Houston, We Have a Bouncer

by on May 22, 2012 (Comments Off on Houston, We Have a Bouncer) Comments

Nine days in the peace and quiet of Easter Island had me completely spoiled.  David and I got up at 5am and caught our 5 hour flight back to Santiago, Chili.  We had a 7 hour layover before we boarded our flight for Miami.  A 7 hour layover may seem horrible to some people but for David and I, who had just been seen sprinting through JFK airport in September dragging David’s poor elderly parents behind us just to get to the international terminal nano-seconds after our flight had called final boarding, we were pleased as punch to stroll leisurely to our gate, grab a bite to eat and wait patiently for our flight. crying child

David and I found a quiet place with a three-prong plug where we could see a TV set, plug in our computers and settle in to wait for our flight.  Every so often the muffled sounds of the airport were pierced by a glass shattering shriek of a young child.  It was not nice but I found some kind of strange comfort in the fact that this was not my child and therefore was not my problem.  At one point I made my way to the ladies room and passed directly within ear splitting distance of what I had quickly nicknamed in my mind “the shrieker.”   All this time I had assumed she was voicing her displeasure at her parents for trying to corral her in the seating area while they waited for their flight.  I was shocked when I walked by and saw that this little one was “playing” in a children’s play area and sounding off every time another child came anywhere near the apparatus she was on at the moment.  I looked around casually to see if I could tell by the mortified look on their faces which one of the grown adults surrounding the play area were her parents.  Not one person looked mortified.  In fact, not one person looked the least bit interested that everyone in a 50 yard radius of this child was going to end up a prime candidate for a hearing aid.

Finally our 7 hours in exile were over and our flight was preparing to board.  I made out the Spanish announcement for pre-boarding for families with small children.  Just out of curiosity, I turned to look at the line forming at our gate.  There was a huge line forming.  It appeared that half of our flight was going to be full of weary-looking parents with surly-looking children.  And as fate would have it, sure enough about half way up the line, there was “the shrieker.”

As we boarded the plane, I hoped the travel devils had not put our predetermined seats next to “the shrieker.”  I know it’s not nice but I have raised three children, wrestled them on and off of airplanes, chased them through various tourist destinations, held them hostage in my car for hours upon hours to get to Grandma’s house.   I don’t think it’s too much to ask not to want to sit next to a child who can produce a shriek that can break glass for eight hours while her parents put on their headsets and pretend like the child is an angel.  When we boarded the plane I was thrilled to see that our seats were in the row behind a family travelling with several teenaged kids.airplane passengers

Now, if you know me, you know that I believe fully in karma.  Whatever you throw out into the universe will come back to you tenfold. So it didn’t really surprise me that I was immediately rewarded for my selfish and uncharitable disposition toward “the shrieker.”  We had not even settled into our seats before the young teenage girl in front of me began bouncing in her seat.  Every time she shifted position or leaned forward to talk to her sibs she banged down into her seat with the force of a rhino sending everything on my tray table careening about the cabin.  When dinner was served I ate with one hand and kept the other firmly on my tray so that I didn’t end up wearing my chicken and rice all the way home.  When my Heineken came, I was not about to put that puppy on the tray table.  I kept it safely in my hand as far away from the tray table and its swaying cup holder as possible. bottle of beer   Once our meal was finished I pulled out my computer and thought I would sketch out a few blogs.  Just as I put my hands on the keyboard, the teenager in front of me jumped up, slammed down into her seat and pushed the shiny chrome button sending her seat back to the fully reclined position.  I was effectively trapped with my elbows shoved into the seat behind me with my computer wedged into the narrow space in front of me threatening to rupture my spleen should we hit any sudden turbulence.

Moral to the story, be careful what you gripe about.  You could move from a shrieker to a bouncer!

The zookeeper and the pig

by on May 10, 2012 (12) Comments

We’re at the end of the school year and the first-third grades will be performing an annual Spring Revue musical. It’s always something for parents to look forward to, what with the mad scurry to create, purchase or borrow costumes, learn songs and watch with over-the-top pride as our children sing off-key, mumble their lines, fidget with their costumes or (gasp!) even trip on stage. Yes, it’s truly the stuff of memories.

