Leon is Nicaragua’s second largest city, with a population of over 400,000 people so though we know the country is underdeveloped, we must admit we expected a bit more from the cities’ main bus terminal.  Which, as you can see, turned out to be little more than a pot-holed dirt parking lot filled with a collection of old school buses (translate regular city buses), trucks with high, tarped roofs and chained sides (translate really regular city buses), mini-buses (translate high class transportation: a mini-van packed with only 12-15 people), and the city to city buses.  These are a cross between a school bus and a Greyhound and are the method we chose to get from Leon to the beach town of Las Penitas.  The bus waits at the “terminal” until all of the seats are full, and then until the entire aisle is crammed with standing passengers, and then until the entry way is full from beside the driver all the way down to where the bus attendant stands/hangs out the always open door.  On the way to its destination, the bus stops anywhere along its route where a person is hailing it or anytime a rider whistles out to be dropped off which prompts an intricate shifting of bodies while one or several people negotiate their way into or out of the bowels of the bus.  There is no better way to get up close and personal with local Nicaraguans! 

Our only aim was to head to the beach, and beach we have found.  Miles and miles of beautiful waves and sand, not white sand, but clean volcanic rock crushed to fine grains with an abundant mix of seashells and the occasional outcropping of rock for the waves to break upon.  And the best part: we walked the beach today for over and hour and saw a total of oh, maybe six people!  Hay mucho sol!  Even with his Italian skin, Fred got a bit of sunburn after being out for less than an hour.

Las Penitas is a fishing village, so small it doesn’t even have a market, which didn’t match our dreams of fresh mango every morning and had us questioning whether to stay.  Enter Pedro, who operates Sol y Mar, a bed and breakfast that will throw in a custom ordered dinner for $3 a night. So, as I write, I am sitting on a balcony, 50 feet from crashing waves and an uninterrupted view of the sunset.  For less than $20 a day, I get the view, a room with a private bath, dinner, breakfast with a full pot of coffee, free purified cold water, and the company of Pedro and Maria.  Sold.  We signed on for another week! 

You've seen it as golden, late fall grass.  You've seen it frozen, crystallized.  Now experience a third season with my trusty Ohio farm field, though it's not the image you might expect.  I bragged all winter about the tranquility of my winter farm life, days in front of the fire, endless stretches of white and ice beyond my window.  Well, springtime is a different story!  As the creatures and plants come to life, so do a farm tender's responsibilities.  In the last few weeks we've cleaned the bird boxes scattered all over the property; sawed fallen trees, split the rounds, and stacked them for drying so next winter will be as warm as this one; built a fence; patched and re-installed the dual gas tanks in the pick-up truck; and spent several evenings monitoring controlled, agricultural burns in the fields.  It's a common practice, one my Dad is well trained at though that didn't stop some of the counties' implanted city slickers from getting scared and calling the fire department.  A field fire creates a lot of smoke, and occasionally some pretty tall flames so we can't blame them, but it was still embarassing at 9:30 at night to hear sirens from three directions barreling toward the farm.  Real fire trucks, fire deparment vehicles, and volunteers in their pickups all arrived to discover no flame, no "explosions" as had been reported to 911, just three ragedy farm folks (since we're playing that part well lately) holding rakes on the edge of a smoldering field. 

The volunteer fire chief laughed at the whole scenario, made some jokes about our venison smoking techniques (a deer carcus was creamted in the fire) and gave us an inside number to call the next time we decided light up a section.  That's what you see in the picture: what looks liked dying is really rebirth, the ashes of an overgrown field now ready for new sprouts.  In a matter of weeks, it will green up and match the rest of the place which is full of daffodils, tulips, spring birds, sunshine...and more chores!  Good thing we are getting out of here!  On a midnight plane to Nicaragua today to try our hand at speaking Spanish, being beach bums, and more writing of course!

Enjoy the unforseen experience of a secluded winter season - Check!

Write a new novel - Check!

Create deeper bonds with loved ones, family and friends - Check!  (Though despite putting 14,000 miles on the convertible since leaving Charlotte, we sadly didn't get to each and everyone we would have liked.)

