Tracy

News arrived today that Tracy passed away. She was a girl I had known since first grade. “I guess you would say that Tracy was the star of our class,” said our longtime friend, Paul. He ended his email with, “We’re dropping like flies.”

Tracy, Paul and I were of the Class of ’65, the heart of the baby-boomers.

By star of our class, Paul was referring to Tracy’s popularity. She was petite and cute. Starting in elementary school, she was considered by an undefined consensus to be the most desirable of all the girls. Tracy was Homecoming Queen of the Class of ’65. She had been on the “court” the three previous years, since her freshman year. It was a given.

I never really knew Tracy. I never talked with her or shared a laugh. She seemed untouchable. Her boyfriends were always older and from other schools. She didn’t associate with my groups, which I guess would be the jocks and surfers. Although I was not much of a joiner. I don’t remember her at any of the school dances or hanging at the beach with the gang. She must have been there somewhere.

Tracy sat in the front of the class. Being one of the taller boys, I was stationed in the back. Plus, the nuns tried to keep the boys and girls apart. Following eight years of co-ed elementary school, we were separated in high school, sent to all-boys and all-girls institutions. I lost track of many girls with whom I’d laughed and enjoyed company, mostly the taller girls. Some I never saw again until Facebook appeared and we found ourselves at the other end of the age spectrum. Tracy was not on FB.

What had happened to her? Was she happy? Did she have children, cute little Tracys? I hope so. I hope she had a good life.

Maybe I would have gotten to know her if we had shared classroom experience in high school. I do know that Tracy married Nick. He was two years older and his family was well-connected with the local social scene. His family seemingly had money and prestige, including a house on Lido Isle in Newport Beach. It made sense that he would go after Tracy, and vice versa. Through the grapevine I heard that Nick and Tracy lost a baby in an unfortunate accident and later divorced. She left town. That was the last I heard, many years ago.

Still, Tracy’s name evokes feelings and memories of my early days. She was a bright star, recognized and bonafide. When I first met my wife Barbara, among other attributes, I was taken by her voice, its stirring resonance, a pitch of certainty and confidence. I told myself, “she sounds like Tracy.” A curious reference from the past.

Oddly enough, when I came back to earth, I realized that I had no idea of what Tracy’s voice sounded like. I heard an association that didn’t exist. I think the association was of a queen. I had met a queen.

The loss of Tracy closes the book on a chapter in my life that I never expected to see end, like the colored sands that the monks in Oaxaca carefully sprinkle on the sidewalks, creating intricate scenes, only to see them swept away with a gust of wind. A reminder of our temporal lives.

Paul was correct. We are dropping like flies. We’ve had the misfortune of losing too many from our class, although the analogy is too pejorative. Think of us as luminous stars, consciously aware of and part of our magnificent cosmos, that shine brightly and dimly and eventually burn out, leaving traces of ourselves in the minds and genes of others all connected to the greater mystery.

Paul said he knew Tracy through Kim, his girlfriend at the time. Kim stayed with Tracy and her family when Kim’s parents moved before she graduated. So we know Tracy was kind-hearted, “a nice person,” said Paul. I regret that I did not know her better.

Inside the Church

Tantum ergo sacramentum

Veneremur cernui

Et anticuum documentum

Novo cedat ritui

Praestet Fides Supplementum

Sensuum Defectui. -- Tantum Ergo  -- Medeival Gregorian chant by Thomas Aquinas

St. Joseph's Catholic Church in Pomona seen from the choir loft. Two separate altars, not visible in this photo, flare off on the right and left side of the main altar, with separate pews, forming the overall shape (looking down) of a cross.

When you were young 

and someone asked what you wanted to be when you grow up, what did you say?

It's a strange question, I think, but it was often asked. Could you be something other than yourself?

I don't know if kids today hear the same question.

I can only imagine how girls responded. In those days, the answer was probably "a mother." Maybe a teacher or a nurse. Or perhaps, in my milieu, a nun, if you felt a vocation, a calling to serve God. For a boy, to be a priest.

I grew up under the Roman Catholic regime. Many parents during the Fifties sent their children to parochial school. These schools dotted the Southern California landscape like loose rosary beads gone to sprouting seeds.

