Rock Fever

     Rock Fever. It's an ailment that targets transplanted mainlanders stifled by Hawaii's tiny size and remote isolation, restless souls that crave endless miles of roadway to take them to new, different, or long forgotten sights, vistas, towns, people, climates, or places, there for the taking any time they choose if they just drive far enough in the right direction.
     Hawaii is beautiful and each island has its unique charms—people, beaches, valleys, mountain ridges, and historical and cultural offerings—but after awhile, because it is sooo tiny—especially on over-crowded Oahu—it can get rather familiar, if not tiresome as the novelty wears off and the same gorgeous beach sunsets; clear, cloudless, starry skies; rainbows; and waterfalls fade into an unnoticed background of unchanging sameness.
     It's ennui born of restlessness—the desire to escape, yet feeling trapped, stranded, and forced to stay due to prohibitive travel costs, limited vacation time, and gross inconvenience—you can't just hop in a car and go. 
     I never caught rock fever except once while in college at U.H., spurring me to flee Hawaii's confines to pursue an M.B.A. in Seattle, then to stay and work there at a Big Eight accounting firm for an additional two years. The first year away from home was exhilarating, the next was good, the next was okay, the last was blah. I could see the downward trend and started to miss home so I moved back to Honolulu, but that first year back was rough 'cause none of my high school friends were around, and my college dorm friends at U.H. had all drifted apart, and the CPA firm I worked for was an awful fit.  I was cured of my restlessness, but felt lost and alone in a strange, new place where I no longer fit—for I had changed while I'd been away and even the way I talked now, not so much pidgin anymore, wasn't quite local. 
    But after I started working for the state the coming year, things improved dramatically.  My father, paternal grandfather, and numerous aunties and uncles worked for the state—always considered desirable for its job security and great benefits—so with my natural laid-back, risk averse personality, it felt comfortable and natural.  Then, within the coming years when I started attending church and believing in God and accepting Jesus as my Lord and Savior, things really improved—surrendering to a higher authority can do wonders for a person's psyche, outlook, and temperament—and they have been improving overall ever since. 
    Twenty-five unbroken years living on this island without having missed the wide open spaces and unlimited adventures the mainland has to offer has been a long run, even for a local at heart like me.  But recently, it's been creeping in on me: symptoms of rock fever. Our family had averaged one “big trip” away from the islands every four years or so, however, with the recent exorbitant airfares, it'd been pushed back to six years and counting, which may partly explain my susceptibility. So with the recent dip in airfares, I jumped at the opportunity to spend part of this holiday season on the mainland with my friend Norm whose parents recently died a few years apart and who is still struggling following his recent divorce. (He was ready to call it quits nineteen years ago but I helped convinced him not to. In the end Kathy called it off but stuck through at Norm's request 'till their two kids left for college.) It'll be new for me to see his family without her. I hope we'll add joy to their season and not be too big a burden.
     While there, we'll try to play in the snow, let Deanne see some houseboats she read about in some books, and watch Norm, recently promoted to black belt, teach some kids karate—all things we can't do in Hawaii. 
     Part of the incentive, to be transparent, is to get away from my family during the holidays as we've all been getting into a sort of obligatory rut. My sister for the first time complained last year about the stress of hosting, and with my brother's and brother-in-law's sister's recent divorces, and my sister's mother-in-law's recent death, Christmas cheer has felt a bit more forced than in years past. (My brother-in-law got laid off last year around his birthday and though he found one job, then another at higher pay in quick succession, he still hasn't fully recovered, it seems.)
     I'm not one to run from problems or avoid people I don't feel comfortable around.  In this case I believe it's more the other way around: I feel perfectly fine with them; at times it seems they prefer seeing less rather than more of us 'cause we receive less invitations than we used to and when we're around, people tend to disappear—to run errands, do chores, walk the dog, or hangout outside. 
     Not that I'm complaining, we all love each other and enjoy each other's company. Everyone's “good”; no one's “evil.” It's just that more and more our extended family's capacity for one-big-happy-family cheer has diminished and my aging parents (in their early eighties) and brother-in-law's father can accommodate only so much family togetherness (especially with the kids around). By spending part of our holidays away, then, I hope that our times together will be that much more precious and appreciated by all. Besides if we ever move away to the mainland East Coast after I retire (which I've been dreaming of of late), this'll give us all a tiny feel of what that might be like during the holidays.

Oatmeal (Horse Feed)