This year there was an added element of stress and excitement when the casting announcement was made. Gracie was absolutely thrilled to learn that she was going to be playing a zookeeper. Gracie LOVES being in a position of power and felt this role was made for her. Jack, on the other hand, was not so happy. He was cast as a pig. What made it worse was that he is just a pig among a group of pigs. He isn’t even a standout, remarkable pig (we have been reading Charlotte’s Web – bad timing, I know!).

After spending a fair amount of time at the computer with Jack so we could look up information about how intelligent pigs are, he started to come around. Maybe being a pig wasn’t so bad after all. Whew! One crisis averted. At tonight’s performance I will be watching my proud little pig sing and dance across the stage while holding his snout up high.

Gracie, who up until this morning, was on Cloud Nine at the thought of being a zookeeper, just had her little pink snouted sibling inform her that he overheard Mommy tell Daddy that the zookeeper costume consists of BOY’S clothing. The costume requirements were khaki shorts and a button-down, collared white shirt. Gracie had neither in her wardrobe and I couldn’t find khakis or a white shirt in her size in any of the girls’ departments of our local stores. Cleverly, I figured the boys’ departments would have quite a selection of such mandatory manwear. I found just what I needed, snipped off the tags to hide the gender proclamation and hoped that my daughter wouldn’t really notice the mock fly on the shorts or the fact that the shirt buttoned in the opposite direction. All was good and Gracie was none the wiser until the porcine tattler spilled the beans.

Now, Jack is thrilled with being a pig and Gracie is NOT happy about wearing boys’ clothes. No matter, I will still be sitting in the front row, ready to applaud my little heart out the moment a certain proud pig and grumpy zookeeper take the stage.

Unlikely Hero

by on Apr 29, 2012 (Comments Off on Unlikely Hero) Comments

Since we were going to be on Easter Island for 9 days we decided to rent a car so we could explore on our own.  The rental car agent met us at our bungalow with a cute little manual transmission GMC Jimmy, the standard rental on the island.  At home, we drive a Suburban so this little thing seemed like a toy car to us.  We signed the paperwork then realized the poor woman intended to walk back to town.  Of course, we offered to give her a ride.  Peter, our bungalow owner, offered to come with us and give us a quick tour of Hanga Roa.    David, who was a little rusty on his stick shift skills, was put in the horrifying position of having to quickly re-adapt in a strange car, in front of two strange people, in a strange town.  Luckily for us, David adapted quickly and that one ditch was just a little bit further away than it appeared, so life was good!

The main roads in Hanga Roa are narrow lanes paved with bricks.  Cars are allowed to park in hap-hazard fashion on one side of the street only.  Luckily the drivers on Easter Island drive very slowly.  You tend to share the street with cars, bikes, motorbikes, pedestrians, stray dogs and an occasional horse with or without rider.  Once you leave the main streets of Hanga Roa the island is fairly simple to navigate. There is a main paved road that leads through the center of the island that leads to Anakena beach or there is a coast road that you can take to Rano Raraku and circle all the way past Anakena beach back to Hanga Roa.  Once you get off the main roads the out roads tend to be dirt roads that quickly dwindle down to dirt tracks embedded with rock.  It was such a wonderful feeling of freedom to know that not only were there no crazed criminals, vicious wild animals or slinky slithering snakes waiting in the grass to attack my ankles but it was just about impossible to get lost either!

Everything was going quite well, David and I were happily cruising around the downtown area with the windows down letting the warm ocean air blow through our hair.  It was almost like the vacation devils got together and said, “Those Allens are way too happy with their little selves.  Let’s throw a few kinks their way and see how they like it.”  First we found out that the two paved roads leading to our bungalow were closed because they were being repaved at the same time.  The only way to and from our bungalow was a dirt lane with what seemed to David and me a precariously steep incline just wide enough for one car to pass at a time.