Wander to new places and experience them in UnTourist style - Check!  (The tickets to Nicaragua are booked.)

That's right.  83,000 and a couple hundred words later, I am declaring the winter writing retreat a success, and in a multi-faceted definition of the word.  Word count is one measure, but beyond that I am proud of the story, excited by its potential, amazed by how it came together, and have a new confidence as to what can be accomplished.  And in law of attraction style, even more has come out of the experience.  While I maintained a positive focus on writing, two of my essay pieces were accepted for publication into anthologies (stay tuned for details as they become available for sale).  After a winter of applications, FASFA forms, and hauling her for college visits, my Chicago niece, Ashley, has been accepted to college.  My sister-in-law has received prestigous recognition for her research.  Our laid off friends in Chicago have started their own creative business.  Our Carlesco side of the family (from Syracuse to Maestre, Italy) came together in magical ways to support each other through a death in the family.  My parents got to enjoy their retirement in Southern warmth.  My hope is that the better it gets, the better it gets: for us all.

So we're off for more wandering, with a starting point of Managua, Nicaragua with an average April daytime temperature of around 95 degrees.  We fly out April 15, figuring tax day an appropriate jumping point and leaving ourselves two weeks to whittle down our five milk crates worth of stuff to one backpack. 

Apparently, Mr. Global Warming forgot to make his rounds of the Mid-West.  We are knee deep in snow, well maybe waist deep by now, it has been several hours since I've gone outside.  We've added an additional feeder to accommodate what I think is every winter bird in the county, all of whom have come to depend on the black oil sunflower seeds and cracked corn which we refill every day now.  You know how people often reminisce about their childhood winters, comment that "It just doesn't snow like it used to"?  Well, they just aren't in the right place because Ohio, in February 2010, is exactly the landscape of my memories: enough snow to build forts and igloos and connect them with under-snow tunnels.  Or maybe the HAARP conspiracy theorists have something after all.  An array of 180 antennas that will focus radio waves into a single beam in the sky and produce 3.6 million watts of power (that's 72,000 times more powerful than the most powerful radio station in the U.S.) seems strong enough to me to create some snow!  And since I have no obligation to leave my fire heated nest, it's truly like being a kid again: bundle up, play until I'm cold, then come in for some hot chocolate! 

I said I would write and write I have!  In two weeks of farm living, I have created over 20,000 words towards my next project.  To put that number in prospective, my entire first novel was just shy of 60,000 words.  There is a lot to say for being determined, creating the time, but then relaxing into a process and letting it come.  And the farm is a perfect place to do that. 

After almost six years of snow-free living, I thought I’d given winter up.  While enjoying Charlotte’s moderate temps, I’d remember Chicago’s biting cold, mounds of dirty slush that didn’t melt for months, the tedious routine of extra socks, boots, hats, gloves, scarves and thick, bulky parkas just to step out the door.  But from inside my fire-toasted family room, looking out a wide bay window at acres of uninterrupted white, the thick, fluffy, undisturbed snow-covered landscape takes on a new beauty.  One morning I awoke to a crystallized world, every branch or stalk was adorned with a drapery of thin, patterned ice.  The sun decided to peak out and make a living kaleidoscope of the whole scene and it was breathtaking.  Without trains to catch, or busses to try to hop on over ice mounds piled by plows, this Northern winter thing isn’t bad, well, for the short term anyway!

My other bay window looks out onto a giant, natural aviary.  So many birds.  Chickadees, Finches (Gold and House), Sparrows (Tree and Song), Woodpeckers (Red Belly and Downy), Juncos, and Cardinals.  They seem little troubled by the thermometer’s red dropping below 32, as long as we keep the seed and suet coming.  We’ve gone through 30 pounds of sunflower seeds and 10 pounds of cracked corn in two weeks.  It’s been a daily game, watching them, snapping pictures of new ones, emailing my Dad for proper identification.  They are fascinating, and I could end up watching them all day…but, okay, back to writing.

