Bedtime Stories

     My friend Norm advised that when selecting activities for your kids, select those that both they and you enjoy. If only they enjoy it, it won't work. If only you enjoy it, it won't work either.
     This rule has worked excellently for our family, one of the best examples being bedtime stories.  Of course when they were younger, they sat in my lap, each in turn, turning the pages, pointing out and naming objects, counting, and eventually reading aloud when prompted. Runaway favorites that they and I enjoyed included Runaway Bunny, Goodnight Moon, Love You Forever, Beatrix Potter (Peter Rabbit, etc.), and Puff the Magic Dragon, along with Dr. Seuss and Berenstain Bears classics.
     As they got older, I read to them while they scratched my back (because it felt so good and still does). Favorites of my oldest son included James Herriot (All Creatures Great and Small, etc.), The Lord of the Rings, City Boy, Tom Sawyer, Shane, The Remarkable Rocket (Oscar Wilde), Lilies of the Field, A Separate Peace, The Chosen, and Cry the Beloved Country. I am currently reading him the Bible (he's too old to scratch my back, so he sits on the floor), planning to read it cover-to-cover. (We're almost through the book of Joshua.) I love the ancient names, which I pronounce in what I imagine to be a Middle Eastern accent—probably butchering the language, but that's okay, I guess.)
     Penelope enjoyed Gerald Durrell (My Family and Other Animals, etc.), Where the Red Fern Grows, Dewey the library Cat, Marley and Me, The Hobbit, The Book of General Ignorance, The Book of Completely Totally Information, and other general non-fiction (trivia) books. The challenge for her/us was and is to find age-appropriate materials at her advanced reading level. Young adult and adult fiction tends to be far too heavy, sex laden, bitter, ironic, dumb, violent, or otherwise inappropriate. So general trivia often works well, with me censoring/editing as I read (it's amazing how obsessed such books seem to be with the bizarre and macabre—especially as it relates to human or animal sexuality) and stopping often to describe my understanding of the topic. I love it when I learn mind-blowing tidbits, too:

- There aren't a googolplex subatomic particles in the universe—there aren't even a googol. (This was a hot topic in middle school when my classmate explained the vastness of the number by producing pages of hand-written zeros, explaining this number that began with one showed only how may zeros there were in googolplex—a concept I couldn't quite grasp).

- The instant after the Big Bang, all the matter in the universe expanded outward at faster than the speed of light (the physical laws of nature apparently not yet fully operative.)

- It's impossible to physically touch anything due to the repelling force of electrons in all matter. The closest we can come is to sense the repelling force of other objects' electrons (sort of like pushing two magnets together with their North and South poles aligned.) I explained to Penelope we'd need to be in a particle collider, I guess, to achieve true physical contact (with an accelerated particle), although I do consider the subatomic forces within our bodies' atoms to be every bit a part of us, too, so that when they interact with other substances' atomic forces, that's the same as “touching.”

     Jaren has had the most varied taste of all our children (I still let him choose his books). Besides picture book classics, he has at varying times enjoyed math workbooks, Encyclopedia of Dinosaurs (adult level) The Bible, 1001 Food Facts (adult level), Crows of Pear Blossom, The Counting Dictionary, Reader's Digest Explorers Weather, and the Solar System. His favorite non-bedtime reading materials have included Peanuts, Garfield, and Star Wars comics, and also for the brief time we allowed it, Captain Underpants.

     Bedtime stories is one of the few beloved interactive activities that has stuck through all these years—a special time that the kids get to spend on our king-size bed, one-on-one, ranging from ten to thirty minutes each. It's a great way for me to wind down for early bedtime (I'm an early riser) before spending time with my wife beside me on our bed. From reading to them to sleeping, it's one of my favorite times of the day. I pray that they will remember these times with fondness, too.

Swim Lessons

     I taught our two oldest kids Braden and Penelope to swim at our old apartment's pool in Kaimuki (supplemented by two swim classes each at the Y.) In my experience, kids love the water—getting wet and cold all over, splashing, playing, jumping, kicking, and flinging about plastic pool toys. If they hesitated, I just showed them how and they took it from there.
     What they didn't like at first was water in their eyes, ears, noses, and mouths. It was understandable—a totally new, shocking sensory experience taking them to an alien blurry world in which everything sounded muffled and plingy-plongy, their eyes stung, noses ran, ears plugged up, and throats and tongues got parched and chalky-dry—not much fun for newbies. But learning to swim required full head immersion—no swimming with head held high out of the water for me.
     The first step was to get them to voluntarily put their chins in the water and to have them gradually increase their depths and durations to total head immersion lasting at least several seconds. The best thing for that, I found, was limbo while seated on the pool stairs—duck under my arm (secured at one end to a hand rail) from one side to the other, gradually lowering my arm until their mouths, then noses, then eyes, then entire head got submerged as they passed beneath. Once past that stage, they ducked their heads under to fetch objects placed on successively lower steps in the pool.
     Another step (yet occurring simultaneously) was to get them to learn to float on their backs. My kids are “sinkers” (inherited from me)--no matter how relaxed they got or deeply they breathed, or high they held their stomachs, their legs and butts descended so that they looked like half-submerged palm fronds. But that was okay, because that indicated their readiness for the next step—floating on their stomachs.
     Of course getting them to float face down with ears submerged was far more challenging, but through persistence, they eventually mastered it. After that, swimming came easy.
     And that's exactly how it was when I learned to swim at Kapoho Beach House on the Big Island.
     The best part of the Beach House was the outdoor fish pond with pebbly rocky shore separated by boulders from the translucent sea. Stocked with uhu (parrot fish), palani (surgeon fish), barracuda, a green sea turtle, manini (convict tang) humuhumunukunukuapuaa (trigger fish), other tropical fish, and a spindly orange Kona crab that hid among the craggy boulders, it was the most beautiful “natural” aquarium I have ever seen—feeding allowed anytime (barracudas darted the length of the pool in less than a second to fetch our bread offerings) and enter if you dared (we daren't—there was no need as we could see everything from above and those fish were huge and dangerous-looking in our eyes).
     Dad took us shore fishing nearby and I caught my longest fish ever—an eighteen inch stick fish. Dad had rigged a simple bamboo pole with line, hook, and float. While fishing, we could see the elegant green-yellow stick fish rods rippling in the shallow gathering tide and even our translucent white California shrimp bait balls suspended in their midst, so I didn't bother watching my line's balsa wood paddle-shaped float, which my sister Joan noticed standing on end.
     She said, “Tim, look at your floater.”
     I said, “I can see the bait, they're not taking it.” I raised my line to show and the line pulled back. A fish came up out of the water jiggling. I said, “I'm going to put it in the fish pond,” and headed that way, eager to see it in its new home.
     We got back and before letting the fish loose, Dad said, “Let me get my camera. I'll be right back.”
     I said, “The fish is going to die.”
     He said, “It's strong. I'll be right back.”
     After an eternity, he reemerged, opened his camera (it was built into its own leather carrying pouch), took the photo of me standing just so with fish dangling from the line, then, after resecuring his camera, he took my fish in hand, removed the hook, and tossed it limp as a licorice stick into the pond near the right side wall.
     Down it sank.
     The sea turtle paddled over, chomped it in two, then chomped down the remnants in less than three swallows. The fish hadn't even flinched. I berated Dad for his erroneous judgment; he apologized. Though disappointing, it became one of my fondest memories, perhaps because Dad was so structured and uncompromising, with high expectations that I seldom met.
     To the right of the fish pond and sharing the same separating wall was a sheltered swimming hole. Here, Mom, who I never saw swim and who said she might be able to swim fifteen feet if she had to, taught me to swim as she stood standing on the dry wall looking down on us.
     She told me, “Float cherry-bomb style,” and explained how. (The term came from splashing into water balled up tight.) I tried grappling my knees to my chest but hated the water flooding my sinus cavities, so I stood right back up after just a couple seconds, my back never attaining true parallel to the water's surface. On the third try after her repeated insistence I was doing it wrong I took a deep breath and held it as I assumed the position. After a moment, my shoulders bobbed to the surface and I saw the world turn topsy-turvy and what had been behind me was now beneath and before me—I was looking beneath and past my feet, upside down. Big happy congratulations followed; I felt proud of myself.
     I did this thrice, each time longer than the last. Then Mom had me float on my stomach while kicking. I tried but didn't get very far, the gentle currents drifting my body back and forth. She said, “Stroke your arms while kicking.” I tried and moved forward a bit, the world looking like chaotic bubbles amid my frantic splashing. She told me keep my legs straight while kicking and upon trying, I swam several feet forward, watching the underwater world pass beneath—my first real freestyle swim.
     And I taught my kids the exact same way once they mastered a cherry-bomb or prone float on their bellies. And they both learned from that point on with equal alacrity as I had.
     Kids take time—perhaps months or years—to feel comfortable enough in the water to sustain a face down float. But once they master that, learning to swim the basic freestyle stroke comes easy.
     (Note: I started teaching my kids to swim when they were about four or five, never with goggles, and only after they could master a face-down float, with an assistive float vest for my son, and float belt for my daughter—and these only for a short while. In general, I believe the less assistive devises the better—mainly so they can do without when necessary and enjoy the water however they find themselves. They are both proficient, though mediocre swimmers now, able to do basic freestyle, breast, and back strokes, and a rudimentary butterfly.)

