More from the Treehouse

“And the day came when the risk to remain in a tight bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.” –Andis Nin

(From a wonderful reader.)

To all my readers:


Thank you for sticking with me and for not telling me of all the mistakes I have made. When I read that I wrote Tennessee Ernie Williams, I went, “What? It’s Tennessee Ernie Ford.” And I have repeated myself on more than one occasion, and that’s not counting the typos. %&*xoyqqqqqqhee Ah well, I must throw myself on the mercies of kind folks.

Second, remember how this blog began as a horse oriented site? Wish on A white Horse I called it. I wanted to promote my book, It’s Hard to Stay On A Horse While you’re Unconscious—long title yes. That experience happened so long ago it seems like a different lifetime. This blog continued and metamorphosed into THE MOVE—that is our move to Hawaii. Now we are on the mainland, and I have gone into horse grieve again.

Ever since we ended up, serendipitously, with 3 acres of property I have been secretly dreaming of getting my previous horse, Velvet, back. I don’t know if her new owner would part with her though, probably for enough $$$$$. I casually mentioned--this opened a can of worms--to Daughter Darling that our landlord told me to check with the neighbor to see if we would have a horse on the property, DD went into a total tilt.

Here she gave away her horses to move to Hawaii, as did I. We decided that it was best not to have horses for a while as we are renting this property, and don’t know what will happen eventually. On top of that I thought perhaps I should hang up the old riding boots. So what was I doing lusting after a horse? Besides maybe Velvet is happier where she is…

It was a moment of weakness and heart yearnings.

And then I read Sheve’ Stockton’s new website and blog http://honeyrockdawn.com/ about her horse Ranger and felt more twangs. There he was, in photo, standing at the Post Office, her Pony Express. She told how she can close her eyes, and he will bring her home. Such a sweet girl, and her photos of Charlie, her coyote, are beyond description. She has raised him from a pup, talks about him, posts a daily photo, and tells of her life in Wyoming on http://www.dailycoyote.com/ Her book, The Daily Coyote, carried me, like closed eyes on Ranger, to her site.

And then, oh, there’s more, while driving down our road I saw a man riding his horse through a luscious green vineyard trailed by three Golden Retrievers. What a dream.

To top it off, I saw the preview to the movie Secretariat, and almost broke out into tears.

Secretariat was, as you might remember, one of the greats in Thoroughbred horse racing history, a Triple Crown winner in 1973. To win the Triple Crown a horse must win The Kentucky Derby, The Preakness and The Belmont races. These three grueling races are all with 5 weeks of each other, so the horse must be a tremendous athlete and fast to boot. Since 1919 only 11 horses have won. I didn’t know this, but Secretariat’s champion was a housewife who believed in him from the beginning, and was a force to be reckoned with. I love it.

‘Life is a trip and an education. Don’t be afraid of the stop signs, dangerous curves, and bumps in the road.”

--Tom Morris,

Vice President, Executive Producer, Creative Development and an Imagineer at the Disney Company

P.S. Speaking of bumps, how about a little positive energy beamed to our property in Hawaii, that someone loves it and buys it.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly

Yipes!

Last night I stepped into the garage and encountered something I would never have seen in Hawaii.

There against the wall stretched as though sun bathing on the beach lie a snake, black as fresh asphalt, with a brilliant yellow broken passing line painted on his back. He had no rattles, but his tail was was doing a rattle dance. That freaked me.

I yelled to DD and HD to come see what we had in our garage. DD beat feet out of there, while my mighty hunter husband gently swept the snake out the garage door, across the driveway and into the bushes. I picked up two juvenile mice we had also swept out of their nest, and deposited them into the bushes. Don’t know if I was feeding the snake or what, but all were released into the wild, and into their destiny.

Meanwhile back on the Big island of Hawaii—I assume it is still there even though we aren’t. I spoke with a neighbor and she answered the phone, so I guess the island is still holding her up.

My daughters and I have that same feeling about Venice Italy, we wonder if it exists when we aren’t there to see it. It seems strange when places are a memory, and already Hawaii sits in the back of my mind.

I do have a message for The Hot Dog Guy:

Hey hot Dog Guy!

Nobody makes hot dogs like you do.

Hot dog Guy was an import was Alaska as are his raindeer hot dogs. At first I wouldn’t eat one. It was a moral issue, like eating Rudolf’s cousin or something. Then HDG gave me a sample of the meat, and I decided—you know how we can justify things—that since these reindeer were farm raised, and since no one went into the wilds to shoot them, it was okay to eat one. If you find a better wiener, tell me.
Driving from our farm in the country to the little town of Pahoa we would stop by the fork in the road where The Hot Dog guy set up the cleanest, most well stocked—sauerkraut, mustard, ketchup, onions, jalapenos—hot dog cart in the world. For $5.00 you could get a hot dog (beef) a soda or juice or water, and a bag of chips. The reindeer dog was, I don’t know, $6 I think.

