Our neighbors have two young children: a toddler boy named James Michael and his little sister. I don't know anyone's name, other than James Michael's, and I only know his because when his mom or dad mean business, they say, "James Michael, come here now."
I saw mom and her kids today at Target. James Michael happily clutched a new toy, and mom gave me a little smile. Her boy wasn't having a meltdown, which surprised me because he loses his mind at least three times a day. James Michael wakes up cranky and irritated with the world. He only calms down when breakfast appears. Nap time presents an even greater challenge because, as unhappy as he is to wake up in the morning, he's even madder at the prospect of going back to sleep in the afternoon. After 10 minutes or so of howling, he passes out.
I think James Michael has issues with transitions. I can relate.
The third daily meltdown occurs at the dinner table. This one is pure mischief. Mom and dad frequently entertain. More evenings than not, the candles and grill are both lit, and all of the military kids are expected -- kindly and with a great deal of patient assistance -- to sit down and eat using their table manners. James Michael does fine with this until he can't take it any longer and stabs someone with his corn cob holder.
Successful meltdown number three.
I know so much about this family because, like us, they leave all of their windows open and eat three meals a day outside.
As I think about this, I realize James Michael's parents must think my name is "cute woman" and that my husband's name is "Matt?" They know by now that we love football, classical music, and that we genuinely believe we are hilarious. Oh, and that we are obsessed with stars and birds.
I hope, dear God, that they aren't counting my meltdowns.
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
Community
Matt's staff members are Joanne, June, Jessica, John ... and Mark. (Clearly, Matt was assigned this project, so Mark would be less lonely. Although ... Mark goes by his last name, which starts with an F, but then again, so does Matt's.)
I think I've had too much caffeine.
Joan and her husband Rick threw a dinner party for Jessica, a brand new bride. They invited the bossman and his new bride, too, and what a lovely, lovely time we had. Joan set up a cozy square table right in the middle of her garden, and Mark brought tiki torches to keep the bugs away. In fact, everyone brought something: cakes, party favors, bottles of wine, and much good humor. A considerable pile of all of our sandals and flip-flips formed by the garage door.
To eat barefoot in a garden under the Hawaii sky ... this was a magical night.
Joan used white and turquoise linens and china, and she made her own centerpiece with daylillies and something purple.
See? Here it is. Check out the starfish on the napkins. Mine is now sitting on my Bible on our coffee table, and I smile every time I see it.
My favorite part of the evening was when each of Jesse's friends (yes, believe it, the groom's name starts with a J) stood and toasted the couple, and then each of Jessica's friends and co-workers followed suit. Matt said things so kind, I teared up with pleasure and pride. I don't remember his exact words, except that he ended with, "Blessings to you both," and instead of guffawing or mumbling "Cheers," everyone sighed. I peeked at Jessica. Her tears ran right down her cheeks.
Pat, also an army officer, was my table mate. His parents live in College Park, less than five miles from our house in Orlando, and Pat went to Edgewater High School. What a delight to talk Florida. We chuckled about tourists complaining about the rain and recalled the old Double E stadium and wondered what was happening hurricane-wise in the Gulf.
Once Matt had eaten his second slice of cake, I tugged his elbow to go. No one wants to party with the boss, I'd told him on the way over, plus we old folks were getting tired. Much to my surprise, we couldn't get out of the house. Rick and Pat and Megan and June and Mark and Aurora ... everyone knew about my cancer, and no one wanted us to go without kind assurances and genuine offers to help. Rick put his arm around my shoulders as he shook Matt's hand. "I hope we'll be very close friends," he said.
The next morning, we headed up to North Shore. We passed Buttons at the 76 Station, and both he and Matt stopped their cars, got out, and started talking in the middle of the intersection. A bit later, we hooked up with Steve at the beach, a friend of Buttons', and he and Matt talked shop about boards.
I say all of this because of the C-word. Not cancer. Community. We have friends here in Hawaii. They are beautiful people, full of the wonderful mess of quirks that marks each of us. They are our community, at least the part that resides in the South Pacific.
Here is my Bible with the starfish. I smile when I look at it because it's beautiful. And because it gives me joy to think of the people in this place.
I think I've had too much caffeine.