The General Public

     As kids, my siblings and I always caught the big yellow bus that stopped right before our cul de sac in the morning and took us to school, and later in the afternoon, took us back home and dropped us off at the same place. Separate buses served elementary, middle, and high schools—all for free!
     Last year, our oldest child, as a seventh grader, started catching the county bus to and from school because only then did we deem him responsible enough to handle it. (There aren't any public school buses in our district that I'm aware of.) The vast majority of his school mates still get dropped off and picked up by parents or relatives. Although a bus pass at forty dollars a month certainly makes economic sense, having him catch the bus also benefits the environment and him. The sense of independence, confidence, and accomplishment (no matter how small), exercise walking to and from the bus stop, and exposure to the real world and real people helped mature him from a self-centered brat to a fine young man.
     I've been catching the county bus to and from work for over twenty years and continue to observe compelling things that I would otherwise have missed. Some are funny, same are ugly, some stink, and some are quite nice: reality that helps keep me grounded.
     It requires a mental shift to catch the county bus. For the most part, the people I hang out with live in safe, comfortable (or at least predictable) environments, so catching the bus affords such individuals one of life's few opportunities for discomfort and unpredictability. Will it be late or crowded? Which driver will I get—the kindly slow-poke or the disgruntled speedster? Will I get a seat? Will the only open seat be next to a jerk that sticks his or her leg a quarter of the way into my seat so that our legs touch, forcing me to sit half-sideways if I want to avoid contact? Will the air reek of body odor or stifling perfume? Will the temperature be too hot or cold?
     For this very reason many of my friends and relatives shun the bus and even take pride that they have never caught a bus their entire lives. And truth be told, this is also one of the main reasons why many of them send their children to private primary and secondary schools—something they'd never admit, instead claiming they're better schools that get better test scores, with superior alumni networks, opportunities, and facilities, but beneath it all is the unspoken preference that they and their children minimize the potential discomforts associated with contact with the general public. Whereas I and many others believe that one of the main benefits of public schools is learning to deal with just such things (after all, real life includes real people) and even more important, to learn to get along well with a diversity of people—including those of lower socio-economic classes, which often includes some of the nicest people around.
     I told my wife even if our kids got full scholarships to attend the Number One Rated Private School in the state, I wouldn't send any of them there. The best students will do academically well anywhere. They'll find a way. Their parents will find a way. Even their teachers will help them find a way. Moreover, if all the students in the Number One Rated Private School in the state were placed into any public school, it's a certainty that that school would instantly attain number one ranking (however that's decided). It's not about the school, facilities, faculty, or resources, it's about the students and parents. They determine academic success. Everything else can foster learning, though even the best schools can't bestow upon pupils superior work habits, abilities, and performance, which must come from within.
     All parents desire academic environments that are conducive to learning, with limited unnecessary distractions, etc.--but that's seldom the main issue anyway. The main distractions usually come not from external sources (peers, teachers, and facilities), but from internal sources—what's going on in each child's mind. Is he or she preoccupied with problems at home? Problems with friends? Anxiety? Fears? Depression? Body image issues? Materialistic regrets?
     In life there are so many major issues for children to work through and problems to avoid, that expecting perfection in academics just seems overboard to me. If it happens, great, but to try to force it on every student, even those not so inclined or endowed, gets counter-productive. (My wife recently took a teacher's aide position helping a special needs child. They try their best, but his attention span is limited and he struggles with his memory. He has been unable to keep up with his peers, which is understandable to me.)
     A friend of ours shared that her daughter at the Number One Rated Private School in the state was eating her home lunches alone in a bathroom toilet stall. The girl had wanted to transfer to this school but was obviously experiencing difficulties fitting in. This daughter is one of the sweetest, humblest, yet most outgoing girls I have ever met, so upon hearing it, my heart ached. Perhaps her peers were ostracizing or hazing her due to her public school background or jealousy over her healthy good looks? If so, then I question their, their parents, and the school's values. I've never heard of this happening in a public school among all my many relatives and friends. And before dismissing the situation as oddball aberration, consider that another friend of ours who attended this same school a generation earlier said she also ate all her home lunches there in a girl's bathroom toilet stall. 
     If this happened to any of my kids I'd feel very upset, flabbergasted, and concerned. Why are you doing this? Are they treating you badly? What happened? Are their cliques that bad? Can't you eat on a bench outside or in a classroom instead? Are you okay? What can we do to help? What do you propose doing to remedy this unacceptable situation? Anything you wish to talk about? 
     I'm sure my friends asked their daughter these same types of questions and she told them that she's fine and wants to stay, as did our adult friend to her parents (if they ever found out) when she was a student there. But is it worth it to pay tens of thousand of dollars per year just for a name-brand education if your child must suffer such indignities day after day for months on end? What will that do to a growing child's psyche and morale?
     (Full disclosure: In high school, two friends and I skipped lunch and hung out in the band room because we couldn't stand all the lunchroom cliques that froze out all outsiders. My friends started bringing and sharing home lunches, I just forewent because bringing home lunch was so uncool and satisfied myself with an after school snack at a drive-in we always went to. It's okay, kids around the world get by on a single tiny meal a day; I didn't suffer malnutrition or short-attention span as a result.)     
     In my experience, the most personable primary and secondary school students were all products of public schools. They spoke with humble charm appropriate to their ages and clearly enjoyed my company. To be fair, private school students have spoken well to me too, with organized thoughts and speech structures, but that was the odd thing, it came across like work for them to have to talk with me, not like something they enjoyed doing, and that they just wanted to get it over with, or as if they didn't quite feel comfortable in their own skins. They'll succeed fine later in life, I'm sure (they come from stable, academically-oriented families), but was it really worth it to have lost a piece of their carefree childhoods and unabashed informality?
     Having your children catch the county bus or attend public schools won't guarantee superior character development or real-life adaptability, but neither will sending them to expensive private institutions guarantee them academic or future financial success. (Four friends of high moral character who attended either of the Top Two Rated Private Schools in the state are now: among the long-term unemployed, doing odds and ends jobs on rare occasion, barely making it as a self-employed software designer, and selling cars. Though qualified, none of them contented themselves with ordinary nine-to-five type jobs and I suspect that's why they're doing what they do now.)
     I suppose we all do our best with limited knowledge—no one can foresee the future—and resources. And many are motivated by fears (of kids devolving into sex, drugs, or academic mediocrity or worse). It takes a lot of faith to trust a child, although, in the end, I believe that that tends to work the best. Give them what they can when they can handle it and trust God to protect them. No matter what, sooner or later, we'll all have to let go anyway.

