was a holiday or something just because we couldn't go outside for recess. But on this third inclement day in as many months, it was apparent one story took precedence over any others.

She was telling the story of the Three Billy Goats Gruff. Mrs. Mettler was narrator, all three Billy Goats Gruff, as well as the troll beneath the bridge. Two desk chairs, the only prop, represented the bridge that crossed the stream between where the goats started out and the lush green pastures they wanted to go to.

"Who's that crossing my bridge?" I remember her bellowing, as the troll confronted the first billy goat. Clop, clop, clop and she stomped her feet on the thin plywood chair seat.

Leslee, my new best friend, stood up and went to the water faucet at the back of the room. She took a long drink, wiped her face with her sleeve, and smiled at the rest of us.

"Leslee, sit down," said Mrs. Mettler in her Mrs. Mettler voice. Back to the show, she continued in a cartoon voice, "It is me, Billy Goat Gruff. I'm traveling to the lush meadow where I can become fat."

Leslee worked her pencil eraser around the formica top of her desk. It made bright marks on the surface. "Preacher Creature Teacher," she pointed and made me read it. I giggled, but stopped when Mrs. Mettler shot me a look in her evil troll character.

"You don't want to eat me. My brother is coming next, and he is bigger and tastier than I am." Mrs. Mettler hiked up her dress and stepped off the make-believe bridge. "Off with you, then, I'll eat your brother," in the troll's voice.

Leslee got up again and took a long drink from the fountain.

The second Billy Goat Gruff looked down at her from the bridge and said, "I told you to sit down."

Leslee said, "I have the hiccups. Mom says to take a drink of water when I get the hiccups." She smiled at the whole room this time.

"Sit down, Leslee. I won't tell you again."

The story of the goats and the troll continued, not a word different from the other two times we'd been subjected to it. The troll was going to get his butt kicked by the same oldest and biggest Billy Goat Gruff again.

"Leslee if you get up one more time, I'm going to tie you to your chair."

The seven year old girl hiccupped loudly and started for the faucet. Mrs. Mettler, true to her word, found three jump ropes in the closet next to the entry door, and Leslee was secured to her desk. Except for her right leg. She reached out with it and tripped Mrs. Mettler, causing her to fall with her dress rising almost to her waist.

I laughed out loud. The other children had the good sense to be quiet.

That was the first time Leslee and I went to the principal's office together. There would be repeat vists from time to time over some great idea she would come up with.

"It's not running in the hall if you're skipping."

"We can't go back to class if we're not wearing shoes. Let's throw them over the fence and say some boys did it."

"It's not destroying the Weekly Reader if you only wad it up. We can call it the Wrinkly Reader."

"Calling her Tub of Lard is not cursing. And she called me Shitass first. You saw what happened. You tell the Duty."

I think about Leslee sometimes when I've been very especially well-behaved and feel unappreciated.

She would laugh if she saw me push the walk button at a cross walk and wait for the light even with no cars in sight.

I had a particularly stressful day today, but I kept my composure every minute. I could feel my heart pounding and my temper rising up into my throat. When it was over, I left my office and walked the few blocks to my car, wishing I could let go of the knots that seem to hold me together these days.

This day, with no cars in sight and no one looking... I jaywalked in the middle of the block. But I didn't walk and I didn't run... I skipped. I got in the car, took off my shoes and threw them into the backseat.

That's better.

On Turning Eighty

I turned 54 this week. My friend, Sue, had a birthday, too, and she is older than me. We talked on the phone today, and agreed that if it were not for mirrors and aches we would not know what age we are... it could depend on where we are and who we are with how old we feel. Especially if we have our glasses off because that makes the lines in our friends' faces disappear.

Another good friend turned eighty four days before my birthday. Over the years, we'd wish each other happy birthday because the dates are close together.

Doug Burton owns Burton Jewelers in Anacortes. His father established it when he was a child, and he is about to hand it to his own son, Phillip. Doug and his wife Laura were two of the first people I met when my family moved to Anacortes in 1968. I was just 12 years old that summer, and was sorely missing my friends in California. I wandered around exploring the small town, and Burton Jewelers was stocked with lots of interesting things. Not just jewelry, but fine porcelain, crystal, sculpture, and art glass from all over the world.

Doug's wife, Laura, made me feel welcome, and I spent quite a bit of time with her. She took treasures out of the safe and let me handle them. Gems of all colors, species and sizes... she and Doug told me about the facts and qualities and characteristics of each piece. Laura told me about all the places in the world they traveled to find and purchase the very special items. Blown glass from Venice, Italy and crystal vases from Poland. Baccarat sculpture they bought at the source in France.

Ooh. Ahhh. See and touch and share stories. I'd forget about homesickness for awhile.

I've checked in with the Burtons over the years since then. Forty years have gone by, and I watched their son, Phillip, get his education then return to learn the business. We watched with great sadness when Laura became ill with cancer and faded before our eyes about four years ago. I gave her a book when she couldn't work any more, one I put alot of thought into and hoped she'd enjoy. I inscribed it with a note of thanks for a friendship that made a difference in my life.

Phillip gave an after-hours party for his dad in the store. I got an invitation, and meant to attend. It was promised that the first certain number of attendees would receive an envelope with a gem in it, one of which would be a 1/2 carat diamond. Quite the party favor! That sounded like it would generate quite a crowd, so I came by an hour early with a card and a bottle of wine. Doug loves fine wine among the other finer things. Thinking I'd be able to bestow the honor and avoid the crowd, I left the gift with Pam. He probably wouldn't know if I was at the party or not.

Today I received a card from him: "I'm glad you could make it to the party, and I'm glad I'm here at eighty, but I'm sorry that Laura wasn't here to share the joy... enclosed is a verse I wrote on my birthday."

On Being Eighty

The evening of my life has come
but my work is not done
For I still have work to do I feel
and still much to learn
Bright morning is long past
and those who nurtured me are gone
High noon came into my life with joy
and I began a long romance
As the zenith became more mellow
we learned of strength and weakness
But love surmounted all in a golden afternoon
as the shadows lengthened
So now comes evening, my favorite time of day
and let me still sing praises to the
Lord of it all.

Douglas Burton
12 November 2009

Last Tango in Toledo

Finally quiet. Go to sleep, you bastard. I'm numb from all your complaining, your fussbudget crap.

