Wednesday, April 30, 2008

Trouble in Paradise

I got into an argument with my daughter this morning when I mentioned how high the cost of gas was going up. I mentioned a few thing I might be able to do to cut back on gas consumption. She was fine with that. Then I said “you know the gas going up won’t just affect the car but what we consume in Electricity.”

She hit the roof. “Don’t you think I know how much electricity has gone up? I pay the bill don’t I”?

I just thought maybe we could discuss ways to cut back on that too not meaning that she was ignorant of what was going on. I wonder how many households are playing out this exact same scenario? I hear people complain about immigrants who can collect social security and yet never have paid into it. Complaints about gas going up and worried about how to get to work and yet the bus system does not improve. Instead a billion dollar transit system is being proposed that will not help one bit. On and on it goes but nothing gets done. Why can’t we have more access to voting on these things instead of letting the politicians do it? Maybe the same way that they do in Switzerland.

The ancient Hawaiians believed that their Alii were in touch with the gods. If they had a good relationship with the gods then the Alii would prosper and hence the common man under him would prosper too. But if things went wrong they could remove the Alii because obviously he was not doing the right thing.

I think that is what we should be able to do. Of course that is a bit over simplified it was a much, much more complicated system then that just stated and we know that our leaders have nothing to do with any thing in the heavens. But the way things are going maybe there is a good argument that our leaders are a little closer to hell. Perhaps what we need is an exorcism of the government. Hey maybe the Rev. Wright might want to take on the job?

Saturday, April 26, 2008

A good night's sleep

Max is still insisting that I am one of his pack. Not the leader but one of his pals. He follows me everywhere and leaps on me at night when I go to sleep. Chris has taken to tying him up in her room at night in hopes that I can sleep with out interference from him.

To add to that nights sleep, I finely bought a double bed. I could not stand sleeping in the dip of my hard, twin mattress another day. My neck was so stiff and I woke up sore every morning.

The only problem is, Papoki, the blind Cat. (This is my daughters cat but since she brought Todd into the house Papoki chooses to sleep with me.) Poor me. On the first night that I got the bed Papoki could not figure out how to get on to it as it is higher then the old one. She was scratching on all the furniture trying to get her bearings. This she would do in the middle of the night. So I would have to get off the bed and put her on to it and then she would sleep a few minutes get down go and eat then walk around in the hall then come back and start all over with the scratching. Because she likes to walk around in the hall in the middle of the night I can't close my bedroom door or she will then scratch on it endlessly until I get up to let her in.

After I finely got her settled in, the other cat, Todd who is on a diet, came into my room and started eating papoki's food. I then had to get up and take it away, get into bed, and then Todd hopped up on my computer desk on to the keyboard and then to the sill to look out my window. After I had finely fallen asleep she then hopped on my bed with a thump and woke me. She and Papoki then stared each other down and growled, at which time I had to take Todd out, dump her back into my daughters room, and finely to sleep.

Next thing I know I hear a thump on my computer chair, Todd is on it, directly across from my bed staring at Papoki. Now Papoki can't see her and so she is sleeping but I'm quite awake waiting for Todd to fling herself on to the bed. But I am so tired I finely fall asleep. At 4 in the morning! Finely it's time to get up and I awake with Todd at my feet and Papoki in my face.

That morning Chris was anxious to hear how I slept on my new bed. Did I get a good nights sleep? Well, my neck didn't hurt. For all of the action that that has taken place in my room each night since, I might as well have saved my money and just slept on the couch down stairs because my room is going to the cat's.

Poor Max, might as well let him loose too who knows maybe he can chase the two out and then I will only have to contend with him. Maybe I can get used to his tongue sluping up my cheek and his taking over the bed. At least at some point he settles down and goes to sleep.

Lately I have been feeling, (and I do love animals that's for sure,) lets just give them all away! No more fur full of water dripping on my clean clothes after Max takes a long drink, no scratching at all points of the room in the middle of the night, no fat Todd cheating on her diet in my room or clawing my new bed spread and picking on Papoki because she is model thin, no worrying about Sam, Rachel's cat, as he sits in Rachel's room waiting for her to come home. And best of all no cleaning up cat litter!!!

I shouldn't be so hasty though, who knows how I will feel after a good night's sleep.

