Notes in the key of C

Just try to imagine being in a hurricane with high winds, lots of dust but no rain. We experienced a couple of days of that kind of weather here this past weekend. From inside the local Best Buy store, I could see overcast skies, a cloud of dust moving in from the south, and trees branches flexing with the wind. The store lights flickered on, then off and on again. It was time to head for home.
I could feel that the temperature had dropped a few degrees and I felt a chill as I weaved the Vue through holiday season traffic. It brought to mind a certain winter gone by and those days I suffered in that little shotgun-style house I was living in at that time. The landlord owned and lived in the house next door, we had an “all-bills-paid” arrangement and for reasons unknown, he just disappeared one day and never returned. Apparently he had not been paying the utility bill because within a few days of each other, the electricity and the gas were both turned off. Imagine daily temperatures averaging in the teens and twenties, an old house with inadequate insulation, no electricity, no gas to heat the house or cook and no money to get the utilities turned back on. That’s what awaited me every evening after work. Once the sun went down I moved through the house in darkness. I dreaded taking showers in water so cold, my whole body continued to tremble even after I jumped out, dried off and put on several layers of clothes to try to get warm. No electricity meant no lights, no tv, no radio and no electric heater. Trying to sleep under several blankets and comforters was difficult and I could feel cold air coming up through the wood floors and through the mattress I lay on. Sandwiching myself between blankets and a comforter beneath me and two or three blankets over me helped me to get through nights when being sure to leave the faucets dripping was probably the only thing that kept the pipes from freezing. I suffered in silence until a note on the front door, posted by the Sheriff’s department, informed me that the house was being repossessed and I had just a few days to move out. I call that “good news” that was meant to be bad news.
I moved out with days to spare and found a better place that was a lot cheaper, all bills (that were actually being paid), and it was WARM, REAL WARM. Can you say, ” All’s well that ends well.”?
It’s been awhile since I last drove down that street. But the house was still there……and still empty.

About thirty years ago, (I was living in California, south of San Francisco, back then) I was on my way home from who-knows-where and stopped at an intersection not far from home, waiting impatiently for the light to change. To my left, I saw an station wagon turn right and as it passed me, a large purse fell from somewhere in the back and landed on the road, spilling some of it’s contents. I stepped out, scooped up the purse, put it and the stuff that had spilled into my car as I watched the station wagon disappear in the distance. Unsure of what to do next, I headed home. Back at my apartment, I opened the purse removed her wallet and as I pulled out her driver’s license, I noticed that there seemed to be a large amount of cash in it. I searched until I found something that had her phone number on it, which just happened to be on a copy of her phone bill. The first words that came across that line in a tearful voice was “Did you find my purse?” She had obviously been crying and I could hear the tone change when I assured her that everything was there and I would bring it back to her. She was standing outside when I drove up, still sobbing softly but smiling, too. She told me that all the money for her kids’ Christmas presents was in that purse and I turned down her offers of a reward, while she showered me with “thank you’s” and “God bless you’s”. Thank goodness for the opportunity to be in the right place at the right time.

Quite a few years ago, on one of the first days of December, I drove my van out to shop for a real Christmas tree at the neighborhood Christmas tree “farm” that appears about the same time every year, at the same intersection and disappears with the leftover trees early the following January.
I wandered down each aisle of trees, followed closely by a high school kid (probably just working part-time to make a little Christmas spending money) and she would pull out every tree I seemed interested in so I could get a better look at it. I finally found a six-foot tree and commented on how perfect it was but that the price was just a little too high. She thought about it for a moment and offered me a discounted price. I agreed. I helped her carry it back to my van, loaded it through the side door and I followed her inside to pay for it. She stepped up to the counter and said, “Four footer, $7.50″. “Wait a minute, let me take a look at that tree!” said her “must-have- been-because-he-had-a-bossy-tone-to-his-voice” supervisor as he asked to see the tree. Back at the van, I opened the side doors, he reached in and pulled out the tree. He stood it up, confirmed his suspicions, turned to her and said, “THIS is NOT a four-foot tree…..you’re FIRED!!”
Long story short? I got the tree, she lost her job…….and didn’t even get a tip. I think that was the last time I bought a real tree.
Do you think that maybe I felt a little bit of guilt for her losing that job? Naaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!