The dishes you left from this morning are washed, dried and put away. Your underwear and socks are folded as you wish and stacked in the drawers like firewood.

I vacuumed and swept and had the carpets steam cleaned. The surfaces have been scrubbed with Lysol, removing every trace of what was us, so all that will remain when I'm gone is YOU.

I was placing my suitcases in the entry hall when you came home. You walked past me and inspected the great room and kitchen. Then you actually smiled at me and said one thing you'd miss about me is maid service. I could smell Chanel No. 5 on your coat when you dropped it on the floor for me to hang up.

You "tapped" me when I bent down to pick up the coat so I would stumble. And you laughed. You said I never did have a sense of humor.

I kept my eyes downward so you wouldn't see my thoughts. You brute, you liar, you cheat.

I smiled back at you and said that since this is what we both want, why can't we just be pleasant for the last few hours. I hope when some time has passed we can stop being angry. I won't take anything away from you that isn't mine.

You narrowed your eyes at me and said fat chance, looking at my hips and thighs. I'm not going to react to that, I thought to myself. I know what lawyers are for, and I can continue the fight for whatever shit belongs to me from my mother's house. A few hundred miles between us and I'm much stronger for the contest.

I dressed for bed in the bathroom with the door closed. How is this going to go? I entered the bedroom, and there you were already in bed with the light off. I told you I'd sleep on the couch in the living room and took a pillow and blanket from the closet.

One last power play from you. No you won't, you said. You won't leave this room. Sleep on the floor like a dog, you bitch.

Why? The game is over. David will pick me up first thing in the morning, and I'll leave your sorry ass far behind.

I can do this. I get as far away from you as you'll allow. Just inside the closet I put my head down on the pillow and pull the blanket over myself.

I am exhausted. I listen for your breathing to become slow and regular, then I allow myself to drift off.


"It is wrong to think that love comes from long companionship and persevering courtship. Love is the offspring of spiritual affinity and unless that affinity is created in a moment, it will not be created for years or even generations." Kahlil Gibran

That Special Place in Hell

I'm watching the news this morning. The big story is about Maj. Nidal Malik Hasan, who shot up Fort Hood in Texas.

This man shot 34 people, with 13 fatalities, earlier this month and his story will be in the headlines until long after he is dead. I can't imagine the public will allow for anything less than a death sentence.

There must be a special place in hell for someone who commits such a crime.

I think there is. He's in it now. Whether he loses his mind or stays lucid through what's left of his life, he will never know peace. He does not need to wait for death to open the blackened gates of a netherworld.

His goose is cooked up brown.

Not much comfort to the those who lost loved ones in this horrifying act of terrorism, little comfort to those who survive it, but there it is.

We send our prayers to the victims, survivors and families... that is the obvious thing to do.

For the man who did this, I feel sorrow for a wasted life. He's in a blind alley, and he will never find his way out of it. Once a counselor and healer, now a villian and killer.

I wish I knew what prayer to offer for him.

The Story of Ross

Ross is my seventeen year old son. I think he's a really good kid. He doesn't have much focus on school, and no thought at all about adulthood, but after raising the two other boys, I've learned that might not be so bad. The other two are just about finished, even though they are 28 and 31.

He's pretty spoiled, and has every right to be. I think that boy has been indulged in every way we could think of. He'd been to one Disney property or another eight times by the time he was twelve years old, for example.

Classic overcompensation.

His way into the world was not simple. At the first checkpoint in my pregnancy, Dr. Stalsbroten told me that there was an indicator in my blood that there could be a neural tube defect. At my advanced age of 36, he was concerned about Down's Syndrome or spina bifida. But it's borderline, he said. We could do amniocentesis and know for sure. But what would I do about it if I knew for certain? Nope, just leave it alone and let it happen.

Same Dr. Stalsbroten informed me of a mass in my abdomen during the first ultrasound. He sent me to Dr. Ely, an obstetrical surgeon, for a consult. The object was in between golf ball and tennis ball size and attached to an ovary by a stem. This is not good, said Ely, because even if it is something benign it could twist and necrotize. And if it is malignant it needs to get out of there quick so it doesn't kill you. Let's just open you up, take it, biopsy it, and deal with it while you are still under anesthetic. That's the efficient thing.

What about my baby? At twelve weeks' gestation isn't that a little tough on him? You would likely miscarry, said Ely. But if there's a malignancy, we'd have to clean everything out anyway.

This guy is steely, I thought to myself. Who else can we talk to? Stalsbroten sent me to Robert Pringle in Mount Vernon, who told me pretty much the same thing with one exception. He asked me: What do you want to do? I asked him: What are possible scenarios? How likely is it I'd survive cancer, anyway? What if I let the baby have his own life and worry about mine later?

Dr. Pringle the Human Being said let's wait a little while, then. If we get you to six months, the odds are good I can stop a miscarriage in surgery. I can wake you up in the middle of the process if I find malignancy, and you can tell me what you want me to do.

And that is what we did. He found something called a teratoma cyst, which is a very interesting growth. It's an egg that has not absorbed sperm, but is ripe at the time of conception. Pregnancy hormones stimulate it to grow, but without a blueprint, it's willy nilly. So you might see a tooth, or a strand of hair... even brain tissue. That's one theory. Another is that the cyst was my fraternal twin and it had been there as long as I've been, but three pregnancies had stimulated it to grow until it was noticed. It has no one's DNA but mine, so it's hard to prove where it came from.

What a relief to wake up in a recovery room intact! I had some early labor contractions, but the Good Dr. Pringle put a stop to them, and we ran for the finish line over the final weeks.

But there's more, said Billy Ray.

I went back to work at the Prosector's Office at the end of my leave (with a couple of interesting detours as a temp for Steve Skelton, Doug Owens, and the Public Defenders Office). I had a wonderful daycare that was run by the right kind of Mormon family. Say whatever you want, but these people can be some of the most ethical and kind folks you'll ever meet. Jim and Kathy Christianson are two of the finest people I know and I'll say it right here!

I digress.

After the five month checkpoint, Dr. Stalsbroten called me at work. He said that Ross' head growth was outside the chart, and he made an appointment for us at Children's Hospital the following Tuesday. What does that mean, I asked. Stalsbroten said he thought he should not speculate, but leave the entire process to Children's Hospital.