When he wasn't there we missed him even if we didn't want a hot dog. It was a meeting place, a chat room in the wilds. On rainy days he set up a canopy over the cart. He said when he came here he had a terrible hot dog at the beach, and decided he could do better. And so he did. Don't you love it when people have an idea and do it?

Hawaii from memory:

At the Merrie Monarch Festival parking lot, a big burly middle aged Hawaiian, biceps the size of whiskey kegs, delicately held a towel forming a cabana between the car door and his body while his diminutive lady of about the same age changed into her Hawaiian dress.

One must purchase a Merrie Monarch ticket about a year in advance to attend the hula competition. We attended the art faire though. The art was expensive and exquisite, the atmosphere rather non-festive. We were surprised; it was a festival after all. The day was dreary so perhaps that added to the lack-luster of it. I mentioned to Mrs. Chiropractor that I expected a festival to be festive, she said, “The Hawaiians take their hula very seriously.”

I was naïve’ then. As I mentioned in the last blog the hula is more than entertainment. It is spiritual.

There were times when DD and I reined in our outrageousness, for fear of offending. One did learn who was approachable and who wasn’t. I guess that is what children do, and adults, too, for that matter. We notice the reception we are getting and adjust our behavior accordingly. If one lives under restrictive conditions, however, they learn to be hesitant and self-conscious. We didn’t want that for ourselves and our sweet baby. Hawaiians do love their keikis (children) though. It is great to see.

We met a couple we met at the Laundromat, he Hawaiian, she Caucasian, who had newborn twin babies, two of four children. He was a large man, robust, who held a tiny baby in the crook of each arm. They just rocked, quiet as lambs, on his massive stomach while his wife did the laundry. She told us her birth story and how they had to fly to Honolulu because the babies were so small. Then she added, “We never wish there were less of them, just more of us.

One day as DD and I were parked across from Cash and Carry, DD was feeding BD, so I felt I couldn't run away immediately, we saw a scene that made us cringe.  A pickup truck holding a wire cage enclosing about five dogs also held a dead pig strapped above the dog’s heads.

One night coming home on our jungle road, we encountered a dark truck in the middle of the road.  I waited, not wanting to approach a dark vehicle. Oh no, squealing, a little sound. Soon a young man came to the truck carrying a squealing football sized piglet over his head. “You aren’t going to kill our pigs are you?” I asked.

“I’m going to take it home and raise it. “

“How did you find it?” I asked.

“The dogs did.”

Rats.

One might wonder about the call to Hawaii. Everyone knows of Hawaii, has been there, or wants to. I’ve heard that if you ask people where they would want to spend their vacation, most people say “Hawaii.” It is a dream, a romance, a vision out of the blue sitting in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.

Hawaii conger’s up visions of a quiet life, of sipping Mai Tai’s on the beach, of beachcombing, of surfing and snorkeling. One has to agree that the water there is the best. A place where you can walk into the warm water, swim, and walk out without reaching for a towel and feel perfectly comfortable. It is multidimentional, like life.

Notes from The Tree House

The Tree House,

or My Ivory Tower

Remember the old I Love Lucy TV show where Tennessee Ernie Williams plays her country cousin and Lucy gives him a fold-up roll-away bed, only he doesn’t know to open it, so he squeezes himself into it like a wiener in a bun?

That’s the way HD and I have awakened the last four nights.

Until our furniture shipment arrives, we are sleeping (sleeping?) on a plastic blow-up bed. It’s a queen size, as tall as a box springs and mattress together (about 2 feet high), so when it leaks air—guess that is the destiny of air beds—we are dumped into an ocean of floppy plastic and getting out is like a walrus floundering in a bathtub.

I’m in my tree house. It’s not built in a tree, but close enough. It’s on posts about 10 feet off the ground. The house is small, 4 feet wide by 8 feet long, with a deck of the same dimensions, but perfect. With the two doors open—into the house and out onto the desk—the breeze wafts through keeping the little room a perfect temperature. My ivory tower. I love it. I bought a little potting table for a desk. I have paint for the interior, our island colors, lime green, aqua, yellow-orange, not that I relish a painting job again, I finally got the paint out from under my fingernails, but fresh paint will make it pretty and mine.

 I’m waiting for painting motivation to strike.

I thought about calling this blog Ode to a Refrigerator, for when we got here we had none. DD said, “I’m not living without a refrigerator,” and thus pressed us to buy one the first day we got here. I never told you that our Hawaiian refrigerator stayed pristine because we never plugged it in. We used the freezing compartment only and bought ice. Priorites, you know, lights, computers, an ability to watch DVD’s on the television at night, and oh yes, electricity for the water pump. We figure we will pay for the refrigerator with the money we are saving by not buying ice. Ice, ode to ice, now with an ice maker, what luxury, more ice than we can use. Wish we could send some to Hawaii, but I’m afraid it wouldn’t make the voyage. DD said she never knew how much she would appreciate ice.

Remember the lady at The Ponds Restaurant who said, living as we were, we would appreciate everything?

Here in the upscale town of Temecula California, we are like country bumpkins. “Golly gee, look at all the stuff.” The shelves are full, the stores are well-stocked, abundance is scattered about over the hillsides, the stores, and the houses, like glitter on a Christmas tree. We live in the wine country so there are vineyards alongside on the road to our place, and the wineries look like castles.