     Deanne and I both love to cook, yet I—a bachelor-style single pot or pan slap-it-together cook—give her, the chef, the honors except for weekend mornings when she sleeps in. Her meals, albeit delectable, aren't always the healthiest (often involving lots of meat, oil, and/or calories) so I try to compensate by making something extra nutritious and lean with no added sugar. 
     Oatmeal's bad rep (What other food is called porridge, mush, grits, wallpaper paste, sawdust, and horse feed?) is perhaps attributable to its outdoorsy/earthy aroma, neutral/mild/bland flavor, and somewhat crunchy/sticky/spongy texture. Nonetheless, I love the stuff for both its great taste and well known health benefits, making it my once a week go-to breakfast of choice. Since it takes a bit of effort to cook in a pot which makes it taste so much better, I make a big batch to ensure leftovers to supplement my weekday breakfasts. For increased palatability and nutritional value, I always mix into my bowl sliced banana, apple, and one citrus fruit such as orange or cantaloupe, one dried prune, and enough skim milk to loosen and smooth the texture (which aids digestion for my aging system).
     I discovered the perfect way to cook it by accident. After bringing the water to a brisk boil then adding the oats—which was always a challenge to avoid a messy boil over—I once got called away by the necessities of nature and/or a phone call, I can't recall which, so I pulled the pot off the heating element, turned off the stove, and allowed the mixture to sit uncovered. When I returned over twenty minutes later, the oats had softened, thickened, and expanded nicely, almost fully cooked with no boil-over mess to clean. Back on the burner, heat raised to a simmer, stirred every so often as the liquid reduced, it came out perfect without me having to stand and stir the whole time.
     Stirring, though done only on an as-needed basis, is unavoidable and somewhat burdensome—unavoidable because unstirred scorched oatmeal at the bottom will ruin a batch and be hard to scrub clean, and burdensome because cooking can take awhile (up to a half hour with old fashioned oats, a bit less for quick oats) and slips of the spoon while stirring may slosh oaty water out over the side onto the heating element, causing a stink, sticky, smoky mess that can be cleaned only after the coil has cooled down. 
     Years ago, at Queen's hospital's cafeteria (Deanne was in to deliver Penelope) I discovered a better way: A kitchen attendant spent many minutes at two steaming near-capacity gallon size warmers stirring oatmeal as I watched while gathering my breakfast selections from the self-service area nearby. She used a long wooden spoon and scraped its tip against the pots' bottoms from the outside in, in essence tracing straight lines from each pot's interior circumference to its center, one line at a time, all the way around like spokes on a wheel, before doing random back and forth and circular motions to ensure she scraped all the crusty film off the bottom. 
     It made sense because what caused my messy spill-overs was my spoon slapping against the pot's side wall, spattering the mixture up, over, and about. By going outward-in first, using the pot's rim as a pivot and spoon handle as a lever, I discovered the spoon never slipped or approached the pot's far side wall. 
     Ever since, I've always made oatmeal utilizing the two techniques: I boil water (approximately nine cups), remove the pot from the burner, switch off the stove, add the oatmeal (about five cups), stir, and then allow the oats to steep in the liquid uncovered for five or more minutes until they becomes thick and soft (sometimes bulging up above the water's surface, saturated and puffy). I then place the pot back on the burner, raise the temperature to achieve a brisk simmer, and scrape the pot's bottom from outside in before scrapping using back and forth and circular motions. Over the next fifteen minutes I gradually lower the heat to a slow simmer, scraping and stirring as needed until everything's the desired consistency (thick, somewhat sticky, and mushy for me). It's worked perfectly every time: zero scorched bottoms and zero splash-overs, plus I stir far less and even save some electricity. Served with fruits and skim milk, it makes a healthy, hearty breakfast that ties everyone in our family over until lunch without irritability caused by too much sugar or animal fats and proteins.  
     Whether breakfast is or is not the most important meal of the day oatmeal—warm traditional, and nutritious—has helped set the tone for many a happy day for us. Though not as sexy or fun as eggs, spam, rice, Portuguese sausage, pancakes, crumpets, or croissants perhaps, my motto (not said in years) has always been, “Eat to live. Don't live to eat.” Not that I chose oatmeal primarily for its nutritional value, I chose it 'cause it works, putting us in good moods by helping us feel better afterwards—energetic, relaxed, and prepared to do whatever it is our day entails, planned or unplanned, for leisure or pleasure, or to accomplish something even if so humble as purchase grocery shop, book borrow from the library, attend church, or swim at the community pool.