Bang. I'm taking my break, I announced, and walked outside. Two blocks away was a used book store, the closest I was going to get to a library in fifteen minutes. I found a 1962 family medical encyclopedia and within a few minutes I read something like this:

"Hydrocephalus is sometimes found in the womb or sometime during infancy... large head, downward cast of eyes... shiny scalp... fontanels that don't seem to be closing as normal...." Yep, that's Ross.

"Prognosis: as there is no surgical remedy, the patient gradually grows lethargic and sleepy and slips into a coma from which he does not awake. Death is inevitable."

Back to my office. I must speak with Stalsbroten. He's not too busy to take my call dammit.

You'd better explain this, I said. He asked where I got the medical information and I told him. He said well there are surgical remedies now, and yes he was very sure it's hydrocephalus and it was too early to start dreading. The child does not have a death sentence, there is excellent management in this modern age.

My boss sent me home. Thank you, Mavis, for having a heart.

Tuesday was in the middle of Thanksgiving week, and things at Children's were winding down for the four day weekend. We got right into radiology, though, and the tech scanned Ross' tiny head. We could see a big, fat ominous-looking X taking up most of the space in his skull. The radiologist said, "I can't interpret this image for you, but I can't pretend you don't see it, either. Walk directly to neurology, and I'll send the images over to them as quick as I can get it there."Hydrocephalic/Normal

We carried our son as directed and waited about half an hour. After a quick course on neurology, brain surgery, and shunt appliances, we were told that they could probably schedule the procedure for the following Tuesday, what with Thanksgiving and all.

We'd been talking to resident surrounded by medical students in short white coats. "See, this kid has all the classic signs." Four of them touched Ross' head and said, "Very large fontinal. Sunset eyes. Yes, the skin is tightened across the skull and has a shiny cast, just like in the books." They were delighted.

NO! I practically shouted. Look at how fast this came onto this baby! What can happen to his intellect between now and then? Can you answer that?

The resident and the white coats made a quick retreat. And then they came back.

Tomorrow morning at 9:00. We filled out the admittance papers and I extended my Skagit County employee's insurance card. Thanks again, Mavis, for having a seat for me when my leave was over.

Dandy-Walker Malformation is a neural tube defect. How about that?

There were many, many fears and obstacles ahead after the very successful surgery. Would the boy have deficits? He did. He had poor balance, low muscle tone, and some dyslexia. He repeated Kindergarten and still couldn't write the alphabet in the correct order until about the end of first grade. Letters were sometimes backward until third grade. He could not peddle a tricycle until he was four. He had headaches until he was about fourteen.

In his infancy, he could have stopped breathing, or his heart could have quit because of the odd formation of his cerebellum (the cyst on the fourth ventricle split the cerebellum down the middle, kinda) Nerve connections could have been incomplete. He had sinus infections. Those are oddly-shaped, too.

He decided he wanted to skate on a hockey team in Mount Vernon when he was nine, but first he had to learn to skate. It was painful to watch, but he went from parallel to upright in about three months of trying hard. He made the team and played two seasons before he went on to the next interest.

Skateboarding. Dangerous stuff. I seldom watch because it gives me the shudders, but he's quite good at it.

Of course, we never told him he had deficits, and the school system is too self-absorbed to test him and tell him.

You're a miracle. Three times over a miracle, I told him when I caught him with marijuana. Don't you dare screw your brain up with chemicals. I'll kick your ass.

I look at him at seventeen and I think... it's time now I can stop worrying about his development. You cannot tell him apart from the other guys. You really can't unless you x-ray him.

Ordinary is about the best a kid can be.

Where there's smoke...

Got a call from a downtown businessman about four teenagers in John's car. It was parked behind the man's shop and he wanted us to know they were smoking marijuana in it. John's car, you see, has his business logo and phone number on it.

"I don't understand why they would do this in full view of myself and my employees, but I'm letting you know instead of just calling the police."

I sent a text message to Ross: "whaddaryadoin? call me"

He did, and I asked him where he had been in the last hour or so. His tracks went through the parking lot identified earlier.

"Were you smoking dope in your dad's car? Someone called and said he saw you all doing that. He is certain he saw you pass a small pipe around. I want you to come home immediately."

"We didn't have marijuana, Mom. I'm telling you the truth."

"Yeah, sure you are. Kids never lie to their parents. You are going to lose your car privilege and I'm gonna get a buncha grief from some parents because of your stupidity and indiscretion."

"No, Mom. Remember I told you Ethan is hooked bad on cigarettes and he's trying to quit? His dad gave him this electronic nictotine device and that's what we were passing around. I'll come right home and show it to you."

First thing I did was the sniff test inside John's car, but I didn't smell anything. I looked into the four angelic faces, eyes clear and not dialated.

The device is about 5" long and silver in color. It is a battery-driven nebulizer and makes a mist out of flavored nicotine drops. The mist could be mistaken for smoke.

I tried it myself. It hits the throat quite a bit like smoke does, a surprisingly fair immitation. I could feel the nicotine buzz my brain a bit.

"What flavor is in it?" I asked.

"Kiwi lime."

"Weird."

"You can get forty different flavors. We like the blackberry."

"Got chocolate?"

"No, but we can get it."

I was so relieved, I hugged all four of them and sent them out for McDonalds, all expenses paid.

Now they are over at Tyler's house showing the device to Tyler's mom. She has COPD and is also hooked hard on cigarettes and one other flammable substance. An aging hippie (true California-style) I bet she thinks she's seen everything.

Not yet.

It rained buckets last night. Nothing like a tropical shower. You can smell it coming before it lets loose, and the air becomes cool and moist. We had a good view from here of the clouds moving from Haleakala to Kihei and then over our heads at just about sunset. It lasted an hour or so, and the sky became dark with the clouds and the night. Before we went to bed, the dousing moved on and the stars were bright.

It was cool enough to sleep with just the ceiling fans going, so with the a/c noise abated, I fell asleep listening to the surf and the geckos chirping on the lanai.

Last night's chicken soup was very good.

Just having the carcass and no canned stock to build on, I decided to carmelize the onion first and set it aside. I deglazed the bottom of the pot with some white wine. Then I put the bones and water in the pot with Johnny's Seasoning and pepper (all I have in spice inventory). It simmered all afternoon. The fresh stock cooked down nicely to about a third of what I started out with. I added the chicken meat and vegetables (including the onion) to finish.

