Garage Sale Fun

       Some of the best bargains around, besides happening upon abandoned furniture roadside (see my prior Roadside Gems essay), can be had at garage/moving/yard/rummage sales. I've never driven out of my way special for one, only encountering them incidentally—usually on weekend drives to or from the grocery store or church. And I've nearly always returned home first, then walked over with only minimal cash because they're just so hit-or-miss, usually the later. 
     It's fun snooping around other people's stuff, some quite interesting. What's this for? Where did you get that? How much for these?  The kids love 'em 'cause they can fool with all kinds of normally forbidden, hands—off, “that's not yours” stuff, much of which there's a good chance they can afford or if an item's cool or nostalgic enough I'll purchase for them.
     Our best deals so far have been for solid wood natural finish furniture: a dining room set (country style table and chairs) for $80; designer leather on steel frame occasional chair plus wheeled/adjustable wood reading desk on steel frame for $60 combined; chest of drawers for $75; old console-style stereo cabinet for $25; and a small three drawers cabinet plus a large night stand for $40.
     Less beautiful but highly functional furniture purchased through the years included a large book shelf, large stainless steel shelves, large storage shelves, and TV stand—all for $90. We also scored a Mighty Mite vacuum for $25 and a comparable Panasonic for $5.
     Fun stuff purchased included Hot Wheels tracks, a build-it-yourself model battleship, Tiger brand shaved ice maker, fishing rod, beautiful raised relief globe, hand saw, large cast iron clamp, a pair of detachable dumbbells (10lbs. each), and a nearly brand new children's bicycle—each for $10 or less.
           For $5 each or less we also purchased three different wheeled hand-carry luggages. Freebies (from generous neighbors) included a die cast toy helicopter, drawstring cloth shopping bags, a softball, two cast iron 10 lb. dumbbells, and door hinges with screws and wood trim.
     Here's the fun thing about bargain used furniture: you can't ruin them. The stereo console mentioned earlier was already gutted when I got it. My amplifier and tape deck (yes, it was that long ago) didn't quite fit in so I hacked away at the heavy duty internal uprights with chisel and hammer to construct slots into which they could slide. A decade later after Deanne and I had already married and had Braden, I gave away my albums and turntable to Goodwill, removed the remaining stereo components, and installed shelves into the speaker cavities to convert the unit into a diaper changing table. Deanne added attractive shelf paper and the top was fitted with a diaper changing pad.
     While changing Braden, Deanne once placed a wet water bottle used for clean up on top and it left an awful white water stain on the otherwise beautiful dark wood finish. I scolded her and rubbed furniture oil in for the next twenty minutes.
     Later, as the kids grew, the cabinet became theirs for clothes. Unbeknownst to me, over time they placed stickers on it and their bunk bed (it's amazing how these when small and few can pass unnoticed for months until one day when the room is finally cleared of junk, dozens of these huge, in-your-face ugly commercial cartoons materialize seemingly out of nowhere). We spent hours scrubbing them off, leaving unsightly scratches down to bare wood.
     The cabinet's condition worsened through time with a broken off brass handle (replaced with one from a discarded dresser drawer) and surface gouges, nicks, and scratches (but no more stickers). Now my attitude toward it is one of benign neglect: imperfections just evidence active, happy children. I challenged Braden to remove the three doors and sand, refinished, and reinstall them, but he passed (it's his choice, after all its his cabinet and his and Jaren's room).
     The large nightstand mentioned earlier will be our house's most unique piece (it allegedly belonged to a famous Hawaii artist, now deceased, and was obviously handmade). Trouble was, it was too dark, had hideous black stains (char from a fire and remnants from a spill), and it stank. I tried cleaning, sunning, and polishing it; washing it with baking soda; stuffing it with newspapers; airing it for weeks; and sanding and polyurethaning it. Those didn't work so I tried sealing its inside cracks with tape and polystyrene packing foam and chiseling off the charred parts underneath, but it still stank and looked off. So I hand painted over the offending sections with colorful acrylic paints—a wavy border around the three outer top edges and a bold yet whimsical ribbon stripe over a functional trim that stops the swinging cabinet door. It's light, cheery, more unique, and even fun now, just what I want for my bedside stand, and not so somber, heavy, or ugly-in-a-beautiful-sort-of-way as it had been. 
     Though antique stores may say I ruined its value I'm sure the fine arts painter/alleged former owner would approve, especially if I enjoy and continue to use the piece for years to come. After all, I bought it for personal use and not to resell at a killer profit, not that I think it's worth that much.  The process of working it so much has improved my feelings toward it, too, from, “It's nice and kind-of weird in a good way but can I fix it?” to, “Not bad...getting better...much improved...almost there...I'm getting to like this. Ah, just right!” Now, if only the faint lingering wood odor would disappear, I can finally bring it in and use it (but there's no rush and I haven't given up hope on it yet.) Best of all, reshaping furniture to suit our needs has been a heck of a lot of fun, keeping me thinking creatively, using my hands, working out (sanding all six inside and outside surfaces plus drawer top, bottom, back, and sides), and staying productive: time well spent saving money and helping preserve the environment, all the while enjoying the beautiful piece unavailable at any neighborhood furniture store.

 

Discipline—Part II

     Braden by nature is very strong-willed. This was especially apparent when he was early-elementary school age and dug in with defiant streaks. I gave him time-outs stacked consecutive that lasted for days. My friend Norm and our pediatrician both had said, “Rule of thumb is about one minute per year of age.” Let me tell you, six to seven minute time-outs weren't working, not when his temper tantrums/acting out spells lasted hours day after day after day. I was also warned long ago by a friend that, ”Strict is good, but you don't want to break a child's spirit.” Braden's spirit broken by an hour of time-out? I doubt it—about as likely as drowning a dragon in a drop of spit. And it never, ever came close to happening. 
     As a kid growing up in slower-than-slow Hilo, I'd been exposed to countless long hours lying on my bed staring up at the ceiling with nothing but my thoughts and feelings for stimulation. It taught me patience. To entertain myself. To organize my thoughts. To make my own sense of things. It'd been time well spent and when Braden emerged from his stimulus seclusions, he too displayed tons better disposition with softened outlook and humble repentance.
     Nonetheless, Deanne after umpteen shouting matches with Braden sometimes fretted, what's to come of him, he's so strong willed? I said that's good, when drug dealers come around he'll say, “No!” and that'll be that.
     Or she wondered are we being fair giving him such long time-outs? I said we sure are. When criminals act up, what happens? Society slams them in jail. We're not abusing him. We feed him. He gets to bathe, sleep in bed, brush his teeth, and wear pajamas. If he acts like a bad-ass dude that's his choice, we'll just treat him like a bad-ass dude. Our consequences match his actions. He knows what we expect by now—that he behave civil and obey and not act up. If he does all that he'll be just fine and never get time-out again.
     She said I still feel guilty at times. I said that's your choice but you should enjoy the free time his time-outs give us, after all, he should be the one suffering for his actions and not us. I rather he learn the hard lessons now than later as an adult. He's just testing and reaffirming boundaries which is natural, normal, and healthy. 
     Braden did eventually outgrow those defiant stages (that came in streaks) about when he hit puberty and emerged better for them, knowing we'll always love him enough to act, evidenced by all those years of repeated discipline. 
     Jaren now appears to be going through this same life stage (see my prior related Making the Grade essay), for he too—blessed with a strong will—has gotten slammed with multiple-days time-outs due to serial misbehavior. (Such discipline was never necessary with Penelope, by the way.) Unphased, he's as happy as ever, the days of time-outs whizzing by for him and us.  And we smile, he's so cute, whenever he emerges to eat dinner, take a bath, or brush his teeth. But seeing us smile seems to encourage him to act up even more, so I try to adopt a stern visage and just grump, “Good night!” for example, rather than hug and kiss him, say prolonged prayers, and douse him with affection. 
     His most recent trouble started as spillover from ongoing sibling conflicts. Braden's been a loving older brother to Jaren and has usually played well with him, but at times too rough and naughty, which he's not supposed to, but it may be unavoidable because that's what brothers do (I sure did when my younger brother and I “played” as kids), so when he's in charge of supervising, Jaren all-too-often wants to roughhouse and won't always quit when Braden says stop it! When I catch them fighting, they both get time-out because neither has obeyed my injunction against roughhousing. Nonetheless, Jaren instigated roughhousing for weeks with Braden and Penelope when I wasn't around (as had Braden to a lesser extent). 
     Then Jaren instigated similar roughhousing with an annoying classmate at school—a big no-no because his school has a “Zero Tolerance for Violence” policy. He got sent straight to the principal's office where he sat through lunch period.  Compounding the problem we found out about it only two days later when his teacher saw and informed Deanne. Jaren, on the day it happened, had told us, “I got a special treat today. I got to eat lunch in class for being a good helper.” When asked what did you do he said I turned in a lost ball—a lie based on an event that happened years ago when we first visited the school (I'm surprised he remembered). Interestingly, on the following day, probably out of guilt, he told me I told off my classmate for annoying me.  What was he doing I asked?  Singing and dancing during study time.  Keep quiet next time that's not your job, I told him. He didn't reveal the parts about pushing/shoving his friend, getting in trouble, or telling us lies, though. So when we found out the truth, I gave him time out for a week; had him write letters of apology to his teacher, the principal, classmate, Deanne, and me; and had Deanne witness him distribute the letters, lest he discard them then and lie about that, too. None of the letter recipients said much except the principal who said, “That was sad. Better not happen again, right?” to which Jaren got a bit teary. 
     Jaren's misbehavior tries us at times, but because he's our third, we've become somewhat aplomb (or perhaps more accurately, inured), knowing he is going through a phase. And it's also easier because his light, airy cuteness is contagious and he seldom cries, as opposed to Braden's somber, serious heaviness and incessant screeching cries that seemed to seep in and question our competence. But neither boy is better or worse, they're just different—God's specially-designed creations.