We decided to walk down to the ocean and eat at a restaurant across from our moai that night in hopes of taking some pictures of the moai at sunset.  I knew that part of the reason for walking for dinner was to take pictures but also that Dave’s stick shift skills were no match for that hill.  Surely the road would be open in the morning and we would be back to our adventure, no harm no foul, but the little vacation devils had other ideas.  They sent in the rain.

That night it rained and turned cool.  The newly paved road did not dry and the barriers remained in place.  The hill that was so daunting in our minds before suddenly turned into a giant slip and slide.  Not willing to miss any days of our adventure I told David, “I can do it.”

I learned to drive a stick shift on an old truck with a 3 on the tree baling hay.  I accidentally dumped the clutch and threw my cousin and a dozen bales of hay off the back of the truck.  If it wasn’t for the fact I was a girl, I would have gotten my rear end whipped for that.  David and I took off around the island that day in search of adventure.  We found caves and moai, ahu and pukao.  I drove on all the roads that were covered with rocks, mud and giant red mud puddles.  David drove in Hanga Roa where the narrow roads and all the activity made me too nervous to enjoy driving.  It worked out perfectly.

On the way back to our bungalow we had to confront the dreaded hill.  We bounced along in the long line of traffic until it was finally our turn to head up the hill.  I double checked we were in 4 wheel drive, lagged back from the car in front of me and downshifted into second.  I made sure I hit the bottom of the hill with enough speed to make it to the top hopefully without bogging out, but nope, that was not to be.  Part way up the hill the engine began to bog and I knew we were going to stall.

Did I mention that this is the part of the road that becomes one car only?  Did I mention that there is a line of cars waiting at the top of the hill for their turn to come down?  Did I mention that there is a line of cars behind me waiting for their turn to come up?  Did I mention that the guy behind me failed to wait his turn and had therefore snuck in directly behind me up the hill and was now close enough to my bumper that I could see his nose hairs in my rear view mirror?

With a quickness that I had honestly thought I had left somewhere in my 30’s, I pushed in the clutch, slammed the little Jimmy into 1st, let out the clutch and gave that baby some gas.  To my immense relief, the engine did not die leaving me to slide backward down the slippery slope into Mr. Nose Hair causing a massive traffic tie up on the only open road on that side of the island, but actually caught and gained speed as we hopped straight up to the top of the hill.

Sitting on the porch of our bungalow sharing a beer later that evening David turns to me and says, “After 27 years of marriage I didn’t think there was anything you could do that could still impress me.  But I am really impressed.”

After 27 years of seeing me naked both physically and emotionally I was surprised and thrilled that David still found me amazing.  Funny thing is, David is my hero every day.  I think, everything I am is because he is here for me, encouraging me to just be me. So it was a wonderful feeling to know that I was his hero too.

 

Bunny Duty

by on Apr 12, 2012 (Comments Off on Bunny Duty) Comments

The traditional arrival of the Easter Bunny was supposed to occur as usual this year. With my daughter being almost 10 years old, I suspected it might be my last opportunity to sneak around at 11pm at night to place eggs in their hiding places, but when both my kids happily went to bed at their normal time and didn’t give me any excuses, I figured this would be a relatively easy night. Gracie and Jack had other plans.

Close to midnight I tip-toed out of my room and down the hall to check on my two little sleeping angels in their beds. To my surprise, they weren’t in their rooms. I continued down the hall into the living room, where I found my kids sleeping on the two loveseats. On the table between the loveseats sat two dishes with mounds of baby carrots and a note for the Easter Bunny that said we know Santa Claus likes to drink milk but we don’t know what bunnies drink. So they left two cups of water with apologies if that was a wrong choice.

As I gently covered my kids with blankets I noticed they each had a flashlight tightly grasped in their hands. Jack’s DSI was also on the table and I suspected he was planning to use its camera to capture the evidence. They had a serious plan at catching the Easter Bunny in the act this year.

I tiptoed back into my bedroom, got Scott out of bed and told him he had to stand guard at the loveseats to ensure the children didn’t wake up as I distributed the eggs. He wasn’t happy. It had been decided long ago that mommy was in charge of bunny-related activities.