That works. I'll do it again. Carmelizing the onion made all the difference between bland and delicious.

We feel better now about eating the cocoa mochi and banana lumpia that Carmen brought us.

Alexander and Baldwin Sugar Museum is on the activity list today. There is just the one sugar mill still working on Maui. Hawaiian Commercial and Sugar Company in Sprecklesville (of course) is long gone, and the Pioneer Lahaina Mill closed about 1999.

I haven't read much about HC&S, but A&B is a major presence here on Maui. Sugar is only one division, most of the company's focus is real estate investment and development.

These sugar companies built the irrigation systems back in the mid 1800's that are still in use today. You can walk a trail in the Waihee valley and see the concrete ditches and siphons that have changed very little since those days.

I think the girls will enjoy the museum situated alongside the working mill. It is in the house formerly belonging the the plant superintendent, so they can appreciate the architechture of the day. Lots old equipment on the big lawn to walk around, and the old ways are documented with pictures and personal stories inside the plantation house.

Not much to do to get ready for the flight home. But we can't go anywhere until we shower and dress.

I'll make the first move.

Judy and Fran are out on the lanai reading paperback novels. I have a Michael Crichton I'm trying to get interested in. It's called Five Patients, and it must be the precursor to the television series, ER.

Last year, ER was the series rerun of choice for my insomnia occurances. I could watch three ER episodes most of those nights without having to search around through the informercials for satisfactory content. Billy Mays' shouting does not soothe me, but the resolution of ER's dramas can bring a sigh of relief and rest. Chicago Hope Hospital must have been blown up four times, hostages taken at gunpoint twice and I also learned how dangerous medical helicopters can be. One doctor got his arm severed by the blades, and months after he recovered from that, another one fell out of the sky and crushed him.

Everybody brought to ER gets entubated.




With all that hell breaking loose somewhere on a Hollywood set or in someone else's imagination, it's a relief to fall asleep in the quiet of my cottage on Miller Road.


Crichton has a good voice. I think I can finish this book. He's best known for Jurassic Park. That's not the kind of book I would read, but I gotta say the movie is one of my favorites.

Today we will go buy supplies for the condo that Carmen has requested. It shouldn't take very long, then we'll come back here and look for shells on the beach. There are little teeny tiny ones that wash up along the breakwater, and I have a collection in a glass container that I leave on a kitchen shelf. I add a few each time I'm here, and so do some of my guests. I think it's interesting that people who are strangers to me contribute but do not remove any.

There is still some good in mankind.

Yesterday we drove to Paia, then Makawao and upcountry past Kula to the winery. In Paia, I bought a shark suit for one of the dogs. Very silly, but irresitable. I see while on-line looking for a photo to post here, that I could have bought one at Target for about half the price. And that is how you explain the "tax on paradise."





It's our last night here. Traditionally, it's chicken soup night. We made three meals out of that whole chicken I baked a few nights ago. Quite a few leftovers can join the carcass in a big pot and it makes the heart glad waste is minimized.


We leave for home tomorrow on the Northwest Airlines red-eye. It lands in Seattle at about 5 a.m. I bought those tickets because they were $340 roundtrip at the time Hawaiian was advertising $475. Wouldn't you know the following week they matched at $340. Ah, well, so far no one is complaining, but the moaning should start about three hours into the flight when the flight attendants and small children keep us awake.

I brought my small children on airplanes, so I'm paying dues now, I guess.

And when I get home, well-refreshed, I have an interview at Island Hospital. It's just for volunteer work in the gift shop, but there are openings from time to time in admitting. From there, I'd like to look around for an executive secretary position. Gotta start somewhere, and I think this is pretty good.

But this morning, a very beautiful one on the island of Maui, I won't think too hard about going home just yet.

When we finally got going yesterday, it was decided we'd walk to the village shops and look around.

It's a tough economy as everybody knows, and I was sad to see Moonbow Tropics half it's former size, the candle and soap shop gone, and several empty spaces awaiting leases. The Maalaea Grill is doing well. It's had some starts and stops. The original owners sell it, then repossess and restore it, and sell it again.

Fran bought a very pretty palm tree pendant from the jeweler. We had ice cream cones for lunch. You have to work fast on your ice cream in Maalaea. With the winds convecting the 85 degree heat, you must turn it as you eat it. Quickly now, or it's running down your hand in rivelets.

We might as well ride the bus to Lahaina. There it is. It's $1 each way, no worries about parking, and if we have a mai tai, no worries about Maui's favorite local revenue raiser.

Not alot to say about the shopping in Lahaina. Retail dominates the scene, but there are still historical sites you can spend a day exploring if you choose. My favorite is the Wo Hing Museum. It was sort of a men's social club and religious temple, all-in-one. It was closed yesterday, so I didn't get to walk through it, but I think the history of the Chinese immigrants is one of the most interesting

They came as laborers, but put their highest priority on educating their children. As the generations passed, there were fewer Chinese in the lower classes and more in business and leadership. In the earliest days when Chinese women were few in the islands, the Chinese men intermarried with Hawaiian women, and their cultures have blended in subtile ways

The stories of the whalers and the missionaries are well-documented. The old church buildings, some constructed of lava bricks, are worth walking through. Some hymnals are in two languages; English and Hawaiian. It seems the old language is kept alive in the old Congregational (or Anglican) services, even if it has not been conversational language for many years. You can hear some Hawaiian words in the local "pigeonspeak" if you listen closely.

But this trio of ladies was in Lahaina to shop. We left no stone unturned, but only bought a few ounces of goods (not pakalolo, silly reader... clothing items!).


My big thrill was a hula demonstration in the courtyard under Moose McGillicudy's. A man played percussion while groupings of different ages danced. Looking closely at the man, I recognized him as Keali'i Reichel, one of my very favorite Hawaiian musical artists. Hey, Fran and Judy: that guy is a big star here! Not appearing as a big star today, but as kuma hulu, or teacher. His pride of the day was showing his students off, and he did not introduce himself. I did not blow his cover, of course.

There was some confusion and desperate thinking as it got dark and no one knew when the last bus back to Maalaea was. But there was no finger pointing, and we were able to get a schedule that reassured us we had not missed the last ride.