Joan and her husband Rick threw a dinner party for Jessica, a brand new bride. They invited the bossman and his new bride, too, and what a lovely, lovely time we had. Joan set up a cozy square table right in the middle of her garden, and Mark brought tiki torches to keep the bugs away. In fact, everyone brought something: cakes, party favors, bottles of wine, and much good humor. A considerable pile of all of our sandals and flip-flips formed by the garage door.
To eat barefoot in a garden under the Hawaii sky ... this was a magical night.
Joan used white and turquoise linens and china, and she made her own centerpiece with daylillies and something purple.
See? Here it is. Check out the starfish on the napkins. Mine is now sitting on my Bible on our coffee table, and I smile every time I see it.
My favorite part of the evening was when each of Jesse's friends (yes, believe it, the groom's name starts with a J) stood and toasted the couple, and then each of Jessica's friends and co-workers followed suit. Matt said things so kind, I teared up with pleasure and pride. I don't remember his exact words, except that he ended with, "Blessings to you both," and instead of guffawing or mumbling "Cheers," everyone sighed. I peeked at Jessica. Her tears ran right down her cheeks.
Pat, also an army officer, was my table mate. His parents live in College Park, less than five miles from our house in Orlando, and Pat went to Edgewater High School. What a delight to talk Florida. We chuckled about tourists complaining about the rain and recalled the old Double E stadium and wondered what was happening hurricane-wise in the Gulf.
Once Matt had eaten his second slice of cake, I tugged his elbow to go. No one wants to party with the boss, I'd told him on the way over, plus we old folks were getting tired. Much to my surprise, we couldn't get out of the house. Rick and Pat and Megan and June and Mark and Aurora ... everyone knew about my cancer, and no one wanted us to go without kind assurances and genuine offers to help. Rick put his arm around my shoulders as he shook Matt's hand. "I hope we'll be very close friends," he said.
The next morning, we headed up to North Shore. We passed Buttons at the 76 Station, and both he and Matt stopped their cars, got out, and started talking in the middle of the intersection. A bit later, we hooked up with Steve at the beach, a friend of Buttons', and he and Matt talked shop about boards.
I say all of this because of the C-word. Not cancer. Community. We have friends here in Hawaii. They are beautiful people, full of the wonderful mess of quirks that marks each of us. They are our community, at least the part that resides in the South Pacific.
Here is my Bible with the starfish. I smile when I look at it because it's beautiful. And because it gives me joy to think of the people in this place.
Thursday, August 23, 2012
Gabby Pahinui
Hawaiian music makes me think of Elvis, conga drums, or that whiny background music in the two-hour Brady Bunch Goes to Hawaii special that aired, oh, around 1970-something.
Not so.
I'm not even remotely schooled-up enough to start describing Hawaiian music, not even the instruments or style. But I so want to learn. I feel like I'm at an extravagant wedding feast, and I've sampled a lovely bit of sweet bread -- but I'm about to plunge into so much more. I hear it between local stories on the public radio station, but when the announcer slurs out a name, it sounds something like Jeff Hona'catcher'oo or Monica Oo'oo'lani. Not helpful for looking up names on Amazon.
A couple of Saturdays ago, Matt and I were all set to do chores around the house. We were lingering over breakfast on the back patio, me doodling around on my phone, him immersed in the Star Advertiser, Oahu's only newspaper. Suddenly, he said, "How soon can you be ready?" He'd found a local music event called the Gabby Pahinui Festival over in Waimanalo Beach.
I said something helpful like, "But we have honey-dos to do." And he looked at me like, "Are you kidding?
Two hours later, I was slung down in my little camp chair, my back to the eastern shore of the island, my face soaking up the mist as it rolled down off the Koolau Mountains. In true Hawaiian fashion, locals from all over the island were setting up awnings and taking mountains of food out of their coolers: huge containers of chunked fruit, macaroni salad, and fish in fried, grilled, baked, and raw varieties. Big, pink boxes of pastries were handed round.
Local vendors were in on the action, too, selling coffee, homemade soap, and flipflops.