Aging Parents

       Few things show the cruel passage of time as dramatically as occasional visits by aging parents. Mine live in Hilo, so we see each other about every other month. The obvious outward manifestations—the slower gait, white hair, skin blemishes and wrinkles, and deteriorated hearing and vision—I've learned to pretend don't exist and even go so far as to lie about on occasion. When Mom asks, I'll say, “You look good,” or “No, I didn't notice.” If that were the full extent of it, I could accept it with solace that this is all a part of life that those fortunate enough to attain old age must face.
     But that's not all. Their personalities have changed, too, perhaps due in part to reduced mental agility. And so has mine, for I, too, am an aging parent with white hairs, receding hair line, skin blemishes, and a variety of physical age-related ailments. It didn't used to be this way and I don't like it and neither do they. It's changed our relationship in fundamental ways, which leads to discomfort and distance on both sides, though the love is as strong (or stronger in certain ways) than ever.
     In middle age, my parents were so on-it, it amazes me to think of it. My Mom revealed unusual wisdom when I asked her how a famous actress could have married so many times, some marriages lasting but a few weeks? She shrugged and said, “I guess it's because she won't sleep with anyone she's not married to.” Whether factually accurate or not, her guess made me rethink my assumptions and feelings toward that oft ridiculed star. My Dad showed wisdom of a different sort after I was forced to resign from a position because, in truth, I just didn't fit in. The day following my departure, this organization lost a major lawsuit (unrelated to me or my resignation) costing millions of dollars. Mom suggested that in job interviews, if anyone asked why I left the firm, I could discretely mention the lawsuit. Dad reflected on it and decided it was a bad idea. “If you do that and they find out, then the next time you need a reference, they'll say, “If that's the way he wants to play, we'll just let him have it!”
     I rarely receive such keen insights and understanding from either anymore. To the contrary, they now seem to struggle, at times, with managing their own interactions—most notably with us, their children. In particular, their flexibility has narrowed. Either do things their way or don't come, seems to be the new unspoken mantra, much different from the eaasy, “Sure, just come. Whatever you want. We'll just play it my ear...” from just a few short years ago. From staying for two weeks every year, we now stay just two nights maximum every other year. We miss the longer stays, but by the third day, they've lost their patience and wish to return to their normal routines, too frazzled to tolerate our high-energy presences for much longer.
     I always remind myself that we don't have that much time left together—even if they live twenty healthy more years—so for the kids' sakes, especially, it's worthwhile to keep things positive despite minor grievances here and there, and that though they're not what they used to be, they're still sharp and hale.
     A year ago, when I recounted my oldest son's academic trials and the stress I felt because of it, Mom said, “The main thing is that he's a good person. He's not out to hurt anyone. If he was, that's something to be concerned about.” I said, “No, he doesn't bother anyone. I guess even if he ends up in food service” (his then current passion) “or forestry, those are honorable professions, too.” Mom said, “Sure, there's nothing wrong with that. Whatever he enjoys, that's important, too.”
     And I told my wife shortly thereafter that I felt closer to Dad than ever before. His and my recent health trials had resulted in heart-felt talks and letters that got him opening up, sincere and vulnerable, to my thoughts of life, struggles, and faith. I told her, “I think this could be the beginning of the best part of his life when he experiences true peace and contentment for the first time...”
     My friend Norm once remarked about the deteriorating health of aging parents: “It's all about coping from here on in.” It helped me to realize I'm not alone, but seemed too pessimistic. I prefer to think instead that it's all about making the most of what little time we have, saying and doing that which we must before it's too late. In fairness, he did do his best with his aging parents before they passed on in rather rapid succession. Now it's up to me to do the same with mine. I pray for God's help because knowing what's best with a father that never said I love you and a mother who said it only once in a most awkward, felt-she-had-to fashion can be rather challenging. (I know they love me and always have—words weren't necessary and still aren't.)
     What pleases them most—and this hasn't changed in all the years of our lives—is seeing us do well, thriving, full of lust for life. In this way, I don't think we've disappointed them. To the contrary, I think at times we've overwhelmed them. If this is my best way of saying thank you and making them happy, so be it. And I'll do my best to continue.
     In case you're reading this Mom and Dad (they never do), thank you for everything, for showing me the right way, for your unconditional loves, and your deep, beautiful marriage—constant and true. I wouldn't trade you for any other parents. And I love you. (Sorry I don't feel comfortable telling you in person, but I do so all the time with Deanne and the kids...)