Saturday , and it’s my turn to work here at the retail store,
Wondered why no one’s coming in, I forgot to unlock the door.
Damn phone won’t stop ringing , I’d better take it off the hook
Laptop battery is out of juice and I didn’t bring a book.
Customers on the showroom floor, some spending their dough,
Didn’t get a chance to stop at Starbuck’s, so I can hardly wait to go.
Started getting hungry, but I didn’t bring a thing to eat,
So I got a couple of hot dogs at the store across the street.
Sold a guy a bed pad and offered to put it in a sack.
He said, “No, thanks..don’t need it. But, can I bring it back?”
I said “Sure, just make sure that it’s like new,
Better not have something on it, and I’m talking ’bout #2.
Sat here watching cars go by, I had nothing else to do
Until two fat ladies came in looking for a post-op shoe.
Sent them out the door smiling, with one that fit just right
Plunked on the old piano, a little bit of “Silent Night”.
Snagged a couple of Brownies from the fridge and choked’em down,
Cranked up the CD player, there was no one else around.
Old lady came into the store, wants to try out a lift chair.
Hoping she wouldn’t have to pay, wants to bill Medicare.
Said “You’ll need a doctor’s order, better give yours a call!”
With it, you’ll pay a portion……without, you’ll pay it all.
Mrs. Ricard called in, her husband’s going to need supplies,
A guy bought a walker for his wife, heavy duty and jumbo size.
By three o’clock, closing time, I’d had a pretty good day,
Killed the lights and locked the door, got in my Jeep and drove away.

In a couple of weeks , on a usually cold and sometimes wet Sunday morning, motorcyclists from near and far will gather on Riverside Drive in anticipation of this year’s Toys For Tots annual ride. Many will brave the bitter December winds just for an opportunity to donate new toys that will be collected and distributed to families with children who otherwise may not receive any presents for Christmas. Hours before the ride actually begins, they arrive and begin to line up. Individuals and groups, scooters decorated with wreaths, bells, Christmas lights and each with bundles of new toys, tied or bungeed down. From modest Vespas, to original garage-created three-wheeled earth ships, crotch rockets and custom, paid-an-arm-and-a-leg for it, airbrushed, chrome-laden motorcycles, they will appear, the ground trembling to the sound of drag pipes, as they roll past the early birds and take their places at the back of the pack.
By one o’clock in the afternoon, thousands are already there with more still showing up as the ride is set to start. From the front, lined up about five across and further back than the eye can see, over ten thousand riders will fire up their engines to a deafening roar as the long procession starts down Riverside Drive along streets lined with thousands of people, waving and cheering, knowing how much this will mean to so many kids and the parents who may not be able to afford to get them presents. For the riders near the back of the line, it’s a long wait before their ride actually begins. Police man the blockades at the intersections and cross traffic is backed up and at a standstill for what seems like days as the endless stream of motorcycles wind their way down along the river, through midtown
to the east side of town, where the ride ends and the toys and other gifts are piled like man-made mountains of presents.
Every year, the number of riders grows and other rides for the same charitable cause spring up in other area towns. Friends and strangers, all of us, out for the annual Sunday cruise for the comraderie, the fun and especially for the kids.

I use to hate the smell of coffee back in my childhood days. Mom’s close friend, Sue, drank that stuff all day long. In all the years that I spent time there with her son,( my friend), Jimmy, I can’t recall ever seeing her without a cup of coffee (with cream and sugar) in her hand and usually working on one of her “bejillion” pieces puzzles. I’m not sure which she enjoyed more, the coffee or the puzzles.
Uncle Sam had a hand in getting me started on the caffeine. I was stationed on an aircraft carrier for three years and soon after I started working up on the flight deck, I learned to appreciate the warming effects of a hot cup of java. Even bundling up like an Eskimo didn’t seem to do the trick, when the carrier turned into the wind for aircraft launching operations. So I started to drink more for warmth than enjoyment.
Fast forward to 1993, when I moved back to Sacramento, California. I discovered high octane coffee drinks at an espresso chain called “La Boulangerie”. Concentrated coffee blended with hot, steamed milk and chocolate syrup. Imagine having one drink with the firepower, or should I say eye-opening power, of eight cups of coffee. You get a legal buzz at a premium price and extra shots added if so desired. One shot of espresso equals about four cups of coffee. Even though the cost of a regular cup of coffee has gone up over the years, it’s still nowhere close to paying about four dollars for a “venti” size cafe mocha.
Consider this. Current fuel cost locally at this time runs just under two dollars for a gallon of regular unleaded gas. A venti mocha, all twenty ounces of it, will set you back about four dollars. Based on those figures, one gallon of this drink would cost you a whopping $256.00. (I wonder how regular unleaded would taste with steamed milk and chocolate syrup). I need to drop this habit and pick another one that’s a little more economical, like crack cocaine. (I’m just kidding, of course!)
So much for this chapter of “That’s Where My Money Goes”. Time for a change. Time to at least pull out the home version “make-your-own-and-save-a-ton-of-money espresso machine and stay far away from Starbuck’s. Just think of how money I’ll save and have available for other luxuries and necessities, like food, for instance.

note: This one inspired by the Starbuck’s mocha I’m enjoying as I write.