Sunday, April 20, 2008

In His Masters Secret Service

I’ve had pets all of my life. My first dog was George. He was a medium size mixed terrier. Dad said he was in the K-9 Core and was named after King George of England.

Oh, I was so proud of that. I told everyone on the block and in school. (He always walked me to School and picked me up.) He was a very smart dog to be sure and was my protector for 16 years.

Now that I’m an adult, I think back to the many things my dad told me, I wonder if George was just some dog dad found and tried to glamorize him to me. He fabricated a lot of stories for my entertainment and this could have been one of them.

George would have been 1 year old in 1945 when I was born. This was the year he came into my life. Maybe he had been considered for training just before the war ended. Well that would be what I would like to think anyway.

One thing I do know, when I was around 6 George bit the Mail Man.

One afternoon as I happily arrived home, probably after fighting with someone, I noticed George being put into the back of a truck. I ran up to my father to ask him what was going on. He told me that George was going to my Uncle’s house for a while because the Mailman wanted to have George put to sleep. My dad was going to fight it and George was going to go to court so he had to stay somewhere until the case was decided.

I did not see George Bite the mailman, I don’t remember what kind of truck it was that took him away but I do remember him going.

Time passed and Dad told me that George had had his day in court. He then went on to tell me about the trial. He said the News Paper even covered the trial.

When the mailman accused George of being a vicious dog it seems everyone came out of the woodwork to defend George’s honor. The neighbor down the street (the young married couple who baked me my very own cookies for Christmas) told about how George would come over and dig up all of these holes in his lawn. This caused him quite a bit of consternation until one day when George was digging away and the neighbor was about to chase him away George backed out of the hole with a dead gopher in his mouth. From that day on the neighbor could not do enough for George. He even bought him his own box of Kibbles dog treats.

Another woman, whom we did not know, came to plead for George. It seemed that George was leading a double life. This lady worked until midnight at which time she had to take the bus home. When she arrived at her stop, there was George waiting for her in the middle of the night, ready to walk her home. She did not know what she would do if he were to be put to sleep.

You have to remember that there was no leash law at this time and George slept on the front porch, so who knows what he did with his nights.

Last but not least, someone testified that they had seen the mailman hit George with his mailbag for no reason at all. I guess that was the clincher.

Next thing I knew there was our little 007 sitting on the front porch waiting for me. Mission accomplished.

This is what I do know. George went away in a truck. George did dig up gophers in the neighbors yard and George came back after
many days, to stay, and the mailman didn’t.

But did he stay with my Uncle? My uncle says “No!” Did he go to court? No one remembers but me and since those of my immediate family are dead, I can’t ask them about it.

Could my dad tell stories? Well let’s just say it runs in the family.

Saturday, April 19, 2008

The Mighty Mite

When I was a kid I was a brat! There is no denying it. I was tall for my age and loved to pick a fight. I knew that if things got tough and I was loosing the fight all I needed to do was call my dog George and say the magic words, "Sic em George" and I would remain the reigning champion of the block.

I wasn't afraid of anyone especially if I was taller then them. Remember I said I was a brat. But one day I got to full of myself and met my match.

Even though I was the youngest of three children you might as well have said I was an only child because my brother was 10 years older then me and my sister was 9 years older. But there's the rub. My brother spoiled me like I was his own child by the time he got to high school. I could do no wrong around him. (well except say I wanted to be a WAVE in the Navy when I grew up. But that's another story.) As for my sister, well lets just say, her closet of clothes might as well have been mine.

Yes she was older then me but she was 4' 10" to my 5' by the time I had reached the 6th grade.
Poor Gloria. She would be at school and I would be going through her clothes to see what I wanted to wear to mine. Of course I had to role up her skirts to fit my skinny frame and I would stuff socks into her shoes (I bet you thought I stuffed them some place else) to make them fit my feet.

And off to school I would go. Of course in an ordinary day I would maybe have one or two fights and was alway racing around the yard so you can only imagine what her clothes looked like by the time I slipped them back into her side of the closet. Especially the one day I stayed late after school to play with the kids and took the shortcut across the school yard and climbed the fence only to find I could not get my leg over the wire gate without ripping the skirt to give me that extra bit of leverage.

So I think it was finding her clothes ripped and dirty, that might have set her off that night. Heaven knows she had nobody to defend her when it came to my shenanigans. (And that is another sad story) We were doing the dishes and I was, as usual, drying them as she always made me dry and that always made me mad.