Native Hawaiian Rights

     My friend Norm from Seattle is very supportive of the rights of Native Americans.  He's attended pow wows and donated goods to Native American Charities and considers himself quite the liberal.  But when I shared with him my thoughts of Native Hawaiian sovereignty several years ago, which I support, he cut me off and said, “This talk about sovereignty of any kind is not going anywhere.  The powers that be will not tolerate any talk of sovereignty for any group of Native Americans anywhere.”  Further discussions revealed that he was not opposed to granting Native Americans sovereignty within certain bounds, he just thought all such notions were non-starters among the nation's ruling elite.
     Whether possible or not, I nonetheless believe envisioning ideals is helpful in making progress, for without them, how will anyone know where we are headed or feel moved to make the sacrifices necessary for significant change?
     Skipping the debate for now over ceded lands (former Hawaii crown and government lands controlled by Hawaii State and the U.S. which both governments have acknowledged Native Hawaiians have rights to—see further explanation @ http://www.civilbeat.com/articles/2010/11/08/5914-what-are-the-ceded-lands-of-hawaii/) which has devolved all-too-often into ugly harangues over billions of dollars (and over which Native Hawaiians obviously deserve their fair share), following is my dumb, naive, and unworkable Native Hawaiian rights proposal:

1)  Return Kahoolawe in total to Native Hawaiians.  How “Native Hawaiians” is defined, I leave to others (mainly the courts) to decide.

2)  Likewise, give Native Hawaiians either Molokai or Lanai.  The U.S. government will almost certainly have to get involved with such a land transfer due to the expense and legal issues.  If a billionaire can purchase virtually all of Lanai, I see this as no problem for the U.S. government.

3)  Native Hawaiians will have a one-time choice to immigrate to this new land or remain part of the U.S.  (Later immigrations may be possible within the bounds of newly established law.)

4)  Native Hawaiians in this new land will have sovereignty and will provide for their own needs.  However, the new nation may sign mutually beneficial treaties with the U.S. and Hawaii for such things as national security, extradition rights, border crossings, health care accessibility, food and water security, fishing rights, etc.

5)  Hawaii should agree not to legalize gambling, leaving this option for the newly established nation.

6)  In exchange for all of the above, Native Hawaiians and the new Hawaii nation will agree to give up to Hawaii State and the U.S. government all non-transferred ceded lands claims.

     I like this idea because it would enable the Hawaiian peoples, if they choose, to turn back the hands of time (to the extent possible) to before the Great Mahele (the subdivision of vast tracts of land to private land holders, such land previously owned jointly by all the Hawaiian people) and to self-determine, with few bounds, their own futures.  From what I hear (I've never been) certain south pacific islands still retain much of their original cultures largely free from all-encompassing outside influences.  These could perhaps serve as models for this new Hawaii nation.

     Granted, the fair market values of all the disparate ceded lands claims may exceed those of the land masses I propose but having two single parcels in total plus self-determination rights—true freedom—has got to be worth the difference (at least in my naive, simplistic way of thinking).
     I recognize that an uncertain number of Native Hawaiians believe that the entirety of the Hawaiian islands chain always has belonged to them and that the U.S. “occupation” is illegal and should not be recognized and that negotiated “settlements” and “agreements” with the illegal occupiers are mere sham transaction.  Other Native Hawaiians—regardless of their view of the U.S. overthrow of the Hawaiian monarchy—obviously desire to work within the existing framework to try to secure what's best for their people's futures.  Some say that a lot of the in-fighting among Native Hawaiians is caused by differences of opinion on how best to proceed.
     I empathize, feel ignorant, and don't know how to respond other than to suggest that a lot of those looking in from the outside shake their heads (some in dismay, some in disgust) and think, “If they among themselves can't decide what they want or put forth a unified platform other than ‘more’, then how can we even begin to decide what we should or should not support?”
     Something like the Akaka Bill (The Native Hawaiian Government Reorganization Act), if one ever gets passed into law, I suppose would be as good a start as can be hoped for.  But that's all it would be is a start—the first teeny, tiny step toward what I imagine most Native Hawaiians truly desire most for themselves, their culture, their islands, and their identifies, working within the constraints of what is currently possible.  Regardless of the outcome of such a bill, however, I remain skeptical of the people's futures.  Native populations within the U.S. and around the world have been marginalized, ignored, forgotten, and even decimated for centuries by Western forces that have overrun them.  Unless the U.S. and Hawaii general populaces insist on lasting change for their betterment, things will likely continue to putter along as they have, one marginal change at a time, Native Hawaiians along with their mainland counterparts just holding on and doing their best to get by. 
     I wish they could do better and get more of what they deserve.  Unfortunately, right does not always make might in this world during our lifetimes.

Discipline (Vengeance)

