Going to the Pali

Six weeks on the island today and still sane. If I think I'm sane I have nothing to worry about. Maybe it's just a protective way of thinking, guarding myself against going off the cliff, or in Hawaiian, the pali.

At night when I wake up and cannot fall back to sleep, because I start thinking about my failing IRA, questioning my cough and other dire threats, I read.

My latest book is Moloka'i by Alan Brennert. The story takes place in the mid-to-late 1800s when the Europeans were taking over the islands. The small island of Moloka'i is where people who were diagnosed with ma'i pake, the disease of leprocy, were separated from their families and exiled to by boat.

The trip to the island alone was an unreal experience of bodies being pushed together, people becoming sick and finding no relief for normal bodily functions other than to hold on as the ocean currents sloshed them around.

It's not all gloom and doom because the story is about people, their beliefs and faith and hopes and love. It is partly about a clash of cultures that boils down to Christian versus pagan. The story is also about stigma, how people treat others who contract the disease, or are simply related to a diseased person.

When I first began reading this historical novel, I wanted to put it down. It was too close to home with our world going through what is and will be considered an historic pandemic. I didn't need to be reminded.

Little by little, however, I became hooked on the story and the wonderful characters who are never drawn as black and white. Rather, they are humans struggling to find their way, questioning their faith and their affections, their allegiances.

Only two-thirds through the book, I don't know what will happen to all of these people. I do know the Hawaiian culture will be subdued by the invaders. Did they bring the disease to the islands? I don't know. They certainly brought a different perspective and way of life.

Last night I read about a Catholic nun who went to the pali. Her core beliefs had been challenged. She was caught between two worlds neither of which brought her mental or emotional peace. She stood in a state of curious disinvolvement at the precipice overlooking the roiling, crashing waves and jagged lava rock.

Her story and those of the other characters seem particularly closer because of our isolation on one of the same chain of islands where a sovereignty movement exists. Some even express the belief that Hawaii Nei (their aina) will eventually be returned to their people.

I don't know what will happen beyond this moment. Here or in the book.

I really don't want to think about it. Stay in the present. Practice compassion and aloha. If anything, that's the message so far.

Lest I go to the pali.

Father Murphy, the Nuns and Me: A Religious Story for Easter

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Some may come and some may go
We shall surely pass
When the one that left us here
Returns for us at last
We are but a moment's sunlight
Fading in the grass

Come on people now
Smile on your brother
Everybody get together
Try to love one another
Right now
                          -- Chet Powers, recorded 1966 by The Youngbloods


Altar boys were given schedules for serving mass which included the 6:30 a.m. mass for the nuns in the chapel of Pomona Catholic High School on Holt Avenue. You entered the chapel from the east side of the building, down a shadowy path between shrubs and hedges before the first signs of daylight. I was 11-years-old and rode my bicycle to get there from my home in Kellogg Park some five-miles away. 

It was a straight shot down Valley Boulevard which merged with Holt Avenue, the main drag in town, at an intersection known as five-points. My bike had a battery-powered light that cast a circle of visibility on the road that was otherwise dark, the shoulder strewn with stones, broken glass and debris, especially at the edge of town where I was coming from.

There were few cars on the street at this hour.

Father Murphy was the most popular priest of the St. Joseph’s parish. He was tall and handsome with dark hair and swarthy complexion. I was familiar with his brother Bill Murphy, also tall and dark-haired, who coached sports at St. Joseph’s Grammar School. 

The story I heard was that Bill had suffered a “nervous breakdown” and that’s why he was a little strange. He seemed to always be breathing heavily and sweating. He was a nice man and really liked me because I was a fast runner. That was his criteria for sports: speed. He would line up all the kids at St. Joseph’s by grade on the football field for races. The winners would be marked for track and football.

Father Murphy was more sophisticated. He organized an annual fiesta at St. Joseph’s that included carnival rides, a barbecue dinner and entertainment. One year his star guest was Kim Novak, an attractive blonde movie actress. Another year folk-pop singer Burl Ives was the headliner. Bill Murphy told me that he had a date with Kim Novak.