Human Sexuality 101

     While washing lunch dishes the other day, I heard a nearby cat mewling with some persistence. This was odd because our next door neighbors own a dog, and our neighborhood cats never come 'round and meow so near our kitchen which is just yards from the road fronting our house. Through our jalousie windows I spied a thin-faced cat beyond the nearby chain link fence looking in at me.
     “Jaren go look at the cat,” I said. He went and opened the door and stood by, still and intent. “Do you see it?” I asked. 
     “Yes.”
     Some time passed while the cat remained sight. “Deanne, why don't you have a look.”
     She went forward and said that's the cat that was at school on Friday, it's owner lives two houses from the school. 
     “Why don't you pet it?”
     “I don't like cats.”
     I went forward and said, “What about you to Jaren?”
     He stood motionless, then gestured to stop me and said, “I don't want you to get hurt.”
     “Nonsense,” I said with a laugh. The cat, a juvenile, stood looking at me curious and put its head down to receive the pet of my finger that I passed through the fence to touch it. The bronzish, black striped tabby was friendly and walked about back and forth sideways to Jaren as he stuck his hand through, stroking it's back and sides. It then leaped up two-and-a-half feet to the top of a stone wall pillar beside the fence and started to climb face-down—a drop of five feet on our side (the fence was on a low rock wall). Near full extension, it pounced down, recovered, walked relaxed to receive Jaren's pets, and approached Deanne who stood beside the open door. 
     “Don't let him in,” I said as the cat peered in and headed for the gap. Deanne was too slow and I dove forward thinking a cat-and-mouse chase might ensue, but to my relief, it accepted my hand's redirection out as I swooped its side from a foot in our house to the front yard away from the entrance. He (I could see his unneutered testicles from behind) was crazy friendly and over the next hour let Jaren and Braden play with and carry him, and laid patiently in Braden's lap. He didn't scare as I walked by to do chores and even came to the laundry room and plopped down in a corner to watch me spot cleane Jaren's soiled aikido gi that he'd worn for Halloween. After the cat had napped under our car for awhile, I allowed Jaren to offer him water, then some cheese, and later some fish, he was so hungry and scrawny, though his coat was incongruously plush and well-groomed.
     Jaren asked, after I explained that the cat had wandered so far because he's male, How do you know he's male?
     How can you tell males from females? I asked.  He said the color of their fur and they're bigger muscles?  I said maybe. How can you tell in people?  He said boys are bigger and they have hair on their face.  I said sometimes but what about babies, there's only way to tell?  He said girls have more hair.  No, I said. How do you pee?  Standing up.  How do girls pee?  Sitting down.  Why don't they stand up too?  Because it's uncomfortable for them.  Why?  I don't know.  What does your shi-shi (pee) come out of?  My penis, he said with a silly smile.  What does theirs come out of?  Their okoles (anuses)?  Don't they teach this in school? I asked, shocked.  No.
     Only then did I realize how negligent we'd been in teaching him the rudiments of human sexuality. 
     Do Mommy and I look the same down there?
     No.
     Why?
     She doesn't have a penis.
     What does she have?
     I don't know.
     Didn't you ever look?
     No.
     Next time look. I then explained male and female parts in matter-of-fact detail, recalling how embarrassed I'd felt when my mom reviled when I said as a youth Jaren's age that babies came from the okole. Included in my lesson were the vulva—that looks like a slit and that has two holes, one for shi-shi to come out of and the other a vagina that babies come out of. The vagina is connected to the womb where babies are made—only girls have wombs and vaginas, that's why men can't have babies. The cat has testicles like all boys. Certain male pets though, are neutered by removing the testicles so they can't have babies. The reason they do that for cats is they give birth in litters—up to six at once, and that's too many for most people to take care of. 
     That evening I discussed with Deanne what happened and she said she has too much hair (down there, the usual amount) for him to see (what's beneath). I admitted I thought my mom didn't have anything except hair for the longest time until once under bright lights I could see.
     Deanne said Braden knew because he saw us changing Penelope's diaper as a baby. I asked her to find a drawing in a medical book or draw a simple sketch of seven lines (down there) so I could show him what a female looks like. 
     She found a photo of an infant girl in a maternity book so I showed that to him. It took a bit of questioning—the terms were new to him—but soon enough he caught the differences between boys and girls, and male cats and female cats, and could explain the similarities among girls and female cats, and boys and male cats. It was a lesson I'm sure he won't soon forget. (For some reason he was both bashful and scintillated at the same time, I guess for obvious reasons—sex fascinates!)