As my children enjoyed their dreams, I went around the house in the dark and ever-so-quietly placed eggs in secret hiding places.

Just as I was about to slide into bed and pat myself on the back for the stealthy work I had just done, I heard the sound of some jelly bean-filled eggs rolling along the hardwood floor in the living room. I bolted out of bed and ran down the hall to find my cat playing hockey with two pink Easter eggs. Thankfully, my kids are sound sleepers. I carried the cat back into my room and went to bed.

Being an Easter Bunny is very stressful!

David Chasing the Sunset

by on Apr 03, 2012 (Comments Off on David Chasing the Sunset) Comments

You would think by now I would realize that the utterance of the most innocent phrase by my husband, David, could create some of the biggest adventures.  But no, even after 27 years of marriage, it appears that even I can still be caught off guard by David’s dog-with-a-bone mentality when he get his mind set on accomplishing a goal.  Our first dinner on Easter Island found David and I seated on the outdoor deck of a wonderful restaurant eating slipper lobster appetizers, garlic chili hot octopus and drinking Mahina, the locally brewed beer.  We watched as the sun set on the ocean, throwing beams of light down through the clouds to the water below.  It was at this moment David said to me, “I want to walk and take a picture of the moai down the street from the bungalow at sunset one night.”

On our second day, our bungalow owner at Hare Swiss and wonderfully knowledgeable private tour guide took us to Rano Raraku to see the moai quarry.  We spent a wonderful day hiking up and down the trails, looking at all the moai.  We then drove down the coast to Anakena.  We then zigzagged our way back across the island visiting various ahu with standing moai of importance.  After the long day of hiking about, David didn’t even fathom asking me if I was willing to traipse down the path to the moai just so he could to get his picture at sunset. We had 7 more days in paradise; the sun had been setting on the moai for hundreds of years, so surely it could wait one more day.  He is a very smart man.

On the third day the rain came.  Big black clouds clogged the sky.  The rain came first in pitters and patters.  Then the rain came in torrential downpours.  David had painstakingly researched our top ten travel destinations list to make sure we were somewhere warm in January with as little chance of rain as possible, but as luck would have it, we found the one place that would book an historic rain event this January.  Every mid-morning we would watch as the clouds began to retreat.  By mid-afternoon we would be lulled by the caress of the tropical breezes into believing that today would be the day David would have his sunset rendezvous with his moai only to watch with dismay as each late afternoon the clouds would begin to build darker and thicker, ensuring that the beautiful array of reds, oranges and pinks from the setting sun would be completely absorbed by their dark and brooding facades.

On our second to last night David and I made a desperate trek down from our bungalow to the seaside and had dinner at what had quickly become our favorite “close to the moai” restaurant so we could be at our moai at sunset even though thick clouds covered the horizon and the wind had picked up to a gale force.  I sat on a rock on the moai ceremonial grounds, wind whipping so hard my hair was standing straight out from my head as David diligently took picture after picture of the moai in hopes of catching the one stray glimmer of color that floated out of the gray and surly sunset sky.  As I sat on my rock, quietly communing with the moai, watching the man I love with all my heart running around like a little kid in a candy store snapping pictures by the dozens, it dawned on me.  I had made a critical error in judgment.  I should have grabbed the opportunity to walk down with David on the second day when the sky had been so beautiful.  I had taken for granted that by virtue of being alive and on the island, the gods of fate would bring forth a beautiful tropical sunset day after day to delight and entertain me.  Sitting below the looming silhouette of our moai, my face began to burn with shame at my arrogance (of course it could have just been the wind buffeting off my cheeks).

Our last night once again found us running down the dirt road from the restaurant toward the moai to catch the sunset.  Luckily this time there were brilliant colors of red, orange and pink filling the sky.  David ran on ahead to make sure he didn’t miss a single minute of his final photo op with his moai.  Since I knew there were no mean people, man-eating horses or vicious ankle-biting rodents to run out and attack me, in true southern style, I sauntered my way to our destination.  It’s not like I didn’t know the way like the back of my hand by now.  Sitting on my rock, I watched as David ran about happily snapping pictures from every conceivable angle to ensure that he would finally get his perfect moai at sunset picture.

