Hope. Dreams. Visions of tomorrow. With retirement in full swing, I have all the time in the world to plan. True. The problem is that sometimes, the variety of choices are overwhelming and vast. With so many possibilities, temporary paralysis sometimes occurs. Rather like walking up to a intersection of several roads, all going in different directions. You can’t travel west to the beach if you are already going on the Eastern route towards Mt. Rushmore. Weather and logistics play a role in activity selection, too. Like I said, a vast array of possibilities.
Some roads simply can’t be taken anymore. Due to the virus, or old age, some routes are blocked, either permanently or temporarily. Do Not Enter Anymore. Being a lot like a wild mustang, I hate restrictions in travel, activities, or anything else. I fight them. Some fights, fights can’t be won and acceptance chips away at my spirit. Accepting age and the limitations it brings is a bitter pill to swallow.
Years ago, as a wife thinking about the future, I’d ponder the “What If’s?”. Mind you, I never thought the day would come when I would actually need contingency plans for widowhood. It was comforting to know that if something happened and I was suddenly alone, there were a few plans I could deploy. This was crazy, because, nothing would ever happen to VST. Right? Wrong! There was one plan that persisted year after year.
I always felt that if tragedy struck, I would simply pack my little suitcase and head for Hawaii. A place of healing and health. Our “Go To” place when life became overwhelming. So many times, VST and I ran to the islands with very little planning, becoming overwhelmed by life and our challenges. It was a place we could be alone to take a breath and regroup. Hawaii was our safe place.
If Covid hadn’t come to be, no doubt, I’d be an island girl by now. The last trip VST and I took together was one to be remembered. It was Spring 2013, and both of us were under immense pressures with our jobs. VST managed a huge staff of Child Protective Service employees. Imagine if one of your monthly duties was to participate in a Child Death Revue with crime photos included. By law, his case load and daily activities were not up for discussion, protecting the privacy of children and parents. His face and demeanor would reveal how bad his day had been. Coming home to the top of our mountain in the Sierra Nevada Foothills, he would lose his troubles in yard work or by becoming a make-believe villain at the local theater.
My students were sick. Very sick. I was the hospital teacher at the local Children’s Hospital. Just me and my aide would teach children that were hospitalized longer than the names of the diseases they fought. Every day, my roster would change, as kids, K-12, would fight their own battles, either caused by disease or accident. I taught heroes that taught me more. Some of my students died. But many, many more returned to home schools and real teachers. I just kept them safe at “base camp” until their journeys continued.
With the kids grown and gone, VST and I, in addition to our full time professions, were farming a 40 acre vineyard on our free time. Physically demanding, our 24 hour days had no time for frivolous dreams. We were flying through life, hanging on for dear life. VST had a favorite saying. “We can sleep when we’re dead, Darlin’.” Some days I felt like the walking dead.
When things got to crazy, VST would ask in his southern drawl, “Wanna take a trip?” I knew the destination to which he referred. Honolulu. Waikiki Beach. Oahu.
Always the answer would be “YES!” We’d gone so many times, we would just tell co-workers we were going to the beach. It wasn’t quite a lie. We’d just be taking a plane instead of the car.
With the ranch falling on hard times and devouring our salaries as quickly as we earned them, we needed to be thrifty. This time, we wouldn’t be on Waikiki Beach, overlooking the ocean with waves to lull us to sleep. We would stay at a run down hotel in need of renovations. Although it wouldn’t be the most luxurious, it was on the main drag in Hawaii. Right now, we needed trade winds to blow through our hair, while enjoying moon lit nights. We needed time to stop, as we found ourselves gasping for air. We needed Aloha in the worst way, while the Menahune would whisper some advice about our futures.
Menahune are funny little beings with great appreciation for humor and mischievousness. Quite shy, small in stature, and nocturnal, you can easily overlook them. Being very industrious, they surely had plans for VST and I, as we were kindred spirits in that way. Oh, I might add, there are those that don’t believe in the Menahune. Laugh at the thought, comparing them to leprechauns, or worse, trolls. Each to his own. I find them to be one of the very magical and lovely characters of island lore.
“Do you want to visit Moloka’i?” On the second day of our holiday week, his words shocked me.
Looking at VST, I wondered where my husband was, because that was not a question that would come from his lips. Moloka’i had called to me from first time I learned about the history of this quiet island. I’d often asked if we could travel there. My question was always answered with a blank, and then, negative stare.
Now, with our hotel room temperature reaching 95, as a hotel mechanic hung out of the ceiling, with only hairy legs showing, I needed to discern if VST had lost his mind. From the beginning of our trip, the tired old hotel had been riddled with problems. The only thing more tired than the hotel was the staff, and they were facing exhaustion. Unhappy visitors lined the cloudy pool. Maintenance men had long fix-it lists. Phone lines were down. The nightly entertainment sucked. The ice machine crashed. Both VST and I felt we should have brought work clothes to help these people right the ship.
“Well, do you?”
With that, flight arrangements were made, two carry-on’s were packed, and out the door we went. If you knew VST, you would understand conditions needed to be dismal for Moloka’i to be an attractive option. For me, this was a dream come true. I’d be returning home to a place I’d not been in this life time. This was arranged by the Menahune, who were, perhaps, responsible for creating the terrible hotel environment. They’re sneaky, in that way.
At any rate, standing at the private airport, awaiting own little flight to Moloka’i, I was ready to embrace whatever lessons were in store for me. My heart was open and giddy with excitement. VST had come back to his senses, wondering what the heck he had just agreed to.
“You may board the plane now. Come this way, please.”
Just like that, we were on our way to adventure. No TSA lines. No other passengers. No. Two private people boarding a tiny little plane capable of traveling over the ocean to a different kind of paradise. Buckled in, we took off.
To be continued.