“Kevin,” he said, his eyes happy and aglow. “I have a date with Kim Novak. She said she would go out with me.”

I didn’t know what to think, but it seemed unlikely that the beautiful actress would go on a date with him. But he was convinced. I just shrugged, thinking it might be possible. Why would he say that if it wasn’t true? Or if he didn’t “believe” it was true. Faith, we were taught, always had an element of doubt that made it more spiritual.

The altar boy would assist the priest with putting on his vestments in the sacristy, a staging room for the mass. Father Murphy might ask me how I was doing in sports or something, but there wasn’t much conversation between us. It was still pretty early in the morning. The sacristy presented a solemn atmosphere with a hint of the aroma of red wine, which was kept in the cupboard.

I heard about some altar boys sneaking sips of wine. I wasn't really interested.

Nuns had a particular odor that came from their woolen gowns. I associated their scent and the swishing of their robes with discipline and order, which could mean an unexpected knuckle on the head if you weren't paying attention. They were lined up in the chapel pews facing the altar for their special morning mass. 

Part of my job was to light the candles on the altar and I tried not to look at the nuns when I walked into the sanctuary where mass would be said. I surreptitiously perceived rows of pointed black habits and heavily starched white face masks that exposed vague facial features that I didn’t want to identify. 

I probably knew at least half of them from my classes. The others probably taught at the high school.

I also knew they were judging me and any false move could mean trouble. This was a private affair for them and my job was to serve, including reciting prayers in Latin in response to Father Murphy.

With the mass underway, I knelt on the step facing the altar. Father Murphy stood with his back to me, his decorated purple vestment hanging down from his high shoulders like a Mexican poncho. The small chapel was silent and I believed he was deep in quiet prayer. His body, from his head to his legs, began to sway as if it were a palm tree bending in the wind. 

The more I watched him sway the more worried I became. I was afraid he might faint and fall over. I had witnessed people faint before during mass, and be carried out of the church by male ushers. There were no ushers in the chapel. 

He seemed to be taking more silent time than usual, just standing there facing the altar.
To me, each tilt of his body indicated possible collapse. What would I do then?

I wondered if the nuns were aware of his swaying. What would they do? The entire scene became quietly ominous and I was in the middle of it. 

My concentration was fixed on the subtle swing of Father Murphy's tall frame with Jesus nailed to the cross looking down at us. He, the Son of God, no  doubt saw panic on my face. I wondered what Father Murphy’s face showed. Were his eyeballs rolling back in his head? 

"Jesus, please don't let Farher Murphy fall over," I prayed.

I was close enough to touch him. If he did fall, it would be right next to me.

The nuns maybe didn’t notice what I saw. Perhaps because he was so handsome, some had the hots for him and were fantasizing sexual relations with him, or struggling with their consciences for entertaining such impure thoughts.

Temptation lurked everywhere, especially in church where you were supposed to be thinking about God. It's funny how when you're not supposed to do something, that's when you think about doing it.

After what seemed an interminable silence, Father Murphy slowly turned gracefully toward us. His every move seemed measured and imbued with holiness. I could have heard a feather land on the floor it was so still as we waited and watched.

He spread his hands and said:

“Dominos vobiscum.

To which I replied: “Et cum spiritu tuo.” 

I was greatly relieved to hear the Latin words tumble by rote naturally out of my mouth.

“The Lord be with you.”

“And with your spirit.”

 For that moment, all was saved.

From Silence of the Oranges, a working title memoir © 2020 Kevin Samson

Going with the Flow

Kauai sunrise

Just yesterday a couple of friends from home asked me if I missed Santa Cruz. I had to think about it. Sheltering under quarantine for weeks on end, even in paradise, becomes tedious.

Pretty soon, we're all seeking answers, asking questions, reading books, watching Netflix, eating chips, washing and re-washing clothes, cleaning closets,  watching the news on TV, turning off the news on TV out of fear and contempt, eating more chips, seeing trailers of a heavily tattooed guy in shorts and boots playing with tigers and not wanting to go there, wondering when those books from Amazon will arrive, being presented with charts and graphs about the curve, wondering when all this will end, if it ever will.