Cardinal James Francis Mcintyre served as Archbishop of Los Angeles during this post-WWII period, from 1948 to 1970. He oversaw the construction of a new Catholic church every 66 days and a new school every 26 days, according to Time Magazine.

Cardinal McIntyre became a controversial figure as an outspoken conservative on issues of civil rights. He directed priests to consult the John Birch Society regarding politics, especially the threat of communism. As an anti-abortion advocate, he advised California Governor Ronald Reagan.

A triple-arched bell tower from which chimes ring every half hour enhance the Mission Mediterranean architecture of St. Joseph's Church.

My hometown of Pomona, located at the eastern boundary of Los Angeles County, was beneficiary of this rapid growth of Catholic churches and schools. One of the most magnificent churches in Southern California popped up on Holt Avenue, the main drag through town. In fairness, there were several large formidable Protestant churches along this stretch as well. You couldn't miss St. Joseph's on the west side. The church appeared like a miraculous Spanish cathedral on the dusty Camino de Santiago. Intimidating, but nonetheless, a refuge.

The building was erected on an 18-acre parcel of Catholic-owned property that included St. Joseph's Grammar School, plus full-sized athletic fields for baseball, a running track and a fully-lighted football field where the Pomona Catholic Spartans, on Friday nights in autumn, battled such rivals as the mighty Monarchs of Mater Dei. The complex also featured a swimming pool with diving boards as well as a Little League Field with a green-board home run fence where local baseball legend Joe Keough grooved his picture-perfect left-handed swing.

I spent many an hour playing on those fields and swimming in the pool. I found repose and spirituality inside the church. The school was a few steps away, similarly designed to the California mission schools of the Franciscan padres.

The single-story school featured tile roofs and shady colonnades with drinking fountains and cold water so refreshing during hot September days when temperatures climbed into the 100s. Here I learned religion and the three-Rs -- reading, writing and arithmetic, taught mostly by Felician Sisters in black habits and wool robes that touched their black shoes, prohibiting the slightest hint of an ankle. There were two classes for each grade, with 50-60 students, boys and girls, filling a classroom. 

I attended first-through-eighth grade at St. Joseph's, which was named after Rancho San Jose, the original Mexican settlement in what would become, in 1888, the town of Pomona, coinciding with arrival of the Southern Pacific railroad. 

The parish was established in 1871 and became a mission station. Mission San Gabriel Arcangel, the fourth of 21 California missions founded by Spanish Franciscan priests, was located about 20 miles west toward Los Angeles along the corridor of what would be called the San Gabriel Mountain Range.

The cathedral-like St. Joseph's Church on west Holt Avenue -- the third St. Joseph's church in town -- was built in the early Fifties to meet and promote the tremendous population growth in the vast L.A. basin. During construction I watched large cranes hoist the huge wooden rafters. Completed in 1956, the church included a polished outside entry area with intricate mosaics. Inside, colorful religious-themed stained glass windows refracted outdoor light into the cavernous indoors that included a ceiling that rose several stories toward Heaven.

In the rear of the church, above the pews and congregation, Mr Johnson's mellifluous tenor reached heavenly notes accompanied by a pipe organ. I listened with my whole body, chilled by the Latin words from another time and place, so beautiful, so profound, Agnus Dei (lamb of God). The music soared throughout the building, acoustically pristine, like fluttering doves nestling into every corner altar and into the hearts and souls of devout parishioners. Or so I believed.

I felt a natural high from the aromatic burning of frankincense during benediction, Tantum ergo sacramentum (therefore, go greatly the sacrament). To this day, a whiff of frankincense takes me there. I loved singing with my class -- our young, angelic voices rising together consuming the church.

St Joseph’s parish became one of the largest in the Los Angeles Archdiocese. Our Pastor, Father Thomas P. English, was elevated to Monsignor for growing his parish. He himself was elevated at 6-foot-6. Fully adorned in purple and gold vestments with black four-corner biretta resting on his head, he towered with royal demeanor. I never saw him smile; rather a closed-lipped clearing of the throat. As an altar boy, I feared him.

I preferred Father (James) Murphy, a dark-haired handsome man whose brother Bill coached elementary school sports and served as a groundskeeper. Bill Murphy loved the kids, even took our team to the movies on Saturday night. I heard that Father Murphy eventually left the Church, with Mrs. Ortega.

