living

Lighthouse Treasure Trove

The night the moon was full from dusk to dawn, the ocean seemed black as coal and restless as a cat. Across the bay an amber-tinted beacon of light on Ninini Point flashed methodically, enough to mark the coast for the landing strip at the edge of the cliff. On the ground two or three sets of faint headlights indicated a road must lead to the old lighthouse. The next afternoon we were on a quest to find out. Like a treasure hunt, signs promised shore access to Ninini Point. However, at the end of a paved road the trail became difficult to navigate. Pick-up trucks and SUVs climb over the rough terrain with ease. Not so much the rented Mustang convertible. Clay ruts and lava boulders made the ride bumpy at best. Around each impassable turn I wondered what lurked beyond the thick wall of yucca spikes and swaying grasses that smacked against the car door. At the end of the road, we finally arrived in one piece. Finally. With the lighthouse towering above us, an unexpected eerie feeling crept in. At the foot of a low gnarled tree was a collection of memorial paraphernalia including beverage bottles, dried flowers, good-luck charms, and religious statues. Messages scrawled on a broken surfboard, suspended across a tree branch, indicated heartache and loss of love. Such a tragic sight to behold. I wondered what other disappointments this old lighthouse had witnessed. Life could not have been easier to face in 1897. An isolated existence of lighting the lamp daily and maintaining the structure against nature’s ferocity had to prove challenging. In time, the government would intercede and rebuild the current seventy-two foot concrete tower, dated 1932. Like others, Nawiliwili Lighthouse became automated. A cliffside view of the cobalt waters and crashing waves afforded us the perfect spot for whale watching, six-man canoe races, swirling water spouts, and landing planes. A treasure trove, indeed. 

The Day I Met a Movie Star

From the second story window seat at the Olympic Café, I had a vantage point for a flurry of activity down below. Gazing out over the main thoroughfare, I caught sight of a man standing on the side of the road. He was tall and blonde with a rock solid build, wearing an olive green quilted vest zipped halfway down, flattering his firm chest and muscular biceps. The swim trunks he wore hit mid-thigh; modest enough for walking around in flip-flops. After looking both ways and checking traffic, he crossed the road and was soon out of sight. Meanwhile, back at our table, the perky waitress dropped off a tropical drink favorite rimmed with a juicy pineapple wedge and teal umbrella plus two glasses of thirst-quenching water. Lunch was just as refreshing with local produce, peppery spices, and sweet herbs. As I munched away enjoying every bite of the Spicy Chicken Thai Wrap with extra peanut sauce, I looked across the table beyond Gerald’s shoulder and noticed a different couple had arrived next to us. Moments later, Gerald took note of a gigantic stuffed burrito the waitress carried by, and casually said so. It was placed directly in front of the same man I saw on the street below. Something about him seemed vaguely familiar in the flashbacks of my mind. Pretending to take a snapshot of my husband, I zeroed in on the man of mystery. Could it be, I wondered? A quick Google-search told me my hunch was spot on. It was none other than Dolph Lundgren, a Swedish actor who starred with Sylvester Stallone in several action-packed movies including “Rocky IV” and the current “Expendables” series. Practically in a panic, I ransacked my purse hoping to find an ink pen to request an autograph. No such luck. Time was running out as dishes were cleared and the check had arrived. Suddenly, as though being pulled to my feet, I stood up and walked over to his table. Almost frozen, I stood across from him next to his partner, Jenny Sandesson (also an actor), not wishing to be rude. When he looked up, I said, “Excuse me. Are you…?” Before I could finish he responded with a smile, “Yes, I am.” My face must have lit up like a fireworks display because his very next words were, “Would you like to take a photo?” “Jerry!”, I screamed, “grab your phone! He said we can take a picture!” I practically flew over the table to his side, placed my hand on his incredible bicep like we were old friends, and smiled from ear to ear. As we departed, I shook his hand and said “Thank you, Mr. Lundgren. Rocky IV was the BEST Rocky ever!” He grinned with a twinkle in his eye as his partner, Jenny, chimed in, “I agree!” With that, the couple stood up and headed for the door when two adoring male fans leapt into their path, pausing to offer more accolades along with firm handshakes. Two seconds later when Dolph and Jenny left us, they turned with a smile and a wave, and exited the restaurant. In jubilation, we all found ourselves waving back. Gerald looked off our perch from above, saw them cross the street, jump into a Jeep Cherokee and zoom out of sight. 

Press On With Linen and Lavender 

I like to iron. I find comfort in it.  Maybe it’s because I’m a Baby-Boomer who grew up in an age where common sense meant making choices that gave one an advantage, a leg up, so to speak.  My family lived on a very limited income, so making the most of what we had was often all there was to make ends meet.  My closet contained a few skirts or dresses for school and special outfits for church.  Thank goodness I had older cousins who gifted me with hand-me-downs.  Yet, I didn’t mind.  My mother had a rigid schedule:  Wash clothes on Monday, Iron clothes on Tuesday, Clean the House on Wednesday, Mop the floors on Thursday, and so on.   

I began ironing my blue jeans when I was a teenager.  It came about more out of necessity simply because, at a time when most girls averaged between 5′ and 5’5″, my legs were very long.  And I was tall and skinny, which had me towering over my brothers and  most boys.  I discovered if I used a steam iron, I could stretch the denim to make the jeans longer.   Well, one thing led to another and before I knew it, I was ironing everything from tea towels to tee shirts.  
Nowadays, I revel in ironing my Turkish tea towels and French linens by spritzing them with Mary Ellen’s Best Press lavender-tinted starch alternative.  It smells like I’m ironing in the south of France.  The end result?  Everything is left with a crisp, new finish.  Yes, I still iron my blue jeans and tee shirts. Old habits die hard.  Every once in awhile I sneak one of my husband’s Oxford shirts into the laundry basket and mist it with the heavenly scent of French lavender while pressing it wrinkle free. Perhaps its lingering fragrance takes him somewhere in time.  Back to the days when we strolled down ancient cobblestone streets, sipping strong coffee in open cafés, basked in the warm sunshine holding hands, stealing kisses, eating baguettes, and drinking French wine.