Halloween

     In the 1970's our neighborhood streets on Halloween evenings were packed full of kids toting brown grocery sacks (ala Charlie Brown) and flashlights, most wearing costumes they'd made at school such as grocery bag helmets with eyes, nose, and mouth holes, decorated with crayon scribbles, felt and egg carton cutouts, gauze, and black and orange yarn. 
     I remember the suspense of ringing a door bell at a well lit but quiet house, of waiting and wondering, and of hearing approaching footsteps and the door swoosh open to which we shouted, “Trick or Treat!” Smiling surprised, the greeter always oohed and aahed over our scary and pretty costumes before dropping a handful or two of treats into each of our ever-heavier sacks.  The crinkly thud of the treats as they struck bottom was sweeter than their sugary contents.  Singing, “Thank you,” we dashed to stand beneath the nearest light pole to count our Butterfingers, Big Hunks, malt balls, honey balls, Kisses, Chiclets, Sweet Tarts, Pixie Sticks, arare, li hing muis, Tamo Ames, and Fusen gums, to see who had most.
     A generation later, at my sister's suggestion that we trick or treat at Kahala Mall so her kid and ours could get even more goodies faster and we wouldn't have to inspect the candy, we shambled along, caught up in an endless current of strangers that traced the mall's interior perimeter passing countless generic store fronts and sales clerks who stood waiting to deposit a sweet or two into each plastic pumpkin pail or other store-bought seasonal bag that passed by. 
     I've never been in a soup line before, but seeing our kids and everyone else doing essentially that—asking for handouts—gave me a queasy feeling especially since none (except perhaps a few of the more enthusiastic candy-distributing clerks) seemed to be having much fun. Neither did it help to realize that the stores were doing it just for profit—to increase foot traffic and sales, which gave the brightly lit, noisy with piped-in music atmosphere a commercial feel—far from sweet, innocent fun for the kids. 
     Virtually everyone's costume, it took but a moment's notice to realize, was a mass produced plastic painted or molded rubber replica (we dressed our kids in ethnic clothes—gifts from overseas relatives, and had them carry plastic grocery bags for their goodies). Coming from a family that never bought a costume, I was surprised. (One year Braden went as a chess piece—complete with crown, sword, and chess board shield, the latter two mounted on foam core board that I helped cut. Besides that and the assistance I provided shaping and stapling the crown so it would stay together on his head, he designed and decorated everything—a bit lopsided perhaps but cute and creative for his age.) Another surprise was how old costumed participants were, who must have averaged age twenty—three. And some of the costumes were outrageous fancy: a life sized Homer Simpson and a masked wraith with cloak and scythe that had a skeletal face that bled profusely (I deduced that the mask had a clear plastic outer film and that a hand pump and tubing circulated “blood” from a reservoir beneath the chin to over the forehead so gushes of blood cascaded down at will.) Pirates, cowboys, princesses, ghouls, and far too many visages to remember passed in movie-like blitzes of sensory overload before my eyes and made my head ache.
     The all-out nature of the costumes—elaborated and hardcore—reminded me of a masquerade party I'd attended in the 1980's where a guy had constructed from chicken wire fencing, paper mache', and paint a replica of a cartoon character featured on a McDonald's TV commercial: a crescent moon headed and shades- and evening-attired dude. One look and it was apparent he'd spent dozens of hours designing, fitting, and perfecting the costume and makeup. 
     But it was only at Kahala Mall that evening that I realized that adults had stolen Halloween's bluster from the kids. (My parents had never gone so far or tried so hard to look so cool to so many on Halloween.) I guess it happened because adults on that one day alone get to play make-pretend to relieve the pressures, stresses, and boredom of everyday life. Even our church got into it, mostly by offering a safe, organized game night, come dressed in your favorite costume.
     We got into it as our kids got older. Penelope loved fairies for awhile, so I designed and made wings from plastic wrap and clothes hanger wire, which Penelope decorated to go along with her ballet tutu. Adults were to host a game and were encouraged to dress up so I found an old CRT computer monitor, hollowed it out, cut a hole underneath, slipped it over my head, and draped a key board and PC frontispiece around my neck (with lights added for effect). Print-outs within the CRT that surrounded my head suggested I was fakebook.com. 
     Another year Jaren wanted to go as Lighting McQueen, so I made a cardboard silhouette of the car, painted it, and hung it around his neck. 
     This year, I found an old microwave oven, gutted it, festooned in with sloppy brown grocery bag and plastic garbage bag streamers, slipped it over my head, wore clip-on shades decorated the same, and went to church as “The Microwave Zombie”, shuffle walking and groaning my way in. Deanne, who never experienced Halloween until we married, crocheted a cute Charlotte's Web design for her black shirt, plus a spider, and hung from a thread a plastic pig (Charlotte's meal perhaps?). She later baked severed-finger cookies (puke-worthy; I wouldn't touch them) for her school's teachers. 
     Ever since we moved to a more suburban setting four years ago, we've taken our younger kids door-to-door (to known neighbors) for trick or treat. It's been fun and relaxing, but the barren streets with nary another kid and so many dark, unwelcoming homes have given the evenings a sort-of forlorn look and feel. Because Honolulu Halloweens have gone commercial, adult-centric, and indoor it's probably safer for kids and funner for adults, but to me the magic of giggling mobs of excited youth wandering the streets largely unattended is missing. Not that I mind, I had my share of it growing up; it's today's kids that don't know what they are missing out on. Ah well, perhaps one day, in another life...