In lieu of more words, I’ve posted some pictures of my winterscape on flicker, as well as some highlights from the Key West family get together. Enjoy.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/42679370@N06/sets/

P.S.  You may notice that I finally got around to installing a spam filter and cleaning out any junk commnets.  Thank you so much for all of your thoughtful comments, and now you can keep them coming without competing with auto-spam!

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Another huge transition.  From basking in the 80 degree sunshine of the Florida Keys, to the frigid farm in Central Ohio.  When I took off from Charlotte, last steamy June, the last place I thought I'd be spending a chunk of time was winter!  But, true to the "go with the flow" spirit of UnTourism, here I am.  Travelling and visiting has been wonderful, but hasn't yielded the serious writing time I needed to finish my next project.  Before trekking off to Central America, I'm taking an opportunity that arose: an empty farmhouse, a killer wood-burning fireplace, back roads so snowed in I'll have nothing to do but write, write, write.  Which is what I've been doing this week and Michael B. suggested I share some.  Here is a somber essay I began writing while in Hawaii.    

Papa B. 

Kilauea bleeds, birthing earth younger than men who will die upon it.  As will my father-in-law, weakening each minute while 130,000 gallons of molten rock pours from the volcano like thickly-beaten batter.  He is beaten.  By cancer, by its remedy, by societies’ value of life at any cost so that doctors who say there is no cure prescribe harsh treatments anyway.  And by memories, unseen by MRIs and blood screens, but as erosive as the rapidly metastasizing cells.

In a state between wake and sleep, he reaches out for ghost objects and speaks to people I can’t see.  He relives foxhole deaths and night patrols, calling into an imaginary radio for back-up, for air support, for salvation.   

One evening, I wake to a tremor, metal roofing rattling against wall like an intruder forcing entry.  I imagine a release of soul, his shedding of suffering the cause of the 4.8 magnitude earthquake instead of the Lo’ihi Seamount, 13,000 feet below sea level.  The next morning, his breath still comes in shallow shakes. 

How can we comprehend the human will to survive?  Floyd James Thompson, the longest held American POW of the Vietnam War, endured nine years of torture and starvation after the plane crash that left him burned, bullet-wounded, and back broken.  How much easier giving up would have been.  Yet, when asked if he feels fortunate or forsaken, he can’t help thinking of those who didn’t come home at all, or the fact that he did.  Like my father-in-law, who in his last living weeks, says repeatedly, “I would gladly trade my life for any one of theirs.”  His regrets are real: time he didn’t spend, gifts he didn’t buy, words he didn’t speak.  But, also real, is his peace, “I’m ready.”  

70 million years ago, The Big Island of Hawaii began to evolve in nearly complete isolation.  Over 90% of the native terrestrial flora and fauna are unique to the island.  This level of endemism surpasses all other places on earth.  And this is how it felt when I first started visiting my father-in-law there: secluded, exotic, idyllic.     

When he dies, it becomes something else, a mass of rock on which I am trapped, confined to.  For five weeks I’ve spoken in soft tones, signaled nurses, fetched blankets, scrubbed mold, listened, cried.  There is nothing left to do but leave, shake off the tropical damp, anticipate a deep breath of dry, Southwestern air, look back through plane window at the ever-changing island, forever changed.

It’s Saturday night.  We are headed to the Malburn New Hope Community Church for their Christmas pageant.  Even though we had to take the washboard dirt road slow, we pull in about ten minutes to six, a leisurely arrival for the six o’clock start.  We are welcomed by a southern accent thick with embarrassment because the coffee pot is dry and “all-us-all are just needin’ a lil’ practice time,” a woman in a floor length skirt decorated by three costumed children explains.  We are ushered to a back room to wait since they’ll “hopefully get started ‘fore seven.”  The church is five years new, built on a concrete slab, but our waiting area is every church basement.  Long folding tables are covered with red and green tablecloths, topped with mismatched, handmade, holiday centerpieces and littered with seasonal Jesus pamphlets, pizza leftovers on paper plates and various articles of clothing.  We drag an assortment of metal chairs to form a row, the picture perfect out-of-place Yankee family flanked by their West Virginian born Grandfather.   (“Mr. Harry, he fits down in here just fine.”)  But we don’t sit for long.  The church probably only has twenty members, swollen to a full 35 attendees on the account of family and friends being dragged, ahem, invited to see the church youth perform.  A pretty small church, by most any standard, but it somehow feels a whole lot bigger when each one of them walks right up to us newcomers, pronounces himself and his smooth sounding name, and introduces each family member.  “Name is Bobby Gibbs.  This here’s the wife, Anna Lisa Mae (or is that Analisa May?).  My daughter Sue Anne is pleased to meet you, and my son, well we just call him Rut.”  Up, down, up, down, shake, smile, and nod as if you understand a word they’re saying.

