Category: 2021

I’ve stopped listening to the news. With gloom and doom surrounding every story, sometimes ignorance is bliss. Every now and then, I catch a glimpse of a slick, shiny-toed news pawn or politician and think to myself, “Could YOU survive a night in the high desert wilderness? Our even a trip through our little Starbucks drive-through? Really? I think not.” Have they ever been challenged by the wild in ways that tested their spirit? Some seem so fragile that a strong wind might blow them away. Perfect hair. Perfect teeth. Perfect eyes. Perfect points of view. If you happen to think their interpretation is perfect.

Wearing suits that cost more than a week’s salary for many, or shoes cost more than it does to feed a family of four for two weeks, Their images are displayed on American televisions. Smug and polished, they dictate the newest hair styles, clothing, and catch phrases. They hand out fabricated “facts” like Halloween candy to us, the little Trick or Treaters. And, we gobble it all down, hungry for more.

In my youth, news was something that came on for a few minutes at 7:00 AM and then again at 6 PM. At a very young age, there was no such thing as dinner time shows, because, there was no television. With the advent of TV, we would all watch the evening news with Walter Cronkite and soak up his every word. Each night, his program would finish with the number of dead soldiers in Vietnam. In a house full of girls, the news came to a group that really didn’t understand war or casualties. But, we listened, all the same, with quiet sadness as the numbers grew.

Now, it seems that anything qualifies as news. As the hands of the clock move, Tik Tok videos go viral. The silliest things catch the nation’s attention, becoming the latest rage. While Covid isolated elderly parents from children and grandchildren for over a year, the news marched on, showing images remaining in our brains long after the broadcast was turned off. Stories of horror, caused by something we can’t even see or touch. Something that has changed our way of life forever.

Microscopic evaluations occur on a daily basis of events that are parsed into small visual sound bites by news “professionals” that were not even there. Not knowing the before or after, we’re asked again and again to join a group or cause often without being told the entire story. Words are arranged to make tempers flare and rage simmer, all while individuals forget to do their own investigation to make informed decisions about their stand on a subject. Opinions are formed by the lead story. Passions flame over something that happened somewhere that someone told them through a game of telephone. Very few times is a story told in its entirety, without personal opinion and point of view added for impact.

Through all of this, those slick dressed entertainers sit in studios and offices with the perfect lighting to make their youthful skin glow. The pretty people write stories they spoon feed us like a baby’s formula. We lap up every last drop.

Yesterday, driving through the vast and barren high desert BLM (Bureau of Land Management) lands owned by us all, I thought about those people who seem to give us daily answers to questions we never thought to ask. How would they fare if placed any one of the many mountaintops that surround my little town with only water and a loaf of bread? How many of them would know that the sun rises in the East and sets in the West? How many would be able to come close to knowing the time of day by the position of the sun in the sky? How many would not be able to find their way off the mountain and perish before lunch? Even with an abundance of gravel roads to follow, most would die within ten feet of where they started.

Self sufficiency and critical thinking are life skills that seems unimportant to many in our country. Even making a home brewed cup of coffee is lost on millions of citizens. Watching commercials, it’s easy to see that some people have forgotten how to find a recipe or chop an onion, because it’s easier to wait for a box to arrive with a preassembled dinner inside. A microwave system reads a bar code on a prepared dinner, so even entering the necessary cooking time is an unneeded skill. More time for videos gone viral, or games on a screen. More time to showcase selfies to the world.

This summer, I’m looking forward to being outdoors. Visiting the local woods while reading a paper map, I plan to make my own Vitamin D while soaking up some sun. Maybe I’ll even continue to live on the wild side and walk outside without a mask or sunscreen. My bronzed skin has never looked more healthy. I can’t wait to ditch the internet for days on end while just enjoying the sky and wind with nature surrounding me.

Those polished types live in a different world than the one in which I thrive. They would never fit in the little town I call home. We are referred to as heartland fly-over country by the elites. Funny, here in the high desert, we’re relieved they keep flying wherever their itinerary takes them. News folk and politicians just may be missing what is real and true about our country. At the very least, they cause me to click off the television. There is always something more interesting to do in the high desert.

4-H camp was something that I always looked forward to as a child. There were so many parts of camp that were just delicious. Leather crafts, canoeing, and swimming. Meals so good, plates were emptied in minutes. Camp counselors that were golden goddesses to us kids. A nurse that took gentle care with the smallest injuries. Campfires in which everyone glowed by firelight, as skillful camp leaders told stories that were just scary enough to give the group goosebumps.

Skits and jokes kept us all laughing. If letters arrived, the addressee had to perform a silly stunt before they could open them, sometimes expected to read them out loud. Laughter was a great part of camp. As new friendships blossomed, old friends enjoyed fun filled days. When lights went out, campers quickly fell into deep sleep, exhausted from the activities of the day. We grew in independence, resilience, and confidence as camp days expired, one by one.

Although I never saw a sign of any bears, our annual camp was held at a place called Bear Skin Meadow. Raised platforms held neat rows of metal bunks under a starlit sky, and for a few days each summer, life was magical in the high Sierra Nevada Mountains. Boys on one side of the camp, girls on the other, with camp buildings in the middle. Childhood wasn’t about gender identity, it was about age appropriate activities and making friendships that would last a lifetime.