Comparisons

     America is a competitive society—just look at some of TV's top rated shows: American Idol, Dancing with the Stars, The Superbowl, The Wheel of Fortune, and The Olympics. The simple win/lose drama in made-for-TV competitions is a consistent safe bet for drawing viewers.
     Nothing's wrong with healthy competition but it doesn't take much or long for who-cares? fun to turn into serious I-want-it-bad winner-takes-all contests that aren't so fun anymore. (I used to play doubles in Honolulu Tennis League with a C-2 rating and some players took it far too serious).
     The thing about competition is someone has to win and someone has to lose and sometimes the winners are the biggest losers of all if it means losing their self-respects, friends, perspectives, or humanities (see my prior Competitive Sports essay for further discussions regarding), for poor winners abound.
     Comparing one's self or children to others, then, can have similar pitfalls (Who's better? Who's best?) especially when it comes to selecting what to compare to whom. All too often, I hear parents express feelings of “inadequacy” or “stress” when comparing their kids or lives to those of others. Is it any wonder when they choose to compare that in which they or theirs' aren't especially strong? Shouldn't they instead focus on those that have things far worse off, say the suffering billions that aren't even in on any competition due to want of daily sustenance? Wouldn't such scrutiny result in greater appreciation for what they have and perhaps even generate some sympathy or compassion, or motivate generosity? 
     So whenever I hear hints or even suggestions of comparisons with others—“They must be doing well...,” “Is he in honors English?” “Believe me, they can afford it,” “Wasn't she (elementary school) valedictorian?”—I cut it off. “No need to compare,” I say, or “Don't worry about her, she's not our child.” After all, children, adults, and families each possess their own strengths, weaknesses, and struggles and not one has everything all together. “Would you prefer her as your daughter? Or to trade their lives with ours?” are questions worth asking that I've never heard a “Yes” to, thank God. 
     Like our parents, we've focused on our kids' academics and who they are in raising them as none of them will make it as professional athletes, stars, or artists as far as we can tell. But if they're decent, law-abiding citizens that are capable learners and workers with positive attitudes, independent and strong, we feel they'll be well-equipped—with God's help—to thrive as adults.
     Perhaps as a society we should scrutinize this comparative/competitive-based decision-making compulsion that seems ever more prevalent in schools, businesses, financial markets, and even homes. If there's a single pizza slice left should jan ken po (a paper, scissors, rock hand game) decide who gets it? If there's enough money for only one kid to go to college should the most “deserving” one with the highest GPA automatically get it? Should limited housing always go to the highest bidder, need or merit be damned? And where does cooperation and helpfulness, essential for success in tomorrow's and today's world, fit in? All too often such altruism seems squeezed in as token gesture or for show rather than performed out of duty or for pleasure. 
     And let's not forget the effects of the shrinking world. I see it; my friend Norm in Seattle sees it. He complains of the burgeoning Hispanic population sweeping in and changing the close-knit complexion of his community and of Middle East and other ethnic immigrants refusing to conform to local standards of common courtesy and consideration. (Some Arab mothers of his fellow Karate students refuse to remove their footwear upon entering their dojo, disregarding the sign and customs that he knows they have read, observed in others, and understood. His Arab lady friend of a younger generation that always wears a headdress and conservative attire in public said they're just acting like jerks: there's no custom or religious tenet forbidding removal of footwear in such circumstances.) 
     Deanne and I, too, have noticed huge influxes of immigrants over the last decade from India, Europe, Asia (our new next door neighbors are from Japan), and the South Pacific, plus transplants galore from the U.S. Mainland, mostly Caucasian, but lots of African Americans too. Most blend in well. Hawaii is by far the most diverse state in the U.S., laid back and cosmopolitan, so that's the type of immigrant it attracts. It sure has changed a lot since I was a kid, though, when Japanese and Caucasians were predominant, followed by Chinese, Filipinos, and Hawaiians (not necessary in that order.)
     The good news, I told Norm, is that succeeding generations very quickly assimilate (though Penelope surprised me the other day when I asked her to describe her school hang-out. She said across from the concrete slab where she and her friends sit during recesses are benches where a group of students congregate speaking Chinese. I asked are they recent immigrants? She said I don't think so, they also speak English. Are they some of the smartest kids in class? Do they speak English with an accent? I asked. They're smart and no, she said. I found it surprising they'd choose to speak Chinese so publicly but guessed maybe they grew up together, with immigrant parents that were close friends).
     With this ever changing populace then (my new boss grew up in East Asia and speaks with a thick accent) when no one knows who will be working with or living near whom, comparing self or family to others becomes even more fruitless (as everyone has their priorities), resulting in unjustified pride or envy, or feelings of undistinguished mediocrity.  (Penelope's middle school's quarterly newsletter lists honor role students—a practice I find invasive and inappropriately competitive, perhaps shaming students and their parents that achieve lower GPAs or are off the lists altogether. It may also demoralized those that due to genetic learning difficulties (Braden), autism (a family friend), dyslexia, etc., struggle hard just to keep up.) It would be much better if everyone just did his or her best without worrying about others or standings, or better yet, be considerate and helpful. I'm all for courses that teach and instill cooperation and helpfulness and grade students for such. (Group projects help, but sometimes result in even more competition and selfishness, as anyone who has worked on such teams surely has witnessed.)
     I recall a most unseemly competition involving my high school's senior class race for top academic award. Our salutatorian cried during her commencement address for shame of “losing” the competition and being a poor loser (she didn't put it that way but everyone knew). It was sad that such a bright, attractive, and popular girl had felt so driven by perfection that she couldn't much enjoy her special moment and chose instead to focus inwardly on her “failures” and indirectly on her “enemy”—the one she lost to, a fine, decent fellow, meek and humble, who once confided in me that he never went to a movie with friends (I felt guilty for months afterward for not inviting him along, his confession obviously being a hint. I just knew he wouldn't fit in with us uncouth Philistines, though—a lame excuse, I know, thus the guilt. We talked at our twentieth year class reunion. He's doing fine as an actuary at one of the state's largest insurers, which is fitting as he's brilliant in math—his dad was a math teacher—and scored a perfect 800 on his SAT.)
     Continuing this ever escalating competing and comparing as a society is bound to lead to ever more disgruntled losers and all-too-few humble, appreciative, and generous "winners."  Or, we could choose not to participate but to instead care for and nurture one another—always a win-win, especially to the giver—learning what it means to live together peaceably and cooperatively. It's great when it happens following a natural disaster, but must it happen only then? 