As I write this, Judy and Fran are on the lanai. I made cowboy coffee again, and they sip it and smoke their Marlboros, huddled together. They look like two little girls in a sandbox.

There is nothing so valuable in this world as good friends. I love the way I look reflected in their eyes. At this time in my life, with the major changes in progress, it's such comfort to be far away from home and so well-cared for. It's just a week, but it's a therapy that will keep me strong enough to tackle some hard work in the weeks or months ahead.

We've seen the eagle ray and the monk seal perform in the harbor these mornings. I don't see them every visit, and maybe I can believe they are here just for us. The local fishermen cast their lines into the water, the canoe club paddles by, and the tour boats come and go. "Freight Trains," a southern ocean swell famous for it's speed, is coming up and there will be surfers to watch in the next hour or so. It's just outside the breakwater, and we have the prime seats.

I invited Tim over for dinner. He has a new love interest who is very pretty and nice. When he introduced me to her, we chatted awhile and talked about getting together, and I told her to be sure and feel welcome. He called me the next morning and said, "Thank you for that. You made me look good and this one is real special to me."

Glad I could help!

I'm off to enjoy an abundance of nothing to do. If you can imagine such a thing, it does exist here.

After three nights in the condo on Maui, we feel like we are at home here.


Yesterday the three of us drove to Wailea to look at the Beautiful Resorts, and found parking prohibitive all all except the Four Seasons. You'd think as much as places like that enjoying sucking up money they'd make it easier to get it to them. The Grand Wailea has a lot that sits out in the hot sun with a gate and attendant. Are we supposed to pay to park here? There is no sign indicating terms. There is valet parking, but is that just for hotel guests? Again, no sign indicating terms.

The Four Seasons lets you park in their garage for two hours. That works.

The lobbies and grounds are splendid. The shops are dazzling. I looked at a three carat pigeon's blood ruby in a platinum setting with pave diamonds and said wow. You just don't see that color and size anywhere, they are becoming so rare. The lady said I could put it on. Such a thrill. I told her, I can't have this, you know. She said it's quite alright to play and entertain myself. How much is it, I asked. $55,000.00 she said.

I showed her the quarter-carat ruby I wear lately. It's the same color as yours however small, but I'd rather have a tiny good one than a larger pinkish one. We smiled at each other and became sisters.

A ruby of the quality I beheld can cost ten times what a diamond of the same size and quality would cost.


La de dah.

We drove back to the condo via Kihei Road so we could see the tourists all jammed together around the chaos that makes up the small town. The beaches of Kihei are the best on the island, though. Kamaole III is my favorite. We stopped at Five Palms and had a cocktail, then pushed onward.

Dinner on the lanai here is so sublime. And I have galley slaves. I cook up the supper, and my friends clean up after me. I feel so powerful.

This morning the coffee maker quit, and those silly women sat out on the lanai trying to absorb caffeine from Coca Cola. That just doesn't work. Here, I said, is a sieve and a coffee filter. You can heat water to boiling on this electric range here and pour it through the sieve into a pot.
Judy and Fran are so easy to amaze.

Today we have no plan. We'll see where the steed named Pontiac wants to go.

This is all so doggone relaxing I can't put it into words!

We Can See Lanai from the Lanai

This is the second ful day on Maui with my friends Judy and Fran. The weather is perfect, although there is heavy rain in the pali valleys. That's where the flash floods are that you see in the weather reports. The floods dash the hopes of any would-be hikers, but that's not us, so we don't care.

I see heavy clouds over Haleakala, too.

Yesterday we bought new outfits at Macys, stocked the kitchen, and took a king salmon to my housekeeper, Carmen. She takes wonderful care of this condo and nothing makes her happier than a whole fish (well, it's been beheaded and gutted).

Carmen has a large household. Like many Filipinos' homes, her roof covers her husand and herself, along with both of her grown children and their young families. She is a very energetic and thoroughly good person, a rarity, and I am so fortunate to know her.

We found mango and pineapple dessert in the refrigerator on arrival. And we casually asked about banana lumpia and cocoa mochi... I bet it they magically appear, still warm.

We have been out for a couple meals, but we'll mostly eat in. The views from the lanai are unbeatable, and this kitchen is good.

This afternoon we'll wander the elegant hotels on the Wailea side. It costs nothing to be there and take it all in. The Four Seasons and Grand Wailea are really over the top. I haven't traveled the world, but I'd bet it would be hard to find any places more elegant than those.

Tomorrow might be a boat ride. I found my friend, Tim, at the Maalaea Grill last night. He can fit us into a tour on the Hokua that isn't full and we get a good discount. I refer lots of business to him. How to describe this guy? Certainly one of the "local color." He's a bit rotund and plain, but he always has women around him. They really like him. He's mananged to stay a life-long bachelor and has that joy de vivre that most of us never quite grasp. Good on ya, Tim.

With luck, we could get an invite to one of his poolside dinners. Fresh caught ono or whatever's running. Everyone brings a side dish and beverage... so nice as the sun sets and the tradewinds blow gentle.

Beyond that, no plans. And that's the way to be. We will enjoy the comfortable chairs at the expensive hotel lobbies, watching the typical tourist scramble for activities that stress them out and empty their wallets.

Let everyone have a great time, including the timeshare salesmen, the service workers and the vendors at the gift shops!

It's Too Darned Hot!

I wonder how many blogs started with that title this week in western Washington State? We've had record temperatures here. It was over 100 degrees Farenheit in Seattle yesterday. That's never happened before.

We had record freezing temperatures last winter.

"Where's our global warming?" people were heard to say, "We can use some of that warm."

Well, now we have it.

Evenings are the worst. The kitchen is the last place I want to be with the sun coming through the bay windows. Appetite is low and it's contrary to nature to bring more heat in through the cooking devices.

The first night I waited until the sun ducked behind Scimitar Ridge, but it was almost 9:30 by the time dinner was over. The second night I wangled dinner out at an air conditioned restaurant. The third night, and it must have been the hottest in the series, I looked at John and said we should cook as much of dinner as we could on the outside grill. That's what steaks are for, and I'm glad I bought the little grill "wok" thing with holes in it. It handles vegetables real well.

You can only play the air conditioned restaurant card about once a week, so I am happy to say this evening is the coolest one lately. It's only 82 degrees outside and 86 in the kitchen.