And let the festivities begin.  We usher into the sanctuary, take a pew, and wait another 15 minutes or so while anxious kids peek out from behind the curtain and the master of ceremonies runs around frantically with a clipboard, hauling one toddler on a hip to sit her down, but said toddler doesn’t want to sit so makes another dash for the stage, so that in mid-sentence to the sound guy the director snatches her up, one handed, and hips her once again.  The play begins, a twist on the traditional Christmas story, about two car-troubled city slickers getting stuck out in the country on Christmas Eve.  The overall jest is the country folks demonstratin’ how backwards their guests are as they progress through an evening of country Eve traditions, then round out the night with a little manger scene to tell THE story to the city folks who don’t know the REAL reason for the season.  Too ironic.

Thing is, it’s a small church, sure.  In back country Alabama, yeah.  But this is not reflected in their sound system. The actors are miked, with little portable, wireless jobs.  The songs are not sung, but played, by a DJ, who pumps the productions soundtrack through surround sound speakers. 

A comparable set-up is desperately needed at the recording studio/karaoke bar turned wrestling hall which we go to next.  Yes, that’s what I said.  I know, our evening was sounding all quaint and Christmasy.  But grandpa doesn’t want the fun to stop there and has an eight o’clock event on the agenda:  an amateur wrestling match.  It’s just like WWF, except it’s in Hartford, Alabama, and instead of an arena full of thousands of fans there are about thirty screaming kids seemingly unattached to an adult sitting in folding chairs around an actual ring, with padded corners, and a bouncy floor.  This is LAW.  Lower Alabama Wrestling.

It’s hard to tell what the place used to be, maybe a town hall, perhaps an old church.  It’s a long, narrow, wooden slabbed-building, free of interior walls, and freezing.  It still gets chilly in the evenings, and this was a particularly cold night in Alabama and there was little difference between being inside this structure and just being outside.  We paid our $6 entry fee, but before even getting comfortable I conned Dad into retrieving a blanket from the van.  When the MC took the microphone, which managed to magnify his screaming to an intolerable volume while distorting it beyond comprehension, mom and I were already huddled under microfiber, but ready for action.

We are at a slight disadvantage, not knowing who the good and bad guys are, and the announcer is no help, but the kids lead the way.  Chaos takes the stage.  Despite his ominous name, there is wild cheering, which turns to booing when High Flier enters and announces he has stolen all of Santa’s presents.  Santa enters, walking among the children with a look of helplessness, until Preston III comes from behind and beats him with metal chair.  The children go wild, Silverado joins Chaos to take down the evil grinches and the wrestling begins…outside the ring.  Finally, the comic ref gets everyone sorted out and we settle into the first match. 

It is an admirable reproduction.  Each wrestler wears a costume, one even wears a mask, and even though most of them sport beer bellies which cause their spandex pants to expose lots of crack, they pull off a lot of impressive moves.  High Flier completes multiple jumps from the top rope, flipping mid-air on his way down and landing with precision atop his opponent’s chest, or back, or bicep.  On more than one occasion, moves of much coordination are displayed: rebounding off ropes to clash in loud smacking take downs, arm twisting, head butting, even the infamous overhead body slam.  There are mishaps: slaps before the contact, kicks that never connect, and one slip off the rope that really could have resulted in injury. 