Technology in the Classroom

     The public elementary schools my kids have attended seem to be imitating the private school model in its quest for ever more (non-budgeted PTA wish-list spending) monies. Hawaii's public schools receive budgeted funds from state tax coffers for general operating expenses (general funds), plus capital funds for buildings and repairs (paid from general obligations bonds), plus specials funds (e.g. federal grants) for specific, targeted spending. These public sources cover greater than 98% of schools' funding needs. By contrast, PTA funds are received almost wholly from parents of students via fund-raisers and direct appeals for donations—sometimes for books, materials, and supplies. 
     Now, I believe public school teachers have some of the most difficult and important jobs anywhere and should be paid commensurate ultra-high salaries (versus entertainers, athletes, and overrated corporate CEOs). I also believe they do an excellent job teaching our kids. My gripe with these fund-raisers, then, is not with them, but with the process and results.
     Specifically, every year our elementary school-age kids come home with PTA fund-raiser packets that force us to read the contents and fill out forms even if we just wish to make a monetary donation because unsold tickets (for chili, cookies, and whatever) have to be returned and accounted for. The contents also include packets of other fund-raising opportunities for overpriced consumer goods, the bulky glossies of which may be discarded. It's an annoying waste of time (I have to count the tickets to make sure our kids' packets weren't short-changed lest I get charged for “missing” tickets) and guilt-inducing for Deanne. She always insists we give a certain amount for fear we'll be labeled “cheap” or “unsupportive” at our kids' expense (less attention or favorable treatment).
     I reassure her a token sum is all that's necessary. Schools get ample funds for their needs and the vast bulk of PTA monies for classroom use are spent on unnecessary technology (laptops, tablet computers, etc.)
     She knows my stance on technology in the classroom—an unnecessary crutch, largely ineffectual, and all-too-often just another example of lazy teaching. Kidbiz and Teenbiz are busy-work softwares that force users to read asinine articles and answer standardized multiple choice test questions about them and IXL (Math) is a software that muddles children's minds with endless math exercises. All are teach-to-the-test, test 'em till they go insane modern day torture implements that teachers love because they don't have to do a thing—just assign the work and forget about it, the softwares do the rest (self-correct, retest ad infinitum, and display results).
     Granted, these tools probably have improved my kids' standardize test scores a few percentage points, but at what cost? They hate these programs. I know because they never come home saying, “Awesome, I got to retake Kidbiz three times because I didn't score eighty-eight percent or higher my first two tries!” or “Oh yeah, I get to do two IXL's every week! Wonder if I can do more and get ahead?” No, they—normally very responsible about their homework—have let this one area slide more than any other. Unless we occasionally ask, “Are you up-to-date with Kidbiz? What about IXL?” we all-too-often find out later that they hadn't been via unpleasant surprises such as bad grades.
     (Call me slow but I only now realize what IXL means. Shouldn't vendors to elementary schools use standard English and shouldn't these products thus be renamed using proper spellings and grammar such as, “In the Business of Teaching Kids English”, or, “I Excel in Math”? In short, shouldn't they be be setting better Xamplz? (JOKE) Note to vendors: Kids think your products and their names are so not cool, Man.)
     Getting back to the fund-raisers, I'm also skeptical of how such funds are spent. The school has more than ample computers (perhaps more than one per child?) yet nearly every year, new computer hardware is purchased. First came desktops, then the laptops, and now electronic tablets. Such more-is-better inanity boggles my mind. The Voyager spacecraft—one of man's greatest technological successes—ran on a computer less powerful than a simple hand held calculator. So if a primitive computer was sufficient for one of the most prolific scientific exploratory vessels ever, shouldn't a low-end desktop a thousand times more powerful do for an elementary school kid? Today's devices are so advanced they could display text and equations that would take multiple lifetimes to read and comprehend. A laptop for a kid (or adult) is sort of like an ocean's worth of water for a tadpole, its computational, storage, and retrieval capacities are so vast.
     The weakest excuse for these devices is to familiarize kids with technology so they feel comfortable using them. What kid isn't comfortable using a computer these days? Even the Amish have them, so I've heard. I admit I go to Braden now for help when my computer crashes since he can get it going (almost always software issues) ninety percent of the time (because he uses them all the time and likes them—makes him feel smart—not because he's done Kidbiz, Teenbiz, and IXL exercises ad nauseum.)
     The most specious reason for technology in the classroom is they're useful teaching tools. I suppose they may beat no teaching at all, but compared to teacher-on-student (or even better, parent-on-child) teaching using printed materials, pencil and paper, and whiteboards these tools are huge wastes of time and money. I'll bet there are virtually no Kidbiz, Teenbiz, or IXL Math units or exercises that can't be taught equally well or better in-person. (As yet, I have yet to find one, and my kids have been using these their entire academic careers from second grade on.)
     A couple years ago, Penelope came home with a note from her teacher demanding $7.00 for a “necessary workbook.”
     This demand stank. Public education is supposed to be free. I don't mind paying for my kids' beginning-of-the-year classroom supplies or “optional” class field trips or overnight camps (usually very reasonable) but required classroom workbooks? Isn't that supposed to be paid from school budgeted general funds? Did Penelope's teacher neglect to include it in her classroom budget and was she now demanding that parents foot the bill for her oversight? (I would have felt more generous about it had she admitted such in her memo.) Or was this a new trend in which parents would be expected to pay more and more in-classroom education expenses? Wouldn't this be a perfect thing to pay with PTA funds (instead of more waste-money technology)?
     Out of principle and concern for less well-off parents, I called the school's front office and inquired. The receptionist said she didn't know about it but would notify the principal of my concern (though I didn't leave a name or number). It may have left an impression because we never received such a demand again. But I made sure to donate $10.00 less to the PTA the following school year anyway because giving should feel light and cheerful, not heavy and stomach-churning burdensome.