After she had washed, cleaned the stove, swept and mopped the floor while I was putting the dishes away, she told me to take the garbage downstairs to the rubbish can. That was it for me. It was bad enough I had to dry the dishes and now she was making me empty the trash.

I looked down on this tiny little frame of a girl and told her straight out, no! She started to shove me and I shoved back, she wasn't about to make me do it. The next thing I knew, the door to the basement opened, I was flying down the stairs with the garbage on top of me. Next to me sat George who knew the hand that fed him.

All the hate, abuse and neglect came spilling out of my sister that night. Of course I was to young to know that. I wished I had, but I didn't. But I sure did have a new respect for her. Not only had she thrown me down the stairs she had knocked me off my pedestal. From that day on I never towered over her again.

Wednesday, April 16, 2008

Who destroyed the boy in my Father

Who destroyed the boy in my Father
Category: Life
My mothers side of the family seems to have been lost to me. I've been researching all the supposed names of my grandfather and grandmother to no avail. My grandmother told my brother when he was maybe 5 or 6, "don't tell anyone your Indian when you get to San Francisco."

My parents were leaving Colorado.

It was mid 1930's and my grandmother was truly afraid that harm would come to my brother and sister if anyone knew there nationality.

I did not know we had Indian in us until I was in high-school. My grandfather had passed away and my mom was explaining to me how they draped colorful ribbons over his casket to represent the ones he would tie on his high, rounded hat. I asked my mom why did he do that? That is when I found out he was Indian.

Now that I'm alone, my parents are long gone, I've decided I want to know more about my grandfather. so I started searching. I've looked for a long time and have had a very hard time finding out anything because there are no relatives to ask.

In the back of my mind I kept thinking why don't I just look up my dad's side for now since I do have an uncle living and maybe it would be easier?

I didn't want to know about my father. He was the one who split our family apart, he was the one I did not want to be related to.

Then we had a family reunion. I saw old photo's of my parents, my brother and sister and photos of my dad as a little boy. I got copies of those photos but it was the one of my dad as a young boy that has set me on this quest. I realized while looking at this haunted child that he was at one time a little innocent person who must have suffered at the hands of someone. Someone so evil that he must have turned that little boy into the sick man who became my father.

It is that little boy I love and it is that little I want to discover.

Over the Border

I hate grocery shopping. For that matter I don't like to shop at all. But, hey sometimes you have to eat and when my clothes get tattered I have to shop. But one thing I do like to shop for is a book. If I have the time I will travel a far distance just to buy my books from independents.

Some times I am forced to shop at Borders.

When Border's first opened here on the island it was a novelty. What a great way to spend the morning, sitting and reading the paper or my favorite magazine, checking out the latest books to see if the story was what I wanted. Oh, and those cushiony Chairs. They welcomed writers and provided coffee and someone to guide the group. Now you can't even get a chair to sit in.

Now when I go to Borders, the chairs are gone, the wonderful selection of magazines have disappeared and even the ones that they carry are not regularly there. I feel like Push Me, Pull Me from DR. Doolittle. I find this great photo magazine from England, I go back the next month, it's not there and the next and it's not there. Then several months later I go in, and there it is. Not just that magazine disappears but others too.

Every-time I look for a book, they don't have it but they would be more then happy to order it for me. Now I can do that myself and get it cheaper from Powells. So I ask myself do they want my business or is this a gimmick? Are they pulling a Wal-Mart? (They have my business and they have chased everyone else out of town then they start to drop the variety of merchandise.)

And now, the biggest pain of all, parking spaces that accommodate Mr. Bean size cars. I've had it, all the stores are repainting their car stalls and there is no way you can park a van in a regular stall and get out of it. There is no way you can park a compact in a compact space and get out of it. Believe me I've tried. I've taken to parking in two stalls so that I can open my door without chipping the paint on my car.

Why do I drive around and around at Borders looking for a space big enough to let me out of the car so I can go into a store that has no books and maybe or maybe not the magazine I want to read?
Well The nearest independent is a 45 minute drive to the other side of the island and I'm not always able to get over there.

These big merchants have broken down are communities. No longer can I walk into the fabric store and talk to the sales woman who knows exactly what I'm looking for and also give me help with the pattern.

The salesperson who suggested wonderful gift books for children has long gone. Your lucky if you can get someone to show you where the children's section is let alone suggest a book. Tis to laugh! HA!

