Month: February 2015

Virginia is for Lovers?

This family of four was forced to live on a pittance. Three months, countless interviews, and a stack of resumes later, the house in southern Indiana was closed up and left unsold.  We packed our belongings and moved 500 miles away to the Allegheny Mountains of Virginia.  We knew things were going to be a little bit different from our Midwestern lifestyle as soon as we headed up that first mountain road at 55 mph on a 15 mph curve. The shock set in as the road coiled round and round while our ears popped and the baby spit up his breakfast.  I, too, felt the nausea rising in my throat as we continued our ascent. To control that feeling, I focused on the trees outside the window in the George Washington National Forest. It didn’t work. When I spotted a Scenic Overlook, my husband quickly pulled over. Once I set foot on the ground, my dizziness subsided and I could appreciate the breathtaking view of a powerful waterfall’s misty torrents cascading to the green valley below. It was the most beautiful sight I had ever seen!  Mountainous peaks touched the clouds as flocks of cardinals soared through the sky overhead. The fresh crisp air smelled of damp wildflowers. It was enough to revive my senses in order to continue traveling upward.  


Rocks jutted from the ground somehow appearing like a violation of the land. A log cabin or two nestled back against the mountainside. The cattle, scattered throughout the terrain, hardly noticed the passing car on that two-lane highway.  Things were getting remote when houses turned from modest dwellings into tin-roofed shacks with the boastful washer and dryer perched on the front porch for all to see. The sight of a Confederate flag waving in the wind alerted me to the possibility of Time standing still. Once we arrived at our final destination, a tiny village of 50, I began to reacclimate.   Crossing the lawn between two houses, a man hollered out, “Haaa…Y’all from the flatlands?  Ma name’s Mac. Welcome to Bath County!”  Then he proudly began to tell us about our new homestead. “Been in the family for years,” he beamed. “This here’s an original Sears & Robuck house that was ordered out of the catalog over a hundred years ago and shipped piece-by-piece up the mountain on a railroad that no longer exists.”  As I was about to retreat to the car, the sluggish moving van arrived. It was left parked along the side of the road on a shoulder that barely existed. The driver jumped out, waved, and asked, “Where to, Lady?”  I simply shrugged my shoulders and said with a sigh, “Up the hill. Follow me.”

The World of “What If?”

My grandfather was a tall man. Not as tall as a professional basketball player, but he towered above the other members of the family and especially the farm animals. His stentorian voice brought respect from all the field hands, although he could be as gentle as a summer breeze with the ponies and calves.  His sunburned face reflected the length of the day. The old straw hat protected his head from the burning sun, and yet it enhanced his piercing blue eyes. His bib overalls were thread-bare from constant wear.  Nicknamed “Old John”, he was always the first one to arise so he could “smell Mother Earth before she woke up”.  Every morning he’d head to the barn to begin the unending chores. He loved that old barn, and even though it was his haven in times of trouble and times of joy, a place to which he could escape, it was in that barn that Grandpa shot himself. I never knew my grandfather. The news of his suicide shocked my mother into premature labor with me. The only memory I have of him is a framed black and white photo where he’s standing next to that old barn holding my mother’s hand when she was a small child. 


Why was life so unbearable for Grandpa?  When did he decide he couldn’t take it anymore?  Was there no one he could turn to for help?  Had he thought about that tiny unborn grandchild he would never see?  Did he know that I would feel robbed of the opportunity to know him?  Did he even consider the impact his death would have on my mother?  Didn’t he realize that my birthday would forever remind my mother of his death?  Suicide leaves a trail of unanswered questions. The word implies rejection. Suicide rejects family, friends, and any chance of a future. It’s usually a cry for help or a means of escape. But sometimes it takes great strength to survive, to live on through the depression and pain. It’s just not that simple anymore. If there’s a chemical imbalance in the brain, suicidal tendencies occur. Although doctors have discovered how to control the imbalance with medication, the problems continue if the person feels he cannot confide in the doctor to get help. That’s when suicide looks like the perfect choice, the only alternative to life’s trials and tribulations. Death appears to be the ideal solution to a troubled soul. Unfortunately, no one who has ever committed suicide has returned to the world to enlighten us on the pros and cons of being dead. We can only assume they are at peace. Families experience guilt and blame over a suicide victim. It’s so unfair to place that burden on the living because they have chosen to endure life’s trials. Death is not an option for them. Life is a gift, one that needs to be carefully unwrapped and shared daily for the benefit of others. 