My girlfriends Betty, Jackie, Linda, Sandy, Karen, and Susan were all there. The backdrop of the forest made us into new versions of ourselves. We grew in many ways during that week while trying new things. For some kids, it was a first try steering a small canoe on a big lake. For others, the terror of being away from home for the first time hit hard. But, for all of us, that magical week each year was an inspiring platform for growth. You couldn’t go through a week of camp and return home unchanged. Impossible.

This summer, I want to create the aura of summer camp, grown-up style. I’m pretty sure I’ll be safe from bears in the confines of Winterpast, however, I might be grossed out by an occasional lawn-eating toad. I want to lay outside in the night breezes falling asleep under the beauty of the night sky. Perhaps I’ll be serenaded with a whinny from a passing mustang, as he clip-pity-clops along. With the fire roaring, Ace and I will exchange campfire stories that help us to know each other better. There are probably a few camp songs we can sing for old time’s sake. With golden marshmallows melting chocolate between graham crackers in tasty Smore’s, the total camp experience will be achieved.

Sometimes, the importance of play is forgotten. The sheer enjoyment of breathing fresh air without a mask is now treasured. Looking up to the stars to identify constellations or see the first satellite of the night is satisfying. To dream little dreams of whimsy that came so easy as a child can happen again, if the brain quiets and we listen to our inner self. Those experiences create the perfect environment for creativity and inspiration to thrive.

Summer camp for me will include learning a new skill and practicing an old one. It will include crafts, friends, and acting. A disciplined bed time will assure that I awake at the crack of dawn to a hearty breakfast and some physical activity. Keeping the bunkhouse clean, I plan to tend to Winterpast’s gardens, so that she continues to look her best. It will include daily adventure walks to the mail box, hoping for mail from loved ones. At days end, stories shall be shared around the campfire with friends, even if it’s only Oliver and me.

The neighbors will probably wonder what the heck the Widow Hurt is doing in her back yard. That’s okay. They already know I’m a little different than the others. Who knows? With a little effort, maybe the neighborhood will join in with my Summer Camp Week!

May is almost over and the time for camp and dreams is now. Try leaving the rest of the world behind for an evening and find your own wilderness. Don’t forget the sunscreen and mosquito repellant. I hear the fish are biting and the water’s fine. Happy camping!!

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.

With only VST and I as passengers aboard the little plane built for eight, we could both look out the window at the vast Pacific Ocean. Within minutes, we were preparing to land at the tiny airport on Moloka’i. This island is not especially one that people beg to visit for the luscious beaches or personal cabanas. No night life or big city lights. No fantastic shopping malls or expensive luaus. Local people live here for a variety of reasons.

A very sad group of past residents had no choice to move to Moloka’i. In 1866, nine men and three women were dropped off and left to die there. Leprosy had come to the Hawaiian Islands, and these souls were the first to be banished from the general population. Thrown overboard and left to swim ashore among the sharks, they had nothing. Even worse, Moloka’i was a barren island, with little vegetation, and worse, no shelter. This was a death sentence of the most horrendous kind.

Over decades, thousands perished at Kaluapapa. Children grew up, their entire lives spent without the comfort of their moms or dads, grandmas, or grandpas. No cousins. Their new family all had one very terrible thing in common. They were victims of leprosy. Once it was discovered that a person suffered from this terrible disease, plans were quickly implemented for removal. Walked to the boat, with only the clothes on their backs, they were ripped from everything they knew and sent away. The family was left to hold a small funeral, because, they would never be together again.

Father Damien De Veuster, a young Roman Catholic priest from Belgium began his ministry in 1873, on an island in which there were no rules except those to be broken. Until his death in 1889, he and Mother Marianne Cope helped these souls build a functioning society among themselves. He was their friend, doctor, nurse, and confidante. He was a father-figure to the ailing children, as well as their school principal. He took people that had no hope whatsoever, and helped them find their way. In 2009, he became Saint Damien of Molokai. Mother Marianne reached sainthood a few years later.

Today, there are still a few residents that continue to live in Kaluapapa, which has been their home for decades. The little town is quaint, simple, and charming in a very Hawaiian way. Residents banished to this island were not allowed to make the choice to leave until 1969, although the “cure” had been discovered some time before that. Many decided to stay. The history of the tiny town is absolutely gut wrenching, and yet one filled with hope, showcasing the best and worst of the human spirit.

Kaluapapa is only one tiny part of this island. There are miles are beautiful shoreline, areas that are quiet and semi-tropical, and others that are agricultural or deserted. Importantly, Molokai is not for everyone. Don’t go there for the wrong reasons. Listen to your heart.

Traveling by taxi through beautiful countryside, we finally arrived at a beachside Sheraton hotel. We’d been warned that we were visiting the island during high tourist season, so activities that we might choose could well be sold out. Willing to take this chance, the beauty of the hotel reassured us that, even if there was nothing to do, we would find plenty of something.

While checking in, the most curious exchange occured.

“We apologize for the location of your room. It is directly above the dining room, and it can get very loud at night. It’s high season, and you were lucky to get a room at all.”

We were okay with that. As long as a mechanic wasn’t hanging from the ceiling, we would deal with a little dinner noise.