Star Gazing

     Because I grew up in the Big Island, I've taken its volcanoes, beaches, waterfalls, scenery, and other attractions for granted, even considering them second-rate at times, but have always regarded its best-in-the-world status for astronomy atop Mauna Kea's summit with some measure of unwarranted pride. Dozens of observatories, white and conspicuous, have popped up through the years like deformed mushrooms on its otherwise dark, bleak, and barren slopes.
     While planning a recent house-sitting trip to Hilo (coincident with my parents' planned trip to Oahu to babysit my nephew), I discovered via Tripadvisor.com that Mauna Kea's Visitor Center is a highly regarded activity, with free nightly star-gazing through telescopes set up outside. Further research revealed that at its 9300 foot elevation, it offers superior in-person viewing than at the 13,800 foot summit due to human physiology that reduces visual acuity at higher altitudes. (As a teen I'd visited the summit during a day field trip to see the telescopes and had suffered elevation sickness that brought on severe headache and drowsiness.  The trip's not recommended for youth and I had no interest in attempting the dangerous drive during our stay but the Visitor Center tantalized—I'd been there a number of times before, always during the day, and had enjoyed its cool brisk air, expansive vistas, and pellucid atmosphere.)
     Being a lover of star gazing, one of my fondest memories ever was sleeping upon a desolate Kohala beach coast with fellow scouters beneath brash, prickly stars on a night so dark I couldn't see my friend an arm's length away. As we talked, one-by-one the stars began falling. Dozens fell in all until we, exhilarated yet exhausted, drifted off to sleep, the salt mist and cool breeze flitting our cheeks.
     The last day of our Hilo stay, then, we ate an early dinner then headed up the slopes. Following a couple leisurely stops, we arrived at our destination at 6:20. The car's thermometer registered 53º—chill compared to Hilo's 73.º Though we'd dressed warm with layers of shirts, jeans, shoes, jacket, and caps, the stiff, steady breeze outside with wind chill near 45º penetrated and made us pine for long underwear, gloves, and scarves.
     A surprising crowd of seventy stretched between the Center and Puu Kaepeamoa, a nearby cinder cone nicknamed Sunset Hill, which we trudged toward, the sun still a couple hand spans above two cinder cones further west. By 6:40, we were part way up Sunset Hill and Deanne, uneasy about proceeding (it was getting ever colder as the breeze blew unrelenting; the trail was unpaved and getter steeper and narrower; we had only three feeble flashlights for a night time descent) said, “I'll wait here with the kids.” With the pause, my legs—fatigued from a late afternoon run—began shivering uncontrollably so I jostled about and said, “I'll have a look for some photos,” and headed up the slope to warm them. Wanting companionship, I invited Braden along and he accepted.
     Thirty yards from hill's peak, the trail got steep, narrow, and slippery, the wind stiffened with occasional gusts, and the nearby edge fell off sharply. Below us the crowd appeared tiny and safe while above us a few outdoorsy and college types marked spots, none at the peak. We watched the sun head for the left side hillock and to prolong its visibility we descended, mirroring its slip between the cleft formed by the two westward mounds—not the unobstructed view I'd have preferred, but plenty pretty enough.

     Of all our children, I've come down hardest on Braden, but in stressful and uncomfortable public situations, I find him a comfort to have around. So we shared a chilled fine time gazing out, snapping photos—both he and I—of the sun's progress and the soothing bands of pastels left behind, fore and aft. Though I'd have loved to have stayed longer to see what would come next we just couldn't bear the increasing cold and shivering, so down we went to meet the others who were just as eager for the warmth of the Visitor Center as we were.
     Even while dusk lingered at 7:30, telescopes were trained on Saturn and a globular cluster, so while most visitors (from around the globe) huddled inside, we took quick peeks: Saturn appeared luminous as an LED—an oblong nickel with an askew hat brim and about that size too compared to the scope's expansive Frisbee-sized view. Jaren said the globular cluster looked like, ”Just a bunch of stars”, to which I agreed.
     There were free hot water and cups set out, so we sipped the scalding liquid and stood near the Center's doorway and took turns ducking in for warmth as we awaited the availability of more scopes to view (five, in a cordoned off area in the parking lot, stood covered and unused.)
     Another two-foot diameter telescope opened post-dusk and we joined the already long line. Our overhead views: a man-made satellite (a fast-moving star-like object); the Milky Way Galaxy clear as hazy gauze stretched thin (I don't recall ever seeing it before as an adult, though I must have, it looked so familiar), Scorpio, spotted by Deanne (we had gone to Imiloa Astronomy Center a few days earlier and learned the constellations during a show at the planetarium); and then a smattering of falling stars.  Though the views made waiting bearable, the motionlessness again chilled my legs and set them shivering, so I hugged Penelope, who was also cold, close from behind, while she hugged Jaren from behind to keep him warm. I told Braden hug me, which he did from behind, then, when Deanne returned from a restroom break, she joined our human train. As a single mass with reduced surface area, our bodies warmed and I wondered how much of it was psychological versus physical? But who cared as long as it worked?
     Jaren viewed Mars first and said “It's just a star,”—it looked so twinkly bright with no red at all. A nebula was “Just a bunch of stars”, which I, too, found disappointing for lack of awe-inspiring cloudy black masses visible in photos.
     By 9:30, only a smattering of visitors remained so a staff-person (they were short-handed) opened up the five remaining telescopes for the public's unattended yet supervised use. Braden and I focused ours on whatever they were pointing at (more stars), then we all headed for home.
     Since we had all seen so many “firsts” that evening and had had fun getting chilled and quivering like Jello, it had been well worth it, the highlight of our Hilo trip that had also included fishing at Lilioukalani Park; visiting Panewa Zoo (where we pet a tame Hawaiian Hawk); petting my cousin's chickens; hiking Akaka and Rainbow Falls; watching Godzilla at Kress Theaters; planting a Koa Tree; sanding my parents oak floors to remove years-old battery acid stains; repairing a cabinet door; washing, polishing, and detailing their van and fixing its wipers blades; and other minor handyman chores—an exhausting, yet excellent stay with plenty of home cooking: steamed ehu with somen salad, ahi sashimi, and a big pot of mom's chili to name a few.