After the last of the light left the sky, David and I walked hand in hand up the grassy courtyard to the parking lot where Peter and Tiare were waiting for us in the parking lot, completely content that after seven days of chasing, David had finally gotten his photo op with his moai at sunset.  For me, life lesson learned.  Even when in a tropical paradise, cherish every sunset, you don’t know when you might be in for an historic rain event.

 

 

Gracie and the bee

by on Mar 23, 2012 (Comments Off on Gracie and the bee) Comments

Between last year and this year, there has been a change in my daughter when it comes to bugs. The girl who happily covered herself in cicadas last summer can’t stand the sight, sound or feel of any insect. Spiders, ants, beetles and mosquitoes cause her to run in the house. Bees and wasps cause her to run in the house while issuing a siren-like scream.

Due to this panic, my daughter has decided that all bugs are assumed to be bees regardless of their appearance. If it flies, it’s a bee.

So that leaves me with a problem. We just bought Gracie a brand new bike, new helmet, knee pads, elbow pads and gloves because she had been complaining that her other bike and accessories were too small. On the beautiful spring day that we planned to go out bike riding by the river, I loaded Gracie and Jack’s bikes, my bike, all bike-related accessories and a picnic lunch into the car. Off we went to the Stones River. We parked and I pulled out three bikes and all the accessories. I slathered sunscreen on all of us and showed Gracie that I did, indeed have the can of wasp spray attached to my belt. Then I strapped knee pads and elbow pads on each child, gave them each a pair of gloves and then fastened their helmets on their precious little heads.two loons and a book

We discussed which direction we were going to go and were no sooner on the bikes when I heard the bee-alarm siren going off. Gracie was screaming. It may have been a wasp that flew by but then again it may have been a fly, a butterfly or even just some pollen but I knew, based on the intensity of the human siren, our outing was over. No amount of verbal reasoning was going to work. My daughter was not buying the “if you leave the bees alone, they’ll leave you alone” philosophy that my mother had used on me.

Helmets, knee pads, elbow pads and gloves were unstrapped with lightning speed. Gracie dove back into the car while I hoisted the bikes back in their positions and then repacked all the accessories. Jack stood in the parking lot next to the car. He was also crying but when I asked him why, he said he wasn’t sure whether he was crying because Gracie had seen a bee or because we weren’t going to go bike riding.

I am standing at my back door looking out at my yard. There are bikes leaning up against the house, a beautiful pool waiting for the sun to warm the water, two swings on a swing-set gently swaying with breeze, and a wasp sunning himself on my deck. He should have quite a good time ahead of him if he enjoys bike riding and swinging because he and his friends will have the backyard all to themselves this spring. My kids are in the house playing a board game. I think the only way I’ll get Gracie outdoors this spring is on a rainy day.

Breakdown in Marital Communication

by on Mar 16, 2012 (2) Comments

Our second night on Easter Island, David and I walked 20 minutes down to the ocean and followed the coast to Restaurant Manuia across the street from the ocean and the island’s only cemetery.   We ate a wonderful dinner and chatted with another American couple that had been on the island for several days who were thrilled to tell us all the places we needed to go and see.  After they left we lingered happily, enjoying sitting in the open night air having each other’s undivided attention for a change.   Just about the time we were deciding whether to go or have another drink, the rain came down in torrents.  Decision made, we stayed for another drink.  The rain and our drinks dried up about the same time.   With another break in the rain we decided to make our way back to the bungalow.

Immediately swallowed up by the darkness it became very apparent that our one flashlight was woefully inadequate for the task at hand.  David pulled out his trusty Droid with its flashlight app and handed it to me.  The meager light from the Droid was barely enough to cut through the dark to the ground right at our own feet.  Undeterred, we continued to traipse through the wet grass. The sounds of the waves crashing on the rock cliffs to our left become louder and louder.