     I hate disciplining our kids, but I do so for their own good and our sanities.  I suppose it's one of the more difficult and aggravating responsibilities of parenting, at least for me, because it seems so futile at times.
     Shouting doesn't work.  Kids love loud noises—firecrackers, thunder, sirens, helicopters, leaf blowers, and garbage trucks—preferably all at the same time.  Hearing a parent shout at them—they become immune to it after awhile—is like a DS video game in which the objective is to make Mom's and Dad's faces turn red, the veins of their necks bulge out, and their hands and arms tighten and flail about like animatronix until someone's head explodes like the stomach of a decompressed deep sea fish.
     To illustrate what I mean, this has happened every afternoon for the past two years:
     “Clean up your room,” I tell Jaren with I-mean-business brusqueness.
     “Yes, Daddy,” he responds.  (We trained them through consistent discipline to respond appropriately every time.)
     Nothing happens.  I come back later and discover this.
     “What did I tell you to do?” I ask, voice and tone rising to signal what's happening to my blood pressure.
     “I...don't...remember...”
     I point toward his room with searing eyes.
     “Oh yeah, clean up my room.”  He dashes off down the hallway in the proper direction.
     When I return later, his bed is somewhat fixed but the floor's still a mess.  “Ok, time out, I told you twice already.  Don't come out until dinner.”
     There's a thirty-three percent chance the floor still won't be cleaned properly by dinner time (down from sixty-seven percent a few months ago—progress!)  If so, he gets time out for the rest of the evening.  He still sometimes cries—just for show—over time outs but once he's in them he just lies on his bed or floor quartering his imaginary Star Wars friends.
     I tell myself not to stress over discipline because the underlying principle is so simple:  back up words with action by always enacting consequences for every instance of noncompliance.  After all, this is an autocracy in which we are the bosses.
     My wife is not with the program.  And the kids know it so what they do is make a game of it, ignoring her direct commands, hoping they'll get away with it—the sole form of legalized gambling in Hawaii.  Then, often enough, when she's in a good (lazy) mood, she'll pretend not to notice, which thrills them to no end as their ears turn red and pointy and arrow-shaped tails emerge from above their butt holes and their eyebrows start looking like Mr. Spock's (The Vulcan, not the Doctor).
     “Go outside,” she tells Braden, who's tormenting his siblings.  Separating them can be very effective and so can sending Braden outside since he hates it even though there's tons of fun things to do like sweep the garage and wash the car.
     Five minutes later, I still hear his voice inside, and it's obvious he's progressed to unanesthetized surgery.
     “What did Mom tell you to do?” I shout from my room, not wanting to go outside and get a coronary or stroke because that would just make my knotted stomach feel inferior to its overachieving sibling organs.
     “Go outside,” Braden slurs out.
     “Well?”
     This is when Deanne shouts at him and I hear him stomp out and I can tell he's fuming, showing utter contempt for our unreasonable authority.
     It doesn't bother me, though, because discipline has to hurt to be effective.  This is what makes discipline similar to vengeance but not because when he hurts, I hurt worse (sometimes).  So if I don't hurt or even enjoy seeing him stew in his own juices that doesn't mean I'm a sicko sadist, it just means he's bluffing to get back at us—sort of like a game of poker in which everyone adopts serious miens, secretly rejoicing their strong hands, though ours will always be strongest since we're the parents and can do with him whatever we want as long as no one finds out about it, thank God.
     No, what bothers me about discipline is Deanne's lackadaisical attitude that makes me out to be the bad guy every time.
     I remind her again and again of the need for consistency—the kids only behave when I'm around and if she would just discipline consistently for two weeks they wouldn't misbehave ever again.  She says, “Yes, Tim,” and I can tell she means it.
     But nothing changes.  Or at least not within two weeks.  Because she's not consistent enough.  At least not when I'm not around.  I know this because I catch Jaren whining—a big no-no—in a half-whisper to her, hoping I won't hear.  And this happens again and again and again.  And he's already six years old!
     I rationalize that her inconsistency is virtue:  she's modeling mercy, grace, and forgiveness (lets see Heidi Klum do that) of which we all need massive doses now and then.  If she were exactly like me the kids might be well-behaved all the time, but eventually grow up stiff and distant—strict model citizens, true—but lacking in love and compassion.  I'm also fearful that my strictness could break their spirits, so her laxity is a nice counterbalance that gives them room to breathe and act up like normal kids with snotty attitudes (while also giving me an easy “out” if things turn out not-so-hot).  Parenting like life, after all, requires balance and perspective.
     Though I complain, I must admit God has blessed me with a wonderful family, including Braden, a boy with a good heart and not an evil bone in his body.  But embedded within such virtuous body parts lies a bad, horrible, stinking lazy attitude that's about as responsible as roach crap.
     He does a sloppy job with the dishes.
     Discipline:  He gets to do all the dinner dishes for the coming week—obviously he just needs more practice.
     We discover through his social studies teacher who made him print out his grades-to-date and show them to us that Braden's gotten recent horrid grades that make our hair fall out (when we yank at their roots in frustration.)
     What's with teachers giving out mid-quarter results to or e-mailing parents these days?  (We refused to give him our e-mail address because Braden's school work is his responsibility, not ours.)  My teachers never contacted my parents mid-quarter or ever except through report cards.  (Even after I got a D once in fifth grade social studies from Mrs. Horaguchi, whom I once had a crush on—operative word here is had, because I could fill in the blank U.S. map with only thirty-two states, I just hid the thing and that was that.  That was my worst grade ever throughout my academic career that I can recall, though my memory's been lately going...)  And here's Braden getting C's and D's, and even an F for not turning in an assignment until very late and he didn't even follow-up the way he was supposed to by redoing them all and checking to make sure they were all B quality or better.
     Decisively, I have him hand write a five-page essay explaining what happened, what caused it, what he felt, and what he will do in the future to make sure it never happens again, then type it up with no spelling or grammatical errors, then attach my note requesting the teacher to sign-off on the accuracy of Braden's statements, then turn them in and show me the teacher's response.  Plus redo all the sub-par work for the teacher to critique.  Plus do all the chores for a week and remain in time out for a day.
     Then, because she's a glutton for punishment (mine, not hers) Deanne the following weekend (and for the first time ever) checks his on-line Jupiter grades (I told her never to do this because it's his responsibility, not ours) only to discover F's in other classes for assignments not turned in within the past week!
     She disciplines him by saying no scouting that Friday.   I say that's nothing to him and give him all the chores for a month plus one week time-out outside, plus letters for the two teachers to sign like before.  One of the letter reveals a lie.  He had told me upon questioning that everyone had gotten F's for not turning in their English reading logs because the teacher hadn't passed out the blank reading log forms beforehand.  Yet the letter describes others turning in their reading logs on time while he watched dismayed.  (These logs are due every week; he could've asked for a blank form or used a blank sheet of paper; his explanation was dismembered roach parts.)  So at that point I tack on an additional month of dish washing.  (I hate dish washing.  So does he.  Perfect discipline!)
     I tell Braden (an eighth grader) that the way things stand (his continued bad attitude and irresponsibility even after repeated discipline—this has been going on since grade school) I don't consider him college material anymore.  We're not going to expend all the money we've saved to date—billions of dollars that will one day cover perhaps a couple weeks of his college tuition at an affordable in-state university—only to have him squander that golden opportunity with continued lame, I-don't-care attitudes and that if he intends to do that, I may as well blow it all right now on a Canon, Nikon, or Leica digital SLR with full-frame sensor plus lens kit on sale used on e-bay so that I can photograph for his benefit all his current cute antics on film (actually temporal bits and bytes stored in electronic format upon reliable storage media that become damaged and permanently inaccessible every other day).  Henceforth, it's up to him to prove us wrong.  If he starts getting straight A's, fixing his bed every morning, and discovering the cure for congressional ineptitude, we may reconsider.  If he needs help with school work, he's old enough to ask us, teachers, classmates, friends at church—whomever.  And I convince him the chores he's doing are good.  Without a college degree, he'll probably end up working menial jobs just like it—all honorable, nothing to be ashamed of, and work that can't be outsourced to China or India (at least not yet, mainly because they pay too little.)
     And I say to him in closing if he just does things right the first time every time, he won't ever have to deal with this stuff again.
     He says, “Yes, Dad.”
     And Deanne agrees never to check his on-line Jupiter grades again.
     Best of all, I think he's slowly starting to catch on.  (And when I say slowly, I mean in a race against a glacier, he'd lose.  Unless it was a retreating glacier, in which case he'd win—assuming he crosses the finish line before the onset of the next ice age.)  But at other times, I get the distinct impression that to him, it's all just a game.  And as long as he gets a nice hot meal to enjoy in quiet comfort at the end of every day, he's happy, despite the walls crumbling in around him that only we can see.
     I tell Deanne, maybe that's how God wants us to be.  We have enough; shouldn't we content ourselves with that?
     Braden is a good kid that has taught me a lot.  And I love him dearly.  But his lack of regard still sometimes gets to me like roach eggs stuck to the insides of my underwear.