Make Mine Moët & Chandon

“‘Have a glass of champagne for me, and a safe flight.’ With that being said, Gigi turned toward Concourse B, flung her red monogrammed canvas bag over her shoulder, and took two steps as Robert kissed her on the cheek.  Walking away was never easy, especially blinking back the tiny tears at the corners of her eyes.  Here she was, at midlife, starting over again.  It’s one thing to chase a dream at the age of 20 when the possibilities seem endless.  It’s quite another to imagine those same unfulfilled hopes at 44.  ‘Isn’t that what life is all about?’, she could hear her daughter, Jocelyn, whisper in her mind.  Gigi reminded herself those were words easily spoken from a younger version of herself sitting comfortably in her happily-ever-after life married to her childhood sweetheart.”


Snippets of conversation enveloped me as I sat in the airport terminal awaiting a connecting flight back home from our tropical vacation.  People-watching. It’s a great pastime.  And it keeps me grounded, so to speak. I had no intention of eavesdropping on others while my husband played office catch-up on his reliable laptop.  Over my shoulder the scene above unfolded like a newspaper. The only problem was, the last page was missing.  At one time or another, every person must stand at the crossroads in life. Whatever choice you make, even if none is taken…..pause, be strong, and have a glass of champagne. 

Two of a Kind

“Are you two catching the next flight to San Francisco?” We both looked up simultaneously to the uniformed man standing before us. “If so, it’ll be awhile before the ticket agent opens up so I can check your luggage curbside,” he continued with a grin, “if you’d like.”  There was something strangely familiar about this middle-aged man who approached us in the open-air terminal. His thinning hair, horn-rimmed glasses, and dimpled chin caught me searching my mind in general recognition. 


We knew we had arrived a couple hours before our flight’s departure, but that’s just the way we travel. Early birds.  No last minute dashing for us, if we can avoid it. Since we’d already cleared customs and the bags were sealed, we nodded as he rolled the overloaded suitcases toward his portable station. A few minutes later the porter, who’s badge said “Harold”, became the bearer of bad news.  He scratched his head and offered a half-smile.  “You’re about 15-20 pounds over on each bag”, he apologized. “So I can’t issue you a tag.”  Again, we nodded in the affirmative.  This wasn’t news to us. In fact, when we weighed the luggage earlier, I remember thinking:  “Note to Self—Just because the suitcase holds a lot doesn’t mean we have to fill it.”

Meanwhile, as I searched my mind for recollections of this perfect stranger, Harold began storytelling as if we were kindred spirits. He’d been in this job only a couple of years, but overall enjoyed the interaction with travelers. “Most of the time,” he said with a laugh.  “Every once-in-awhile you run into some pretty rude characters.  I’m just here to help, ya know. But sometimes they seem pretty determined to put me in my place.”  After a couple minutes, he offered us a Wal-Mart tote so we could redistribute the contents of our luggage with a carry-on.  He was still trying to save us unnecessary airline charges. What a kind man.  I thanked him wholeheartedly when he shrugged his shoulders helplessly and returned to his post.  Minutes later as we headed to Gate 2A, it finally occurred to me why Harold seemed familiar. He had a strong resemblance to my father-in-law who had passed away over a decade ago. In fond remembrance, a warm feeling of comfort rushed over me.  Two of a Kind. 

Hurry Up and Wait

Time to pack the suitcases, tuck the souvenirs into the carry-on bag, re-charge the electronic devices and accessories, grab the reading materials in preparation of a long flight, and keep the passport handy for check-in at the airport.  Then “hurry up and wait” for the rental car return process, checked luggage, security clearance, and one final stop at the terminal restroom. After all, the first leg of our return journey is a five-hour flight to San Francisco. 


(By the time we arrive in Indianapolis, after making connections all night long, jet lag will begin to set in. Although it is a natural process the body goes through, a simple guideline is expect things to normalize about one time-zone per day.) 

On the other hand, long flights give you the luxury of reflection and rejuvenation. I love thinking about the Hawaiian culture, the pace of life, the breath-taking scenery, the delicious food, the lively music, the new friends. It’s as though each experience opened another door in our lives.  I guess I’m ready to go back home. The best part of all is—the entire time my husband has been by my side, and we’re traveling this road together.  Mahalo!



The Cookie Monster in Us

Whether you’re addicted to Double-Stuff Oreos, Chocolate Chip Cookies, or Girl Scout Thin Mints, anyone can turn into a “Cookie Monster” after only one taste of these exclusive Japanese delicacies. BSBC, or more commonly known as Bite-Sized Banzai Cookies, are addictive. Ask my husband…..he’ll tell you. We brought home five containers of them. Yes, FIVE. Made with all-natural ingredients, these cookies boast a crackling sweet taste combination of Sake, arare, and furikake. (That translates to wine, rice, and seaweed.). Don’t roll your eyes! The crispy crunch is unbelievable! The Kauai Kookie website explains how they arrived at this unusual name. “Rumor has it that the inventor of this peculiar cookie flavor was so pleased with the taste that he privately paid homage by shouting a deep-bellied ‘BANZAI’, a common alcoholic toasting expression used in Japan (or maybe he was mildly intoxicated by the traces of sake!). Regardless of how the name was established, it has stuck ever since.”