This is where the fine art of marital communication melted down.  I thought we were going to follow the road up above the cliffs to where it intersected with the road leading up the hill to our bungalow.  David thought we were going back the same way we came, travelling along the cliff to the second moai, then head up the field to where the road leading to our bungalow began.  As we walked further and further from the road, I began to question David as to whether he knew exactly where he was going.

I was convinced we were heading straight for the rocky cliff and would inadvertently be plunging to our deaths at any moment.  Adding to my aggravation was the strange phenomenon that happens every time David holds a flashlight in his hands.  For some unknown reason he can’t seem to keep himself from continually shining the blinding light directly into my eyes.  Frankly, it was bad enough that I was being lead toward a sheer drop off into the ocean trying to light my way with the luminary equivalent of a birthday candle.  But to be continually blinded by David as he swings his flashlight around looking for our landmarks put me over the edge.

Walking this way in the daylight seemed extraordinarily simple.  We just followed the coastline and made note of several key landmarks as we went past them.  Coming back in the pitch black dark with two flashlights with beams that couldn’t cut warm butter, things seemed more ominous.  As I felt we were getting further off course and coming way too close to the edge of the cliff, my questioning of David’s knowledge of where he was going became, shall we say, more intense.  Instead of explaining to his increasingly panicked wife that he was going back the same way he came, David pulled out his standard line of “Trust me, I know where I’m going.”  This is the same line that had us driving around downtown Chicago looking for a building with a half a car hanging from the façade because David ate the directions in his adamancy that he knew where he was going and didn’t “need no stinking directions.”

Needless to say, this reply didn’t help to make me feel more secure.   Just for the record, this would not be the first time David inadvertently attempted to kill me on one of our vacations, but those stories will have to wait for a whole different set of blogs.

Finally we began to find our landmarks, which David excitedly pointed out to me by shining his flashlight directly into my eyes to make sure that I had seen them too.  He was more than excited to make sure that I acknowledged that this time he did know exactly where he was going.  If I could have seen him in the dark, I’m pretty sure I would have seen him pat himself on the back when our lone moai finally showed up in the beam of his flashlight.  Knowing that we were on the right path, that we were not in emanate danger of falling off a cliff in the dark, that there were no man-eating wild horses, the wild dogs were pretty friendly and the island had no vicious wild animals or snakes that would dart out from the underbrush to attack our ankles, marital bliss was restored.  We strolled hand in hand, chit chatting the whole way back to the bungalow about what adventures were on the slate for the next day.

 

It’s not a girdle

by on Mar 08, 2012 (13) Comments

I don’t know what it is but for some reason I am a TSA alert magnet. As an average, middle-aged woman who travels around the country to lecture on cat behavior and cat psychology, I don’t view myself as particularly threatening but I am always stopped when going through airport security for one reason or another. This last time, however, I realize it may have been my fault.

I had been dealing with a pinched nerve in my back for weeks and the thought of sitting in an airplane seat designed for the Wizard of Oz Munchkins, was getting me more apprehensive as my departure date grew closer. I had to figure out some way to make this flight more tolerable. I ruled out taking massive amounts of pain killers as a responsible option, as well as cashing in all of my “free drink” coupons. What was left was the option of wearing this hideously tight back brace that the doctor had prescribed. Although the back brace did make it difficult for me to fully inflate my lungs, it actually made my back pain disappear. The brace had been prescribed for me to wear whenever I was sitting at my computer or sitting anywhere for an extended period of time. It was worth a shot.

The downside of the back brace is that it has 50,000 hook-and-eye closures up the front. When trying to put this thing on, I can totally understand how women who wore corsets could go from a 36-inch waist to a 16-inch waist. This was a serious back brace.

The morning of my departure I was faced with two options: put the back brace on at home and risk being stopped by TSA or wait until after passing through airport security to put it on in the restroom. Considering I had to thrash around on my bed, kick my legs and say several expletives in order to get the darn thing fastened, it didn’t seem as if an airport bathroom stall would work well. So I decided to take the risk and put the back brace on at home. Bad idea.