Then, coincidentally, through email and text, the same question arrives on my screen. I hear a ping on my iPhone announcing a message from the mainland.

"Do you miss Santa Cruz?"

The question is presented at the end of a communication, so it is essentially a wrap-up statement. Like, I hope you're doing well, or say "hi" to Barbara.

Wrap-up phrases take all forms. Being trapped on Kauai while trying to soak up as much local culture  as possible --- lovely, flowing island music and eye-grabbing flowers -- I feel a simple "aloha" at the end of a missive works well.

It is an expression of love and more. Aloha expresses a spirit, a way of life, an appreciation of nature and friendship.

Other Hawaiian sayings include "Be Pono," which means be "righteous." This phrase appears on trash containers, car windows and the most unexpected places, such as a sticker on a post. It becomes a subliminal reminder.

Then there is the hand sign that means "Shaka." The thumb and pinky extended on one hand that essentially expresses meaning -- hang loose. Relax. Go with the flow. When a local throws me a Shaka, I feel accepted, like being part of a brotherhood.

My Hawaiian music teacher once told me, following a discussion about people's excuses for not attending a group lesson on a windy day at the beach, "Mainlanders have a hard time going with flow."

There's a lot flow going on out here in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. During our frequent visits we have encountered floods, mudslides, hurricane warnings and downpours of rain that make your teeth rattle. It's a way of life. Not to mention the flying cockroaches, creeping centipedes and tiny mosquitoes

Fighting the flow is counter productive.

Do I miss Santa Cruz?

My answer: I miss my dog, Frida. I miss my family and friends, many of whom I continue to communicate with. I miss taking care of my house and puttering around my yard. But right this minute, I believe what I would miss more is being surrounded by green mountains with waterfalls,  jungly flora, kaleidoscopic skies and a big blue-on-blue ocean. The flow. If I were in Santa Cruz, I would miss the flow more.

Road to Costco

Since the greater majority of Covid-19 cases have been traced to visitors, the state of Hawaii is operating full throttle to keep the virus, and visitors, out.

Mayor of Kauai Derek Kawakami has ordered all vacation rentals to close. The mayor has also ordered all current vacation renters to leave the island when their rental period ends.

The mayor said that some vacation rentals were being advertised as Covid-19 sheltering places. In other words, come to Kauai to shelter!  Maybe bring the virus with you!

Very few flights are going in and out of Hawaii. We were scheduled to depart on April 15, but our flight back to the Mainland was canceled. We have re-booked a departure for mid-May.

Meanwhile, the caseload of Covid-19 in Hawaii increases every day. Today's report indicated 19 cases on Kauai.

Yesterday we made our second trip across the island to Costco because our supplies, especially foodstuffs, were running low.

Troopers from the National Guard have joined Kauai Police to set up check-points at different times and places on the island. Only "essential" trips are allowed.

The Kuhio Hwy is essentially the only route from the north shore to Costco in Lihue.  We had traveled only a few miles before we were held up. The delay turned out to be a lane closure on the two-lane road.

The lane was closed because of a dangerous mud slide above the road. At least 20 workers were cutting down trees and chopping timber to prevent trees from falling on the road. There is an art to maintaining roads on a garden island rife with flora sprouting on wet, red volcanic earth that is as slick as a water slide.

New roads are good for about 10 years which means every day,  somewhere on the island,  a crew is working. Mud slides are part of the deal.

After the delay, traffic was light. During normal times, the little town of Kapaa is invariably a bottleneck. Many locals take a bypass route to avoid Kapaa.

Yesterday the town was dead, save for a single market and a couple of food trucks. The empty sight of typically lively streets and sidewalks was eerie.

Thursday's Costco Stock

Based on Costco standards, even the cavernous big box was dead. We were met with empty aisles that made social distancing easy. We wore masks and gloves. The Costco crew were kept busy sanitizing the handles of shopping carts, handing carts to shoppers, eliminating the fear of grabbing an infected one.