And, oh, the music. It lulled us straight to paradise. There were six-string guitars, soft drums ... and other stuff. I honestly don't know how to describe it, other than to say I wanted to listen to it forever. The voices -- sometimes one, sometimes, two, sometimes many -- lifted and fell and chanted and clapped. The best were the dancers, though, telling some ancient story in the gentle curve of their hands.
After a couple of hours, Matt said, "Gosh, we should get going. We have chores to do." And I looked at him like, "Are you kidding?"
I stalled as long as possible, bribing him with banana ice cream (unsuccessful) and lunch at a fresh fish truck (very successful). We dragged our feet in the sand and bugged a life guard about jelly fish reports we'd been hearing.
And rolled down our windows when we reluctantly drove away.
Not so.
I'm not even remotely schooled-up enough to start describing Hawaiian music, not even the instruments or style. But I so want to learn. I feel like I'm at an extravagant wedding feast, and I've sampled a lovely bit of sweet bread -- but I'm about to plunge into so much more. I hear it between local stories on the public radio station, but when the announcer slurs out a name, it sounds something like Jeff Hona'catcher'oo or Monica Oo'oo'lani. Not helpful for looking up names on Amazon.
A couple of Saturdays ago, Matt and I were all set to do chores around the house. We were lingering over breakfast on the back patio, me doodling around on my phone, him immersed in the Star Advertiser, Oahu's only newspaper. Suddenly, he said, "How soon can you be ready?" He'd found a local music event called the Gabby Pahinui Festival over in Waimanalo Beach.
I said something helpful like, "But we have honey-dos to do." And he looked at me like, "Are you kidding?
Two hours later, I was slung down in my little camp chair, my back to the eastern shore of the island, my face soaking up the mist as it rolled down off the Koolau Mountains. In true Hawaiian fashion, locals from all over the island were setting up awnings and taking mountains of food out of their coolers: huge containers of chunked fruit, macaroni salad, and fish in fried, grilled, baked, and raw varieties. Big, pink boxes of pastries were handed round.
Local vendors were in on the action, too, selling coffee, homemade soap, and flipflops.
And, oh, the music. It lulled us straight to paradise. There were six-string guitars, soft drums ... and other stuff. I honestly don't know how to describe it, other than to say I wanted to listen to it forever. The voices -- sometimes one, sometimes, two, sometimes many -- lifted and fell and chanted and clapped. The best were the dancers, though, telling some ancient story in the gentle curve of their hands.
After a couple of hours, Matt said, "Gosh, we should get going. We have chores to do." And I looked at him like, "Are you kidding?"
I stalled as long as possible, bribing him with banana ice cream (unsuccessful) and lunch at a fresh fish truck (very successful). We dragged our feet in the sand and bugged a life guard about jelly fish reports we'd been hearing.
And rolled down our windows when we reluctantly drove away.
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
Friends
As we get settled, we're making friends. Here is a shout-out to a few ...
Dan is Matt's swim coach. He's 22, but he looks 12. I'm sure he's yet to shave. But what a sweetheart of a young man. Since Matt can't very well monitor my goings-on what with all the water streaming out of his face, he asked Dan to keep an eagle eye on me. When I finish my run and limp out onto the deck to stretch, Dan waves at me like I'm his kindergarten teacher. I suspect that after my surgery, Dan will park me next to whatever platform he's coaching from and wink at me every few minutes. I'm cool with that.
We walk to Aulani three times a day: once in the morning as Matt heads into the office, once after our lunch, and, as long as dinner isn't complicated, I head over around 5:30 with a book in hand to curl up in a lounge chair and wait for my guy to shed his work day. On all these walks, we pass landscapers, security guards, and mostly, streams of Japanese tourists (with the occasional Aussie passerby). Some of these regulars are smiling buddies. They gape at us, eyebrows and hand raised in a wave, with a look that says, "Still here?"
One of the security guys who guards the Aulani service entrance is Matt's favorite. His name is Rod. Every day, Matt asks Rod what's for lunch. Every day, Rod says, "Fried rice." Then they make that funky hang-ten hand signal.
Carol is Matt's surfing buddy. She rents him a board for 20 bucks a day. I think Carol is about 50, but she thinks she's 22 (maybe Carol and Dan should hook up). With her blond braid and skin-tight wet suit, she runs on the beach after her surf lessons are done. I like how she bosses Matt around as though he's her newest groupie. "Mind grabbing that board? Can you just drag that over here?"