While vacationing on Kauai, my husband and I discovered this unique little bakery in Hanapepe called Kauai Kookie. From the parking lot, the aromas were enough to make our stomachs growl. Never mind that as soon as we walked through the door, the hostess offered us a toasty warm butter cookie to munch on while we perused the shelves. She even offered us samples of their wide assortment just for the asking. One bite and we were hooked. The pink Guava Macadamia cookies and the Peanut Butter Chocolate Chip concoctions were a great afternoon snack, in my opinion. After all, you can’t go wrong with island macadamias. But the Banzai says it all. Cheers!

Calgon, Take Me Away

This morning I indulged in a true spa experience. The waterfall shower head covered me in a sea spray of raindrops as I nourished my hair and skin in a mango nectar organic blend of natural ingredients known as Mālie, grown exclusively in the Hawaiian Islands. The semi-enclosed shower area was a blend of cool mint sea glass with dove-grey stone granite from floor to ceiling. Soothing jazz melodies drifted softly in the background, helping melt away the stress of the past few days, removing me further and further away from reality. The thirsty white towels were fluffy and warm, the contemporary lighting compassionate. Using one towel as a bathrobe and another as a turban, in bare feet tinged with a subtle French pedicure, I gingerly stepped onto our private secluded oceanside terrace for a breath of fresh tropical air. It seems I wasn’t the only one enchanted by this hypnotic spa experience. Gerald created his own private collection of open-air discreet photographs; some imparting lustful images with a playful spirit for appreciating later on. Good Morning, Mr. Dorna.

Salt on the Rim

The shadows became long as the sun sank into the waves on the distant horizon. Candles flickered, chairs were stacked, and the last dinner was divine as the moon lit a lamp in the warm Winter sky. Across the table, with the ocean behind him, Gerald relaxed leaning slightly backward to catch the breeze that circled over him on its way across the beach. I love the color of my husband’s eyes. They remind me of intoxicating sea breezes and deep tropical pools. I am completely mesmerized.

As the waves come and go, the hypnotic rhythm clears the mind of faraway thoughts and personal loss. Contentment seeps in bringing appreciation of time standing still. I stare and stare, my mind totally blank in musing. “Do we really have to leave?”, I finally whisper. “It’ll be alright”, he assures me nodding his head. “You have me at your side.” Blinking back a tear, with a sigh of relief, I realize that thought alone puts me mentally at rest. It’s been awhile since I’ve felt this unencumbered. The water has apparently washed away the weight of losing my father. Feeling his love by letting go along with basking in the love of my husband brings tranquility to the soul. Rest in peace, my dear father.

In Search of Captain Cook

The tour book boldly proclaimed the landing site for Captain Cook was “located in the Lucy Wright Park and just across the Waimea River from Russian Fort Elizabeth.” Still, as we cruised through Waimea Town, our attention was drawn instead to the ridge where a couple of magnificent homes were perched on a bluff overlooking the most breathtaking panoramic view of the coast. As my husband made a right turn where the road steeply grades, we began the ascent of exploration. “What about Captain Cook?”, I inquired. “We can see him from up here,” he explained matter-of-factly. Now I’m not a fan of heights, let alone a winding two-lane road without a shoulder. It’s at times like these, where the view outside the passenger side window drops several hundred yards into the craggy canyon, that I get a little squeamish and lean toward the middle of the car. Don’t worry, I can still see the view of the town below at the ocean’s doorstep spreading exquisitely across the horizon.

Further north on Highway 50, we pulled over at a Lookout Point chosen by five other vehicles. As we grabbed the binoculars, the overcast skies released a light mist. Through the lenses a razor sharp image of muted canyon walls came clearly into focus. Murmurs of awe and steps of bravery set the stage for photogenic backdrops. One Asian man stood dangerously close to the edge coaxing his petite wife in Chinese to join him for the optimal extreme snapshot. Her gentle demeanor would have no part of it as she timidly took a step behind me. The more he cajoled, the more firmly her feet lodged into place. Finally exasperated, he struck a Superman-like stance and hammed it up for the camera. Then making peace with his elegant wife, he found an impervious point for immortalizing the moment. Minutes later, we did the same. Now where is Captain Cook?