In 2003, Church records were released that Msgr. English had been accused of sexual abuse of a minor in 1969. The Archdiocese determined the allegation to be unfounded. However, in 2018 his named appeared on the LA Archdiocese list of clergy credibly accused of sexual abuse. I was never sexually abused by a priest. Although you might say I was sexually abused by Catholicism, starting with mortal guilt for "impure thoughts."

During the 1960s, the Roman Catholic Church, in a nod to modernizing, changed the liturgy from Latin to English. Cardinal McIntyre, a traditionalist, fought it to no avail. The transition contributed to my leaving the Church. I felt it had lost its ritual and spiritual magic. I slowly let go of Catholicism.

St. Joseph's Church and School continue to serve Pomona to this day. A high school friend who became a Catholic priest told me at a recent reunion that the congregation is much smaller and more ethnic. I was surprised to find myself saddened by this. 

My memories from those Church days remain fond: my classmates, the CYO sports championships we shared, watching the high school games and dreaming of being out there someday; learning right from wrong, being introduced to the English language and its rules of grammar; listening to Sister Gualberta's stories and loving geography because Mrs. Rousch was such a wonderful and enthusiastic teacher.

I never wanted to be a priest, although the question did cross my mind.

Note: The late Santa Cruz author James D. Houston had a theory that many writers come from religious backgrounds, having a close relative who was a minister, priest or such. He made a long, impressive list of these writers from Herman Melville to Amy Tan. Houston believed that scripture, the Word, was the connection, the prompt to find truth by stringing sentences together. I know that my paternal grandfather, although I never met him, was a Presbyterian minister, and my mother's brother, whom I did know, was a Jesuit priest. Perhaps that has something to do with my calling and why I write these blog posts.

I used to say amen. Now I say namaste.

These Days

Frida

Well, I've been out walking

I don't do that much talking these days

these days

These days I seem to think a lot

About the things I forgot to do for you

And the times I had a chance to -- Jackson Browne

Can't you see I'm sleeping?

I'll slip into a nice breathing pattern, eyes shut, mind floating in that beautiful dream space and, bingo! He'll say, "Come on, let's go."

I get it. He needs to move, to walk, to stretch those knobby hairy legs. My part of the deal is go with him, care and watch out for him. I'd hate to see him slip, trip and fall. I can't pick him up but I could fetch help.

I open my eyes to let him know I'm awake. Just give me a second, would ya. Sometimes he acts panicky, like I might be dead.

He's really not a bad guy. Once we're on the sidewalk his perspective broadens, and the smells for me are rich, fragrant and abundant. Good reading material.

We're both in our twilight years, a time to slow down.

This ain't no race, you know, a contest to see who arrives there first. I mean, where's there, anyway? There's no there there. It's an early grave, if you ask me. 

He's gotten a lot better, but it's taken some holding him back. I might be investigating a curious whiff in the rosemary or lavender. So I hold my ground, leash taught. Then he'll start waving his hands and arms like a windmill. His signal to come, get moving. Okay, okay already.

Sometimes he'll stop and stare. At nothing. Or the osprey on the limb at the top of the Norfolk pine on the corner he's so fascinated with. 

I go for the dirt,  the ground, baby, that's where the roots burrow and spread and smells fester. Just follow your nose, that's my mantra. He's an eye guy, his nose as useless as a broken chew toy. I shouldn't say, "useless." Having sensory challenges is sad.

Yesterday we met this new guy he likes to shoot the breeze with. I knew they would hit it off and it took some maneuvering on my part to push them together. They smell alike. I don't think they know that. They believe it's mental, a meeting of the minds. Right.

Granted, they're both oddballs. 

The new guy's name is Harry. Not Harold or Harrison or Hari Christmas, for god's sake. Just Harry. I meander toward him instinctively knowing they will click. the convergence of two wayward stars.

I brush my shoulder against the guy, with the subtlety of an artful dodger. Some guys would step back. My move can be interpreted as aggressive unless performed gracefully, which I, in all modesty, know how to do.

Harry shows kindness, shoots me a glance followed by a pat and hug. Touch is the thing. I can read a touch seconds before it happens. We're standing at an overlook with a view of the beach.