The hotel itself reminded me of going to visit an extremely wealthy cattle baron’s personal island hide away. Rich natural wood gleamed everywhere. The floors, walls, and ceiling were natural wood, stained a light color. Ceilings in the great room were two stories high. a beautiful staircase twisted back and forth to lead the guests to their rooms. Walls of glass faced the glistening ocean, and with a short walk past the pool, guests could be at the beach. Moloka’i shores are a little dicey for swimming. With a deep ocean shelf that quickly drops off, no lifeguards, and resident sharks, I didn’t feel the need to paddle into the open seas.

Our room was luxurious and understated. Fine bedding was freshly ironed and free from wrinkles. The faintest hint of hibiscus flowers scented the linens, all crisp, white, and new. The quilt on the bed was handmade and Hawaiian. A bowl of fresh fruit sat next to french doors and a deck overlooking the pool and out to the ocean. Everything was sparkling clean and inviting. There was no television or radio to bother with. With the french doors open and waves crashing gently on the beach, this hotel was becoming my favorite.

From the start, there was one thing I needed to do the following day. I would take a 3 minute flight to Kaluapapa Airport, followed by a day long excursion into town. I needed to see where Saint Damien of Moloka’i (born Josef De Veuster) and Saint Marianne of Moloka’i performed their daily miracles with hopeless souls, the victims of leprosy. Placing our bags in the room, we headed downstairs to the concierge.

The concierge area was actually in a separate open sided building. In this area, there were rows of bicycles, all brand new and waiting to be rented. There were kayaks leaned against one way and brand new surfboards leaned against another. There were walking sticks, beach towels, and sunscreen. Brochures on activities surrounding the island. Avis had a car rental booth. There was one thing missing. Tourists.

We had been warned twice at that point that this was the high season. We should expect that the last pineapple might be snatched from our lips. That dinner waits could be upwards of 30 minutes or longer. That all activities would be enjoyed by others who were crowding the beaches. But, as we looked around, this wasn’t the case. We could have walked off with a surfboard under each arm, while riding two bikes to the beach and there would have been plenty of activities left.

One loan clerk noticed there were two customers and came to our aide.

“Aloha! What activities would you like to do today?”

“I would like to visit Kaluapapa.”

“By plane or by mule?”

What an interesting question. The plane ride was three minutes. Down the run way, up over one mountain, descending to the airport, and landing. The mule ride was hours, descending the side of sheer cliff on the back of a mule. The return trip was that many hours going back up. Not some little cliff, but the tallest sea cliff in the world, measuring 3,600 to 3,900 feet. Hmmm. This was really a no-brainer for me.

“The flight, please.”

“Oh. This is troubling. I hope you understand this IS high season. I’m unsure of that possibility. We need to call to make arrangements, but it is possible that all mules or flights are booked.”

Looking at each other through side-glances, our gaze returned to her. Since arriving, we’d seen no tourists of any kind. No one tanning at the pool. No sign of surfing at the beach. No joggers. No bikers. No nothing. And yet, it was high season. The dining room had been set with the finest China and Crystal. At least 20 tables were at the ready. Bowls of tasty fruit were placed in the lobby. Employees, with crisp attire were everywhere, waiting to help. But, there were no tourists anywhere, except us.

“I know. I know. But, these people are only here for two nights. Can you check?”

The associate pleaded with the flight agent from her corded phone, looking off toward the beach as she did. After a small wait, the conversation continued.

“Wow. They are lucky. You know, high season and all.”

“You are extremely lucky. It is rare there’s availability on short notice. You need to report to the airport tomorrow morning at 7:00 AM. Please arrived 45 minutes early, because, with the added tourists during high season, the check-in process takes a bit longer. The pilot does not wait for passengers on their way to Kaluapapa. Sometimes, he even takes off five minutes early. Do not be tardy. Enjoy your flight.”

Again. High season. Walking back to the lobby, we made dinner reservations, just to be safe. Were all the tourists on some fantastic whale watching excursion? Golfing? Visiting the Menehune? All in Kaluapapa for the day? That remained to be seen. For now, we had the entire place, rich and luxurious, at our fingertips. What difference could a few tourists make anyway?

To be Continued.

Traveling alone, I’d be taking my first solo adventure in many years. Excitement churned in the pit of my stomach. Kaluapapa was only hours and a three minute airplane ride away. Memories would be carved in my heart, mine and mine alone. But, there were hours worth of adventures left on this day, as we returned to the main hotel.

VST wasn’t interested in visiting the little town of Kaluapapa. He had a real dislike for the stories of leprosy and the tragedy it brought to the islands. Although he had no problem with me visiting, he was not going to chance contracting the disease himself. He would stay at the hotel, people watch, and make sure that we had dinner reservations for the evening. He might drive around the island to look for more activities, but, he’d not be joining me on my little get-a-way.

With still no sign of any guests, we asked for some fresh pineapple and coconut milk upon our return. Three associates all raced away, finally having customers to satisfy, while VST and I sank into deep leather chairs with ottomans that sucked us into luxurious comfort. A quartet of handsome Hawaiians in flowered shirts and khaki shorts entered the room to play afternoon music just for us. The cavernous room, its high ceilings covered in wood, provided perfect acoustics. Hawaiian music drifted through the air, not to loud, not to soft, but perfect in every way.