Little do we know, LAW is just getting started.  Enter Cowboy, in his long, fur coat, wide-brimmed hat and skimpy-dressed girl on his arm.  She’s a few years past an Alabama beauty, but at least she’s wearing pants, which seem to be connected to a see-through bodice which slides up over the black bra piece.  Could it be all one item of clothing?  She doesn’t quite understand her role as she stands for the most part quiet and keeps shifting her spectator spot to avoid any action.  I think they should trade her for a lady in the audience, the one wearing the red ‘bama sweatshirt and screaming so loudly she is getting hoarse.  I keep waiting for her to jump into the ring, to reveal herself as a part of the show, as it is inconceivable for a grown person to be going all red in the face over some scraggly Saturday night wrestling personalities.  I mean, the long, grey-haired one plays guitar at my grandfather’s church!

At intermission, Fred discovers where the grown-ups are, but is scared to approach the fire barrel out back, fearful of what the jug might hold that is being passed around.  For survival, we order hot chocolate from the “concession stand” which used to be the counter for the Chinese take-out restaurant that took up the front part of the building.  While waiting in line, I overhear the saga of a small, spectacled girl, how “bone” cold she is and just “dyin” for a hot chocolate but she “ain’t gotta cent” and she already asked “Mama B” who said “child I ain’t got a penny to rub on another.”  When I doubled my order and offered one to her, the thanks were tripping out of her mouth, competing with the explanation that if I could just reach and grab her two straws she “sure enough would love” to share with her sister because she loves her big sister “to bitty pieces” and wants to “make sure ‘an keep her around.”

The wrestling resumes and, as if to ensure the fulfillment of cliché, LAW brings out the vertically challenged athlete or “that lil’ ‘ole midget” as he is referred to by a rather large gentleman who has decided to befriend us foreigners and is now narrating the proceedings.  The evening culminates in a triple threat, three on three, tag team main event.  I would have included a picture, but this is something that can only be imagined. 

Leaving the relatively warm temperatures of Alabama, we headed for Florida’s even stronger sunshine.  So, from the beaches of Key Largo, Happy New Year!

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The death of Fred's father arrived mostly as relief, an end of suffering, so that the fact of loss and the accompanying sadness didn't settle in until later. The mass of volcanic rock and the endless crash of ocean wave were unchanged, but the island felt altered as we left it.  Missing was a father and a whole future of possibilities between father and son.

The wings of our 767 promised lift: out of the torrential downpour of Hawaii's raining season (as dense as grief itself), away from hospital smells and shallow breaths, past the slow withering of life toward being alive.  We soaked in Phoenix's sun rays, talked loudly, laughed strongly, then began to get our bearings. 

Since we gave up permanent residence, it has been hard to keep tabs on the conventional calendar, or, probably more accurate, its been easy to let time go. Even more so in Hawaii with its six hour time difference and remote, isolated location.  So it was surprising to realize that we were days away from Thanksgiving, still in the states, smack in the middle of winter, that season we thought we'd done away with in June, along with our household goods and cold weather clothes.  Only summer things made the crate in preparation for Central American living.  But, the whole idea was to go with the flow, embrace opportunities that naturally arise, do what feels right, right?

How about seeing mom?  How about a big, old-fashioned, family Thanksgiving?  How about shocking our systems by leaving 80 degree Phoenix, hauling ass through night, day, and night again, to arrive in frigid Minneapolis wearing sweatshirts as coats and flip-flops with socks? 

The sweet-faced Texas State Trooper with a slow drawl believed us.  He pulled us over to check on our expired registration (another casualty of the time warp).  We figure that little section of Interstate 40 across the top of Texas is a popular drug route, and on first glance, we sure fit the profile: old, out of state tags, a backseat full of boxes, and a sleeping passenger.  In retrospect, our story wasn't much better.  "You see officer, we've been travelling.  We're on our way to Minneapolis from Phoenix via Texas (how we choose that route is another story)." 

"You've been on the road for over a month?"  The officer notes our expiration date.  "Whatcha you'all do for work?"