All of the neighborhood stores who were part of the area have been run out of town. (Where's the sheriff when you need one?) There underhanded and up to no good.

So, I am subscribing to magazines, and going to the library. Yes I'm saving money but I'm loosing touch with other people. Look, I'm even writing to myself. What a sad state of affairs.

When your a nobody

When you’re a nobody
Category: Life

It was in the sixth grade that I realized that I was nobody. We were studying Mexico and the teacher wanted to have a Fiesta in class. I quickly volunteered to bring some Mexican food.

When I asked my mom if she could make some Beans and tortillas for our fiesta she began scolding me. "Don't you ever tell anyone what kind of food we eat. Why did you say that we eat beans? Another thing, we are not Mexican we are Spanish.” we were not Mexican? That was news to me as the kids always called me a Wet Back. What was wrong with our food? My father hit the roof if he did not have his tortillas on the table every night. I thought they tasted good. Why did I have to hide it?
Now I realized that what I ate and who I was were not to be discussed. And if I could not talk about it that must have meant that there was something terribly wrong with it. Most of all there was something wrong with me.
My mother did make the food for the class and the teacher was so appreciative and everyone enjoyed it but I never felt right. Was the teacher just being nice? Were the kids laughing at me and who my parents were?

Being a non Mexican, Wet Back was very confusing to a supposedly 6th grade Spaniard. My mother was chuck full of surprises.

Kids, they love a challange

So I wasn't supposed to tell anyone what we ate. OK. I guess proper white food would make me a proper white person. So what was my typical "White" lunch for School? Tuna Fish. It was wrapped in a loose piece of wax paper. The tuna was crusted and dry with no mayonnaise. At least it looked like no mayonnaise. I guess mom thought I would get sick if I ate warm mayonnaise while my lunch can rested in the 60 degree coat closet.

Well chuck that sandwich in the trash. A few bites out of the mushy apple and I was done. I was also Skinny. There was not one lunch that I ate. It all went in the trash. I subsisted on a cup of sugar with some Cheerios for breakfast, no lunch, and heaven forbid, a tortilla with can milk and sugar wrapped inside for an after school snack. And no, I did not offer one to my friends.

Why would my friends want one anyway when they came home to home made cookies after school. If there were no tortillas then there was the old stand by white bread rolled and dipped into a glass of milk. I didn't dare touch the fruit. Not that I didn't like it but once I started eating the oranges or bananas I could not stop. Mom would scold me because I ate to much of the stuff.

I was not big on dinner as I did not like steak. Which mom made as she was dog tired when she got home and it was the fastest thing to cook. Of course we had the tortillas and chili to go with it. I am sure she would like me to tell my friends about the steak.

At the table for entertainment I would pick out a subject from the top of my head. Anything, nuts, bolts, what went on at school. It was a game I played with myself. I knew that no matter what I said at the table it would start a fight. Perhaps I was hoping that enough dishes would go flying so that I would have less to wash.

Ah kids, I tell you, they are so easily entertained.

Please Don't Respect Me

Please Don’t Respect Me

I’m turning gray. No, I am gray with a topping of died hair that is turning gray again. I try to look dignified as my hip catches while getting out of a chair. While walking, I try to stand as tall as I can to take the pressure off my messed up knee so I don’t limp. Walking in heels is out of the question because I fall in the most public of places.

In other words, I’m getting old. I’ve reached the years of used to be. I used to be able to bike a hundred miles, I used to run, I used to jump and skip. I used to be young.

Now this isn’t a complaint. I’m fine where I’m at in time. I just think I don’t want respect.

Here in Hawaii, respect is a big part of the culture. You never go to someone’s home without taking some kind of offering, be it fruit, cooked food or dessert. This is showing respect for the other person’s hospitality. You always take off your shoes before entering their house and you never return from a trip without bringing gifts back for family and friends.

Children are taught from infancy to call adults, Aunty or Uncle. That is showing respect. The little children may not know who you are but they will always address you properly.

Often I’ve heard people who visit the islands comment when addressed as such by a wide-eyed, big grinning, gap toothed child. “Don’t call me that! I’m not your aunt.” It always seems to be women who complain. They’ve come here to enjoy the “Aloha spirit” and culture and right off the bat they interject their own culture. No respect!