The associates brought back a silver tray with two glasses of coconut milk, and one pineapple sliced into bite size pieces. Delicate purple orchids surrounded the pineapple. Another associate brought us warm, moist hand towels with which to refresh our travel weary faces and hands. We had at least eight associates that waited to handle our every need, because, so far, we were the only guests there.

The time approached 4 PM, and we decided to get ready for dinner. As we got up to leave, the musicians looked forlorn. An associate raced over to ask if everything was to our liking. Explaining that we were going to prepare for dinner, one had very helpful advice.

“Have you dinner reservations? It’s high season, and “Solitude Grill” fills up quickly. If you give me your name, I’ll try to get you a table by the window.” Giving them our name and room number, we continued upstairs. We had dinner reservations for 5 PM. Just enough time to get ready.

Upon returning to the room, we saw we had visitors while we were out. A crystal carafe of fresh ice water with lemon sat on the table, along with a tray of crackers and cheese. The bathroom had been prepared with even softer towels and a tray of wonderful soaps, oils, and refreshing sprays, in individual bottles. Directions for the multidirectional wall shower were on the counter, as well. A selection of bubble bath sat near the jetted soaking tub. Everything was sparkling clean and smelled faintly of hibiscus flowers.

On the deck, two light blankets had been draped over the arms of the chairs, because Hawaiian evenings can get chilly. The softest Hawaiian music played quietly.

The beautiful Hawaiian quilt had been put away, and the bed had been turned back, with at least eight down pillows fluffed and propped. On the desk lay two brand new iPad’s for our hotel use. It was as if everything we could have needed or wanted was anticipated and prepared for. We used the privacy wisely.

Wearing my newest Hawaiian sundress, and VST looking exceptionally handsome, as always, we headed out for the “Solitude Grill”. We’d been warned to arrive right on time, as the crowds could make it impossible to get near the entrance. And yet, when we arrived there was not another guest in sight. No one. Just us.

Waiters and waitresses stood at their stations in the restaurant. The glass doors slid and stacked at either side, making the far wall disappear. The ocean waves provided the music of the evening, in the open air venue. Waiters wore tuxedo jackets with tuxedo shorts. A nice touch to a beautiful and serene setting. We’d already decided on our dinner selection and wanted to order quickly. It was local movie night, and we didn’t want to be late for that either. We had been told the movie sold out quickly, being one of the few choices for evening entertainment on the island.

“I’ll have the filet mignon, medium charred, please.” On a tony cattle ranch in Molokai, the beef would be an excellent choice. I just knew it.

“Yes, Ma’am. I’ll need to check on the availability. With high season in full swing, we’ve been running low on provisions. Some selections might not be available. Could you please wait for a moment while I check?”

Looking around at the 20 empty tables, all set with the finest china and crystal, I shivered. This was becoming a bit creepy. Our room should have been noisy from the crowds in the restaurant, but there was no one to make a peep. Any additional conversations would have been welcomed at this point. But, there was just an occasional pot clanging in the kitchen. It was so quiet, whispering staff could be heard from across the room. Eerie, I began to feel like this was a new episode of the Twilight Zone.

“Yes, yes, we have two filets. Eight ounce and aged. Perfectly marbled. Grain finished. You should be very happy with the selection. Our beef is raised on the island, right above the beach, over there.” Indeed, we had driven by green pastures dotted with huge Black Angus. This should be delicious.

Dinner was served to perfection, down to the freshly baked rolls. Everything was the freshest it could be as we ate by the open windows, overlooking the beach. During dinner, there was never a sign of another guest. Just us, enjoying this most private and beautiful hotel.

After dinner, we walked to the community center where first run movies were shown once a week. Locals were paying their $2 a ticket and entering the building. With no one wearing more than a t-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops, we were overdressed, causing a few to stare and smile. The community center had fifty chairs arranged in rows. There was a portable screen at the front of the room, and a projector in the back. We were going to see the premiere of a new movie right here in this dingy little room with no windows, because that is how things are on Moloka’i. Two local women popped popcorn in two air poppers, melting real butter on a hot plate. We ordered two bags and settled in.

With little fanfare, the movie played. A romantic comedy, the name I don’t recall. Another experience that made my love for Moloka’i deepen. Such a simple little place.

With stars high in the darkest sky, we walked back to our hotel. There were no strangers to fear or traffic to avoid as we walked down the middle of the street holding hands. The night breezes rustled the palm leaves and our hair.

Upon returning, the welcoming staff asked if we would like hot chocolate before we turned in. Sipping on whipped cream and cocoa on the lanai with the stars and the moon watching over us, there was nothing more a conversation would add. This was a place I would remember forever. Hours evaporated into dream filled sleep. An adventure beyond my expectations would unfold in the morning.

“Arrive 45 minutes before your scheduled flight. The pilot often leaves a few minutes early. Leaves a few minutes early. Leaves a few minutes early. Don’t be late.” The words played over and over in my mind, until I awoke to the alarm clock.

Oh no! Were we late, already? The airport would be bustling. We needed to get through TSA with enough time to board. We had to hurry! Adventure awaits……

To Be Continued……..

Everyone has them. My blog site is under repair today. I will be back tomorrow.

J

The Molokai Airport, locally known as the Hoolehua Airport, was a short 9 miles from the hotel, with an estimated drive time of 16 minutes. However, the concierge had been very clear. High tourist season could ruin everything. Not sure how the traffic would interfere with our mission, we left with two hours to spare. Hurrying through the hotel lobby, nothing had changed overnight. Attendants and associates were standing at the ready to answer questions or fulfill any needs of the guests. The guests must all be sleeping, because, we saw none.