"The waves look good," says Harry.

"Yes, they're getting some good rides," says my guy.

"Do you surf?" asks Harry.

"I try to keep my feet wet," says my guy.

I roll my eyes. He's obsessed. We're down here day and night checking the waves. He'll never stop talking about it now. I fold my legs and ease my tired body onto the cool, luxurious dirt. My turn to wait. He needs the human contact.

Osprey with a catch

Rewind.

I know she needs to rise, keep moving so she won't freeze up, I tell myself, as I look upon her languid, peaceful body. tail curled beneath her.

"Come on, it's time to go." I'm really doing this for her. She's aged and slowing down, you know.

I see her hind legs struggle for purchase. I lean over and help by pulling her up, her foot pads slipping, toes splaying on the hardwood floor beneath her. She weighs about 70-lbs. I feel a twinge in my back.

She'll only walk about a block; it's a matter of which direction. I don't want to wear her out. She loves sniffing the rosemary, so I head inland, ambulate slowly in mother-may-I baby steps. I take a moment to check the osprey who's become a neighborhood celebrity.

I've never seen him catch a fish, but he has soared overhead, his broad wings spread, a fish dangling from his talons, swooping low before arriving atop the telephone poll on the corner for a bird's eye meal. I can't take my eyes off the majesty of the predator. 

My walking partner doesn't notice. Too busy sniffing scents of her brethren who have marked territory along the way. She pauses, points her regal nose, stares into space. In dim light, early morning or late evening, I wonder if she's caught the scent of a raccoon. Maybe the spell of a memory or deja vu.

Poor girl. She's practically deaf. I signal her by waving my hands, pointing and gesturing like a road worker directing traffic. It really seems to help. She gets it.

Her regularity has changed in her old age, which means I need to carry plenty of doggie bags for emergencies which could happen at any impractical time or place. The other day it happened in the middle of the crosswalk with a motorist waiting, watching, his foot patiently pressing the brake pedal. 

Hey. I'm simply caring for an old girl who needs a little assistance. I think she's as embarrassed as I am. Most drivers understand. I think she does, too. Understand, that is, how I care for her these days.

 

The Mouse Trap

There's a rascal in the house.

It's no use setting a trap.

I know where he sleeps. That is, when he sleeps. Which is a moving target.

I just have to be on my game.

He's always on his game.

I didn't ask for this contest.

It simply happens, like the way morning fog burns off. You never know for sure when.

Yesterday he was in the car. Easy target, you say. I was driving. I didn't have a chance.

I couldn't just pull over on the freeway and grab him.

He knew that.

He cuddled up next to his big sister, closed his eyes and slept like an angel.

He's not quite 6 and knows more than I think he knows. Which is a lot of information in that adorable little head.

He's got this killer smile that will melt your bad mood like ice cream on a hot summer sidewalk.

He loves ice cream. As do I. We have that in common.

I'm much older, taller and stronger but he always wins.

His mother warned us about his obsession, for sweets.

Thankfully, he does carry a toothbrush. He's a smart little fella. 

He's only been in town for a couple of weeks and he already knows the roads better than I do.

"Why are you turning here?" he asked this morning.

"It's a different way home." I said.

"I've never gone this way before."

"I wanted to see the volleyball players on the beach."

That gave me an extra second. He opened the car window. I thought he was going to escape.

I had treated him and his sister to donuts. Big mistake.

I figured you got to do donuts at some point. The glorious sight and tantalizingly fresh-baked aroma of a case of colorfully dressed donuts are something every child should experience at least once with grandpa. That’s what we’re for, right?

Yes, it was my idea. 

Yes again, I paid -- for more than the donuts.

He didn’t finish the extra-large donut with pink frosting and sprinkles. He stopped a couple of bites short, tossed it into a bag with his big sister's half-eaten extra-large chocolate-frosted donut.

Well past lunchtime he had not eaten anything more. No protein. Nada. Too busy. Too fricken busy.

I feared he would dismantle the heirloom antique lamp. When he finally settled down.

"You should never have eaten that donut," said Koko, his grandma.

"It's not my fault," he said with an ear-to-ear smile. Lolo made me do it.”

That's what he calls me. You might as well call me the Mouse.