Conjugal Relations

     Some time ago, I learned from memory and trial and error the chords to the song The Joker on guitar. I asked my brother-in-law to help me recall the lyrics, in particular what Steve Miller was saying when he sang, “Some people call me Maurice, cause I speak 'bout the ____­__ of love,” He said I'll go look it up on the Internet. I said that's no fun, what do you think he said? He said I assume he's saying, “promises.” I said I think it sounds more like “pompousness” though I like “pompatus” better because it sounds like something nasty. (I later checked the dictionary and found no such word. The Internet—I got desperate—concluded that what he said was indecipherable but probably “pompatus” just 'cause it sounded so good).
     “Conjugal Relations” is like that. It conjures images of prisoners (always males) given reprieves in a spare room to enjoy conjugal relations with their wives. I betcha those were some pretty intense, memorable, and pleasurable moments. And I like how the word “enjoy” is naturally associated with “conjugal relations.” It's never, “...and they were given an hour of privacy to endure conjugal relations.” Not that conjugal (loosely defined as “related to marriage”) requires physical acts of intimacy, but the subtext is there. (What else would they do? Waste an hour discussing the kids, a leaky roof, or bills to pay?)
     By contrast, when pop culture portrays sexual relations between longtime spouses it's predictably boring, stodgy, and persnickety. A check list chore that just has to get done, akin to washing dishes or taking out the garbage, icky-poo and disgusting. Often enough a slovenly, beer-bellied, unshaven couch potato husband belittles his bags-under-the-eyes, bathrobe-, house slippers-, and hairnet-clad, obnoxious and loud cigarette-smoking wife before seducing her. Such noncredible portrayals mock today's long-time spouses as if their sharing erotic relations is laughable ludicrous, passe' and embarrassing, especially compared to pop culture's graphic and salacious portrayals of successful hunks humping hot, new, rich, desirable, current year nymphs, replacement lovers to last year's tired, old, outdated spouses. No wonder Siskel and Ebert once said, “We get asked, why do you always like French foreign films better than Hollywood blockbusters? We say, French cinema is about adults acting like adults. Hollywood blockbusters are about adults acting like kids.”
     Yet even French cinema and books in general rarely present graphic sexual relations between long-term marrieds in positive, appealing lights, as if to do so would assure a film's or book's demise. Sad, because this plethora of sexless marriages in art is such a distortion of reality as statistics show that sex within marriage is far more prevalent than sex without. And this suggests to me that sex within marriage is far more pleasurable than sex without, for obviously people will engage more and more in whatever it is they enjoy most, finding ways regardless of marital status, convenience, or cost. As an extreme example of how unappealing sex outside marriage can be, it's said that celebrity sex is usually lousy, quick, and all you get out of it is bragging rights and STDs. Further, sexually promiscuous singles tend to have far less gratifying relationships than monogamous marrieds—no surprise as commitment and trust are fundamental to happy relations. And purveyors of prostitutes enjoy sex least of all—stripped of affection and dignity, small wonder.
     No, sexual relations between long-term marrieds can be deep, meaningful, moving, intense, erotic, and fulfilling, the best there is if taken in context, meaning good and outstanding sexual relations depends upon good and healthy interpersonal relations (and not the other way around). Or as a pastor once put it, the sexual act is like an exclamation point at the end of a sentence and everything that is said and done throughout each day leading up to that point becomes part of it.
     While I was yet in college, my buddy Norm said something surprising. He and his roommate had been discussing illegal drugs (a hot topic back then) and I asked him to describe how various drugs affected him. He said, “Marijuana is like TV. Cocaine is like masturbation...” He and his roommate went on and on about various drugs including LSD and magic mushrooms and I don't remember why, but I posed a question that began, “If cocaine is like sex—.”
     “I didn't say that,” he interrupted.
     “Yes you did, you said...”
     “No. What I said was, 'Cocaine is like masturbation...”
     “I stand corrected,” I said, nodding.
     He went on, “Sex is the best drug there is, no drug even comes close to the high sex produces. The best a drug can do is mimic or approximate its effects. But its never the same and there are always dreadful side-effects that go along with drugs.”
     Which leads to the point that besides being pleasurable, safe sex is healthy (good cardio and resistance strengthening), legal, free, and devoid of dreadful side effects. And in a long-term happy relationship, its also nurturing, loving, giving, releasing, and reviving.
     Perhaps because Deanne and I married later in life and took things slow, we're still coming up with new stuff sixteen years into our marriage. And we still send each other to scary, new, wonderful places we never knew existed, praise God. And it's all good, blissful, guilt-free and blessed. Or as another pastor said, “God invented sex, not the devil. So the act itself is good and holy, not filthy and disgusting. It's people and Hollywood that have twisted and distorted sex into something it was never meant to be.”
     So, indulge and enjoy and always remember that as a wise person once said, “The greatest sex organ is between the ears, not the legs,” meaning what we think, feel, and say are just as important as the physical act itself and it's not what we've got or how we use it, but who we are and how we live that matters most.

The Simple Life

       Awhile ago, I came to the realization that we live such simple lives. I wake up every morning about the same time (early!—see may prior Sleep essay for details regarding), eat breakfast, leave for work, catch the bus, work at the same desk, eat a home lunch, catch the bus home, and go for a workout (a three-and-a-half mile run) every third day or do one of my various hobbies on non-workout days. We eat dinner together as a family then clean up. Then I bathe, brush my teeth, read to the kids, get ready for bed, then go to sleep.
     Weekends differ only in that Friday evenings the boys attend their respective scout meetings; Saturday mornings I pay the bills and check our car's fluid levels and tire pressures, and Deanne and whoever wants to goes grocery shopping followed by a trip to the library; and Sunday mornings we all attend church.
     I recounted this realization to Deanne with giddy bemusement, commenting how boring our lives must seem to outsiders, yet to us, we have more than ample excitement dealing with the kids, health issues, and finances.  The kids' discipline, chores, needs, and homework.  And planning future trips, outings, and other fun stuff.
     She said I don't mind; I'm content.
     I remarked that our lives are plenty fulfilling too and stressful enough and I can't imagine how others deal with the stress of their more complicated lives, the most complicated life of all (short of being a drug dealer or crime boss) being the guy that lives the double-life with a hidden lover or second wife, possibly with a second set of kids. How could such a guy sleep? Did he have no conscience? Or how could he keep juggling all those balls up in the air at once—lies, deceptions, excuses, and running back-and-forth between locations? I couldn't even begin to fathom it, I have such difficulty keeping track of things and keeping things going smoothly in our own simple, straight forward lives. Such a man, I concluded must not have things under control at all but must battle, fear, and avoid endless crises, one after another—a hectic, chaotic life bound to lead (someone like me, especially) to early death.
     A week following our discussion, we had dear friends from a prior church over for lunch and the dad (of a family of five) mentioned that he told his wife “We live such complicated lives.” His face had the half-distressed, half-resigned look of “If only...”
     Now Doug is a sometimes realtor, sometimes photographer, full-time landlord of residential rental properties and fixer-uppers, part-time property manager, and full-time husband, dad, and son to parents in Wisconsin where he (and one or two of his kids and sometimes his entire family) spends a few months each year not all at once because his rental and investment properties and photography business require periodic, spread out visits. His kids are very active in swimming, soccer, and social activities, and his wife is a full—time nurse administrator, so he does most of the chauffeuring (three hours plus on the road most days). They do live complicated lives in comparison to ours, but largely by choice. They've done well in real estate and own a large, nice house in a desirable location, and I'm happy for them for it, and though Doug appears to want to simplify things, they also appear to want to keep their success going, which is understandable.  But I don't envy them in the least for their demanding, hectic, and stressful pace and lives.
     By the way, our sole expensive asset is a 2004 General Motors sedan with 35,000 miles on it purchased used two-and-a-half years ago from Craigslist for five thousand dollars. In the past, I've experienced far too much stress dealing with our used cars' troubles. I've concluded more than once I'm not cut out for home ownership, much less property rentals, where seemingly minor issues (cracked foundation, leaky roof, mold, defective materials, termites, dry rot, etc,) can cost tens of thousands to repair and lawsuits from tenants could be costly, time consuming, and stressful. Just thinking of our friends' lives makes me tired. (Also btw, we rack up only three thousand annual miles on our car, preferring to consolidate trips and stay close to home which saves time, gas, stress, and the environment. And nothing beats home cooking for tasty, economical, and healthy eating, so we eat out only once every other week or so.)
     Though not for everyone, the simple life suits us just fine, enabling us to live in and for the moment, and with and attuned to each other. And no one on their death bed has ever said, “My one regret in life is that I spent too much time with family.”