VST would spend the day driving around the island, looking for interesting activities. There was at least one golf course on Moloka’i, along with the complete rodeo arena, available for rent to be used for company team building. There were miles of beaches to explore, and a tiny town stocked with any supplies we might need.

Down the road, a little way from the hotel, there stood a lone bird. Just sitting there, motionless, with no intentions of flying. The closer we came, the more still it was. Just sitting there looking our direction, almost as if it had never seen a car before. We were the only auto rolling along on the clearest of days with the most brilliant sky overhead. Surely it would move. The closer we got, the more still it became. Closer. Larger. Closer. Larger. Closest….. Whoopsie….. We continued on, in quiet contemplation after that.

The airport was an open air venue, as so many places in Hawaii are. With perfect weather, windows aren’t needed. Just a roof to protect people from the sun. We parked within feet of the front door and hurried in. We had 1.75 hours to spare before departure. Inside, we found a complete crew at the ready. Ticket agents. Baggage handlers. A small kiosk in which to purchase a bag of candy or the latest magazine. A restaurant serving coconut milk and pineapple. The one thing missing was any additional passengers. We were the only ones needing assistance.

Once checked in, we now had 1.70 hours to spare until departure. VST was getting a bit antsy as we waited in very uncomfortable plastic chairs. The more we waited the more it was clear he was returning to the husband I knew and loved. The one that never in a million years would willingly visit Molokai. That one.

Finally, after a few snacks and a little patience, a small plane landed and pulled up within feet of the airport. Because there was no wall or door, the engine noise was deafening and silence appreciated when the pilot turned it off. The airplane door flung open, and out stepped a very handsome, uniformed pilot. An extremely small plane, it held seats for eight. Sauntering in with real swag and ego, he approached the ticket agent and they exchanged niceties.

“Just one. Right there.”

He turned to glance my way. After a few minutes conversing with the adorable ticket agent, he walked over to us.

“Ready to go?”

“Yes, I sure am.”

Quickly kissing sweet VST, I followed the pilot to the plane. He reached inside and threw out a cheap door mat, and then motioned for me to enter. Wiping my feet, I hunched over and got in. It was the smallest plane I’d boarded in some time. While I got settled and belted in, he grabbed a chipped clip board and penned a few numbers. I never saw him complete a pre-flight check of the plane. He just gunned the engine, swung around, and, in seconds, we were in the air.

The ascent was immediate and steep, as the expansive ocean and view spread out in all directions. Passing over the huge mountains, just as quickly, we descended immediately at a steep angle. Just like that, a $100 plane ride delivered me to the Kaluapapa Airport. I smiled to myself that the mule ride would’ve included three hours of saddle sores. I’d chosen well.

In preparation of my visit, I’d read a little about the residents. During tours, the residents prefer to stay indoors, away from prying eyes. There was one resident that loved watching the airplanes come and go. I could expect to see a rather old pick-up truck by the airport, with one lone man observing tourists from a distance.

The airport was by a cliff next to the shore far below. It was nothing more than a shack, with one solid wall and three open sides. Protection from sun or rain, it stood empty. No one worked at this airport. The pilot would have the roster of those he was taking back to town or Oahu. His roster showed he was transporting four away from Kaluapapa, and indeed, four waited.

In a flash, I was off the plane, the four were loaded, and gone as quickly as we’d arrived. At 3 PM, he’d return for me. For the moment, I stood alone. Other than the empty airport, no buildings were within my sight. Ocean waves crashed on the deserted shore below. I turned and looked in a complete circle. I was totally alone. Just me. In this very sad and lonely place known as Kaluapapa, there wasn’t even a bird in the sky.

Then, I remembered what I had read about the lone man. Sure enough, about 1/4 mile away, sat a pick-up truck, a single person inside, watching. A cold shiver ran down my spine. Just me, there, at this broken down “Airport”, waiting for the Father Damien Tour Bus.

I didn’t need to wait too long. Rolling in, squealing brakes trailed by a cloud of dust, it arrived and I flew out the only door in the airport. The very, very old school bus was painted navy blue, with “Father Damien Tour’s” stenciled on the side. The driver flung the doors open, and was making notations on a small clipboard.

“Hi. Sir? I’m supposed to take your tour?”

“Return to the airport and wait until I come for you,” he barked. He was a gruff, no-nonsense kind of person who wasn’t going to put up with anyone who got out of line. I scurried back inside the airport. For minutes I stood under this lean-to, while he sat in his empty school bus just looking at the ocean. Finally, I heard his footsteps approaching the airport.

“Come now,” he barked sternly.

I followed him quietly to the bus.

The driver was 6′ tall and trim, was true law enforcement. Estimating his age in the early 70’s, he had a tan, weathered exterior. Even in the heat, he wore blue jeans and a short sleeved shirt. Ruggedly handsome, I wondered how leprosy had scarred him. His face and hands were intact, unlike so many victims. Leprosy is caused by a bacterial infection of Mycobacterium leprae. It usually affects the skin, eyes, nose, and nerves. If caught early enough, the disease can be cured, or at the very least, controlled.