Chores

     In a way, it's much more demanding raising one child than three.
     Here's why:  When Braden was an only child, chores tripled (conservative estimate) compared to what they had been before due to changing diapers; laundering his soiled clothes and cleaning cloths; sterilizing bottles; preparing formula; and holding, burping, feeding, talking to, picking up after, bathing, dressing, transporting, and photographing him while trying to figure out why he cried so often.  Things eased a bit after he began sleeping through the night and didn't have to be fed or cleaned quite so frequently, but then again we couldn't leave him unattended for very long because he kept getting into trouble—even in our tiny baby-proofed apartment.  (He crawled everywhere, toppled over, banged his head, and put anything—including dead roaches—into his mouth.)
     When he reached age three, we had Penelope—the dearest, sweetest bundle of joy ever.  Rarely cried—and when she did, it sounded more like gentle gurglings than urgent pleas, unlike Braden's screeching wails that made us fear the neighbors would call Child Protective Services on us.  (Trust me, he didn't cry because of us, he cried in spite of us, a colicky baby that pushed the limits of the definition.  Never have I heard a baby cry anywhere near as loud or persistent.  And this all started from three days old when we first took him home from the hospital.  When he grew a bit older and I held him to my chest during his inconsolable fits, I plugged my near-side ear with a fingertip to prevent permanent hearing loss.  Plugging his ears was out of the question as it sent his pitch and volume that much higher, exasperated shrieks unimaginable.  He'd cry so loud and so long—an hour, say—that his voice turned hoarse.  Exhausted, he'd finally yawn and fall into deep, lost-to-the-world sleep, easing our jungled nerves for the next few hours if we were lucky.  Full disclosure:  He has a genetic disorder that I am convinced caused his infant fussiness.  There was and is no treatment or cure for it so it's our job to accommodate the best we can.  He outgrew the incessant fussiness after several months and has grown mostly normal since.)
     As much because we needed their help as to build their characters, we assigned them chores early, starting with straightening up after themselves, fixing their beds, getting dressed, attending to their personal hygienes (although potty training took awhile for the older two, especially Braden), and busing their own dishes to the sink.  Then as they grew, we added folding laundry; wiping the table; sweeping, vacuuming, and mopping the floor; and emptying the rubbish.  Additional chores a few years later included dish washing; setting the table; preparing certain dishes (cooking rice in the automatic cooker, making and serving milk from milk powder, preparing ramen with condiments, washing lettuce for salads, and cutting fruits); opening and closing the louvers and blinds; cleaning counters; carrying in and storing groceries; hanging up and taking down the laundry; carrying heavy bags; and almost anything else we feel they are ready for and capable of doing safely, being of the mindset that there is no greater satisfaction than a job well done and the best preparation for life is for them to become independent, capable of living on their own by the time they reach age eighteen.
     After dinner is a joy now—everyone to their assigned duties:  Jaren controls the light switches and wipes the dining room table; Penelope wipes the counters and stores away the small leftovers, Braden vacuums the floors; I put away the dishes from the dish rack, stack the dirty dishes, and prepare the soapy water; Deanne scrubs the dirty cookware, cleans the stove, and puts away the spices; and dish washing gets done by whoever's turn it is.  (Often enough, it's Braden or Penelope due to discipline for misbehavior.) 
     Whereas Deanne and I might have taken forty-five minutes to do a thorough after-dinner clean up, now we're usually done and out in less than half that time and sometimes in less than five minutes.
     Not to suggest that it's easier raising more kids than less—it's not, it's far more complicated.  As my friend Norm said, “As your children mature, the demands on your personal time lessen, but that doesn't mean things get any easier.  New challenges arise that need addressing.  And these are always changing.”  When I asked him for specifics, he mentioned character development issues such as honesty, work ethic, self-image, dealing with feelings and friends and mean people and other age-specific growth issues ranging from stranger anxiety to opposite gender parent attraction.
     Which reminds me of the teen years—I can see them coming.  (Actually they've already arrived—early for both Braden and Penelope—though maybe what we've seen to date were mere minor tremors before the big ones yet to come). 
     Remembering my teen years, I cringe.  If theirs are anything like mine were, then we're in for a rough ride.  (Well, not that rough.)  But I'm hopeful.  A Christian counselor once said that all the hard work raising children right when they're young pays off during their teen years when things are relatively smooth sailing.  We'll see.  At the least, those years should be interesting.

Pity the Rich, Famous, and Idle!

     A wise man once said, “The two greatest burdens in life are time and money, and the unhappiest of all mortals are those with an excess of either."  I’d add a third to that:  fame.
     I don’t envy the rich, famous, or idle in the least.  I’d literally die from stress and boredom if I had to live the stereotypical rich, famous, and idle’s shallow, meaningless life.  I’m sure a lot of people would say I could get used to that.  But no, the truth is most sweet, innocent people can’t, at least not happily—just look at lottery winners, Elvis Presley, Princess Di, Marilyn Monroe, James Dean, Michael Jackson, Lucille Ball, Elizabeth Taylor, Whitney Houston, Phillip Seymour Hoffman—the list goes on and on.  I’m sure they all started out happy enough, but somewhere along the way it got to them.  I’m certain they would all have lived happier lives as unknowns, working common, middle-class jobs, concentrating on family and friends first, perhaps indulging in a hobby or two, and giving selflessly to charities and helping those in need.  Versus life at the top, with no one to trust, feeling torn by all the hangers-on, imprisoned by the damning press and deranged stalkers, alienated by envious or judgmental friends and relatives, ever fearful of betrayal and losing it all, and struggling to contain an over-inflated ego.  As Elizabeth Taylor said, “Fame is just awful.  You lose all your privacy.  There are millions of other jobs—choose any one of them.  No one is forcing you to become a star.”
     Brook Lee is Hawaii’s very own Miss Universe 1997 (sure doesn’t seem that long ago).  She looked cute, innocent, and spoke clear and vibrant—absolutely gorgeous in the Miss USA and Miss Universe pageants, both well-deserved wins.  A year later, she appeared in some pop news show as a lead-in announcer and looked awkward, ill at ease, and uncomfortable in her own skin, striking unnatural poses as if to say, “I don’t want to do this, it’s not me, they made me do it.”  Her skin’s freshness was gone, there were bags under her eyes, and her All-American charm had seemingly transformed to Hollywood-wannabe-desperate.  I turned to Deanne, my newly wedded wife, and said, “You look better than Miss Universe.”  And I meant it.  After a pause, I shook my head and said, “I hope she’s alright.”  Now I don’t know what caused the obvious one-year turnaround, whether personal, professional, or otherwise, but I suspect the fame of being the supposed Most Beautiful Woman in the World and perhaps Hollywood-type success pressures had a lot to do with it.  I wished her well and still do.  And am I ever glad Deanne never won Miss South-East Asia or Ms. Universe.  Had she done so, I might instead be Mister Brook Lee today.  (Just kidding.) 