Zeke from Cabin Creek

Jerry West releases his patented jump shot over Walt Frazier of the New York Knicks. PHOTO:WALTER IOOSS, JR., SPORTS ILLUSTRATED GETTY IMAGES

A whole bunch of air burst out of the basketball today with the news that Jerry West died at age 86.

We thought he'd live forever.

We thought he was younger than 86.

I bet he could still shoot a fine jump shot.

He probably played a stellar round of golf yesterday.

He could do it all.

He's a main reason why the National Basketball Association (NBA) has survived so long as a model organization of community service, interracial cooperation and high-level athletics.

There have been some rough years but it wasn't Jerry's fault. He introduced the professional game to the mainstream when the Lakers arrived in Los Angeles in 1960, coming from Minneapolis, Minnesota, the land of a thousand lakes. There are no lakes in L.A.

Jerry came from the sticks of West Virginia. He led the University of West Virginia to the NCAA Finals. Still brushing coal dust off his shoulders, he took LA by storm and sheer talent. He spoke about how he and Lakers' superstar Elgin Baylor became fast friends. They formed a duo on the court that nearly knocked out the mighty Boston Celtics led by Bill Russell in six consecutive playoff Finals. Alas, Jerry and Elgin came up a bucket or two short each time. 

It was two against six. The Celtics introduced the concept of the sixth man with Frank Ramsey and later John Havilcek. West and Baylor didn't have a center anywhere near the equivalent of Russell. No one did. Until the Lakers acquired Wilt Chamberlain in 1970 and later Kareen Abdul Jabbar and even later Shaquille O'Neal. Jerry was instrumental in those acquisitions.

By that time he had become a Hall of Fame player, coach, broadcaster, general manager, talent scout and the guy you wanted to be a part of your organization.

In the early years, colorful Lakers broadcaster Chick Hearn gave West the nickname, "Zeke from Cabin Creek." 

The story was that he had grown up in Cabin Creek, West Virginia, where he honed his famous jump shot in a yard with a hoop on the side of a barn.

"Look at those arms," said Chick. "He fits into a 38-inch sleeve."

At almost six-foot three-inches, Jerry's arms were long for his height and gave him the advantage of being able to shoot his jump shot over taller defenders like Walt Frazier and Oscar Robertson. That jump shot came into play at the end of close games. The ball almost always went in, earning him a new moniker: Mr. Clutch.

I loved Jerry. Everybody did.

In 1969, when the Celtics beat the Lakers once again by one basket, West scored 42 points, grabbed 13 rebounds and dished 12 assists. He averaged 37.9 point per game during the Finals. Even though the Lakers lost, he was named the MVP of the series. As rare as a full court shot. He did sink a half court basket to send the game into overtime. Mr. Clutch.

Russel and West, Black and white, embraced following the game. Russell called Jerry "the greatest player in the game."

This was high drama. And so much fun to watch.

We moved out of the LA Area in 1970 to the Bay Area. I continued to follow the NBA and began cheering for the local Golden State Warriors, a team that cut a dreary cloth compared to the bright, high-performance Lakers with Jerry West and their new center, Wilt (formerly The Stilt) Chamberlain.

I was able to score fourth-row mid-court seats to Warriors games through the San Jose Mercury News where I was employed. Seriously, not many seemed to care about the Warriors at that time. When the Lakers came to town I jumped on it.

For the first time I was able to watch the Lakers up close as they outclassed the Warriors. I watched the gigantic Wilt warming up on the court. Well over 7-feet, the basketball appeared the size of a softball in his enormous hands.

I watched Jerry lead a fast break. I peered into his eyes. I had never seen such intensity. You could tell that he was calculating everything happening on the court in that split second as he charged in full control.

The game was not a match, more a comparison of a finely oiled machine against a loose bunch of big men who played basketball. I found myself cheering for the underdog Warriors, my newly adopted team.

My spouse Linda, whom I had known almost as long as I knew Jerry West, commented to me.

"Why are you rooting for the Warriors? What about Jerry?"

I've bounced that comment around in my head for years. Had I become unfaithful? In her eyes I had.

I don't believe so. I sincerely wanted the Warriors to win that game. But it didn't diminish by any stretch my loyalty to or admiration for Jerry West.

