My Back Yard

My yard belongs to the squirrels.

Earlier this week, a squirrel dug up a daffodil bulb and left it on my patio. What I didn’t mention in that blog post was that I picked up the bulb and left it on my back porch, so I could re-bury it after I got iinto gardening clothes. Foolish move. When I came out less than two hours later, the bulb was gone. No bulbs anywhere in sight.

That naughty squirrel got my dander up. So yesterday I got out the heavy artillery. Powdered fox urea. I sprinkled it lightly over most of the daffodil bulbs pushing up in my back yard. "That’ll show them who’s boss around here," I mumbled to myself.

Wrong-o, you foolish human! 

After lunch today I found eight daffodil bulbs in varying stages of dissection sitting atop the plot next to my garage. A couple were torn up beyond saving. I re-planted the rest. Then sprinkled more powder over them. I wonder if to them it’s like I’m sifting powder sugar atop french toast.

But a similar product seemed to protect my pumpkin last October. I’m puzzled.

A daffodil sits forlornly on my backyard patio. Stripped of its outer papery covering. No other sign of life nearby.

The squirrels have struck again.

This morning I rushed out the door without stopping to install a fresh ear of corn in the Squirrel Cafe nor did I slather peanut butter on the bare corn cobs hanging from the squirrel bungee. I only tossed a few peanuts on the patio.

The squirrels are punishing me. They dig up a bulb. Then they drop it in a prominent place, so I’ll get the message. If don’t serve a good enough breakfast, watch out!

They don’t eat the daffodil bulbs. They don’t like the taste. Besides, if I didn’t know I was being punished, what good is it?

It’s amazing that I can grow any daffodils in my yard. 

I float

completely free in the pool.

Nobody’s watching me.

Nobody can see.

I can’t feel free with

my dress, undergarments,

hosiery and jewelry 

binding me.

What is it about the pool

that releases my demons

and lets me be.

This piece of so-called poetry owes its existence to this week’s Poetry Thursday prompt and "Free Floating (Study) by Chris Campbell at the Bethel Street Gallery.

"You have so much presence, I was so impressed." The visitor to my Toastmasters club made my day when she said that during the break after my speech.

I didn’t feel especially impressive. Aside from reading my draft through several times at home and then stumbling through it without notes — until I took a wrong turn — while driving to the club, I hadn’t practiced my speech.

I think I’ve learned to identify three to five main points of my speech and focus on those. I don’t go crazy trying to memorize my speech. When I practice, I try to identify a few places to pause for humor. 

My evaluator liked that I tied my intro to my speech. I forgot my book, so I don’t have any of his written comments. 

One of my goals for 2007 is to achieve a more peaceful home. Getting rid of excess stuff is part of the process.

I read a good tip for junking unused clothes. Go into your closet and place all of your hung items backwards on the rod. If you haven’t reversed the hangers in six months, toss the clothes.

Iggy, who bicycles 22 miles roundtrip to work twice a week during the summer, has me beat in the fitness department.

He charges up the stairs from our fifth floor stateroom on the Pride of Hawaii to the 12th floor pool deck without pausing. He’s at top of the stairs as I huff and puff my way onto the 10th floor. Sometimes I cop out and hop on the elevator. He still beats me.

So it was no surprise when Iggy sprinted ahead of me on the 10% grade uphill toward Hilo’s Rainbow Falls. We’d rented one-speed bikes, the only option offered by Tom in the Hilo Terminal. So I struggled with every rotation of the pedals. I confess. I dismounted and walked my bike for a couple of spurts.

Eventually we reached the falls, where several people from the big tour bus that passed us on the hill said, "We were rooting for you." We also met a man in a moped protective suit reminiscent of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. He told us that he’d found the uphill tough when he made the ascent on a 21-speed bike. That, plus the rainbow arching across the bottom of the falls, made me feel better.

My spirits picked up even more on the ship, when I discovered my hidden talent. After watching a couple of white-haired gents descend the waterslide, Iggy and I decided to try it.

Iggy the adventurous went first, while I protected our table and chairs on the smoke-free side of the Waikiki Beach pools. He returned without a smile, but offering plenty of advice. "Try arching your back or lifting your butt off the slide." He had a hard time moving his body. "They’re not feeding enough water into the slide, so it doesn’t carry you," he said.

Off I went. As I climbed the spiral staircase, winding around a pillar one shade deeper pink than Pepto-Bismol, I wondered why I was taking on a challenge Iggy couldn’t master. But some other adults were in front of me, which boosted my courage.

At the top of the slide, the supervisor told me to lean forward toward my toes. "Hmm, that’s not what Iggy said," I thought. But it sounded more comfortable than Iggy’s technique, so I tried it.

Whee! I flew down the sunny yellow corkscrew, accelerating at a dizzying speed, with my fingers almost touching my toes. It felt as if my ride would never end. Or as if I might gurgle down a drain. Then I roared into the landing pool with a splash. Success!

 P.S. I wrote this on the boat. Later on, Iggy mastered the slide at a hotel pool. I must give him credit.

Hawaii has its dark side: homeless people, low-paying jobs, and antagonism toward the off-islanders who’re driving up the cost of housing.

Homeless people gathered under an open pavilion just above the sands of Waikiki, across from skyscraper towers of hotels charging premium rates. There are plenty of homeless folks, as reflected in an editorial on “City and state work together for the homeless: the Waianae Civic Center has been opened to the homeless living on Leeward beaches,” Honolulu Star-Bulletin, March 5.

The contrast between tourists and locals is dramatic. “Less than 1/3 of all jobs pay enough to cover the basics for an average household, according to the Sunday Honolulu Advertiser. Jobs are mostly tourist-oriented service positions. The median house price is more than $600,000.

Another newspaper article interviewed high school students about their future plans. Most of them figured they’d have to live on the mainland to earn a decent living, even though they’d prefer to stay in Hawaii. Some hope that the U. of Hawaii will bring higher-paying, knowledge-oriented jobs.

In the meantime, there’s some tension between locals and haoles – literally foreigners, but apparently often used to refer to whites.

While we stayed on Waikiki, there was a debate in newspaper letters to the editor about whether the yelling of effing haole made an attack into a hate crime. Family friends who wintered on Kauai told us that locals had yelled haole at them in an unmistakenly unfriendly way. In fact, the wife was deliberately pushed off her bike. “You’re very vulnerable on a bike,” she said.

She thinks the strife is fueled by the recent, faster pace of development t on Kauai. Ironically, that distresses her, too. It has inspired her to create more paintings of Kauai. She and her husband have been visiting Kauai for 20 years or so. “Now,” she said, “we’re not sure if we want to come back.”

Iggy and I took a 4x4 back roads tour on dirt roads belonging to Grove Farms. We went up to Kilohana crater and down to beach at Po’ipu on Saturday, March 10

Tour guide: Grove Farms belongs to Steve Case. Anybody know the name of the company he heads?

MBY: AOL?

Iggy (in booming voice): N-o-o-o. Microsoft. It’s Microsoft.

Another male (jumping on a sure thing): Microsoft.

Guide: No, it’s not Microsoft.

MBY: AOL?

Guide: Yes. It’s AOL.

"Drive with aloha," said the pedestrian after Iggy honked at a car pulling out of a parking spot without signaling. That was the first honk we heard since we arrived. Nobody honked the previous night when Iggy blocked the right turn lane (which sneaked up on us) until the light changed and he could get back to a through lane.

Visited Arizona Memorial at Pearl Harbor. One of the lost sailor’s photo albums reminded me of parents’ photos from less than 10 years later.