For me, I loved it. I felt that my relatives were increasing and I was accepted in the islands. There aren’t as many “locals” as there used to be. There are more immigrants then people born here it seems. Large populations of military, tourist and investors have had a big affect on the Hawaiian culture.

Nobody leaves bags of mangos on their yard wall for any passerby to help himself or herself to. Rarely is anyone given a lei upon arrival to the islands, and it is the exception more then the rule to hear “Hi Aunty” from a little child.

Now I hear “Thank you Miss Karen” more then not. How did the South creep in?

Getting back to the old bones and falling down problems I mentioned. I say I’m fine at being on the autumn side of my life but maybe I don’t want to be reminded of it. When I was a young adult I loved being “Aunty” and I absolutely love to be aunt Karen to my nieces and nephews.

But there is another type of respect shown by the young adults I didn’t mention. Young adults always address those heading into their senior years as Aunty or Uncle also. The first time it happened to me I felt mixed emotions. Wonderful, this young man probably in his late 20’s, thinks of me as a local. Then my heart sank. I’m an old lady. He was showing me the ultimate respect that you would show someone of my age. Was I that old?

I’ve since been addressed as Aunty many times. Even the waitress who is my age! Addresses me as Aunty. But there is one more sign of respect to come Oh lord; I hope it won’t come for a long time. Though I am a grandmother I just don’t want to hear it.

Tutu. A very respectful name indeed for those heading down the geriatric road. It means Grandma, great grandma, old indeed. I’ll never need a calendar to tell me how old I am or look, as long as there are well brought up local children. I just wish I wasn’t’ so worthy of their respect.

Tuesday, April 15, 2008

That's not Funny

I dreamed nobody wanted me to talk to them. At least I thought it was a dream. Maybe I’m remembering times when I thought I was having an interesting conversation and then I ended up talking to myself. No, it had to have been a dream.

Lately the theme that runs through my dreams and my thoughts is, I’m not funny. I only talk about serious issues.

Like my feelings on the phrase or euphemism (because lets face it who in there right mind would use the real phrase?) “New Homes at Affordable Prices.” Affordable for Whom? Certainly not the poor and barely the middle class can afford one . Ah but there I go again. I am trying to be funny, light, look on the brighter side. I really scared my friend when I went off on that phrase. I thought I was making a point but she thought I was angry enough to kill. Thankfully she forgave me after I went on about not realizing I was frightening her. After all that kind of rage was everyday conversation while I was growing up.

I remember another time when I was at the movies. Years ago. You can tell by the name of the movie. “Serpico”. It was the scene where Serpico tries to help a young girl in the park who is about to get raped. I got so upset I told to the person I was with “they should cut their balls off.” It seemed a reasonable statement. Not to the guys in back of me. They got up and moved. Were they sympathizers?

I was sitting in Borders the other day and there was an elderly gentleman sitting perpendicular to me. We started talking. We were having a wonderful conversation. He was ex-military, lived all over the world including Alaska. Oh, I thought. I would really like to live in Alaska. I even wanted to ask him if he’d ever watched the beginning of the Iditarod? No. Instead I asked him about the town nears Sitka, or maybe it was Sitka, that was cut off from civilization by a tunnel and that you could only get in or out by a train that only came a few times a week or something like that. I went on to mention having read about a woman who had moved there so her abusive ex-husband could not follow her. I mentioned that I though it was quite a tight community because everyone knew she was hiding from him and they were all able to keep him out of their small area because of that tunnel.

The gentleman stated that he didn’t approve of abuse (I didn’t think he was the type.) and he started to get quiet. When I tried to make light of the conversation by saying I was attracted to that place because everyone knew each other and that I liked the isolation he became even quieter. After a few awkward words he gently said that he didn’t want to keep me from my reading and pointed to the stack of magazines I had on my lap. He then got up and walked away. Now what had I said?

So I had done it again. Why do I insist on taking about the woes of the world as if it was the only topic on everyone’s mind? Again, I’m not being funny, light or looking on the brighter side. I can’t possibly be going through life with that proverbial dark cloud over my head.

Ah! I know. I watched two and a half men tonight. I love it. I really laughed. And the kid who plays Charley’s nephew has such good timing. I wonder what his parents think of the subject matter that is portrayed in that series? For that matter is the kid being exposed to too much sex at such an early age? I mean they talk about some …Oh wait! I’m not on topic. Light, funny, ray’s of sun.