“Wait here,” he pointed at the ground outside the bus door.

Once seated, he pulled out his clip board and asked if I had authorization to visit Kaluapapa. I present the handwritten ticket and he took a long, serious look at it. How would I have come to this place unless I had authorization? It seemed an odd question. I couldn’t swim or walk this far. Hitchhiking wasn’t for me.

“It seems this is in order. You may board.”

With that, during HIGH SEASON, his one passenger boarded the tour bus. Making a large turn in the dirt, we rattled off down the gravel road towards town. He introduced himself as Richard Marks, the Sheriff, and a long time resident of Kaluapapa. His story unfolded as we bounced along an empty and barren piece of land. With sadness, he told me he had been diagnosed with leprosy as a young man, and was banished to this little town. Many adoptive relatives were buried on either side of the road on which we traveled. In this huge expanse of land, he explained, were thousands of graves of victims who died after suffering from leprosy. For a very long way, I didn’t know what to say or ask. As we rolled on, he finally told me that we were on the way to pick up the mule riders, and then, the tour would begin.

The old pick-up truck bounced along far enough behind us to avoid our dust. Indeed, it had been the man I’d read about. The one that longed to see the visitors come and go. Sheriff Marks knew him well, as they were old friends with one very sad thing in common. Leprosy.

Leprosy is a disease well-controlled in 2021. Effective medications and treatment had been discovered years before the residents were ever told. When leaving was finally a choice they could make, many decided to stay. According to Sheriff Marks, for the men and women that chose to leave, sterilization was mandatory. When I visited in 2013, a handful of residents still called Kaluapapa home, and could visit Honolulu for medical care. Some stores had special hours, providing the residents privacy from prying eyes. As Sheriff Marks told me stories along the way, I received my own private tour from someone that had a lot to say. These residents had endured not only the ravages of the disease, but true cruelty from a place that boasts Aloha.

The day was filled with walking and listening. Visiting the very land in which Father Damien provided the holy sacrament to so many unfortunate victims was overwhelming. Mother Marianne and Father Damien, through tragedy, brought people into a place of love, faith, and family fellowship. Both produced real miracles in the face of hopelessness for which they achieved sainthood in the presence of Man and God.

Father Damien ignored social distancing and face coverings. He ate with the residents, as well as provided them medical care. He dressed wounds and hugged the children. He held church services and gave last rights. For years and years, he remained strong and healthy, until he finally contracted leprosy and died from the disease in the spring of 1889.

Lunching on a shady cliff overlooking crashing waves underneath trees coated with Strangle Figs, Sheriff Marks told us that parts of Jurassic Park 3 were filmed in this most beautiful place. All the vegetation had been brought to Kaluapapa. When the first residents arrived, this part of the island was barren. Looking at the lush growth now, it was hard to visualize what hell it must have been for the first victims, thrown overboard in shark infested waters to swim ashore.

Driving through town to visit the docks, only one small store was open, selling ice cream bars. Other than that, the town lay quiet and empty.

Eight mule riders spoke of their journey down to Kaluapapa, criss-crossing the steep trail on switch backs. I was never so happy in my life that I had chosen the easy route. Soon, the visit was over, and it was time to return to the airport and back to VST.

Sheriff Marks and I chatted like old buddies on the way back. The canonization of Father Damien was occurring at that Vatican in the fall, and he’d been personally invited to attend, along with any other residents that could make the trip. Deciding on travel for he and his wife, he considered their advanced age and declining health.

Saint Damien of Moloka’i and Saint Marianne of Moloka’i attained the highest honors of the Catholic church by living exemplary lives. They had taken people without hope, faith, or even love, and created a thriving community, orderly and functional. A society cast away from others. That was the supreme miracle they performed, creating the legacy of Kaluapapa.

Just as before, the small plane landed on the bumpy strip. The same pilot jumped out, threw down the mat, and invited me aboard. Within minutes, I was back at the airport kissing VST Hello!

“How was it?”

There was no answer to that question. Although I’ve visited many beautiful places in this big old world, Kaluapapa is a place that will nest in my heart forever. Since my trip, the mule rides have been discontinued, and tours are not allowed due to Covid. Sheriff Marks passed on a few years after my visit, leaving a widow to grieve his passing.

In the most serene of moments, I was the only human on cliffs above the crashing shore near the tiniest of airports outside Kaluapapa, Moloka’i. No car horns. No laughter. No voices. No sounds except those of nature. A true adventure of the best kind, during the middle of High Season.