I called Carol last weekend to make sure she'd be at Chun's Reef the next day. She said, "You're who???" Oh, Carol.
Millie, Dr. Nakashizuka's assistant, is surely the funniest. She probably weighs 90 pounds wet and is, I swear, the doctor's only employee. She bills, schedules, takes vitals, charts, and wears a phone head set all the while, taking calls non-stop. I have never heard Millie use an article when she speaks, so she says things like, "I have to check with doctor" and "What day should I make appointment?" Everyone in the medical community knows her. No matter what facility I walk into, all has been thoroughly prearranged. I never need to show orders, ID, or insurance. I'm pretty sure everyone is terrified of her, including Dr. Nakashizuka.
Last week, she scheduled enough time between two appointments, so I could grab breakfast. As she took another phone call, she gave Matt a severe stare and said, "You take her to Sizzler."
Recently, Millie explained a process to me involving contrast and prep. I replied, "Got it." She snorted, and said, "I like you. I only have to explain once."
I should take Millie to Sizzler. I wonder if she'd wear her headset.
Dan is Matt's swim coach. He's 22, but he looks 12. I'm sure he's yet to shave. But what a sweetheart of a young man. Since Matt can't very well monitor my goings-on what with all the water streaming out of his face, he asked Dan to keep an eagle eye on me. When I finish my run and limp out onto the deck to stretch, Dan waves at me like I'm his kindergarten teacher. I suspect that after my surgery, Dan will park me next to whatever platform he's coaching from and wink at me every few minutes. I'm cool with that.
We walk to Aulani three times a day: once in the morning as Matt heads into the office, once after our lunch, and, as long as dinner isn't complicated, I head over around 5:30 with a book in hand to curl up in a lounge chair and wait for my guy to shed his work day. On all these walks, we pass landscapers, security guards, and mostly, streams of Japanese tourists (with the occasional Aussie passerby). Some of these regulars are smiling buddies. They gape at us, eyebrows and hand raised in a wave, with a look that says, "Still here?"
One of the security guys who guards the Aulani service entrance is Matt's favorite. His name is Rod. Every day, Matt asks Rod what's for lunch. Every day, Rod says, "Fried rice." Then they make that funky hang-ten hand signal.
Carol is Matt's surfing buddy. She rents him a board for 20 bucks a day. I think Carol is about 50, but she thinks she's 22 (maybe Carol and Dan should hook up). With her blond braid and skin-tight wet suit, she runs on the beach after her surf lessons are done. I like how she bosses Matt around as though he's her newest groupie. "Mind grabbing that board? Can you just drag that over here?"
I called Carol last weekend to make sure she'd be at Chun's Reef the next day. She said, "You're who???" Oh, Carol.
Millie, Dr. Nakashizuka's assistant, is surely the funniest. She probably weighs 90 pounds wet and is, I swear, the doctor's only employee. She bills, schedules, takes vitals, charts, and wears a phone head set all the while, taking calls non-stop. I have never heard Millie use an article when she speaks, so she says things like, "I have to check with doctor" and "What day should I make appointment?" Everyone in the medical community knows her. No matter what facility I walk into, all has been thoroughly prearranged. I never need to show orders, ID, or insurance. I'm pretty sure everyone is terrified of her, including Dr. Nakashizuka.
Last week, she scheduled enough time between two appointments, so I could grab breakfast. As she took another phone call, she gave Matt a severe stare and said, "You take her to Sizzler."
Recently, Millie explained a process to me involving contrast and prep. I replied, "Got it." She snorted, and said, "I like you. I only have to explain once."
I should take Millie to Sizzler. I wonder if she'd wear her headset.
Friday, August 17, 2012
Magic
There is something magical about Hawaii, most especially how anyone ever found it. When I look at the back side of a globe, and I find our little speckle of dots, I'm amazed how very tiny and very far away we are.
We just spent a year in Los Angeles. Hawaii must surely be the very opposite of Los Angeles in every conceivable way. The humidity here is off the charts; I have to hang bags of Damp-Rid in the closet to keep our clothes from molding. Folks talk slowly. Perfect strangers smile at me (but not in a way that makes me wonder if I'm about to be mugged). I get tan in the shade.