Growth Spurts

     High School's been good for Braden so far. He's matured physically and grown more responsible.  Over the past two years he's sprouted three inches to over five-feet nine, a bit shorter than me. The orthopedist who examined his x—ray for mild sciatica (he's fine, with only fifteen degrees maximum curvature of the spine) says he has another year's growth spurt left in him that should take him past me. That pleased Deanne who's always been height-conscious about our kids. (In regards to Penelope who had early menses—she stands about five-feet four and continues to grow—she's been especially concerned. I told her, “Her height's fine. God decided it, so it's perfect. What do you want her to be a giant for?” (Deanne comes from a tall family and is just used to it, I guess). 
     When he entered high school this fall, catching the bus to and from school as usual, Braden acted a bit flaky, asking after three days if he could switch his shop elective to JROTC. I asked why? He said I don't know. I said electives are your choice. But later that evening I said give it at least a quarter, if you still want to switch, then you can. I don't want you switching now, then two weeks later hear you saying can I switch back or something like that. Plus shop is very useful—I still use stuff I learned from it back in middle school. 
     He said okay, but two day later asked if he could add JROTC as a before-school extra-credit class, giving him seven total credits for the quarter instead of the usual six. I said, “To catch your bus on time you'll have to leave around six o'clock—before me on some days if you catch the early bus, plus you'll have to make your own breakfast and wash you own dishes and get everything ready on your own. Plus you'll have to wake yourself up every morning and not expect someone to wake you 'cause you're too lazy to wake yourself. Can you manage to do that every morning? He said yes. I said okay, I'll sign it, but if your grades suffer, you'll have to drop it. (He knew that I meant he had to earn all B's or better 'cause when he was in middle school and joined Robotics Club and his grades sank below that mark, we made him quit). He said, I understand. 
     On his own he went and spoke to and got all the necessary approvals from counselors and teachers and didn't even need our help or signature. Best of all, from then on he self-started every morning and got out of the house sometimes even before Deanne got up. (He used to sometimes sleep through his beeping alarm clock until one of us roused him—a vile habit I detested. It reminded me of a college roommate that asked me to rouse him if he over-slept; I never did. I'd return from breakfast and his alarm would still be beeping...) .
     Soon, a scouting friend of his joined JROTC and offered Braden rides every morning (his family lives just up the street from us). Braden still caught the bus home, however, but got to sleep in an extra forty-five minutes the four days a week he had JROTC. But his morning routine stuck, waking independently and making his own breakfast—quite good for a fourteen year old. Mid-quarter, for the first time ever, his school's progress report showed all A's except for one B for JROTC. I didn't make a fuss about the A's even though I was astounded pleased because in the past it's resulted in subsequent poor performance.  I instead encouraged him to keep it up because it's just going to get tougher. By quarter's end his grades had slipped to B's for English (honors level albeit) and Social Studies but rose to an A for JROTC. 
     One area in which Braden hasn't shown equivalent maturation is in self-discipline. For years now I've noticed whenever he's out of time-out for long and doesn't have to do dishes and vacuum the floors every night as a result, he gets into more trouble. So a couple of months ago when he was about to emerge from an extended time-out, I assigned him permanent dinner time dish washing duty, plus his usual chores of emptying the rubbish and setting up the vacuum. It's been working well; he didn't even complain or sigh or hiss displeasure when I told him or explained why. (Deanne and I have given him chore breaks now and then, when he has scouting or is sick or has behaved extra well. And he usually does a diligent job with the dishes, sometimes even better than Deanne.)
      His speaking ability has also improved. As a youngster he was a fast talker, slurring and mumbling, mispronouncing words, and poorly arranging sentences or paragraphs, mainly because he spoke just to be heard—random spontaneous thoughts that often made no sense. Rather than speaking to be understood or having a worthwhile purpose, he seemed to be merely vocalizing social-sounding noises that were annoying to listen to and correct all the time. Whereas now he takes his time to gather his thoughts, speak sensibly, and enunciate well, which makes him a pleasure to listen to. 
     Praise God, people and kids in particular can improve.