There are some days when I embrace the fact that I live in the Wild West. There are other days, I realize the Wild West just isn’t here, it’s a new state of mind. “Grabbing hands grab all they can. Everything counts in large amounts” an old song says. It isn’t necessary to “Open Carry”, when we just need to rely on our brains, Spidey-sense, and vigilance. Gangsters flourish all around us, no matter the terrain or population. During the last few weeks, my blog site has been hit by some very bad people. As a writer, I enjoyed getting comments from fans. In the beginning, “Comments” were the first things I checked, hoping that someone would send a word of support. Squealing with happiness, I would hang onto every word. But, that all changed. In the last two weeks, the comments came in fast and furious, all with Arabic lettering at the top of each message. On the next line was a link to porn. Then, there were generic names and messages that camouflaged the entire affair. My blog has been read in over 60 countries, so at first, the Arabic lettering didn’t alarm me. Until it did. It became necessary to block comments from my daily blog. As a new member of my community, I’m isolated. As a widow, I’m more isolated. Add Covid on top, it’s isolation to the extreme. My blog and interactions with my readers were links to the outside world. However, the risk of hackers entering my personal world is too great. Another nice thing ruined in this crazy society thanks to ruthless minds out to do no good. In our world, I’m amazed at the amount of entitlement and corruption occurring on a daily basis, even in a very small town. My blog is so small and insignificant, one wouldn’t think it wouldn’t be worthy of a second look from hackers, but, here they’ve appeared. Attacking a widow, of all things. Jackals go for the jugular of the weakest, eh? Well, some jackals pick the wrong widow. To add to my frustration, a text arrived from a friend I shared dinner with last week. We’d decided to go to the “nicest” restaurant in my little town, even though it was on the pricey side. The food was usually just okay. The Tee Pee Bar and Grill is my go-to choice, with the Papoose Burger and fries for $8.50. But, this was a special night, and so, we chose the fancier place. Long story short, my friend, who doesn’t live in this little town, was charged a second time, (after the outrageously expensive dinner), for a second tip of $30. A generous tip had already been included with the first charge. Luckily, she is a business person, checking every charge on the banking account every day. Gangsters need not hold anyone up in person. No masked bandits need to burst in on horseback. Fraudulent computer entries make difficulties and complications for others. Along with false charges come blocked credit cards and reassigned numbers. All while the thieves continue on, day after day. May I make a suggestion to those new to banking due to widowhood, or any other reason? Check your credit card charges on a daily basis. Every card and account. Every day. Make sure you don’t fall victim to fraud after a very nice evening with a friend. A bitter after-dinner-mint to swallow. In the days of the Wild West, things were simpler. Everyone knew their neighbors. The bad guys in the village were dealt with, while the good guys in the village stood together to defend their space. The sheriff was respected, whether he’d earned that respect, or it was simply a respect for the title. Those that didn’t respect the sheriff or town faced consequences. Townspeople were kept safe. In times of trouble, people would circle the wagons and take turns on watch. The community banded together, rising above differences of opinions when things got tough. With a wagon train of one, here in the high desert of Northwestern Nevada, Oliver and I will keep our eyes peeled for the rat bastards of the world. Please, don’t mess with this widow. It just isn’t a nice thing to do.

Only in small town America can one experience drag racing down Main Street on Friday night. VST was a mechanical guy, plain and simple. Starting on any topic regarding automobiles, he could talk for hours. It would have been impossible to avoid absorbing mechanical knowledge while being married to him for 32 years while farming 17 of those. VST was a legend in the world of John Deere Tractors. Farmers from every part of the San Joaquin Valley in Central California knew of his expertise. He was the guy they called.

After a nice meal in town, I drove down Main Street, headed home. On either side of the road, small groups of people were gathering with lawn chairs and ice chests. Kids waved at us as we rolled down the street, barely reaching the speed limit. By the time i arrived at the stop light, a man was preparing a table and loud speakers for music. The local radio station would be broadcasting. Something big was about to go down.

With a skillful U-turn, I returned to Main Street and found a place to park. It still wasn’t clear what I was waiting for. Maybe an early Memorial Day parade? Lighted car parade? It was clear that an event would start soon. I was ready with a front row seat parked just West of the Fire Department on an empty lot. Only a sidewalk separated me from Main Street.

With curiosity brewing, I texted K to see if she knew what was about to happen. Funny, Facebook allows users to know everything before it ever occurs. Being old fashioned, I often to call K and ask her for updates in my little town 6 hours away. This had her stumped, too. Nothing was announced on town’s Facebook page “Chit, Chat, All About That”. So, I waited.

The group across the street from us was a prolific bunch, with at least eight kiddos under eight, and a couple more in strollers. Several parents were obviously enjoying their time with each other. Little ones were riding their small bikes up and down a wheelchair ramp leading to a small business. Totally joyous, it was testimony to how lonely and isolated everyone has been. Just visiting in a parking lot was reason to celebrate.

In the same parking lot, there sat a RAT car. Rusted, it looked like a mix-matched concoction of parts from many different old cars. Very wide tires in the back, smaller ones in the front. The car was small, resembling a rat, as well. It’s owner fit the car and my town. After a few minutes of visiting, the RAT car peeled out of the parking lot onto the street in front of us. Coming to a complete stop, it’s engine roared to life. All at once, the tires were burning rubber, until, we were choking on the thick black smoke. It then zoomed off at a high rate of speed, made an erratic U-turn and zoomed back towards us again. It’s comical appearance didn’t quite fit the power under the hood and the skill of the driver’s performance.

In the middle of a car show that started at that very moment, I waved and laughed as every kind of car you could think of cruised by. Not all at a high rate of speed, some just drove the speed limit. People were out to show off their rides and I was lucky to sit and watch. Cars from every decade drove by. Some muscle cars raced right by me right down Main Street. The best part was that everyone enjoying the night was having fun. No masks. No social distancing. No thoughts of deadly viruses or the horror of the last year. Just people enjoying the fresh desert air on a lovely spring evening. Visible smiles and lots of laughs enjoyed by everyone.