Do you suppose that no matter who ends up as President of these United States, there will still be critics out there, whining and complaining about something he’s doing or not doing? When a Democrat gets elected, the Republicans are bitching and moaning. A Republican gets in and it’s the Democrats’ turn to whine and complain. Slick Willie was always the target of criticism during his years in the Big House and the worst thing HE ever did was what he had done to him. Everyone thought he said, “I never had sex with that woman!”, referring to Monica Lewinsky. But actually, what he REALLY said was, “I wish I’d never had sex with that woman!”, meaning Hilary.
Now little George is getting his share….of criticism. He can’t make a move without someone crying out that he either made the wrong move or didn’t move fast enough. He’s so responsible for all those soldiers who have died that he might just as well have pulled the trigger himself. Uh huh! Yeah, right!
Damn voters can never seem to get it right. Let’s try to pick someone next time that everyone will like and no one will have reason to criticize. The perfect candidate. America is looking the perfect leader for Republicans, Democrats, Independents, Green Party members, etc. Along with being able to do what everyone expects, he should be able to say what they want to hear, be in the right place at the right time, heal the sick, raise the dead and walk on water.

This past Veteran’s Day, the local VFW post organized and held a free breakfast, followed by a parade downtown, just as they have one for years. These are present and former members of the military who have served on foreign soil honoring others who put their lives on the line to represent and protect the freedoms that all of us enjoy and often take for granted. On that day, we focus our attention on the sacrifices and contributions of those who serve and have served in the different branches of our our Armed Forces. As an honorably discharged member of the military and proud, Vietnam veteran, I thought that this would be an opportune time to call attention to the need to improve and extend existing benefits afforded to those who serve and have served. At some point in this nations’s history, members of Congress, our so-called ” public servants and representatives of the pulse of the people”, acquired the power to vote themselves pay raises. All the flag-waving, band-marching, drum-pounding, back-patting, and hearty thank-you’s for services rendered and sacrifices made, are greatly appreciated on Veteran’s day. But when the parade is over and the drums are silent, the need for change is still there. Some who serve in Congress are former members of the military. To all of you lawmakers, I say that gratitude should show itself in the improvements that can be made in veteran’s benefits. Vote for it! Throw us ” a few more crumbs”.

The saying “there’s no place like home” is especially true if you were born and raised in Hawaii. In so many ways, it’s not unlike any other place in these United States. Never mind the uniqueness of being the ony state consisting of a row of islands thousands of miles from the remaining forty nine out in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. I can remember so many years ago, being in Uncle Sam’s Navy and flying home on leave after bootcamp in San Diego. I’d never been away from home but six days after turning eighteen, I raised my right hand and promised to “protect and defend” for at least the next four years. Although bootcamp only took me away for a few months, flying back at the end of basic training was a much anticipated return home and like tourists flying in for a vacation, I found myself straining to see out the window from my aisle seat as the plane descended in a wide circle toward the airport.
You noticed it as soon as you step from the plane and enter the terminal. The air feels different, people dress, walk and talk different. Brightly colored shirts, shorts and sandals or thongs ( and I mean flipflops, not underwear) is the predominant style of choice. Sights, sounds and fragrances of home, I thought. Home at last!
For most who are there for the first time, it’s a bit of a pleasant cultural shock but I relished a return to a lifestyle that I had taken for granted.
Flashback several years before that time and I’m just a barefooted kid, one of seven, growing up on a one-acre farm on the north shore. Now here is a prime example of the simple life in one of those “so small everybody knows everybody” neighborhoods. The family car was a Plymouth “Valiant” and dad’s pride and joy was his Red Chevy pickup truck. It’s not all fun and games on the farm. There were animals to feed, a huge yard to mow, gardens to maintain and participation was mandatory. But looking back, we had it all right there. If you can name it, we raised it. Fruit trees including different kinds of papayas, mangoes, avacados, tangerines, guavas, bananas, figs. Along the highway, at the far end of our huge front yard, was a row of coconut trees. Often busloads of tourists, dressed in their matching his and hers aloha shirts and muumuus, would stop by and we’d sell them freshly picked fruit. This bare-footed country boy would climb up the tall coconut tree and knock down a few coconuts for them. I was just a kid, with no concept of danger and a “four-feet tall and bulletproof” mentality, and I’d scramble up the trunk of that tree, not really aware that up there, where I was at coconut level, was about twenty feet or more from the hard ground below.
With the exception of occassional hikes back up into the hills behind our house, most of my other recreational activities took place in the ocean, which was just walking distance from the house. Through the years my memories drift, from going fishing on the shallow reefs at low tide, bamboo pole in one hand, plastic bag of bait shrimp in the other, to paddling out into the surf on my board in the early morning hours, to going nightdiving with my brother and/or good friend Jimmy. That was the simple life, indeed. Early childhood days gave way to the teenage years and summers in the sun, picking pineapple for Dole Pineapple Company. A mere $1.40 an hour was just a small financial step up from doing yard work for friends of the family but it gave me a little pocket money to spend on junk food and soda pop.
So many memories, so long ago and so far from the place I long to be. Kids grow up and life goes on. There was a time when I thought I’d be there for a lifetime. We can only guess what destiny holds in store for us all. But give me a hot, summer day and some time to reminisce and I’m back there again, even if only for awhile.