Persistence

     There'd been times when I'd felt irked by the box and wished someone would do something about it. Then I remembered my dad once calling to complain of coconuts at the local municipal golf course being a hazard should one fall and maim or kill a golfer. By the following week muddy tire tracks lined the gold course fairways but the trees were stripped bare of coconuts.
     Following his example, earlier this year, I make a call to Honolulu's local land-line telephone company about one of those unsightly utility boxes beside the road. It's approx. 4' x 3' x 2 1/2'—the size of a mini-refrigerator—and has for years been either toppled over on its side or standing on rusted-out footings which are so eaten through they aren't bolted down to their concrete base—it's impossible to secure them they're so bad. The two access holes in the concrete base are empty, lacking wire leads. The cabinet itself is gutted—I recall its door once being open. There's a nearby park, and an elementary school just down the street, so some kid—groups are always passing by—is bound to climb on top and get hurt when it falls. 
     The phone company person says, I'll send the info. to repair technicians to take care of.  You may or may not hear back from them.
     Since the box isn't labeled, I then call Hawaiian Electric Company the same day and the representative says, We'll check it out but I doubt its ours. The next day the company calls and says it's Verizon's trunk box—a former land line company I know to be defunct, though they still provide wireless service.
     A month and a half later, the box is still there unchanged so I call the city's General Complaints hotline. We'll follow-up on it and get get back to you, I'm told. But they never do. 
     During the following two months, I see the box first graffitied, then spot-painted over, so, getting exasperated, I call the police. We'll have someone go out and take a look and notify the proper party about it, I'm told. 
     A month-and-a-half later, the box is now dented-in and newly defaced by fresh graffiti that depicts a face of a dead drunk person with X's for eyes.  I speak to the pastor of the tiny church that stands across an unpaved parking lot behind it.  Quiet but dignified, the man receives me warmly, even though I'm in the midst of a three-and-a-half mile run, and says he too wants it taken away and thinks it's been there twenty years. At my gentle suggestion that maybe they'll listen to him more than me, he says he'll call the telephone company.
     The following day, I call our local state government representative and leave a message on the answering machine requesting assistance. 
     The day after, I call Verizon. It's not ours; wireless doesn't use street-side trunk boxes, I'm told. 
     Ten days later I again call the local telephone company and this time leave a message with the trouble rep. requesting assistance while mentioning my earlier attempt with them to get rid of it. 
     Two-and-a-half months pass, during which time whenever I see the box during a run, I think of the useless inaction of everyone I've spoken to and sometimes imagine sledge hammering the box into rubble, hack sawing it into strips, or (most sensibly) asking permission to haul it away, but I always stop short as these are just idle dreams, and instead I pray and wait. Then, one day, the box is gone!—one of our neighborhood's last glaring blights. My run feels so light after that, I can already taste the once-in-every-three-weeks drink I'll consume with dinner.
     It takes a month, but finally during a run I see the church's pastor.  He's walking in the parking lot, turning the corner of the sanctuary out of sight, so I call his name and jog over, smile, and wave as I stand off to one side before his car, engine now running. He opens the door, steps out, and we exchange pleasantries. I express gratitude about the box's removal and he says he's happy too. 
     “Did you call anyone about it?” I ask. 
     “Yes, the telephone company,” he says.
     “Good. Thank you,” I say all smiles. “I call”—here I gesture—“and nothing happens. You call”—another gesture—“and they take it away.” We exchange further pleasantries before parting.
     Though I believe what I tell him, I nevertheless later tell my family what happened to teach them the power of acting, following up, and trying again and again to get what you really want. Though it may not have been me, my efforts certainly couldn't have hurt. And it feels good to think that at least I tried.

Longterm Health Care Insurance (Bleah!)

     Who can afford it? We sure can't. We much prefer save for retirement and the kids' collage educations which we can't afford either. Yet there is hope for us at least for the latter two: we scrimp and save and something will be there when the time and need comes. The trouble with long-term health care insurance on the other hand is it's a gamble: it'll only pay if something horrible happens. To get near one hundred percent coverage, we'd need to fork over whopping mortgage-sized premiums (we can't even afford a house, which for us would be a far wiser investment if we could afford one), and to settle for middling coverage at more affordable though still expensive, flush-it-down-the-drain rates would simply delay the inevitable: the dreaded spend-down of accumulated personal assets before Medicaid kicks in. 
     For those unfamiliar with Medicaid, the U.S. federal and state governments program will cover personal long-term health care expenses after a qualified (sick, sick, sick) person in essence becomes broke (excluding house and car and other personal effects, depending on state). Thus a wonderful, hardworking mom or dad—diligent saver and fine citizen—who suddenly through no fault of his or her own takes ill resulting in permanent disability and longterm health care needs, has to spent down accumulated life savings before Medicaid will pay a penny. Henceforth, one hundred percent of costs will be covered.
     This spend down provision is so dreaded by my mom, she once said if faced with a personal long-term health care crisis, she'd just...and she looked skyward, shrugged, and gestured with matter-of-fact face and upturned hands, meaning she'd take her own life because to her it wouldn't be a life worth living—a quality of life issue—and the thought of having to hand all her life's loving, intentional hard earned savings meant to benefit her family to outrageously expensive health care providers in a matter of a few short years repulsed her beyond words.
     So to prevent that my parents have been recently transferring while they are still healthy substantial assets to my siblings and me, because any gifts made within five years of applying for Medicaid will result in a “claw back” provision that delays benefits approximately equivalent to the gift amount. So my parents are gambling that they won't get seriously ill within five years of making these gifts (my mom's main concern) and also that if they need that money (say if one of them becomes seriously ill or dies), that we'll do the right thing and provide them the necessary finances (my dad's main concern). I assured Dad I'd do my share (though it still makes him uncomfortable as it goes against his strong independence ethic).
     Decades ago my work required me to examine the finances of an elderly widow with over a million dollars in assets. In a little over a decade, her savings had been depleted by longterm health care expenses before Medicaid kicked in.
     I raise this because this has been a large dysfunctional ongoing problem in America's long-term health care system and I deem it shameful that it hasn't yet been resolved or even seriously addressed. Should middle class Americans have to go broke before they're helped? If so, why?
     One abhorrent option desperate spouses sometimes exercise is divorce. It's totally legal and Medicare will kick in after about fifty percent of former jointly owned property is spent down (versus one hundred percent). Most of these are paper-only divorces with couples still doing things as they had before—no need to separate or cut ties, but at what cost? Is marriage just a legal document that no one else has to know about? Or is it a sacred lifelong commitment?
     Another option rarely mentioned that I think I might be willing to explore is moving to a low cost locale, probably abroad. Such locales abound. And they provide equivalent palliative or nursing care at a puny fraction of the cost.
     Some people, I believe are far too fixed on where they feel they have to live to be happy. Being open to more world-wide possibilities would bring far more happiness to far more people. It's not so bad and scary out there as most people imagine because the world is becoming increasingly homogenized. Just look at the photos. Just read travel web sites and books. Just go to a few places. And meet some people. It all strikes me as familiar yet excitingly different. Does it really matter what language the health care provider speaks if everyone is comfortable and growing? It might be a lifelong dream fulfilled for some—spending their final years together in beautiful exotic countries and not having to worry endlessly about money.