Los Angeles was a gift. Teaching those incredible students, locking arms with the most dedicated on-mission teachers on the planet, having to share Matt with exactly no one -- a precious, precious year I will forever cherish (and would be grateful if I got the chance to repeat). But, lawd-a-mercy, the noise and the crowds and the concrete and the dust and the hurry-up-do-it-now pace wrung this old lady out.
Hawaii does not wear me out, except like that delightful exhaustion from spending a whole day at the beach. Hawaii wears me out in the way that a nap feels like exactly the right thing to do, the half finished novel sliding to the floor. Hawaii wakes me up in the middle of the night, coconut palms clapping in the breeze. Hawaii dances with flowers on head, hands, neck, and feet. Hawaii delights vowels and apostrophes. Hawaii breathes.
Hawaii, too, is a gift, and like Los Angeles, exactly what we need at this time.
Yesterday, I spent a few minutes on Face Time, asking my niece's daughters if they would like to come visit us in October. Olivia, whose age is far south of two digits, clasped her hands over her heart and passionately exclaimed, "Oh! I've dreamed of going to Hawaii my whole life."
Friends, come. Let this place work its magic on you.
We just spent a year in Los Angeles. Hawaii must surely be the very opposite of Los Angeles in every conceivable way. The humidity here is off the charts; I have to hang bags of Damp-Rid in the closet to keep our clothes from molding. Folks talk slowly. Perfect strangers smile at me (but not in a way that makes me wonder if I'm about to be mugged). I get tan in the shade.
Los Angeles was a gift. Teaching those incredible students, locking arms with the most dedicated on-mission teachers on the planet, having to share Matt with exactly no one -- a precious, precious year I will forever cherish (and would be grateful if I got the chance to repeat). But, lawd-a-mercy, the noise and the crowds and the concrete and the dust and the hurry-up-do-it-now pace wrung this old lady out.
Hawaii does not wear me out, except like that delightful exhaustion from spending a whole day at the beach. Hawaii wears me out in the way that a nap feels like exactly the right thing to do, the half finished novel sliding to the floor. Hawaii wakes me up in the middle of the night, coconut palms clapping in the breeze. Hawaii dances with flowers on head, hands, neck, and feet. Hawaii delights vowels and apostrophes. Hawaii breathes.
Hawaii, too, is a gift, and like Los Angeles, exactly what we need at this time.
Yesterday, I spent a few minutes on Face Time, asking my niece's daughters if they would like to come visit us in October. Olivia, whose age is far south of two digits, clasped her hands over her heart and passionately exclaimed, "Oh! I've dreamed of going to Hawaii my whole life."
Friends, come. Let this place work its magic on you.
Monday, August 13, 2012
Hawaiian Green Sea Turtles
Okay, I promise not to blog about animals all the time, but it's just that there's so much to see! I kid you not ... Hawaiian Green Sea Turtles, as big as coffee tables! At a beach just below Chun's Reef, these guys come into the shallow water and up onto the narrow strip of sand to sun themselves for the afternoon. They are HUGE and stunning and ... and ... and ... oh, my goodness.
This Florida girl has seen a lot of neat stuff, mostly thanks to SeaWorld and Disney. But to stand just a few feet away from these ancient monsters took my breath (and speech) away.
After a few minutes of gaping, I noticed an Asian woman about my age, patiently calling out, "Sea turtle! Stand back from sea turtle!" Her face was hidden in inches of sun screen, and she wore a long-sleeved rash guard (a bathing suit shirt). I loved her wedge haircut and bright red swim shorts. I asked her if yelling at people all day gets old. She admitted that it does.
Tourists can be a bit silly. Folks stand or swim too close to the turtles to get their picture taken, sometimes in the way of a turtle's approach to the beach. Since turtles don't really smile like porpoises or manatees, it's impossible to tell if they like all the attention or not.