While going through the full body scan (don’t you just LOVE those things!) I could sense the concern on the faces of the TSA agents. I also noticed that when I went into the scanner there was just one agent nearby but now there was a whole herd of them. I was headed for a pat-down.

“Ma’am, what do you have under your shirt?” asked a female TSA agent.

“It’s a back brace,” I answered.

The TSA agent immediately motioned for several members of her posse to follow her. “We need a private pat-down,” she said at a very loud volume while holding me by the arm and leading me to a little room with blackened windows next to the security area. I glanced over my shoulder and saw that two other female TSA agents were right behind me.

Inside the room, the TSA agents surrounded me. No one was smiling.

“I need to see what’s under your shirt,” said the agent standing right in front of me. I looked to my right and saw that one of the other agents was strategically positioned at the door. If was obvious that if I had any notion to make a run for it, I wouldn’t make it out of the room.

I sheepishly lifted up my shirt and showed them my back brace while wondering if any of the women were also marveling at my artificially small waist.

The agent put on a pair of disposable gloves. “I have to feel the brace,” she said while running her hands up and down the material. “Boy, that’s tight,” she said. I just nodded. My fear, my racing heartbeat, along with my inability to expand my lungs completely, made it difficult for me to answer.

Satisfied that I had not wrapped myself in anything dangerous (other than a potential lack of oxygen to my brain), the agents opened the door, handed me my things and walked out the door ahead of me.

“She’s just wearing a girdle,” loudly shouted one TSA agent to the herd of agents who were standing outside the door. Everyone within earshot in the security area turned to look at me.

“It’s a back brace,” I called out, defensively, “not a girdle.”

I sensed a look of disbelief on the faces of many of the women.

Next time I will endure the pain of the pinched nerve and leave the girdle back brace at home.

What’s a moai?

by on Mar 01, 2012 (Comments Off on What’s a moai?) Comments

The reason that David and I travelled through four airports spending 30 hours of our lives flying and eating airport food was to get to Easter Island, the number one item on David’s bucket list.  I know, you’re thinking we are awfully young to think about a bucket list, and we would agree if not for the fact that both of our fathers have developed Alzheimer’s.  Once our youngest child got out of college, we decided we better get on the stick to make sure we got to see everything before one or both of us couldn’t remember where it was we wanted to go.

Ahu Tongariki

Easter Island is home to over 900 Moai.  Moai are large stone statues that were carved by the Rapanui from rock called “tuff” found in the volcanic quarry at Rano Raraku.  Peter, the owner of the HareSwiss bungalows where we stayed and host and guide while we were on Easter Island, took us on a tour of Rano Raraku.  We walked around the back of the volcano where the path lead us close to the Moai buried in the ground to the lake in the center.  As we followed the designated path, we saw hundreds of moai abandoned in various states of completion.  One thing that I noticed right away on Easter Island was there is very little background noise.  Once you leave Hanga Roa (the only town on the island) you are wrapped in a wonderful silence. There are no planes flying overhead, no cars speeding down the super highway and not a dog bark to be heard.   Standing in the dead silence of the quarry looking at several hundred abandoned moai projects I could totally understand how people can be lead to believe in alien abduction.  The moai are littered about the landscape.  Some, still in the work pits have been buried by hundreds of years of the earth’s settling.  Some were on the Moai road to the coast and appear to have been just left lying face down by the side of the road.  Others are still fully encased in the side of the volcano never having been released from the original worksite.  Rana Raraku gave me the eerie feeling that the workers were suddenly sucked up from their job posts, never to return again.

The Moai Quarry at Rana Raraku

When a high ranking member of a clan passed away their moai was taken from the quarry to the clan’s ahu by the coast.  At the same time from the quarry at Puna Pau in the center of the island a craftsman would sculpt a round “pukao” (a top knot representing the person’s hair but somehow was translated as a hat) made of red scoria and send it to the ceremonial site.  Once the moai and pukao were together at the ahu, the moai would be raised into position. The final touches were to give it white coral eyes with black volcanic glass pupils.  The person was then cremated behind the ahu.  It was believed that the spirit or ‘”manu” would enter the moai giving it special powers to protect the village from all that might threaten it.   The moai at Ahu Ko te Riku has been fully restored.  This moai gave us an idea of how spectacular the island must have been during the height of the Moai period when ahu full of standing moai were found every mile or so up and down the coastline.