That Lakers team went on to win the NBA Championship for the first time in LA history. Jerry West had finally won a much deserved title. He went on to contribute to the league in many ways, including as a consultant for the Golden State Warriors.

He was always there. A silhouette image of him dribbling down court became the logo for the league. The modern era players knew him as The Logo. Although he never felt comfortable with the concept of one player representing the NBA.

I bet in Basketball Heaven his buddies will simply call him The Man.

Under the Monkey Pod

I'll remember you
Long after this endless summer is gone
I'll be lonely, oh, so lonely
Living only to remember you. -- Elvis Presley 

View of sun rising amid clouds. Lucky to catch with iPhone camera. The orange globe disappeared before I had second sip of coffee. PHOTO:KCS

Down to final week on island, sun and trade winds have returned. Past three months have been Hawaii cold, dipping into chilly 60s. I bought long-sleeved T-shirt at Ross now worn to threads.

Totally unprepared, I also forgot to bring checkbook as well as bank debit card. Got speeding ticket. As my children will tell you, I am slowest driver on road.

Wrote letter to Kauai DMV explaining why I should not have ticket, doing 54 mph in 40 zone. Please dismiss. My reasoning being every driver in rearview mirror tailgates me for going too slow (aka, speed limit). So I go with flow and get tickie. $140 bucks.

Almost two months ago. The judge has not made decision on my plea. Should I send his-or-her Honor a flower lei? A box of macadamia nut chocolates? I wrote that my speeding was fluke and promise to do the usual, anger my fellow drivers by honoring speed limit, which is 50 mph tops on Kuhio Hwy 56, with numerous 35, 30, 25 and 10 mph zones. This confusing for kupuna (elder) with tailgaters biting his ass. I didn't use those exact words.

“Who pays attention to the speed limit?” said a friend.

I do. I don't want another ticket if it kills me.

Mysty and Viva horse around at sunset PHOTO:KCS

Surprise 70th birthday party for friend Maureen (wearing flowered leis) in Princeville with her son Ryan on left, me on right, friends Rich and Mike. We danced night away. Happy Birthday, Mors! Keep riding all those waves! CONTRIBUTED PHOTO

Sometimes I ride Kauai bus, for transportation and local color. Twelve people got on board with me at Princeville bus stop recently. Eight of them young teenage girls heading home from school. Two were 50ish couple who had groceries. They put their bicycles on rack on front of bus. And two young men who spent a few minutes in nearby jungle preparing for ride. You tell me.

Buses run promptly on time. Because they speed.

I drop two quarters into glass box next to driver and find seat.

“One dollah.”

Again I hear, “One dollah.”

I walk to front feeling quaint sense of guilt. Must be talking to me. 

“It one dollah.”

“For kupuna?” I paid 50-cents last week. 

“One dollah.”

I reach into pocket, search for coins and manage to pull out a dime and quarter.”

“Dat enuff.”

Driver step on gas and we start rolling like runaway wagon.

I just get comfortable when I hear horn beeping. Driver is honking at car in front of us. Bus is tailgating slowpoke who is going speed limit. You tell me.

Koko rides Kapaa bike trail. PHOTO::KCS

Islanders love their flowers, with month of May being one celebration after another where locals wear  homemade leis and head wreaths (hakus) made with love: May Day, Lei Day, Mother's Day, Graduation Day and Memorial Day (aka Lei Day No 2).The grounds at our condo are full of fragrant flowering puakenikeni, gardenia and plumeria. Locals drop by daily to pick beautiful blooms.

It's like Easter egg hunt for grown-ups. Women hunting for flowers to make leis and men gathering flowers for their wahines to make leis.

We have enjoyed spending time with grandkids, Viva 13 and Mystiko, 5. We've attended Viva's soccer games and Mysty's May Day celebration at Kilauea School, portrayal of Royal Hawaiian ceremony with costumes, color, music, hula and more.  

Keiki of Kilauea School celebrate May Day PHOTO:KCS

Mysty plays opihi with kindergartners. From song, Opihi Man. PHOTO:KCS

Mama Isabel Bryna zips wetsuit on Mysty for surf session at Hanalei Bay.