They also handled all the products, lifting some from the cart, leaving many in the basket. We needed only to touch our credit card. But that can hurt, too.

We brought a small ice chest with ice in it, and an insulated bag, to carry frozen and refrigerated items home.

The experience was impressive and fairly simple. Yet many cleaning products were not in stock, including the most popular product of 2020 -- toilet paper. Remember throwing rolls of TP on someone's front-yard? We didn't know we were unraveling and wasting pure gold.

It's all relative. What will be next year's gold? Savvy shoppers want to know.

We did not see a check-point going to or coming back from Lihue.

Our most recent conversation with granddaughter Viva happened during her trip home from Costco with her mama and little bro.

"What did you get at Costco?" asked Barbara.

Viva rattled off a list of things including toilet paper.

"You got toilet paper!" exclaimed Barbara.

"Yes. We have plenty of toilet paper. You don't need to get any. We have plenty."

She's so cute. Just hearing her young, straightforward, articulate voice is pure joy.

































"

Tuesday in the Time of Covid

Last night's pink supermoon as seen from north shore Kauai

"The coal company came with the
world's largest shovel
And they tortured the timber and
stripped all the land
Well, they dug for their coal till the land
was forsaken
Then they wrote it all down as the
progress of man."
                           -- John Prine

The island of Kauai has cracked down with 60 citations for violating the public quarantine of beaches, public places and the night-time curfew.

A tourniquet has been placed on tourism, the lifeblood of Hawaii. Since the beginning of April, only 63 people have arrived on the island, compared to nearly 11,000 during the same period last year.

The caseload of Covid-19 on Kauai has reached 16.

The rooster that sleeps in the Puakenikeni tree below our bedroom has upped his schedule with daily crows at 2:30am, breaking a silence that is so quiet I cannot hear myself thinking. No noise is, however, wonderful for sleeping.

The same big-bird rooster gives a repeat call at 5:30 am. The second calling is answered by other roosters in the neighborhood, followed by a chorus of cock-a-doodle-dos every 8-15 seconds.

I believe there are now more chickens on the island than people.

Family outing

A bright and full "pink supermoon" shone last night as dark and light clouds danced around it. I stood out in the street with nobody around and stared at the glowing orb, which was not pink, for about 10 minutes.

Spiritually, the pink moon refers to rebirth, a common theme for spring. An encouraging sign.

I felt like a dark statue: an image of a person standing next to a Monkeypod tree, floating through space. It reminded me of Antoine de Saint-Exupery's "The Little Prince" standing next to the Bayobob tree.

I am no prince. Not anymore.

I am 73-years-old, the same age as John Prine when he died from Covid-19 complications the other day.

I read his obituary in the New York Times. Everyone should read it. Most poignant to me were the comments by readers who so loved him, his words and his melodies. Although a humble, quiet man, I learned from his fans that he had a most powerful effect on their lives.

He was also highly regarded by his contemporaries including Bob Dylan, Kris Kristofferson and Bonnie Raitt who said of John Prine.

"He's a true folk singer in the best folk tradition, cutting right to the heart of things, as pure and simple as rain."

The Road Taken

Each new day during our present lock-down seems to come with a new word or phrase.

Social distance is already a cliche, yesterday's phrase. We all know what it means. It's one of those nouns that has quickly become a verb, an action word.

We wish everyone to social distance, or practice social distancing.

This morning I learned a new phrase. It's been around in psychology circles but seems most appropriate for our situation:

Tragic optimism.

As I understand, tragic optimism is related to PTS (post traumatic stress). It requires crisis. An acceptance of crisis, which any good soldier must accept and deal with.

You don't simply run to your happy place. There isn't a pill or tonic. It's real, not fake. Some of us respond more "optimistically." It's an opportunity to act, not hide.

I think this is how common folk become heroes.

I think the United States of America, at its very soul, stands for tragic optimism.

You see it in the call to duty of our first responders, our health-care workers, food suppliers and more. These folks sacrifice their own well-being, and lives, for others. They rise to the occasion.