A group of volunteers suit up for hours at a time to walk up and down the beach and ask tourists to step back from these astounding creatures, with their pancake-sized flippers and saw-toothed jaws. I said to the Asian lady, "Thank you for what you do. It matters so much." She was stunned. Her mouth hung open, and then she started to stutter. We asked her many questions about the turtles, and keeping one eye on a gaggle of teenaged girls in masks and goggles, she educated us about Hawaiian Green Sea Turtles.
We didn't stay for long. Matt was distressed at the tourists' lack of regard for the turtles, and my eyebrows were turning white from equatorial exposure. But before we left, the volunteer tapped my elbow.
"Thank you," she said.
Imagine that. She gives up her precious weekends to speak up for critters who can't speak up for themselves. And she thanked me.
Such a fine world we live in.
This Florida girl has seen a lot of neat stuff, mostly thanks to SeaWorld and Disney. But to stand just a few feet away from these ancient monsters took my breath (and speech) away.
After a few minutes of gaping, I noticed an Asian woman about my age, patiently calling out, "Sea turtle! Stand back from sea turtle!" Her face was hidden in inches of sun screen, and she wore a long-sleeved rash guard (a bathing suit shirt). I loved her wedge haircut and bright red swim shorts. I asked her if yelling at people all day gets old. She admitted that it does.
Tourists can be a bit silly. Folks stand or swim too close to the turtles to get their picture taken, sometimes in the way of a turtle's approach to the beach. Since turtles don't really smile like porpoises or manatees, it's impossible to tell if they like all the attention or not.
A group of volunteers suit up for hours at a time to walk up and down the beach and ask tourists to step back from these astounding creatures, with their pancake-sized flippers and saw-toothed jaws. I said to the Asian lady, "Thank you for what you do. It matters so much." She was stunned. Her mouth hung open, and then she started to stutter. We asked her many questions about the turtles, and keeping one eye on a gaggle of teenaged girls in masks and goggles, she educated us about Hawaiian Green Sea Turtles.
We didn't stay for long. Matt was distressed at the tourists' lack of regard for the turtles, and my eyebrows were turning white from equatorial exposure. But before we left, the volunteer tapped my elbow.
"Thank you," she said.
Imagine that. She gives up her precious weekends to speak up for critters who can't speak up for themselves. And she thanked me.
Such a fine world we live in.
Thursday, August 9, 2012
Puffy and Company
I hadn't been a resident of Hawaii for five minutes when I began noticing the birds. They do not resemble Florida birds, which, honestly I've paid little attention to, other than the wild parakeets in Clearwater and the peaceful coo-cooing of the mourning doves in Audubon Park. Hawaii birds look and sound ... well, exotic. I bought a not-very-good bird book at Target, and I've been cataloguing the fluffers in my journal.
Yes, I am spoiled rotten. I embrace my spoiled rottenness.
Let me start with my friends, the zebra doves, the little sweet peas. Picture a smallish pigeon with a soft blue head and, of course, faint zebra stripes down its sides. These quiet neighbors peck about in groups of two or three. Every day, after lunch, Larry, Mo, and Curly descend on our patio to do the cleaning up. Evidently, Matt's a messier eater than I am.
In the afternoon, the zebra doves puff out all their feathers and sit down for a nap. Or a poop. I can't tell which, for sure, but based on the appearance of our driveway, where daily puffy conventions take place, I'd guess the latter.
Next up? The spotted dove. These ladies ("ladies" because they remind me of Mrs. Potts) are much more shy than the zebras. They stay 20 or 30 feet away and get a little alarmed if there's any commotion. Although these gals are bigger than the zebras, they are nowhere near as lard-ass-like as their Los Angeles cousins. And, of course, they wear a stole of spots in their feathers, draped gently around their necks.
Matt calls the mynas suicide birds. They do not move for bikes, cars, screaming toddlers, or a tall man madly waving his arms as he runs toward them. They look like they dipped their feet and beak into a vat of yield-sign-yellow paint; the rest of their bodies are dark brown, so the contrast is handsome. I adore their run, which is exactly how young children play horsey, in a skippy-gallopy way, and their chirp sounds something like, "Look at me! Look at me!"
The show stoppers are the cardinals. We've got the northern variety that is common to the mainland, with their gorgeous, Talbot's red feathers, beak to claw. The red-crested cardinal has the same striking red on its hood, but the rest of his body is steel-wool gray. Very, very studly fellows, but they often argue with their brown-headed wives over who saw the doomed worm first. I do not think this is very gentlemanly.