Lemonade Stand

       It has been a dream of mine to have the kids operate a one-time lemonade stand to spark their entrepreneurial spirits—something I'd never done as a kid or anyone I knew for that matter. Braden's always been an excellent salesman of Makahiki tickets and popcorn for scouting and I figured Penelope and Jaren would also do well.
     Problem was, I knew (or heard) too much about Hawaii's strict laws: General Excise tax license and remittance requirements; the Department of Health requirement that food for public consumption be prepared in certified commercial kitchens; and permitting requirements for public property selling. And everyone's heard of kids getting in trouble for selling lemonade in violation of some ordinance or another. So this dream always lay dormant.
     Until I realized that there are no known restrictions in giving food away free. Churches did it all the time (we'd helped out on occasion) at parks, providing meals to all comers. And we could set out a donation jar for some worthwhile tax-exempt 501(c)3 cause.
     Our opportunity came during a lazy weekend morning.  I proposed Deanne bake cookies from an instant box mix (of quite good quality) we had lying around while the kids and I prepare signs, a donation jar, pitchers of milk and juice, cups, napkins, plates, and service trays. Deanne took it a step further by wrapping baked cookies in individual size decorative cellophane bags tied with ribbons—not bad for home baked and free. The “Donations Gladly Accepted” sign indicated one hundred percent of proceeds would go to the local elementary school PTA.
     We set up at the nearest park that afternoon, Deanne and I excited yet apprehensive about what might happen. The kids displayed their handmade signs at opposite ends of the park's entrance, advertising the give-away and pointing the way.
    Despite the park's attractiveness—towering trees, grassy lawns, a playful stream, basketball court, kids' playground, and scattered picnic tables—few cars rolled by, resulting in no takers the first half hour.
     Then, a cop car approached.  Slowly, it crawled in and parked at the far end of the lot. The officer exited and headed for the restroom.  I wasn't sweating too much figuring the worst he'd likely do is ask us to relocate to private property, but breathed easy when he emerged, headed for his car, and left.
     Our first sale came via a small family of park users. Jaren, bored holding his arrow sign, went to help at the table. (I was instructing the older two by the road, who were acting apathetic, how to point signs at oncoming cars not passing ones.) Deanne told him to offer the two year old girl a bag of cookies. His mother assented, came by and spoke with Deanne, and left almost three dollars in the donation jar. Not bad for a first “sale.”
     The next “sale” was pure profit—a driver in a white SUV waiting for the light to change spoke through his open window to Penelope and Braden. Braden answered his questions, checked for cars, approached, and received a direct contribution of a dollar sixty-five.
     Fifteen minutes later, a car driven with determination and and purpose followed the signs and bee-lined into a parking stall before our display table. Out came a squat, all-business lady and a young boy, both attired in scout uniform. She, too rushed to chat much, grabbed two bags and left three dollars. We thanked her as she smiled, trudged along, and waved goodbye.
     Our final sale went to another family of park users. Deanne said hi to the father who chatted it up with her. He took two bags and left five dollars. She later explained that the man was one of Jaren's former classmate's dad—no wonder so generous.
     Although not a huge success (the kids never really got into it much except for Jaren at first before he got bored), we were satisfied that we'd at least gotten something—especially considered the first half-hour.
     Deanne submitted the proceeds and unsold cookies the next day to the PTA that had its own fund raiser going at Penelope and Jaren's school. The chairwoman was so appreciative that we'd gone out and fund-raised on our own, she seemed even more pleased than we'd been.
     For a first time, it had gone well. And I'd do it again (but would probably select a higher traffic location). Perhaps if the kids had gotten to keep all the profits they might have felt differently about it, but I doubt it. For an entrepreneur has yet to emerge from among them.

Making the Grade

       This past year, Jaren, a late born, got far too many yellows for Deanne's and my comforts. First graders were awarded colors based on their behaviors exhibited at school each day. I don't even know all the colors, the scheme was so complicated, but green to olive green represented good, yellow represented warning—there had been some problems, and orange to red represented bad. In my book every day ought to be green or better. We made our expectations clear to Jaren. We instituted swift, sure consequences every time he earned yellow or worse. Nonetheless, Jaren continued to exhibit unacceptable behavior—talking out of turn, fooling around, not paying attention, not following instructions, having to be told twice to settle down, etc.—sometimes even on back-to-back days.
     When I was a child such misbehaviors were never a problem. Everyone always behaved—or else! And that “or else” was inconceivable—no one (never me at least) allowed it to get that far. And none of my teachers ever struck a child. Just a stern look or raised voice had always been enough. And notes were rarely sent home since behaviors were nearly always within acceptable range and those that weren't were easily rectified.
     Despite Jaren's youth relative to his peers, his academics have been slightly better that average. He's got a lively, social personality so that explains his restlessness in class—same as at home, time and again, always getting in trouble even when in time-out. And since we've been strict, we've concluded it's his innate excitability and underdeveloped impulse control in handling boredom, waiting, or impatience that causes his misbehavior—not really his fault, just age-appropriate immaturity manifesting itself.
     We ruled out medical causes such as attention deficit disorder and hyperactivity because the symptoms don't correspond. (He can sit still for long stretches; he has a good but not great attention span; his teachers say he's fine; and his pediatrician suggests its non-medical and not something to worry about for now). Nonetheless, we've been concerned and exasperated at times.
     Now the Hawaii state legislature has been fiddling with the kindergarten cut-off age for years. Before 2006, it was five by December 31; from 2006 it was five by August 1 but December 31 for junior kindergarten; then in 2014 it was five by August 1. The 2006 change was part of an ill-fated junior kindergarten program (canceled from 2014) that was supposed to provide free public preschool for late-borns, a great idea that I supported, but that didn't pan out.
            At least two-thirds of schools, claiming inadequate classrooms and staffing, simply stuck late-borns in with early borns and treated them the same as before: no separate late-born specific curriculum to prepare them for kindergarten; report cards were virtually identical for all students; and late-borns that did fine were advanced to first grade. Parents of late-borns soon discovered that nearly all junior kindergarteners were advanced to first grade as a matter of course. Thus, some began waiting an additional year, forgoing registering their four-year-olds for school and skipping junior kindergarten altogether, for why enter a child sooner than necessary?
     As stated in my prior Swearing essay, we didn't consider this option desirable for Jaren. We therefore entered him into junior kindergarten and hoped for the best, which turned out fine, and at year's end, he was promoted to first grade at age five with our blessings. But this past year in first grade, as mentioned above, he failed to behave consistently well. I concluded now's the time to retain him by having him repeat first grade. My good brilliant friend Darren in high school is a late-born and by our senior year, his biological immaturity showed—especially when it came to girls. My dad skipped a grade in elementary school (which, given the new August 1 cutoff date, is in essence what Jaren will have done if promoted to second grade relative to his class and schoolmates), struggled throughout high school and early college as a result, always felt uncomfortable about it and disadvantaged in the long run, and believed it had been done more so for administrative convenience—the small outer-island school with multiple grades per class having been so small—than to benefit him.  
     So I wrote a note stating our preference to Jaren's teacher who scheduled a conference for the two of us, Deanne, and the principal. I stated our case at the meeting emphasizing our desire to do what was optimal for Jaren long-term, but neither would budge: Jaren would move on for DOE policy limited retention to only students that exhibited the most extraordinary academic and/or behavioral deficits, which didn't apply to Jaren's occasional misbehaviors.
     Here's where DOE policy differs from Hawaii's top private schools and partly accounts for rating differences between them. Private schools (and their students and parents often enough) take seeming pride in student retention, meaning less than stellar students are readily held back to repeat grades, for promoting such students would simply draw down the school's performance ratings that are virtually always grade level based and not age based. (Not to mention private schools cherry pick their student bodies, forgoing special needs, English as a second language, and other lower-performing students.) A high schooler that attended the top rated school in the state said one of his classmates had repeated his current grade level three times and still wasn't smart.
     I told Deanne I think we could easily find some principal in the DOE or a private school that would enter Jaren as a first grader but that that would be even less optimal than keeping him at his current excellent school, so we will just have to live with it and do what we can on our side. And that I sense he'll turn out fine in the long-term (as both my high school friend and my father have)—I just don't think it's optimal. And that when I asked Dad (a former elementary school principal) about it, he affirmed he'll do fine either way. Though not what we had wanted, at least we tried.