A simple example of tragic optimism in our culture is, I believe, protective masks. While other countries walk around in white masks, we immediately create colorful, artful and unique ones. It's an optimistic twist to a tragic situation.

It is clear, however, that we are on our own at this time. Each state, each community, each family. I am hopeful that at our very core, we will continue to be good soldiers. Always ready to lend a helping hand. Come up with a new solution to our common problem.

                                                                       ***

Yesterday I participated in a virtual group meeting of memoir writers. I have been a part of this group for more than a year. We came together via Zoom. The meeting was hosted by the Louden Nelson Community Center in Santa Cruz, under the able technical direction of Kelly Mercer-Lebov.

Here we were, each in our own domicile but together in spirit: Helen, Pam, Nancy, David, and Kathryn Cowan, our astute coach. Some of us had time to read a couple of pages of manuscript to the group, followed by individual comments.

The material is personal. We reveal our experiences in words read out loud. You really don't know what you have until you read it to a group, hear your voice speaking your coveted words.

A friend of mine who is sadly no longer with us was a writing teacher at UC Santa Cruz. His name was Don Rothman. He believed so strongly in the power of writing and inspired many students who went on to become excellent professional writers, as well as other occupations, I'm sure.

When he spoke of writing, his eyes would glow, he would smile and literally beam. He told me that when he was young, he would listen to opera in his bedroom. I could not imagine doing that myself, but I could see him dancing around in joyful celebration.

Through the help of my fellow memoir writers, and a few other mentors, I am beginning to understand how Don felt.

Zooooooommmmm!!!

Art by Samson Harrington

As of today there are 16 reported cases of Covid-19 on Kauai, 371 throughout the Islands.

Even amidst the grandeur of this island, there are moments when everything seems to stop, a moment  when a shadow crosses your landscape.

Maybe it's something you heard from the news, or a friend. It holds you in your tracks.

Nothing moves. You cannot turn back. The trail narrows and daylight darkens just enough to make you wonder. The only map forward is your own resolve.

Then it happens: voluntary yet magically natural.

The connection, the flint that sparks the steel, however that works inside your head, sends a message to your foot. In a micro instant, the signal zooms along synapses, a lightning bolt on nerve fiber.

There is no feeling or second guessing. The flash courses down and through your limbs, the extremities that you carry and that carry you.

Your knee flexes, your leg lifts. The journey continues. That second of indecision now an echo.

Art by Finn Harrington 

Yesterday our day brightened with a virtual happy hour with our daughters and grandchildren, connecting Los Angeles with Marin County with Kauai.

We Zoomed together. A new tech platform for socializing.  I love the word "zoom." It's so retro 1950s, when space ships and Flash Gordon roamed the universe. And Captain Zero held us captive with his TV show.

Daughter Vanessa hosted the Zoom party. She is a fifth-grade teacher and holds virtual classes with her students from her home in Woodland Hills. Her husband Mike and their two boys, Samson and Finn, appeared on the screen.

Samson showed us awesome drawings he's made. Finn, our family dancer, displayed colorful paintings including an artfully rendered tree.

Next, we saw daughter Molly in her familiar family room in San Rafael, with her husband Jason and their girls, Summer and Piper. Summer talked about the possibility of going to Oregon for college next year. Jason and Piper were asked to vacate a basketball court although they were the only ones there. Boo. No more hoops. Molly showed us color samples painted on the wall for new interior design.

It took a little longer but soon we heard granddaughter Viva's lively voice from Anahola on Kauai, not far away by miles, yet socially separated because of the Big-V. Mama Isabel and little-guy Mystiko could be heard, too. Sadly, we could not see them due to tech limitations.

For those moments, we were all together. We chatted and shared stuff and laughed for about an hour.

I already look forward to meeting again next week. Yet there's more time to act between now and then. The act of life. The drama that we consume and that absorbs us. That's what it comes down to: the present. Our daily breath. Our every move and wonder. Onward into the light.

As Captain Zero used to say: Zoooooooooommmmm!