OK, let me see. Oh I get a kick out of New Christine- ah but the subject matter. Hum. My sense of humor is being over run by my sense of morals. Or is it the other way around?

Max is a funny dog. He looks like a catfish. Maybe that’s because he keeps stealing all of the cats food, or chases them till they turn on him and give him a swat. I love the way his ear is always flipped back, sort of like Dorothy LaMoor. But I can’t imagine him in a sarong.

Nope can’t think of any thing funny or maybe for me it’s more fun to be mad. And with a blog I can shout as loud as I want and only offend myself.

Friday, April 11, 2008

Who Was That Boy

My daughter was getting into the car after having picked up a plate lunch at the shopping center. As she got into the car she explained that a young boy approached her and said he was hungry and wanted money. She felt bad, as she did not know if he was telling the truth or not. As we were sitting in the car he approached me on the drivers side.

I asked him many questions. He was 19 years old had been living with his older brother because his step dad had beat up his mom and she moved back to Washington where they were from. He chose not to go but to live with his brother. His brother was now incarcerated and so he (his name is Kawika) was living in his brother’s car.

His story was compelling, but I didn’t know this kid. But in the end my daughter and I chose to give him money for food. As we drove away we could see him entering the plate lunch place. Of course that may have been for our benefit and then he could have taken off to buy drugs or what ever. But we chose to believe him and what he did from there was his decision. Either way it was a sad comment on our Community.

Who is this Boy?

We here it everyday, our world is shrinking. And yet as a community, were are all strangers. How is it that on a trip home from Las Vegas to Honolulu, I would meet a friend from Hawaii whom I had not seen in a while and yet I don’t even know or see the people in my own neighborhood? I make it a point to talk to my neighbors. I want to know who lives around me. But it is not easy. In this day and age when people are rushing off to work two to three hours early to beat traffic coming home discombobulated after sitting in traffic forever, people don’t seem to be in a mood to talk.

Communities are not the small neighborhoods they used to be. It seems the closer the houses the more you try to hide inside yours in order to have your own space. We walk by one another as though that person is not there. When I take my walks I make it a point to greet who ever is passing by. They will make a quick and quiet salutation back but you know that not all are comfortable greeting me.

And not one will take the time to talk for a few minutes. Yes they are all in a hurry and probably don’t want to bother meeting yet another person that could cut into what little time they have.

As a child in the 50’s our neighbors knew everyone and everyone’s business.

My neighbors would have known that boy, where he belonged or what he was going through. They would have known if he was hungry or just pulling our leg.

And that nosy neighbor the one everyone complains about? Because she knows everyone’s business she would have known what and who to contact.

I’ll never have the close-knit neighborhood of yesteryear our communities have spread out to far. And how often do we lean over the fence and talk to the neighbor? For that matter how many of us even know our neighbors or even want to know them?

Would you know when strangers are checking out the house next door? Or would you even know that the house next door is even being cased?

In this small, small world we are a vast community of strangers. So how do we know when someone genuinely needs help if we are so far removed from everyone? How can we send money off to far distant lands to help other cultures and yet we can’t truly pinpoint those right around us who need help.

I know there are shelters and I also have talked to people who have lived in them and heard about their nightmare experiences. But sometimes we need to go outside and see what is happening around us and try to get to know one another, learn the names of the clerks, post office workers, and the people who walk by. Talk about what is going on around us. We need to narrow that gap so that when someone approaches us we know who he or she is.

Oh I know this is to far fetched and there are many, many factors that make this impossible but I only wish I had enough faith in Kawika’s story to have done more. I only wish that my world was smaller and that I had a nosy neighbor who could say “you know so and so’s boy is in a bad way. We should get together and help.”

It’s a sad time that I am living in when I have to worry that if I helped this boy I could be endangering myself. Unfortunately he is one neighbor I will never get to know.

Count Me In

Birds of a Feather

Birds of a Feather
It feels good to be free

Fourth of July in Waikiki

Fourth of July in Waikiki
Early morning view just kicking back

About Me

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Do you want to know about Hawaii from a locals point of view? Where do we like to go? What things do we like to see. This blog is about seeing Hawaii without being trapped. This is a journal about Good eats, Hawaiian events, and looking at the islands through the eyes of someone who has lived here for more then forty years.

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