Weekday Dinner Conversations—Part II

     It's been working well asking each of our kids in turn, “What did you learn in school today?”—gets them thinking, remembering, sifting memories, and organizing thoughts (see my prior Weekday Dinner Conversations essay regarding.) I don't settle for general, vague answers such as, “I learned about history...”, either. Such answers net follow-up queries such as, “Can you be more specific? What's one new thing you learned?” And for each academic subject the routine's the same. It sometimes takes awhile, but it's informative, reinforcing, and engaging, requiring everyone to speechify.
     One recent night, Deanne decided to help Jaren, who, as youngest, struggles the most. “Didn't you learn about a princess, today?” He said no. (Deanne serves as a teacher's assistant at his school helping a higher grade special needs student. Sometimes the boy's studies corresponds in subject matter with Jaren's, just more advanced.) “Well I learned something. Would you like to hear it?”
     “Sure,” we said.
     “I learned that the song 'Aloha Oe' was written by Queen Liliuokalani. The idea for the song came from seeing lovers part ways.”
     Penelope said, “That's the song in Lilo and Stitch.”
     “Elvis Presley sang it, too.” said Deanne. 
     “Tia Carrera sang it in the movie, not Queen Liliuokalani,” I said. The kids laughed. “She did a good job. I thought the movie was well done.”
     “I also learned that Princess Pauahi—I can't remembered her maiden name—married Mr. Bishop when she was only nineteen.”
     With those few sentences, Deanne demonstrated more extensive knowledge of Hawaiian history than me. “Was the Summer Palace hers?” I asked.
     “No, that was Queen Emma's.” said Braden.
     “Oh, yeah, it was the Queen's, not the princess's.” As I went for seconds I announced, “Queen Emma married Mr. Summer and that's why they call it the Queen Emma Summer Palace.”
     The older kids laughed and Jaren joined in 'cause he knew I was joking. Deanne mock-scolded me, “Don't tell them wrong things,” then showed off, “I also learned King Kalakaua was elected King.”
     “I didn't know that,” I said, having returned to the table post-haste because I was hungry as a roach and those buggers are fast. “Did you know that Princess Pauahi's husband was a Bishop?” The kids shook their heads. “So they called him “Bishop Bishop.” They laughed again, having inherited my silliness gene that sets a quiver silliness cells of which their mouths, throats, eyes, noses, and stomachs have plenty. Made me feel good witnessing them laugh over non gross-out humor for once, toward which they're most partial, such as anything to do with

(DON'T READ THIS SECTION UNLESS YOU HAVE A STRONG CONSTITUTION)

squished slugs, exploding cockroaches (in a microwave), and tasty hanagalas (thick, oozy, slimy, boogers—the kind you get at the tail end of a long, drippy cold: snort 'em and swallow 'em, and their taste and texture remind me of raw oysters, sans the metallic aftertaste. Michelin four star restaurants could save bundles serving hanagalas on half shell—one would do—without the high risk of food poisoning. Add a bit of hot sauce and yum! Btw, hanabata, a solider form of hanagalas, has an interesting etymology. Hana = nose (in Japanese); bata = butter (in pidgin), thus, hanabata, or nose butter = boogers. No joke!)

(SAFE TO RESUME READING HERE, FOR THOSE WITH DELICATER CONSTITUTIONS)

     (My high school friend—brilliant guy—once said, “Puns are the lowest form of humor.” Ever since, I've resorted to using them only when desperate for a cheap laugh, which means all-too-often 'cause I'm a thrifty guy.)
     Deanne continued her erudite discourse and dinner soon ended (no connection). As I prepared to bathe, I realized she'd missed a key fact so I called the kids together and said, “When King Kalakaua was young and single he was very attractive and talented. A lot of ladies had their eyes on him. So when he married, a lot of them were disappointed, jealous, and just little bit peeved—especially after he became king. They talked among themselves, calling him That Married Man. The nickname stuck and people henceforth called him, “The Married Monarch.” 
     “It's Merry Monarch!” said Penelope. 
     I nodded and felt a bit sheepish for my unsophisticated humor. (My high school teacher said satire is the highest form of humor as it gets audiences laughing at their flaws. Well, sometimes I mock the kids in an outlandish, comical way that gets them laughing (except the person being made fun of—some people have no senses of humor!) My excuse is our dinners last a loooongish hour so anything that lightens the mood in orderly fashion and that facilitates pleasantness, fellowship, and digestion is worth it. One of the perks of membership in our exclusive immediate family club is I don't have to be funny (though it helps). On the flip side, I need to be present (in body and mind), setting a proper tone with good humor, which I consider privilege more than responsibility anyway (there's nowhere I'd rather be). And as long as everyone enjoys themselves while learning and growing, I count a night's conversation a success. And we all look forward to our next dinner—especially since Deanne's such a super cook!

 

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.