CALIFORNIA BY WAY OF HAWAII. WHAT A TRIP.

I do hope you guys stick with me, for although we are not in Hawaii, the adventure of life continues for us as it does for you. Send me a note if you wish for I’m sure your escapades put mine to shame.

A fascinating aside is that three days after we were here HD’s boss wanted him to be in San Diego. And that drive is easier than from our place on the Big Island to Hilo. On top of it, because we are here, HD will oversee the San Diego production on an instrument they were working on. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

A RETROSPECTIVE:

A night at Houkalinis Steak House in Kee’au Hawaii: the wife on one of the singers volunteered to dance the hula for the patrons. She was a mature woman, not the curvaceous young things you see at Luaus. Here dance was sign language for the singer, I couldn’t understand a word of the song or a stich of the movements, yet her dance was a spiritual experience.

There is a movement of the feet and a graceful swing of the hips we don’t normally associate with the frantic gyrations of the Polynesian hula. This woman was so present, so concentrated, so graceful, it was mesmerizing. After the exquisite hula dance, a couple of little girls played with the dance and you could see how the women can become such masters of the hula when they begin as a 3 year old.

At Luaus you see the sexy side of the dance, beautiful bodies, scantily clothed, grass skirts. It is the dance of many Polynesian islands. The Hula of Hawaii has a power beyond the martial arts. No wonder the controllers outlawed it. The martial art of Karate opposes energy battling it head on; Jujitsu redirects energy by turning it back on itself. Hula goes a step further. It teaches that when the life force flows uninterrupted from the feet through the hips and joy out the finger tips, the dancer is in a perfect state of grace with all life. The dancer is immune to negative energy—a target for nothing, it is a place where no fighting exists.

Geronimo, Crazy Horse, and other native shamans practiced this sort of energy. They would ride their ponies back and forth before their enemies knowing that nothing could hit him. They were on “Sacred ground” a place that attracts only the joy of being.

The Big Island gave us so much I am grateful to her for the experience. She certainly taught us to feel “energies.” DD used to laugh at any references to new age- type “frequencies.” Now she says, “I believe.”

For some living on the Big Island is a permanent dwelling place and they enjoy it and are light hearted people. For others, there seems to be some resign to their lives. DD has stated emphatically that we do not want to get to that place of resign.

If you stay too long you will become accustomed to the area, the energies, the situation, the scenery, the people, and you will take pride in living the rugged life. When I told my Chiropractor we were leaving he said he wondered why we came, being smart people. Hum. He is working up to leaving as well, Think about it, he said, “The most sold item at the Cash and Carry across the street is alcohol.”

Then there is the blank stare or expression coming from the natives. I know cultures are difference and we need to respect that, and this does not apply to all native Hawaiians, but many do not want us there. One does not need to live under prejudices if they can choose another way of life. And there was so much security on the island you might wonder if they were keeping you safe or keeping you controlled. If you go to the bank, at the Ready Teller after 6 pm there is a security guard. I asked him once if there was a problem. He said someone took money from a customer six years ago. Six years ago?!!! And there is security at the grocery stores, the movie theater, even the Laundromat after a certain hour.

In reading about Hawaiian heritage, and how oppressed they were, controlled, enslaved, as were the Native Americans, you can see that they are attempting to climb out of that oppression, but still have a control mentality. And anger at the haole. (The foreigner.) An oppressed culture has a hard time feeling free, even after the oppression has lifted. They can resent the missionaries, and still be Catholic or Christian forgetting that they had a splendid spirituality before the foreign controllers arrived.

You have probably heard the word haole, a derogatory term used for outsiders. It means “without breath.” The Native Hawaiians observed that the missionaries did not prepare themselves for prayer with the necessary breath work, and thus dubbed them haoles. It has come to mean foreigners. I never heard the term used, and I never worried about it, and no Hawaiian would know how much “breath work” this family done over the years.

DD and I both feared we would die before we got off the island. First I feared for Husband Dear when he had his heart situation. He got that regulated, and then I was afraid I would die. Finally DD confessed that she was having those thoughts about herself. We were like Ray Bradbury who at fourteen feared he would die before the movie Fantasia was released in the theaters.

Pila of Hawaii in his book the Secrets & Mysteries of Hawaii states that it is common for people to feel “Called” to the Big Island. Yes, I say, and it is common for people to beat feet out of there.

I believe there is a power point on the island much like one in Sedona Arizona. Sometimes the Grandmothers will kick you off. You need to go there, you need to get when you came for, and then you need to leave.

A friend and reader sympathized with our “misfortunes” in leaving Hawaii. I said it was only drama and Pele having her last word. We believe Hawaii called us, and we believe she kicked us off. Before we left, though, she had to state emphatically that SHE was the boss. And then she laughed at us and put us into first class and sent us on our way.

P. S. Budweiser is at it again. If you like the Budweiser Clydesdale horses, and want to see something really cute check out this minute commercial.


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