Competitive Sports

     I grew up pushed into competitive sports, had great fun with them early on, and took for granted their benefits and inevitability in nearly every boy's life until twelve years ago when my college buddy Norm said he was agonizing over which extracurricular activities to sign his kids up for.  I suggested baseball, soccer—.
     He said, “Ehhh.  I'm trying to avoid organized competitive sports.”
     Stupefied, I asked, “Why?”
     He said, “The sports themselves aren't the problem.  It's the everything else that goes along with them that are bad.”
     I thought a moment.  “Like bad coaching?”  I had had baseball coaches in Pony League that made it a point at times to ridicule my ineptitude and awkwardness.  I was a pitcher used only once or twice a season against Panaewa—the worst team in the league.  At a practice once, we held a scrimmage with me pitching and they bluffed steals while I was in the stretch.  (“Stretch” means the pitcher is standing sideways to the batter with his back foot on or immediately in front of the white rubber board (called a “rubbber”) on the pitcher's mound.  While in the stretch, if there are runners on base, any sort of jerky movements of shoulders by the pitcher without a throw to either home or to one of the bases is considered a balk—allowing each base runner to advance freely to the next base.  Pitchers may make all the jerky movements they want or chase after runners if they first “step off the mound” by stepping their rearward foot backwards a few inches to a position behind the rubber.)  As I peered over at Coach A or B at first or second base, he'd suddenly bound off in a mad dash toward the next base.  Alarmed over the eminent steal (whereby the base runner moves to the next base before getting tagged out with a gloved ball), I jerked around to get a better look to see what I should do next—throw to my teammate on first, second, or third base, or give chase on foot.  I balked every time.  Kyle shouted, “When you're in trouble, step off the mound!”  I nodded and yet, whenever it happened, I jerked.  “Balk!” Kyle shouted while his sidekick Doug shook his head with disdain.  “What are you supposed to do when you're in trouble?”
     “Step off the mound,” I mumbled.
     “What?”
     “Step off the mound!”
     “OK.  Try again.”
     Jumpy, I went back into the stretch and peered over only to see him jerk right in a feint, then take off like the Road Runner.  I was so jumpy by then that all my movements appeared jerky.  Balk!
     Kyle had me spend the rest of the afternoon in the dugout shouting, “When I'm in trouble I will step off the mound.”  Humiliated, I eventually mumbled the mindless phrase, only to have Kyle shout, “I can't hear you!”
     Decades later, I realized this was awful coaching.  (They also insisted that everyone hit off their front foot—the foot nearest the pitcher—with a pronounced weight shift that way—bad advice.  And they never let me pitch submarines—low deliveries—or knuckle balls—my best pitches.) 
     The reason I kept balking is I had never before stepped off the mound.  No one had taught me how or why I should do it or when or had me even attempt it.  Virtually all sports involve calling upon “muscle memory”—skills ingrained through repetition, until they become so familiar, they're second nature.  A good free throw shooter in basketball concentrates only on the basket and executing set ritual—everything else comes automatically via muscle memory.  What Kyle should have done was take me out of the scrimmage (and its attendant pressures to win or not embarrass myself) and have Doug tutor me on the side lines.  Doug should have had me step off an imaginary rubber dozens of times from the stretch until it felt sooo comfortable, I practically enjoyed it.  Except for the rare blessed few, all new sports skills feel awkward and uncomfortable at first.  I never, ever got over that discomfort and never, ever stepped off a mound during a real game or practice.  (Thank God no one ever bluffed or attempted a steal while I was in the stretch again.) 
     Getting back to my conversation with Norm, he responded, “The bad coaching; the must-win, beat-the-opponent-to-a-pulp at all costs mentality; the star-worship; the bad actors; the bad parents; the bad attitudes; the only-the-best-get-to-play priorities; the politics; the favoritism; the bullying, put-downs, and hazing; the conceitedness;... need more?”
     I saw his point.  Even though I had witnessed all these first-hand as a player, I had never before thought of them as faults.  They had all just seemed part of the game and culture and therefore inevitable for anyone who played.
     Reflecting back, I remembered my years post-Little League when due to my ineptitude I rarely got to play, and even the Little League year when I was assigned to the second-rate team that consisted of all the lousy players, unable to make the first-rate team that eventually had all of my most talented classmates.
     And I also remembered witnessing during games some of the most disgraceful parental behavior ever—fortunately in games in which I wasn't playing (because I was too lousy to be in championship games the really mattered—one of the few benefits of being less talented).  The Little League championship game (which featured the first-rate team I was too lousy to make) was temporarily suspended over a near riot precipitated by an umpire's errant call in the last inning.  It took minutes for most in the stands to quit hooting and hollering and even then, a team manager had to step out of the dug out onto the playing field and point out and shout down the most demonstrative of his player's parents, shaming him and others to finally sit and settle down.  Although play resumed, the atmosphere was charged with an uncomfortable tension—rare in sleepy, laid back Hilo.  As a side-note, my dad recently told me that a lot of the stars from that game have not done so well as adults—some were in and out of prison, some battled addictions, one died in a tragic accident, others were unemployed, divorced, or had other legal problems.  His point was that although they seemed so all-together back then, there may have been hidden problems that we only found out about later.  I said I doubt their problems related to their playing. He said no, but we held them in such high esteem, unaware of what would eventually befall them.
     And I remembered getting tormented by an older teammate in Colt League who even mocked me repeatedly during a game allowing fans in the stands to hear.  After that season, I quit.  It's amazing I lasted as long as I had.  In my last few years I averaged about zero hits and two strike-outs per game and all season I got on base twice, both on walks, and played in less than half the games.  As a second base in-fielder, I averaged about an error per game.
     At our Big Island high school championship basketball game, which Hilo High won, the awards ceremony was canceled over fear of riot.  One delusional parent taunted Hilo High supporters by gesturing dismissal of Hilo High's win and repeatedly signaled St. Joseph's number one status, shaking her head to their boos, shouts, finger points toward the score board, and jeers.
     In hindsight, I don't believe I gained any of the reputed benefits ascribed to team sports:  confidence, leadership ability, teamwork, work ethic, sense of belonging, or discipline.  Well, to be fair, there may have been times when baseball did help build my character, but, in general, there were far more avoidable negatives than there were only-available-through-competitive-organized-sports positives.
     Regarding our children’s participation, today's youth competitive sports teams can be very time-consuming—for both them and us, what with practices, games, travel times, pot lucks, snacks, refreshments, and set-ups and take-downs.  Since none of them have expressed interest or shown unmistakable natural athletic talent, we have yet to enroll them.  Sure, they (and we) miss out on some of the fun and excitement of doing well and maybe winning an award or two, but then again, they also “miss out” on the early disillusionment and ego issues and exposure to all-too-frequent bad behaviors and attitudes, including excessive pressures and unrealistic expectations.  Though they do lead lives less activity-filled than others, they’re fine with it and so are we.