The Facts of Life—Part II

        Penelope's first happened last year during our family trip to Molokai.  As she showered after our long day at multiple beaches, Deanne went in to collect the dirty laundry and noticed pinkish stains on her swim underwear.  It didn't take long to ascertain that her first menses had come.  It hadn't been a total surprise for Penelope because Deanne had taught her, at my insistence, the facts of life months earlier (see my prior The Facts of Life essay); we just didn't expect it to happen so soon, Penelope age ten at the time, though Deanne did have hers early too at age eleven.
     In shock, Deanne scolded her for not saying anything.  Penelope, in quiet submissiveness, said yes Mom.
     I later told Deanne to take it easy on her, she must have been scared—of course it would be for anyone the first time—and that we should encourage her.  It isn't a curse or the most horrible or uncomfortable thing, it's part of how God decided babies would be made.  
     When I was going through adolescence and my voice was changing, I explained, my mom, the most wonderful mother in the world, teased me about it, and let my older sister tease me about it, too, and I don't want Penelope to feel bad about it at all.  Other cultures celebrate the milestone with festivities and for western cultures to act as if it's shameful or dirty is absurd, for every healthy woman goes through it and for those that don't, something's the matter, which would be a real cause for concern.
     But Deanne expressed concern about the early onset being far from ideal.
     I said it's out of our hands, fretting about it won't help, and it's still within normal range.
     So when Penelope emerged from the bathroom with a tremulous look, I smiled, gave her a hug, and said congratulations.  She smiled back and said thank you.  Taking my lead, Deanne supported her and we distributed special treats for dinner that night in honor of Penelope having passed such a major milestone.
     At church that weekend, arm around Penelope's shoulder, I shared with our pastor when we had a quiet moment alone with her, “Congratulations are in order.  Penelope is now a woman.”
     “Oh,” she said, hesitant for a moment.  “How old is she?”—this directed toward Deanne.
     “Ten,” Deanne said.
     “She's pretty tall...”
     “I see her in a whole new light now,” I said.
     Minutes later, Pastor Mary came by and congratulated Penelope with a hug and a lei, which made her feel special.
     More recently I asked Penelope if she knew whether any of her classmates were having their menses too, and she said yes and named a couple of them—close friends of hers.  She hadn't asked them; they'd approached her separately and asked her.  I guess they somehow sensed it; I've noticed an increased serious-somber weight in her ever since, perhaps due to the heightened responsibility and/or bouts of natural discomfort.
     And just the other night when we were making a jigsaw puzzle of four wolves—two fearsome black and two handsome tan and white—Penelope asked are they all the same species? 
     “I don't know, perhaps they're different sexes?” I said.
     “If so, I bet the black ones are males.”
     “Maybe, but sometimes in the animal kingdom, the males are the pretty ones—like peacocks and chickens and other birds—and the females are the drab ugly ones.”
     We worked a bit longer in silence and then she said, “Whenever I see a male peacock, its feathers are always pointing straight back.”
     “A long time ago we saw one at Hilo Zoo, tale wide open, quivering, and making brrrbrrrbrrr noises,” I said, imitating.
     “I remember that,” said Braden.
     “I enjoy seeing animals do what they do.  Some animals' behaviors just seem
 so bizarre by human standards.”
     A short while later Penelope said that her friend said she saw a couple of snakes mating at a zoo.
     “Were they twisting all around as if they were fighting?” I asked.
     “No,” she said.  “One just went on top of the other.”
     “Did she see anything or did she just think they were mating?”
     “She said she just thought they were.”
     “Maybe they were, maybe they weren't.  Every animal has its own way of doing things.  If we lived on a farm you'd know all about these things...”
     After a few minutes I noticed Penelope not working on the puzzle, instead fidgeting with something in her fingers.  It took awhile to figure out what it was, then I said, “Is there something interesting about that plastic?”
     She giggled, said no, and soon walked away.
     I was glad that we could have quiet family conversations about the facts of life, something I believe every child should feel comfortable discussing with his or her parents.
   

Date Nights—Part II

     The Downtown Arts District, a couple blocks east of central Chinatown, has a good thing going evenings. Deanne and I have been a couple times—both times smashing successes with hand holding, listening to live music, walking, and ducking in and out of shops and cafes/bars.
     When I was in college, the Chinatown area had a bad nighttime reputation. A dorm mate told his girlfriend who was going there with a bunch of girls, “Now if some guy grabs you, I want to kick him in the n___!” She said nothing's going to happen but you could tell he was serious.
     We parked at Chinatown Gateway Plaza for three dollars after five p.m. then both times went for early dinners at Murphy's Bar and Grill. It has a family-friendly restaurant section with attentive waitresses and a bricks/brass/window planters atmosphere that seems years and miles away from the hectic financial district just a few blocks away. (The first time we went I had a wine glass of Narwhal beer on tap—the only drink either of us had on either night—and it was fantastic!) Then after eating and talking and relaxing and easing into our togetherness mode, we headed up Bethel Street toward Hawaii Theater.
     Now here's where the vibe got funky-fun: young, beautiful people out and about, smatterings of middle-agers walking by or waiting for a bus, and a few senior young-at-hearts ducking into a bar seemed to invite and enfold us into the scene. On our first night there in front of the theater young costumed college types, Caucasian and oriental geeky-chic, put on a sidewalk Celtic-sounding modern pop show featuring singing accompanied by guitar, violin, and cello. Further along and around a corner in a side alley, a few young, slim ladies dressed in Charleston era sexy half-lingeries (they may have been among the Cherry Blossom Cabaret) were filing into the adjacent store's make-shift show room theater with hung sheets for walls (they'd done their thing before in a hairstyling salon). At the Arts at Mark's Garage (it really is a grungy old garage I used to park in decades ago; its street level commercial space is now an art gallery/performing arts center), I was allowed to enter free and see the tail end of a one-man show: he sat on a barstool, recited his final lines, bowed, and was very well received by the small but enthusiastic audience (the place held perhaps twenty. The Rocky Horror Picture show was to be screened later with attendees encouraged to bring rice, squirt guns, plastic tarp, and other audience participation props.) We then ducked in and out of boutiques, vendors warm and inviting, and ended up at Hank's Cafe where a middle aged guy sang and played guitar. The barkeeper/owner was cool and let us hangout in the near empty place that seated perhaps fifteen and I sang along to Beatles & Paul McCartney classics, tipping the musician who played my requested In My Life (Beatles' version).
     The second night, after our light meal, we ducked into the dark old-world-looking Brasserie du Vin wine bar/restaurant and had a couple of dainty pastries selected from the refrigerated display case out front. Fantastic, light, and not too sweet—they were the perfect shared desserts for Deane's birthday. Continuing along we looped back around block's end and stopped into Fresh Cafe, which was soft-opening with a new concept with three separate spaces, all clean and well lit with open loft-style atmospheres: restaurant, outdoors lanai seating along a covered walk with high brick walls and industrial refrigerator steel doors to match, and a separate well-lit bar where we snacked on chips with salsa while listening to a twenty-something musician sing and play acoustic guitar upbeat and tight. Another patron and I had fun harmonizing along to songs I never before heard. (The gathering crowd in shorts, t-shirts, and sneakers made me feel like we were grandparents, though, but only in a self-reflective, humorous way.) And we finished the night at the Dragon Upstairs jazz bar where a quintet of oldsters (college professor types) stuffed into a tiny area riffed out fun, humorous numbers I again didn't recognize but appreciated just the same. The sax and trumpet traded conversational riffs like arguing spouses, cutting in on each other, reasoning, insisting, and pleading. Then, as if they both had had enough, they riffed off simultaneous which resulted in ticklish cacophonous dissonant notes and verses that had me laughing half-way through, so taken was I by their show of generosity and humility, neither upstaging the other. (I'd heard the sax player years before at Ward's Rafters in Kaimuki which was in an attic of a house turned jazz venue when he'd played with a pianist parent of a scout in Braden's den. At the time he'd played limpid and unexpressive. At the Dragon, he cooked. I concluded he'd underperformed at the Ward's Rafters as professional courtesy to Dan, the show's headliner that afternoon...)
     We'd been to the Arts District before for shows at Hawaii Theater and dinner and never felt threatened so times have, as advertised, changed for the better. Of course our evenings ended well before ten, so that may have had something to do with it. Most locals know of the area's chronic homeless presence (especially at the park beside Hawaii Theater) and problems with drugs, public inebriation, the mentally ill, and crime, so its not something we do often. But once in awhile, when its early, we feel its safe enough. And there is a police substation and Walmart nearby that makes the area feel a lot less shady than before. 