I did sneak down to the Majestic to visit with my oldest son late this afternoon. We sat in the air conditioned lounge, had cold drinks and watched the new mail drop across the street from our table. It used to be in the one-way alley way between the city hall and the post office bays. It was a great driver's side approach, but somebody worried that although it had been in the same place for twenty years and nobody could remember any wrecks, that there might be one some day and they should move it. Now it sits on the kerb of 5th Street with a passenger-side approach and cars are coming from both directions to get at it. Not everyone thinks to bring a passenger.

One of these days, the right hard-head in a hurry will make the front page of the newspaper.

Not much to do in a small town on a very hot day.

Dinner is in the oven. Just a chicken and some potatoes, nothing fancy. I can sit way in the back of the house, in the dark den with the window fan. Sipping an iced tea, I can even stay awake.

The teenager, Ross, just returned from town with some guys who said they want to swim in the pond. They stood on the dock in their shorts, all ready to plunge, when someone pointed and said, "Leaches." Those are fire newts, but there's no telling some people.

They ruined the supersoakers on the Fourth of July by pouring kerosene in them to make shift blow torches. The kerosene dissolved the threads and soft plastic fittings rendering them useless. Bad planning.

So now they're in the game room playing pinball, and that may be better than leaving wet towels all over the hardwood floors. I'll leave it alone.

No real complaints, though, about the high temperatures. There is entertainment in watching news stories of people scrambling to find air conditioning units at premium prices (as soon as they're installed the temps will be back in the 70s). Some will flood their basements with portable swimming pool mishaps.

I think most people will find a way to lay low or have fun.

I'll wait for the sun to dip behind Scimitar and take a peddle boat around the pond. Maybe I should get one that looks like this:

Chicken Parmesan My Way

I like to cook. I like to look through cookbooks and study recipes. Certain details, ingredients, appearances get my attention but I can't say I follow any directions step by step. That's why I can make dinner courses but I'm no good at baking. Baking, you see, is more like chemistry. If you don't get every measurement just right, you can fail miserably.

I've tried about twelve different ways to make Chicken Parmesan and haven't had much success. It comes out chewy and tough, or the breading comes off in the pan, or it sticks to the pan. Even following the directions to the letter, it falls short of delicious.

But this works for me:

One pound of ground chicken
Two slices of provolone cheese, cubed with a knife
Three slices of proscuitto ham, cut up fine
About 1/4 teaspoon each of garlic powder, ground black pepper
1 teaspoon dried basil, maybe a little oregano
1/4 cup bread crumbs (I used Progresso Italian)
1 teaspoon dried or fresh parsley

You don't need salt, there's plenty in the proscuitto ham.

Mix this all up in a bowl. It's going to be kinda wet, even with the addition of the bread crumbs.

On a cutting board or other clean surface make a 3" circle of grated or shredded parmesan cheese (I used Kirkland Reggiano). Drop a big spoonful of the meat mixture on top of the parmesan and form a patty. Top the patty with more parmesan. You should get four or more patties out of the mix.

Shuffle it into a medium hot non-stick skillet. No oil needed.

Let the patties brown pretty good before turning them. Once brown on both sides, turn the heat low and let them cook through (nobody likes medium rare chicken).

In the meantime cook whatever pasta you like and whatever sauce you like. I like to use spaghetti or fettucine. When I'm lazy, I use jarred sauce like Contadina Marinara.

Here's the magic: the parmesan cheese on the outside of the patty gets brown and crispy. It won't stick to the non-stick skillet, but it'll hang onto the meat really well. Also, ground chicken with cheese and ham stirred into it will not get dry. Chopped meat, having practically been chewed for you, is always tender.

You could add chopped green pepper, fresh onion and/or garlic, or a little dried red chile, or black olives if that sounds good. There are many ways to vary the recipe.

This is what the plate looked like tonight:



I haven't seen this recipe anywhere... maybe it's one of those rare original ideas. I got the idea looking at cheeseburgers frying in a skillet.
You can use extra lean ground beef, too. The Dakota beef at Costco is especially good. I mix a beaten egg, a couple teaspoons of Worchestershire sauce, garlic, pepper, and grated cheddar cheese into it. No bread crumbs. Then I pat blue cheese crumbles on the outside. Baked red potatoes and corn on the cob would be good with this, I think.
Buon Appetito!

Free Willie

We came home last night to the news that our cat, Willie, had not been seen for three days. Our neighbor, Katy, was appointed to Keeper of the Cats and the Bird while we were vacationing in Denver over a long weekend (she fed same twice a day). She is very apologetic, although it is certainly not her fault.

Not knowing which preditor is involved, I have taken the perimeter collars off of the two miniature pinschers and they only go outside on leash now.

Good thing. This morning, twice, a golden eagle has swooped over the lawn between the house and the pond. I went into the game room to tell Ross, and that's when I saw Dustin, the other cat, on the patio. Ross did the math quickly and got Dustin inside pronto.

With it's seven foot wingspan, a golden eagle can carry away about three times it's own weight. When they're really hungry, they are known to attack deer and goats (although they can't carry them).

Ross sits in a reclining chair with Dustin in his arms as I write this.

He remembers when we got each cat. Dustin first around five years ago at the Skagit Humane Society, and Willie three years ago at South Whidbey Humane Society.

The animals you buy at shelters are microchipped and usually named by the volunteers. It was especially important to these people that Willie keep his name. He'd been received the first time as a six day old kitten that they bottle-fed, then as a one year old given up because of allergies in the family.

"That usually means they got a new kitten," said the young girl who presented him. "This is such a nice cat. I've seen one so well-adjusted."

Well-adjusted? That's a description I hadn't heard before.

"Let's Free Willie then," I said. Money was exchanged and he came home us. The first thing he did was get stuck on the roof. Apparently he had no experience with two-story explorations. I have a photo of him I've posted here. He looks like a gargoyle, doesn't he? Two teenaged boys managed to pull him in through a window, but not without shedding some blood.




Cats are very good rodent control, as well as clean pets. We have never had a mouse enter the house with these two guys on the job. Both of them were declawed, but could still pull a bird out of mid-flight (we have discouraged this practice, but no amount of lecturing seems to be effective).