Budget Travel

     As an accountant, I am aware that there are three things that are impossible for our middle income family to save enough for: our children's college educations, my retirement, and long-term health care insurance. But we try to do our best with the former two. As for the latter, in my opinion, only the extremely wealthy can afford it. (The only “affordable” long-term health care insurance plans cover approximately five years of nursing care—hardly long-term—which would only delay the inevitable spend-down of personal assets before Medicare kicks in.)
     And because we've lived for years with a five percent salary reduction due to The Great Recession (full pay recently got restored) our family has limited our travels to occasional outer-island trips of two or three nights each. The last time we traveled out-of-state as a family was to Seattle over five years ago. (Deanne did recently fly back twice to East Asia—once to visit her ill dad, the other for his funeral.)
     So to get the most out of our short stays, we packed frozen veggies and precooked rice; Cheerios; powder milk; empty water bottles; home-made scones; and preheated lunch boxes (sans meat) in our carry-ons, plus breakfast to eat before boarding the plane (we caught the low-fare first flights out at 5:30 a.m., which were still expensive compared to a few short years ago.) Each family member self-packed his or her own carry-on with clothes, toiletries, swim gear, a few plastic grocery bags (for wet clothes, dirty laundry, or footwear), and other necessities, all stuffed in a large plastic bag to keep things clean, dry, and organized. Upon arrival at our destination, we filled our water bottles, picked up our rental car, dropped off our luggage at the hotel front desk for safekeeping until check-in, then headed straight to a supermarket for fresh fruits for succeeding days' breakfasts, and luncheon meat and poke (seasoned raw fish) as supplemental proteins for our lunches and dinners. Sight-seeing followed with planned stops before noon to pick up a hearty protein (gourmet pizza, local beef burgers, or lunch counter entree) for takeout and to eat along with our pre-packed lunch boxes at a relaxing scenic spot. More sight-seeing and activities followed until late afternoon when we again picked up a protein (whole roasted chicken, ethnic or local food, or ribs) from somewhere affordable and tasty.
     Checked into the hotel room, we heated our rice and veggies in the microwave, ate dinner, cleaned up, bathed, and prepared for the following day, in which we basically followed the previous day's pattern.
     Another thing that helped our family to stay on budget were comprehensive daily itineraries, detailed to quarter hour increments including travel times, destinations, directions, restaurants, bathroom breaks, down-times, meals, relaxation, and play, which we followed and revised as necessary as the vacation progressed. Such scheduling avoided wasted time and frustration looking for fun, suitable, and inexpensive take-out food; play and rest areas; sight-seeing stops; and driving directions.
     We sought free activities and destinations that included something for everyone, seeing and doing things unique to the locale and with perhaps special historical, personal, or cultural significance. Thus, we avoided generic eateries, shopping malls, and activities such as bounce houses, movies, or water parks.
     Internet sites such as Yelp and Tripadvisor (among the internet's finest) generated excellent suggestions. The first-hand accounts of visitors and their photos can get overwhelming to review, however, due to dozens of conflicting opinions written in anywhere from wonderful to awful English, and hundreds of photos burdensome to click through to find just the one with the information you're looking for (menu, shoreline access, parking area, scenery, safety, navigability). But discovering hidden gems that even I, a lifetime Hawaii resident, had never seen or heard of before, got me excited well before the trip.
     On Kauai, there were the swinging bridge, Lindsgate Park, Kokee, Taro Ko Factory, Kalalau Trail, Poipu Beach, Ke'e Beach, and Hanalei Pier.
     On Molokai there were the farmer's market, Halawa, Murphy Beach, The Kite Factory, Three Mile Beach overlook, Dixie Maru beach, and One Alii Fishpond.
     On Maui there were Kanaio, Makawao, Kepaniwai Park, Kapalua Labyrinth and Village and Beach trails, and Spreklesville Beach.
     On Hawaii there were Laupahoehoe park, Kalopa, Kapoho, Honokaa, Kamuela, Keaukaha, and Panaewa.
     All of the above—free of charge—provided among the best these islands had to offer. Of course we also visited the more famous low-cost destinations too, such as superlative Waimea Canyon, Haleakala, and Volcanoes National Park.
     But the best part was seeing the kids excited doing something new—exploring Dry Cave; hiking summit and coastal trails; fishing off the state's longest pier; walking a swaying bridge in high gusting winds; eating live opihi (limpets); catching misty sprays in their mouths at overlooks; chasing kite shadows in the sand; knocking low hanging coconuts off trees with pebbles; drinking the sweet, acrid water from these coconuts; petting wild horses that approached on their own; running through huge wooden playgrounds; lying in ocean-side hammocks; leading us through ancient ohia forest trails; climbing high up ironwood trees; and sleeping overnight in a backyard tent hitched at Grandma and Grandpa's house.
     Notwithstanding their inconvenience and expense, these trips were well worth it. We learned a lot, bonded, made lasting memories, worked as a team, and enjoyed every last minute of them. All islands were beautiful and special, but being averse to crowds and traffic, I probably enjoyed them in reverse order of their population densities: Molokai first, then Hawaii, Kauai, and Maui in that order.
     Thumb nail sketches: Molokai—deserted paradise; friendly, generous people who love to talk. Melt into the surrounding lassitude. Hawaii—pockets of interest among vast, unchanging landscapes. Fun to drive. Laid-back. Primitive feel encourages introspection. Kauai—fun with lots to see and do outdoors. Best beaches. Great, unfolding vistas. Maui—beautiful horses on Haleakala, wild nene geese, and awesome views of neighbor islands Molokai, Lanai, Kahoolawe, and Molokini. Best air for workouts.
     FYI: all inclusive, each trip totaled less than one thousand two hundred dollars, the vast majority of which went to airfares, accommodations, rental car, gas, and airport parking.