PHOTO:KOKO

Koko stands in sea of flower petals. PHOTO:KCS

 

Weather has been harsh, with several flood advisories on island and one serious incident on south side. Some businesses near Nawiliwili Harbor went under water, but resilience of locals very impressive. Like nothing happened, just flood.

A natural inlet, Nawiliwili is main harbor on island where cargo in large containers is shipped in and out. Pride of America cruise ship docks here and tourists from around world in shorts and hats poke around port of call. 

"Our next port is Vancouver," said one cruiser who shipped out of San Diego two weeks ago.

Tug boats guide container ship into Nawiliwili Harbor. These ships carry everything from automobiles to kitchen sink. PHOTO:KCS

Harbor area is hub of Kauai where the island originally populated and grew into hodge podge of small plantations, major resort, auto repair shops, surf spot (Kalipaki), Lihue Airport, tourist traps, old Lihue town and surprises behind every grove of lehua, palm and monkey pod tree. Wear and tear of island is obvious, yet mysterious.

You learn you cannot judge quality by exterior. Best value and highest quality are often found in unlikely places. Underground exists for survival of islanders. Everyone knows that Walmart is least expensive store for widest variety of goods including groceries. Ace Hardware on Rice Street sells everything from septic tanks to sunglasses -- best inventory of art supplies on island. Most-for-your-money breakfast at nondescript Kauai Diner -- Japanese, Hawaiian and American food.

Winding down on couch, Viva shows Mysty cool stuff on laptop. PHOTO:KCS

Storm patterns are extremely changeable and potentially risky out here in Pacific. The Hawaiian chain is farthest from a continent. If you plan your day according to forecasts, always have plan B. Heed flood advisories and warnings. At 5,000-ft, Mt. Wai'ale'ale is one of wettest places on Earth. When it rains it pours.

And since there is only one road around island -- two-lane Kuhio Way 56 -- be ready for lane closures and unexpected delays. Go with flow.

Shaka (aloha greeting) to newcomers from the Mainland who have hunkered down here to stay, as well as local families who have been here for generations and have no desire to leave. If they can afford to stay. Tourism serves locals with jobs, and at same time, inflates economy. Housing for workers no longer affordable. Wealthy celebrities, tech leaders and music producers have purchased prime real estate for refuge. Haoles like us also drive costs up, buying modest real estate at high prices that continue to go up in value. Who can afford?

Witch-hat mountains above pristine Na Pali Coast. PHOTO:ROBRTO PULIDO

"A person seeking an island craves simplicity and glories in a world that is still incomplete, and therefore full of possibilities," according to Paul Theroux in his 1992 treatise, The Happy Isles of Oceana -- Paddling through the Pacific. The attraction of an island, he continues, "is not the landscape of the island, nor its location on the globe, but rather the fact of the place being surrounded by water -- the character of the water itself is the magic element, offering the islander transformation."

Theroux's wry, often pompous yet well researched 530-page book takes him from the Trobriand islands off Papua New Guinea to Easter Island -- from Melanesia to Polynesia -- with adventures in the Solomons, Vanuatu, Fiji, Tonga, Samoa, the Cook Islands, Tahiti, the Marquesas and finally the Hawaiian chain. Here he finds the uniquely pristine Na Pali Coast with "witch-hat" mountain tops, waterfalls that plunge into often unnavigable seas of temperamental currents that have protected Kauai, the oldest of the chain, for 5-million years. 

                                                                     

I walk outdoors, open eyes, listen to tropical birdsong punctuated by clucking chickens, inhale scent of sweet gardenia, allow trade-wind breeze to wash over me. Feels like paradise.

Sun sets on island saying, until we meet again, aloha nui loa. PHOTO:KCS

End note:

Received June 1 from District Court of the Fifth Circuit, State of Hawaii, Lhu'e Division. Speeding infraction mitigated in defendant's favor. Maybe it was sea turtle that swam under my surboard last day on island -- brought good luck. Only on Kauai.

Adjusting My Religion

"The leader is best when people barely know he exists, not so good when people obey and acclaim him, worst when they despise him." Lao Tzu, Ancient Chinese sage

Columnist David Brooks recently wrote a piece about why right-wing conservatives are gaining ground over traditional liberals. It's a world-wide phenomenon. 