Some people are going to tell me I sent Willie to his death because I let the cats outside. It's nearly impossible to keep them in, even if it was my intent. They are animals and preditors by nature and design. We will try very hard to keep Dustin inside during the daylight hours eagles navigate in.

Coyotes have not been a problem, I think because our house site is open space without much cover. Tough for coyotes to sneak around in, but great touch and go landing strips for eagles, apparently.

So, I feel a little sad today. Can't feel as sad as I would if I knew that eagle or other preditor took Willie, because I didn't see it happen. There's always hope he'll show up at the patio door any minute.

Willie is free again, I think. Free of his cat suit. Not the kind of freedom he'd want. I hope it was quick.

It'll be a little while before I buy another cat. They serve a purpose, but they are affectionate and friendly companions. Willie deserves a mourning period, and I have to think about whether a box of Decon is a better replacement.
I miss you, Willie.

Portland Road Trip

Our son, Ross, is seventeen years old. His older brothers have been out of the house for over ten years. That makes him more or less an only child. As anyone who's raised teenagers knows, these creatures are a sullen lot who do not like to be seen with parents. Family vacations are mandatory attendance, and even a trip to someplace like Disneyland can be regarded the same way school detention is.

We've always encouraged Ross and his friends to hang around our house. I keep lots of soda and snack food here, and there are six acres including a pond with an island to play on. There are pinball and shuffleboard in the game room and a big screen TV they can play video games on.

Even so, we've confronted drug and alcohol use, scholastic negligence and all the other evils of a permissive society. There seem to be few consequences for aberrant behavior. Maybe because there is so much bad behavior there's not enough consequence to go around. Certainly that's the case with the so-called War Against Drugs. It would be better named The Occassional Skirmishes With Particularly Stupid and Obvious Users/Dealers.

Ross smoked marijuana for the first time with members of a Christian youth group in junior high school.

What's a parent to do? The boys know they are welcome here but that anyone smelling of intoxicants will be asked to leave. There are about eight boys who respect that rule and are "regulars" around here. I was a little surprised who toes the line. One boy's mother allows parties in her house while she is home and even parties with them. But he respects my rules.

The contrast between the smoky house where nobody does anything and the non-smoky house where there is lots of activity could make a guy think, I hope.

A couple of weekends ago, we took four teenaged boys on a car trip to Portland from our home north of Seattle. This had been in the planning since about February, when I told a group of doubters we could could make the trip when school was out.

Really? You'll take us all to Portland?

Sure, I'll borrow you all from your parents. Ross will have instant brothers to travel with.

The destination was Daddies Boardshop. The be-all and end-all of the skateboard and longboard retail experience. Daddies signature t-shirt says "Giving Portland Police Something to Do Since 1994." Our particular group of boys are longboarders. They will proudly inform you that longboarding is about distance and speed while skateboarding is about tricks and stunts in a park setting.

Portland is one of the most liberal cities on the Left Coast. Somebody convinced the city council that a longboard is a means of transportation just like a bicycle or a car, and so boarders should have the same right to travel. But police don't like it when longboarder casually scoots through 25 mile per hour posted areas at 35 mph plus.

The stuff fantasies are built on in teenaged minds.

The best way I know to find out what's going on with teenagers is to take them on a long car trip. They kinda forget you're there after awhile and talk freely. It's very entertaining, the stream of consciousness style of conversation. It goes something like this:

"Cody, I told you not to wear that Got Purple? t-shirt. Mom doesn't like it."

"Sorry, dude. It's the only clean one I had. Is there a washing machine at the hotel?"

"Dunno. You can wear one of mine till we get to Daddies and then you can buy one."

"I think I'll buy one from a brewpub. That way I can give it to my stepdad. I owe him money anyway."

"Did you see that movie, Brewfest? That was funny! Willie Nelson tells this joke at the end: "A dad walks into his son's room and says, 'Son, if you keep masturbating you'll go blind.' The son says, 'I'm over here, Dad.'"

"My mom says eating carrots makes you see better."

"So, Tyler, I suppose you eat carrots when you masturbate."

John and I try not to laugh too loud, so they don't remember that we can hear them.

We stopped at South Center Mall for lunch because there's a food frolic there with something for everyone at cheap prices. They wisely chose Johnny Rockets for burger combos for the good quantity at the $7 limit imposed on them.

Back in the car for the three hours remaining on the road to Portland.

The boys were happy to see that the hotel was in a developing area with lots of vacant lots and clean asphalt. The longboards came out of the Tahoe's boot and away they went to explore while John and I navigated the on-ramps and off-ramps to the Jantzen Beach Safeway for provisions.

We did not see a beach at Jantzen Beach. But the Marriott Residence Inn there is a great place to bring a bunch of kids. Two bedrooms, two baths with three TVs and a kitchen. When the boys got back from the exploration, they were kept busy with a pool, spa, and work-out room. Good thing, because it was too late in the day to go to Daddies.

I think Daddies does three times as much mail order as walk-up business because they are so well-established and savvy with the kids. Some of the "kids" are in their thirties.

We got there the next morning a little early, so we left the boys milling around in front of the entrance while we visited the donut shop on the other side of the parking lot. The Asian owner picked up his phone and called Daddies, "Better open up, you've got customers." We are in a recession, after all.

Ross asked for Dan (Daddie himself) at the front counter. He briefed Dan on the expected purchases and negotiated a cash discount. That's my boy! It looked like things were under control, so John and I left them to go explore the Hollywood and Old Town neighborhoods of Portland.

On the way out the door I noticed a poster advertising the Rose City Rollers. There were a couple of championship bouts set for the next evening. I remembered roller derby from my childhood in the San Francisco Bay Area. The Bay City Rollers in Oakland were very popular in the 1960s. We'd watch the bouts on Sunday afternoon television, mostly because the cartoons were over. It was wild and intense. I thought the boys would like it.

From the Rose City Rollers MySpace page:

"Rose City Rollers (RCR) was founded by a small band of gritty, gutsy, nostalgic gals who decided to dust off their quad skates and hit the pavement in August of 2004. Since then, the league has expanded tremendously and now is home to 130+ skaters, four home teams, a junior derby team for high school girls, and a nationally-ranked all-star team."