The Happiest Days

        The first time it happened was at a restaurant in Chinatown. We were seated at our table waiting to be served in the deserted eatery—a greasy spoon with aging floors, walls, ceiling, fixtures and furniture—our first time there. Unprompted, Jaren blurted, “This is the happiest day of my life!”
     “Why?” I asked, surprised. It had been a most ordinary day with no special occasion, events, or activities.
     “Because we get to eat at fancy restaurant!”
     “Well I'm glad you like it. I do, too.”
     While it's true that we seldom eat out (by American standards), on the fanciness scale the restaurant hardly rated five out of ten, even among restaurant at which Jaren's eaten. The rest of us looked at each other bemused, buoyed by his eager anticipation and that ultimate phrase that most people so closely guard.
     The happiest days of my life included those of my wedding, Braden's birth, and his baptism (see my related Patience—Part II essay). I've lived innumerable happy days, though, so to rank them all—the transcendent, the undeserved, God's blessing bestowed—would be to underappreciate far too many, especially those that I can't immediately recall. And how could I possibly compare my own baptism (at a beach in Waikiki among members of Calvary Chapel, a church I didn't attend because I wanted to do it for God and no one else and because I love the open ocean)—one of the best things I've ever done—to the last day of Deanne's second trip to Oahu to visit me following a half-year of long-distance courtship when she sang along (a bit off key as usual) with the perfect song on a tape that she had earlier sent me as if she were singing it to me and I knew then for sure that she would be a more wonderful wife (we were already engaged) than I could every have dared hope or imagine and I broke down and cried—she thought because I was sad, but I said no, I'm just happy and she giggled and hugged and kissed me. It was her first time with me crying and she was okay with it and that made me appreciate her even more.
     I suppose the second might have been happier (emotional) because God is perfect and people are not and when things turn out right with unpredictable people it comes as such a profound surprise, whereas God always waits patiently for us to return to Him to make things right for us, though I suppose the profound surprise in the first instance was that I had done something good and right for once and didn't feel awkward or goofy at the time or compelled to do it but rather only moved and grateful for the opportunity.
     The second time it happened was after Jaren's toy laptop, a Christmas present purchased a month-and-a-half earlier from Longs Drug for twenty dollars went silent—no sound effects, music, or words. Since it ran on AA batteries, I thought I might be able to diagnose the problem, so I opened its back and noticed a disconnected wire. After stripping off a half-inch of plastic sheathing at wire's end, I placed the exposed twisted metal strands where I thought the bundle belonged and stuttering blips and buzzes issued forth. Plastic tape didn't work and even holding it in place barely did—audio came and went—at which point I knew solder would be necessary.
     My landlord, a great guy—the best landlord I've ever had, loaned me his soldering iron so twenty minutes later the cheapy toy was fixed and Jaren, delighted, said those joyful words.
     The third time it happened came a few months later, just before bedtime. Jaren said, ”Tomorrow's the happiest day of my life!”
     “Why's that?” I asked.
     “Because tomorrow I get to meet Grace Lin!” (See my prior Making A—Part II essay for explanation, regarding.)
     What's remarkable is the smallness of the things that so delighted Jaren, things that were all social by nature (he wasn't happy so much because his toy was repaired, but that we had repaired it together: He helped get the screw driver, tape, and scissors; remove and replace the retaining screws; find, pick up, and store dropped parts; and press the appropriate keys to test the various functions). And such bighearted openness to the small reminded me that life's greatest happinesses often do come during the tiniest of moments during the most insignificant of days. They've come to me while reading, praying, daydreaming, and sitting quiet with a loved one. Blessing others. Camping, swimming, and walking along a beach. Viewing a sunset. Cooking, talking, and sharing. Petting a cat, wrestling my kids, sitting alone, and watching T.V. And like fickle guests they have arrived unbidden during cool quiet evenings and during simple meals at home or even at not-so-fancy restaurants. I think it's wonderful that Jaren is so easy to please. And I suppose that anyone who chooses to, can be too.

Haircuts—Part II

     Jaren must take after me. Not long ago, he gave himself a haircut (see my prior related Haircuts essay). When I say “haircut” I mean it in the loosest sense, for he didn't cut it for style (at least none that I can decipher) or because it was in need of a cut (it was perhaps three-eighths of an inch long throughout at the time), but because he was apparently bored or curious or just wanted to see what would happen.
     Here's what happened: He took a child's safety scissors into his bedroom. He sat on his bed. With his dominant left hand, he placed the scissors blades as flat and close to his scalp as possible. Without benefit of a mirror, he snipped away at random tufts where his left hand could reach and feel comfortable. And he continued to snip until he felt he had snipped enough. (Why does the sun rise? Who knows?)
     When Deanne came in, he had already hidden the evidence (the scissors, not the mangy bald spots). She asked him what happened?  He said nothing. Through stifled smirks and snorts she asked what happened to your hair? He said nothing? She said why are there bald spots all over? That was when—the only time it ever really happens—he got real quiet. “I pulled them out,” he said.
     Deanne gave him time out for the rest of the week not so much for cutting his hair, but for lying. I came home to Deanne's smirks; she didn't tell me what had happened, not wanting to spoil my surprise, I guess, but instead said, “Jaren's in time out; go see him yourself.” So I went in, cheeks tightening and lips pulling back involuntarily, but I forced them forward to convey seriousness. Why'd you do it? I asked. No reason he said.
     This has become such a common refrain in our household, which he learned from Braden, I'm sick of it. It's their equivalent of pleading guilty as charged and throwing themselves on our mercy—usually a good move with Deanne, but seldom with me. But to them it beats telling a dumb truth such as, “Because I was bored,” or “I had nothing better to do,” or “I thought it would be fun”—to which they know they'll receive mocks and ridicules, which can be sort of fun for us. But by pleading “no reason,” I'm forced to discipline which I hate (See my prior Discipline (Vengeance) essay regarding.)
     Most noticeable was a bald white strip from an inch above his forehead to the north pole peak of his noggin, two and a quarter inches long by a half—inch wide. It looked sort-of like someone had taken a strip of tape, pressed it flat to his hair, then ripped away—all the attached hair plucked out by the roots. Or perhaps more accurately, as if someone had shaved the area neat for some medical (or demented) purpose.
     Another denuded area ran from his left side burn to over two inches above his ear, four and quarter inches long by a quarter inch wide. In truth, this second strip alone would have looked a bit punk (as in rock—the musical genre, not the mineral), but combined with the dopey center stripe the overall effect was merely comical IMHO (as in “In My Honest Opinion” not “Individual Motives Harmonize Occasionally”—a revision capitalist theory that suggests Adam Smith's 'invisible hand' sometimes works for the overall good, but mostly only for the super wealthy.)
     Besides the two aforementioned blotches of exposed lard-white scalp there were a couple of garden-variety “rat-bite” patches, the size of a dime and a penny, that weren't as short or noticeable.
     What to do?  Buzz the entire scalp and make him look like a Michael Jordan wannabe? “Punk” the rest of his hair to match?  Let it be? Jaren loves haircuts (duh!) so rewarding his misbehavior with another haircut would just encourage more misbehavior (duh!) The imbecile center strip was so dumb-looking, I feared any additional punking would just worsen things.  Since Jaren should suffer for his wrongdoing (playing with scissors and lying), not us, I decided we'd let it be (and wait to buzz the rest of his hair to match after his bald patches had grown out some).
     The odd thing was, in the coming weeks not a single person in Summer Fun or church commented to him or us about his new look—such a disappointment because I had been (secretly) anticipating such feedback. In desperation, I finally shared my bemusement with church friends who were so polite—I guess because they didn't want Jaren to feel self-conscious—that they didn't share much in my revelry.
     When Deanne was about Jaren's age, she'd gotten so sick of everyone commenting about her long, beautiful eyelashes (that curl up naturally) that she got a pair of scissors and snipped them off (so Jaren must take after her, too). Dirty lickin's and scoldings—she could have poked her eyeballs out—followed, stiff consequences for her ill-advised actions. 
     At some point in my hilarities I wondered should I be concerned? Did Jaren's haircutting rise to the level of self mutilation? But then, it couldn't have hurt, I reasoned. In fact, it must've been pleasurable for him to have cut so much. I supposed then that it was akin to marking one's skin with a pen, paint, or markers—something everyone's done at one time or another, all temporary, no harm done.
     The sad thing is I know that I'll miss such nonsense later when they've all grown older and wiser.