Now doesn't seem the time to try to explain Untourism.  Fred leans across, still sleepy from my rude awakening, "Fred, wake up, we're getting pulled over."  "Well, you see, my Dad was sick so we've been in Hawaii."  Now we've just added a faraway island to the mix, and a sick relative...haven't I seen this on a late night re-run of Cops?

But, the officer doesn't scrutinize.  He starts talking to us about Hawaii's climate, complaining about the cold Texas wind.  I reason we've already been dropped off his "fits a profile" list by the simple fact that when he asked us for license and registration I was able to quickly retrieve an organized packet, a neat plastic case sporting an insurance company logo from an uncluttered glove box.  He just issues us, as he puts it, "A friendly Texan warning."

As long as we stay inside, our time in Minneapolis is like a healing heat pad.  We get to spend time with Fred's mom, a much needed dose of parent after his father's death.  His sister lives in town as well, and we even get more Michael B. since he is hanging out on-call for his airline.  We eat scrumptious meals (in addition to Christine's magnificent holiday feast), bask in the heated pool, give our bodies some much needed exercise, and play rousing games of scrabble in between heart-to-heart conversations.   

We climb into the car on a Sunday evening, very aware that, for us, home has become wherever it is we happen to be, even if that place is the inside of our trusty Toyota.  We pull onto the freeway, feel that familiar open-road exhilaration, and agree that we both crave one thing: solitude.  It's been a long, emotional stretch of weeks that tested our generosity and our capacity to extend ourselves to meet others needs.  We haven't shied away from tough decisions, difficult conversations, and we refused to pull away from each other though it certainly seemed that might be easier at times.  We've earned a controlled environment, a chance to adjust every single thing--the temperature, the volume, the flavor--to our liking and ours alone, consult with no one and relax into the comfort of our own selves.  We splurge.  After our all-night drive and an early morning emissions test (also expired), we cross the Ohio border and secure not one, but two hotel rooms.  I go my way.  Fred goes his.  We agree to meet again in 24 hours: refreshed, rejuvenated and ready for farm sweet farm. 

And we are rewarded.  The next day, sunshine breaks through the mid-western grey.  It lights our way to my father's golden-grassed fields, to fresh earth paths along which our afternoon walk is like a cure.

Perhaps the only consistent feature of an Untourist lifestyle is inconsistency itself. One day we are in a new city, like Salt Lake, in a part of the U.S. we've never been, with great people we've just met. One day we are on the open road, another day we are staying with family and painting walls or installing a misting system. And then one day we are playing Bingo with a group of seniors in Hilo, Hawaii.

Our being here has allowed Helen (Fred Sr.'s wife) to virtually move-in to the VA Home, spend time with her hubbie and look out for his care. We watch the house, take care of the cats, and drive in for daily visits to see Pop and give Helen a "real" meal break (you can only eat so much hospital food!) So, for a week or so now, we've actually had a routine, a relative pattern to our days, and that, in of itself, is an adjustment. Welcome to a day of Hilo life!

Wake up naturally, ahh. If it's sunny in Mountain View (about every third day) go out for a homemade workout. Haul gravel to attempt to convert the lava-bedrocked, jungle terrain into a yard or get the weed-whacker to strengthen your biceps and fight back rainforest weeds that grow as fast as your blade spins. Perhaps go for a run, dodging mangy dogs that pop out of overgrown driveways and chase you down the pot-holed thru-way they call a road in Eden Rock.