We drove through the Hollywood neighborhood and across the Willamette River. A few blocks later we found a brewpub called Tug Boat Brewery. It's a small, darkish, definitely owner-run establishment. Looked like a good place to try a hand-crafted beer. Not much of a beer drinker myself, I encouraged John to ask the barkeep, a pretty young woman of about 26 what she recommended. She and I struck up a conversation about small business and economy. She said she was the owner of the brewery/restaurant and introduced me to a female friend while John chatted with a few male beer drinkers.

"What do you know about the Rose City Rollers?" I asked.

Big smiles.

"We're on the Heartless Heathers team!" said the barkeep, nodding toward her friend. I explained that we were thinking of treating four teenaged boys to the event.

"Barfly" (nickname) told us to be sure they got there early so they could see the drum corps and some other pre-game entertainment. There would be instruction on the history of the game and how it is scored. We were assured the boys would have a great time.

It's a colorful sport, alright. The players have nicknames like "Miss Behavior," "Vominatrix," "Apocalypstick," and "Tara Heartout." Costumes include ripped fishnet stockings, satin fabric, dayglow colored hair and tiaras.

I showed the poster to the boys when we met later. These are tough chicks, but some of them are good looking, I informed them. The kids were very willing to be dropped off at the arena while John and I went out to find a nice dinner.

The boys got back to the hotel before we did. Somewhat of a surprise. They told us the intensity does not stop on the roller rink, but goes all the way up the stands. The crowd is as passionate as the players, and although they cheered for the Heartless Heathers (of course), the fans of the other team, the Break Neck Betties, outshouted them and wore them to a frazzle. They were too pooped to stay for the second bout.

The next morning I asked if anyone wanted to see the Portland Zoo or any of the other attractions in Portland. No, they said, they wanted to go back to Daddies to try out the bungee contraption Dan showed them. Bungee? It's a braided cord about ten feet long with two handles on it. You stand on your skateboard and a couple of your friends arrange it like a slingshot on a light pole or street sign and pull you back. Then you turn loose of it and go from zero to 35 mph in an instant.

I was thinking about the short parking lot and the four lanes of traffic on Sandy Boulevard in front of Daddies Boardshop. I was assured that they'd meet at an elementary school playground so I gave consent. Well, ok, but I'm not gonna watch.

I knew they didn't have $225 remaining in their pockets to buy the damned thing, so I wasn't going to worry about it.

I quietly bought four Daddies logo t-shirts, away from John's sight. He'd think I was spoiling the boys.

After the bungee demonstration, we took them to Mt Tabor Park so they could try out their new boards. It's a really nice place with the walking and biking trail chained off so there are no cars. Good hills, curves and straights. Good pavement. We were a day early for "Bomb the Zoo," at which the City of Portland baracades off about three miles of city street including the road passing through the zoo itself. Just for bicycles and longboarders, one Sunday a month. Big disappointment there, but many vows to return someday.

On the way back home, the boys were happy and sleepy. We dropped the last one off at his house and pulled into the driveway.

I went to unload Ross' backpack and miscellany out of the Tahoe.

"What's this? Who does this red backpack belong to?"

Ross looked down at his shoes, and John quickly went into the house.

"It's the bungee." Ross said quietly, "We bought it together. Dad loaned us the money for it."

I suppose we all spoil kids differently. I thought they would look cool in matching t-shirts while they skate around Skyline. With the addition of the bungee, at least the ER docs will know they're together, and that should make it easier to round up parents to sign consent forms.

Independence Day

It's the night of July second, and I'm settled in with my dogs and the TV news shows. It's been a hot day, so I have the window open with the fan going. The air is nice and cool, but it seems the first bottle rocket fire is burning nearby and the air supply is smoky enough to make my nose a little stuffy. Too late to close the window. I don't hear sirens, so maybe it'll be all clear soon.


The news people are talking about the Fourth of July and the celebrations. There is much discussion on keeping the holiday safe: Only children over 12 should handle fireworks. Wear eye protection. Light only one firework at a time. Obey local fireworks laws. Never try to make your own fireworks. Designate one person only for lighting the fireworks. Adult supervision is a must. Never throw or point a firework at another person. Soak all of the spent fireworks in a bucket of water for at least fifteen minutes before putting them in the trash. Fireworks and alcohol do not mix!

My adult sons are busy with their friends and I probably won't see them over the holiday. They've forgotten about family picnics and the making of ice cream with the hand-cranked bucket freezer at Grandpa's house. Years ago they and their cousins kept the paddles turning in the creamy mix until finish, and we all enjoyed big spoons full with fresh strawberries.

The Old Fashioned Fourth of July at Causland Park includes a parade, games and the Annual Town Photo on Commercial Avenue. The photo is taken from the fully extended ladder on Anacortes' biggest hook and ladder firetruck. The mayor stands in front and citizens crowd behind him filling the street between the sidewalks.

But that's the stuff of childhood. Now they are planning backyard parties of their own or maybe even making the trip to Seattle for the big fireworks shows. My teenage son may hang around home until late evening, bringing a few friends over for cheeseburgers and potato salad. There's a chance they'll invite John along for the detonation of whatever bombs they've been building. After all, he helps pack them. A friend has property alongside the Swinomish fireworks retail area, and that's good camouflage.

I'll insist that's where they'll go and that John and a couple of his friends supervise. No arguing!

They'll promise to observe all of the safety rules. Of course.

Me? I'll put on the meal and then send everyone off the property. I'll watch fireworks displays from all over the country on TV while holding two trembling, panting and wild-eyed miniature pinschers. They really come undone by the pyrotechnics in the neighborhood, and this holiday it's a curse to have that keen hearing. Poor little things.

The cats will come home sometime around noon the next day. I don't know where they go, but it's not possible to corral them when they hear the first firecracker before I do.


Sometimes I think about the picnics and the ice cream freezer with the hand-crank. I have a good print enlargement of the town photo with my dad and me and my brother and all of the grandchildren are visible near the center. Ross, the youngest, was three and Chris, the oldest, was fifteen. It was 1995.

I look at that photo and I smile, but I do not feel sad.

The kids are doing what all kids do. They are grown up or growing up and making their own fun. Nothing wrong with a little independence on Independence Day.

There are no grandchildren for me yet. I believe that when they arrive, I'll be looking around for that old ice cream freezer with the crank on it.

And the local vet will give me Xanax for the dogs, I think.