A Bromeliad plant around the tree at Pu’u Honua, our Hawaiian,”Mountain of refuge.”
Pu’u can mean any protrusion from a mountain to a pimple. So we could call it, instead of a “Mountain of Refuge,” a “Pimple of refuge.” (Don’t laugh, it is still a place of refuge.)
“When I was six years old,” writes someone I don’t know but wish I did, “my teacher said, ‘For 25 cents you can choose a pen pal.’
“I choose a girl from abroad, and for 60 years we have written, shared holidays, birthdays, our lives.
“For 25 cents I got a friend for life.”
That’s what I hope to accomplish here for those who care to come along for the ride.
Last Friday--You have probably had days like this, especially if you have ever listed your home for sale.
You awaken at 3:30 AM. Might as well accomplish something, you think, do the tasks instead of running them through your mind sixty million times. So you get up. (I went to the computer.)
At 8:30 you have an appointment (I had a Chiropractor’s appointment) so you get ready and after the appointment you meet someone for coffee/tea and it extends to lunch and the running of a few errands. (I had an exquisite time with Daughter #1) Okay its afternoon you have some papers to pick up from the computer at home, and bring them back into town to FAX. Driving home, that early morning hour catches up with you, and you have to watch your driving lest you have little mini-unconsciousness naps—not a good idea while driving. You tell yourself, you can rest or nap when you get home, except the phone rings the moment you come in the door.
“Can we view the house right away?” says a Realtor. “The people are from out of town.”
Oh My God, you think, the house is a mess. “Give me an hour,” you say.
There are dishes in the sink (I know you never do that, but let’s pretend.) The bed isn’t made, There’s a wheelbarrow in the living room (another, you would never do that, but at our house Husband Darling brought in a load of wood for the fireplace, and left the wood in the wheelbarrow, and in the house.) There is laundry on the washer, an unmade bed, clutter, you know, a lived-in house. You run around like a crazy person, get it done, the house looks great, (The dog is in the car, the goats are in their pen, the carpet is vacuumed, there is a fire in the fireplace, and even the glass top tables are polished.) You can’t believe it, angels must have helped, except that your own body fragrance that wafts to your olfactory lobes isn’t that of a delicate young thing. It is more like a sailor who and has been out to sea for six months, hasn’t bathed, and just swabbed the deck.