Making A—Part II

        Grace Lin has always been one of my family's favorite authors, so when I noticed a flyer at the Hawaii State Library that she was coming to town for a children's literature conference with free activities for kids, I decided we'd attend. 
     The highlight for me, I knew, would be the book signing, when we'd get to meet her in person. We had an old copy of her Year of the Dog purchased used for twenty-five cents at a library sale years before. But since authors' books would be available for purchase, to not look totally cheap I decided we'd give her something to remember us by, especially since I also intended to ask her for whatever assistance she might be willing to provide with my writing career. So I fashioned a script in which we'd all play parts, state our names and something about ourselves, and most important, shower her with tons of aloha.
     As we did our read through before our dining room table opposite a chair where we imagined she sat, the outstanding performers that recited lines with gusto and intent were Jaren and myself. The others dribbled their lines like leaky faucets, mumbling with this-is-so-lame expressions. Cajoling these underachievers didn't work: Braden and Penelope saw Deanne's indifference and copied.
     I seldom employ guilt as a motivator but since asking nice didn't help, I ended up saying, “You act as if you think, This is Dad's dumb thing, why should I have to do it,” and as Deanne started walking away, “This is for you, too!” then back to the others: “Did I act that way when we went to the Fiftieth State Fair and waited hours in the hot sun for you guys to finish your rides?”—hand on Jaren's head: ”Not you buddy, you did super!”— then again to the others: “No I made the most of it and we all had great times. Now I'm asking this one small thing—five minutes—and you give me attitude?”
     Deanne slinked away and I followed her down the hall and asked if we could talk in our bedroom. Neither of us were angry but she still showed disengagement so I made sure I could still visualize how nice it would be—challenging, yet fun—and since I could I said, “Now think of Grace Lin. Here she is. She's been doing dozens of these things and seen hundreds of people just go up and get their books signed, thank you, and that's it. That won't do anything for her or us. If we come up with something new, great. But if we do it like we just did, she'll think, 'Wife's not into it, no way I'm helping the guy and getting between them.' On the other hand if she sees us together—one big happy family—she'll more likely think, 'Sure why not? They seem happy. I'll do it for them.'"
     Noting Deanne's continued noncommittal mien, I segued into a long narrative about why I write and possible future courses it could take—good and bod—and how it could affect our family, emphasizing the need for cohesiveness to make it happen. Because she then seemed more receptive, I concluded with, “As wife you're supposed to take the lead on this”—clapping, I demonstrated—“'Come on, let's go,'” I said perky, “'Let's do this, this is gonna be fun'—instead of acting all dopey and giving them an out to act dopey too.”
     She then, apparently recalling what a wonderful husband I'd been, capitulated and said she'd do better next time, which, because it was getting late, we agreed to save for another day.
     That evening, I asked Braden in private, ”Did you ever read a book that you thought wasn't as good as one of my stories?” Yeah, he said with a smile. “Then that means I deserve to be published, right?” He nodded. “Then you've got to show it when we do this. Sell it. Mean it. Show her that you believe in me. If you—my own son—don't, why should she?” Repentant, he agreed to re-recite his lines, which he did for me measured and sincere in no time.
     The next evening, I did the same with Penelope who agreed to do better. She wept a bit when she had to repeat her lines a few times but soon enough, they too came together convincing and real.
     It was a simple matter after that for us all to gather together the next afternoon and rehearse—three times is all it took.
     The day of the festival, we sat waiting for the book signing line to shorten. To make time go faster, I huddled us together excited, said, “Okay, let's practice one more time,” and passed Braden and Jaren the gifts that they'd present to Grace Lin. Penelope had the book and would tell her if asked to address her comment to “PBJ” (short for Penelope, Braden and Jaren). Whispered words and hidden gestured came together smooth, sincere, and most important happy—we were the strong family unit I had envisioned. It wasn't artifice, it just took hard work to get there since with the exception of Jaren—the natural performer–we all tend toward stage bashfulness. (Earlier that afternoon an abbreviated play at the festival by capable U.H. students served as object lessons in both commitment and dedication. “See how good they are? They're selling it, right?” I asked the kids, to which they smiled and nodded. “Now you know why they were practicing when we first arrived. It's not easy, even for them.”)
     As we stood waiting in line in assigned positions (kids in front, parents in back), Deanne held my hand and asked if I was nervous. I admitted I was so she put an arm around me and leaned in close, giggling along with me and flashing her winning smile. I did side and leg stretches to loosen up just before our turn.
     Then, last in line by design, we went forward and Penelope presented the book. As Grace Lin drew a picture of a dog (like on the cover) I said “Wow, original drawing!” and on cue when Penelope received the book back I leaned forward and said, “Do you have a couple of moments? We have something we'd like to present you?” to which she smiled, blinked, and nodded. Pulled up tall, I said with a gesture to match, “My name is Tim. I'm fourth generation Hawaii resident: Yonsei.”
     Next, Deanne introduced herself and said, “I'm from South East Asia. I crocheted this lei for you.”
     Braden draped the lei around her neck then introduced himself and said, “I will be entering high school this fall. When I was young, my favorite book was The Ugly Vegetables. We love to eat Jai.”
     Next Penelope introduced herself and said, “I did a book report on Year of the Rat. I said I liked the part when your mom ate cat food.”
     Engaged, yet as if from a far away place Grace Lin said, “My mom...”
     Then Jaren introduced himself and said, “Please read my dad's blog for me if not for him.”
     “Sure,” she said quiet as Jaren brought forth a hidden hongbao (lucky red envelope) with two hands held close.
     We then acted out and said the following in unison: hands cupped together, bobbed up and down: “Xie xie;” hands at sides and bowing forward: “Domo arigato!” right hand in front with fingers flashing a shaka: “Mahalo!” and drawn out backhand throwing-kiss motion with sweeping shoulder turn: “And Alooooha!”
     True to her word Grace Lin read this blog several days later and even posted to her blog @ gracelinblog.com on June twenty-fourth a photo of the hongbao, folded letter, and token monetary gift we gave her; gracious thoughts about my family and gifts (the money of which she said she'd donate to charity); and a direct hyperlink to this blog at which readers could access my “hilarious essays.”
     In hindsight, our making A (doing something embarrassing in public) had been well worth it and fun besides. I can't remember the last time our family got so excited doing something together. And we had done well (except that I got far too nervous, my left leg shaking by the time we'd finished).
     Thank you Grace Lin if you're reading this—you went far beyond the call. I pray that God will bless you and your family not so much for what you did for us (Were we excited? Yes!) but for being humble and gracious to all.  As stated in my posted comment to your blog, please consider making Hawaii your second home—you, your family, and friends won't regret it! Come to think of it, your heart's already filled with aloha spirit, so upon moving, you'll fit right in.