Matt spotted the bulbuls first, and I'm so glad he did. Imagine a body like a cardinal, including the lovely crest on its head, but all feathers are black and gray except for a splash of red in the tail (red-vented bulbuls) or collar (red-whiskered bulbuls). They love to hang out in the rain trees near the entrance to Ko'Olina, our neighborhood. I haven't caught them singing or chirping, so they seem rather serious to me. As I pass them, I say, "Hey, bulbul, what's up? Got any news?" They look at me. They seem so unflapable, that if I stuck out my finger, they'd consider alighting on it, but then decide against because it wouldn't be seemly.
Most surprising for me, I think, are the abundance of red junglefowl cocks. My bird book says I can find them in rural areas of the island, which I have, but the biggest assembly of the cock-a-doodle-doers show up on my run every morning, right at (yes) sunrise.
House finches abound, in comforting sweet streaky browns. While I sit and read during the last leg of Matt's swim, one inevitably tip-toes around my feet, a bit shy, but mostly just curious. These wee ones might be my favorite. I can see why the Victorians put them in cages and fed them by hand; they must have loved their timid friendship. I sure do.
Yes, I am spoiled rotten. I embrace my spoiled rottenness.
Let me start with my friends, the zebra doves, the little sweet peas. Picture a smallish pigeon with a soft blue head and, of course, faint zebra stripes down its sides. These quiet neighbors peck about in groups of two or three. Every day, after lunch, Larry, Mo, and Curly descend on our patio to do the cleaning up. Evidently, Matt's a messier eater than I am.
In the afternoon, the zebra doves puff out all their feathers and sit down for a nap. Or a poop. I can't tell which, for sure, but based on the appearance of our driveway, where daily puffy conventions take place, I'd guess the latter.
Next up? The spotted dove. These ladies ("ladies" because they remind me of Mrs. Potts) are much more shy than the zebras. They stay 20 or 30 feet away and get a little alarmed if there's any commotion. Although these gals are bigger than the zebras, they are nowhere near as lard-ass-like as their Los Angeles cousins. And, of course, they wear a stole of spots in their feathers, draped gently around their necks.
Matt calls the mynas suicide birds. They do not move for bikes, cars, screaming toddlers, or a tall man madly waving his arms as he runs toward them. They look like they dipped their feet and beak into a vat of yield-sign-yellow paint; the rest of their bodies are dark brown, so the contrast is handsome. I adore their run, which is exactly how young children play horsey, in a skippy-gallopy way, and their chirp sounds something like, "Look at me! Look at me!"
The show stoppers are the cardinals. We've got the northern variety that is common to the mainland, with their gorgeous, Talbot's red feathers, beak to claw. The red-crested cardinal has the same striking red on its hood, but the rest of his body is steel-wool gray. Very, very studly fellows, but they often argue with their brown-headed wives over who saw the doomed worm first. I do not think this is very gentlemanly.
Matt spotted the bulbuls first, and I'm so glad he did. Imagine a body like a cardinal, including the lovely crest on its head, but all feathers are black and gray except for a splash of red in the tail (red-vented bulbuls) or collar (red-whiskered bulbuls). They love to hang out in the rain trees near the entrance to Ko'Olina, our neighborhood. I haven't caught them singing or chirping, so they seem rather serious to me. As I pass them, I say, "Hey, bulbul, what's up? Got any news?" They look at me. They seem so unflapable, that if I stuck out my finger, they'd consider alighting on it, but then decide against because it wouldn't be seemly.
Most surprising for me, I think, are the abundance of red junglefowl cocks. My bird book says I can find them in rural areas of the island, which I have, but the biggest assembly of the cock-a-doodle-doers show up on my run every morning, right at (yes) sunrise.
House finches abound, in comforting sweet streaky browns. While I sit and read during the last leg of Matt's swim, one inevitably tip-toes around my feet, a bit shy, but mostly just curious. These wee ones might be my favorite. I can see why the Victorians put them in cages and fed them by hand; they must have loved their timid friendship. I sure do.
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