As the sun set behind Kathmandu, a few Jeeps turned on lighted flag poles mounted on their bumpers. There were cars with hydraulic lifts, and some drivers that nearly lost control of their rides. There were cars that were smeared with Bondo Body Filler, and others that had been perfectly restored to show room glory, even though they might have been a 1954 Bel Air or a 1964 Corvette. A show like no other, with the prize of a cheering crowd won by all.

At one point, a young father and two small kids parked on our side of the street. Immediate screaming began, coming from a pint-sized tornado, yelling to her little girlfriend across the street. Nothing would quiet this little diva. She wanted what she wanted right now. Her friend. Dad quietly walked his pre-K daughter down to the cross walk and across the street to see her bestie. They both ran full speed ahead and locked into each other’s arms. An adorable show of affection that added to the beauty of the night. I wondered how many years these two pint-sized besties would enjoy such a beautiful and pure friendship.

For a couple of hours, in the high desert of Northwestern Nevada, there was a happening. It didn’t make the news. In fact, it didn’t even make Facebook. But, it will remain in my memory as I watched cars drive up and down Main Street.

Always beware of crowds forming on the sides of your home town street. Pull over and wait for a bit. You just never know when a RAT might be coming to your town for a perfect Friday night cruise down Main.

The heat is on, on the street,

Inside your head, on every beat

And the beat’s so loud, dep inside

The pressure’s high, just to stay alive

‘Cause the heat is on……Glenn Fry

I wonder if Mr. Fry lived in the desert, because, for the last week, the heat’s been turned up. Summer is breathing down our necks here in Northwestern Nevada. Yesterday, I needed an outing. Finding myself lounging in the air conditioned nest that is Winterpast, days dwindle by without very much excitement. A bloom here, a baby tomato there. Just not much else going on. Laziness is great in moderation, however, there comes a point when a girl just has to get out.

Not factoring in the extreme heat of the last days of spring, I needed to travel to the garden center for a stroll through rows of dogwoods or mulberry trees. Classical fountains, or whimsical yard art just an hour away, there’s a delightful garden center that’s a great place to visit.

It was then Oliver looked up at me with his soulful eyes. I knew what he was thinking. “What about me, Mom? Don’t I ever get a playground adventure?” Oliver is not a “sit in the car and wait” kind of dog. I wouldn’t have a car left. Oliver likes to chew.

With a little thought and a phone call, I made arrangements for Oliver to visit “Doggie Day Camp” for the morning. He would lose his mind visiting with his old pals, Vinnie and Oscar, as well as the office cat, Jasmine. All his lady friends were there to pamper him, and I could run to the garden center to shop.

When we arrived, the morning was still on the cool side, and the camp counselors rushed to the door to scoop up Ollie and love on him. He didn’t even look back, already having a great time. I was on my own until noon, when I’d retrieve him and head back home.

First, I visited my favorite hardware store, “See-Al”. VST and I frequented this store when we lived in Virginia City. They carry everything from crafted jams and jellies to turnbuckles, nuts, and bolts. I drifted into the clothing section to find a country girl t-shirt in plum. Sure enough, they had a nice selection. Again, anyone who knows me well enough could tell you whether I’m wearing blazers, hoodies, spring dresses or shorts and tees. These days, shorts and tees rule. In the high desert, the dress code is breathable comfort, with many days well over 100 degrees.

Driving through the town, ghosts of the past haunted my thoughts. There are many days, still, I find it mind boggling that VST is gone. We spent hours together in the car running errands or picking up project supplies. These trips were always tied to lunch or dinner, as we ate out at least one meal of the day. Driving by our favorite restaurants and casinos alone was a strange and lonely feeling.

The Garden Center was to open at 9 AM. What? With summer just days away and temperature spiking, what “garden center” opens at 9 AM? Real gardeners are up at the crack of dawn and finishing their work by noon, looking for an afternoon siesta. But, this place opens at 9 AM. With a few minutes to spare, I took a parking spot right up front along with a dozen other cars. Real gardeners all, we waited.

And Waited.

AND WAITED.

I really don’t know the outcome, because I left at 9:20. Employees were leisurely watering the plants. Fountains tinkled. Windchimes dinged. The garden cat snoozed in the sun. All behind locked gates. When I left, 30 patrons stood on very hot asphalt, waiting. No dog mulberry is worth that. I’ll be traveling to the other, better garden center from now on. Besides, they’re normal. They open at 7 AM.

The rest of my morning was just as underwhelming. Shelves were sparse or empty. Merchandise looked trampled, repackaged, and still for sale from last year. Tired employees were stuck wearing masks because of company policy. An environment that made yesterday’s shopping something I don’t really want to try again any time soon.

I can only speculate how many more weeks the department stores I visited can stay afloat. Void of customers, employees moved merchandise around to make the shelves look full. The night before, I’d ordered supplies from a large online box store. My purchases will arrive today, fresh and clean. All without the trouble of traveling over an hour to a town I really don’t want to visit anymore.

After purging another closet and enjoying a quick yogurt for dinner, the skies opened up on my little town. A huge thunderstorm brought relief to the desert sands and the gardens of Winterpast. Rain’s a lovely gift at the end of a very long and hot day. Stay cool. Because…

The shadows high on the darker side

Behind the doors, it’s a wilder ride

You can make a break, you can win or lose

That’s the chance you take, when the heat’s on you…..(Glenn Frey)