How the moai were transported is a subject of great debate.  Some think they were rolled across the rocky terrain face down until they reached the ahu.  Others believe that the giant statues were “walked” (rocked side to side like moving a refrigerator) to the ahu site.  Some legends tell of the spiritual leader of the clan passing power to the moai and having it walk itself from the quarry to the ahu at the coast.  No matter which version you would like to believe, getting a 30-foot tall stone statue that weighs several hundred tons from the steep side of a volcano, across miles of the undulating, rock littered terrain to a ceremonial site, only then to have to raise it onto a platform at least 10 feet high while attempting to keep a several ton red hat on its head is an amazing feat as far as I am concerned.

Fully restored Moai

Some of the locals still believe that the moai will talk to you if you are listening carefully.  I tried to listen during the time I spent sitting on a stone waiting for David to finally get the perfect picture of his moai but unfortunately, it never spoke to me.  I brought home a small stone moai that now lives among the clutter on my desk.  This is where I spend the majority of my time, so hopefully if it does ever want to tell me something, I’ll be all ears.

 

The Big Red Truck

by on Feb 21, 2012 (Comments Off on The Big Red Truck) Comments

My car had been leaking all kinds of various fluids for the last few weeks so a family friend who is also an outstanding mechanic, had time to take it yesterday in order to fix whatever was ailing the poor thing. Since the kids didn’t have school yesterday, I told him he could keep the car all day if needed. I just had to have it back by the next morning so I could get the kids off to school and take my 90-year-old mom to the doctor.

The mechanic very thoughtfully left his truck when he took my car, just in case I needed a vehicle. He has done this every time he takes my car to work on it and every time I have never needed to use it. He’s so thoughtful to do this but I honestly couldn’t see myself driving his big, red, super jazzed up, very high off the ground truck. I know this is a truck that any man who enjoys being noticed by the highway patrol would love driving, but not me. In my opinion, it’s nice to know it’s there in case of an emergency but I’m more the boring minivan type of girl. Give me a vehicle that hides all the juice stains on the upholstery and puts me at the same eye level of most of the other drivers and I’m happy. I don’t really want to drive a vehicle that allows me to see so far into other cars that I can tell what kind of shoes the drivers are wearing.

Even though my car was supposed to be ready last night, it took longer than expected because of a list of things the mechanic rattled off to me – none of which I could’ve repeated back to him if my life depended on it. The only thing I really heard was the fact that my car wasn’t going to be ready until later in the morning. Uh oh!

My husband jumped at the chance to take the kids to school so he could ride in the big red truck. So now we were down to the fact that when he returned and then took his own truck off to work, I’d have to take my mom to the doctor in the big red truck.

As I’ve mentioned, my mom is 90. She’s also under 4’8.” To make the situation even more fun, she’s in the early stages of Alzheimers and is often on the cranky side. So whereas my children were jumping for joy at the thought of riding in the big red truck, I knew Mom would have a very different reaction.

I went out into the driveway and walked around the truck, sizing up the situation. First problem – how the heck to hoist Mom way up into the truck. Second problem – getting her out of the thing. I figured I’d need to bring a stool for her to step on. I didn’t have a stool – at least not one that I’d feel was safe enough for a 90-year-old.

I stood in the driveway and went over my options:

Call a cab

Find a neighbor to help me get Mom in the big red truck

Cancel the doctor’s appointment – ding, ding, ding, we have a winner!

I walked back into the house to make the call but just then my phone rang. My husband was calling to tell me that the mechanic told him the car was ready. I’d have my car back within the half hour.

About an hour later, as I helped my mother get into our familiar, unimpressive minivan, she turned to me and said, “I was kind of hoping we’d get to ride in that big red truck.”