The gist of his argument is that non-sectarian liberalism has individualized liberals, whereas the right-wing is held together based on belief in God and Country (err, the flag), a power greater than the individual.

He goes on:

Kindness and moral integrity don’t run as deeply as the power of a strong man and his God-fearing, flag-waving belief system, whether it's a fight to criminalize abortion, hold onto our loaded guns or keep nasty immigrants out of our country. The right has been victimized by woke, and so have you. Make America great again!

The left wing has turned their focus from Christian religion to education and intellectual politics as the answer, attempting to imbue basic morals into an imperfect system, an elitist attitude.

A mainstream conservative (not a Trumper), Brooks sees this as a warning as we hurtle toward another National Election pitting two old guys to lead our nation, one a decent but seemingly frail octogenarian and the other a grifter maestro of popular media, who will only accept winning, exhibits no spiritual underpinning other than his own self interest.

I was raised a Catholic, attended parochial schools grades 1 through 12. I was a believer. I had religion, due to deep philosophical reasoning at a very young age. I deemed it a privilege to be an altar boy and recite the Latin prayers. I didn't eat meat on Friday. I went to confession before receiving communion. As I got older, I changed.

The more I learned, especially through literature and history, I slowly let go of my early belief in God and Church. The institution seemed phony and usury and politically motivated. See stories re predatory Catholic priests. The idea of a supreme male authority in the sky and man-written Bibles with contradictory interpretations yet true believers, fall short of believable. 

I began to find religion in music, from protest songs to the poetry of Bob Dylan, from the mellifluous words of Crosby, Stills and Nash -- songs like Teach Your Children, Our House, For What It's Worth. The soulful musings of Van Morrison. The cries for peace by John Lennon. The questioning of Marvin Gaye, What’s Goin’ On?

I never had to fight for my country, as my father did in WWII. He saw conflict with Japanese fighter jets in the Pacific Theater while assigned to the battleship, USS Idaho. He fought so I wouldn't have to, nor my children. Today I watch courageous Ukrainians and marvel as they fight for their home land. 

Do I have that same gut feeling about my country? Perhaps I should. I hear many liberals say they will leave the U.S. if Trump wins the Presidency. Is this giving up? Where is the patriotism? What is a patriot? The right-wing has stolen its mantle.

We are talking about our United States of America, with liberty and justice for all. (Congress added “under God” to our flag salute in 1954, during a period of anti-communist McCarthyism.)  

I am guided by the very basic notion of right and wrong. Do the right thing. My veteran father, hardly a preacher and not a religious man, told me in a letter that he was guided by honesty and fairness. Is that enough, when those virtues are shunned as weakness by tyrants and their loyalists?

As music has changed, I have been drawn to the teachings of Zen Buddhism and involvement with yoga and tai chi, both based on Eastern concepts of physical and spiritual strength and nourishment. Zen Buddhism was founded as an antidote to human suffering. Philosopher, and self-described entertainer, Alan Watts called it “A religion without a religion.”

To a Zen Buddhist monk, the doings around us, what happened yesterday and will happen tomorrow, are not real. They are distractions that interfere with reality: that is, the present moment. That is our gift that incorporates past and future without forcing or doctrine. It can be a place of refuge.

I occasionally reach such moments through yoga, watching children play, riding a wave, looking into another's eyes, laughing or crying together. Then it's gone. Another will come. To know and feel this on a visceral level affirms life. Being in the moment is an art, a discipline of letting go. We inevitably change. Whether we evolve is up to you and me. This is my spiritual understanding.

Brooks may have a point that some liberals have forsaken the idea of a Supreme Being, but I don't believe they've given up on universal truths that hold us together beginning with a belief in human dignity. The nationalism of the far right, as we have witnessed in tragedies like the holocaust, is a dangerous gambit toward mob rule. Evident in chants like "lock her up!"

The so-called strong man reveals inner weakness. He fears his enemies. He mistrusts others. He will finally fail.  (Note Hush Money Trial of sleazy dealers all pointing fingers.) We shall overcome, one step at a time. Do the right thing, moment by moment. Do unto others... I don’t remember Jesus waving a flag. Beware of phonies.

Practice deep breathing. Speak with loving kindness.

“The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.” Rev. Martin Luther King