Eden Rock is classified as a subdivision, but you've often got to redefine familiar terms to understand their Big Island meaning. Think thousands of acres of untouched temperate rainforest. The ground is not dirt, but lumpy miles of lava rock overgrown with big-leafed plants that occasionally burst with colorful flowers in unusual formations. A rich white guy who claimed gazillions of land back when the U.S. stole the islands from the Native Hawaiians (or bought, or colonized, or depends on who you ask,) decided to sell off a chunk. I can only imagine it was christened "Eden Rock" to conjure notions of paradise without lying completely--you live on a giant mass of volcanic rock, a few thousand feet below the ever so active Kilauea Volcano, who might, at any minute, send more hot, flowing rock to replace your dream home. One acre lots were sold for around a thousand dollars each, and the rest, was TBD. Electricity? Well that depends. How far into the subdivision are you? Do you have neighbors willing to split the cost of running a line? The power company might get out your way. Water? Well, that's not a problem in Eden Rock, unless you plan on drinking it. It rains over 300 inches a year, usually in the form of a light drizzle, on and off throughout a day, some light showers in the evening, slow and steady. Build yourself a big cistern, collect that rain water for household use, and you'll never run out. Though you will have to make the thirty minute drive to town to fill up your drinking water canisters. Heat and Air Conditioning? No problem, you don't need them. It's 78 degrees everyday, though you might want HVAC to ward off the mildew that invades every surface of your home...mad humidity. A homeowner's association was formed and they've slowly faught the county for roads, which has resulted in a maze of some paved, some not, some with more holes than pavement, and some just rutted paths of mud that would test the best of 4-wheel drives. The result is human creativity at its finest, in the absence of zoning. People live in the containers that other people used to ship their belongings here from the mainland. People live in elaborate tents or broken down buses. People live in open air vacation homes with car ports and fancy driveway gates. There are expats, outlaws, retirees, and big businessmen. The whole gamut, it all comes together in Eden Rock.

Anyway, after you've gotten your exercise and cooked up a good breakfast, you have a few options. Depending on your wake-up, you might have time for a beach run. Perhaps the best thing about Eden Rock, is that you are never very far away from sunshine. Wrap down and around the island a bit, and you will never fail to find dry, sunny skies in Kehena. This involves a 30 mile drive along highway 130 toward Pahoa, a proper highway with a dramatic end, "Road Ends - 1 mile" That's right, due to a lava flow in 1990, the road just stops, you are forced to turn off onto an adjoining road to make your way to the only surviving beach on that strip of the coast, and the most stunning. You know where to park because other hunks of junk (like your Dad's 1995 Aerostar prone to stalling) will be parked alongside the road. You walk to the edge of the cliff and look out over endless ocean that crashes against rock walls and outcroppings, and slips onto the black sand beach of the cove carved out in a giant half-circle from the cliff face. Palm trees hang over the edge, decorate the back walls of the cove, provide shade for an afternoon nap when you've had your fill of island sun. And clothing here, is optional. So you can enjoy being completely natural, and bask in natural skin treatments: let the sand loofah it, the sun kiss it, the waves moisten it. Take a deep breath before you resume your hike back up the winding cliff trail to your car, in which you will spend another 30 minutes to arrive in downtown Hilo.

Enter the brand new Yukio Oktsu State Veterans Home. It's painted a sunny yellow, has hard-wood laminate floors throughout, a cheerful activities calendar and a staff that remembers the "residents" names. Watch out for Mr. Kuvo. He likes to sit right by the door, with barely an angle to the TV, and is prone to hollaring out "help me" though apparantely this is more of a tick than an actual cry for help. At any rate, it can be a shocking way to begin your afternoon. As you exit the elevator onto the second floor, Rebecca will almost certainly greet you with a fabulous smile, while she at the same time engages patients in one of the daily activities: singing, ball toss, movie showings, the ever popular bingo. Gloria will probably be joining in, though her speech is impaired, she wears a new fresh flower in her hair each day and loves to play. Sam will be working hard in the corridor, reahbbing his hip by doing rounds with his walker, no time to join in the fun, but he likes to do his physical therapy where all the action is. Whatever you do, do not go down the left-bearing wing. That is where the mystery screamer resides. She can be heard throughout the day and night doing just that, screaming, but I haven't the guts to explore the agony. Instead, continue forward, around the circular nurses station, and arrive at room 258, your father's private room, and have mixed hopes--hoping he's awake so you can hear some more stories, hoping he's asleep so that he's comfortable, resting, and not in pain. Some days he'll sleep through your entire "shift," some days he'll wake up, and be lucid, and you can Skype video conference call brother and sister in Minneapolis so they can see and talk to Dad. Either way makes for a good day.

We are still exploring Big Island evenings. Cook-outs at the neighbors for authentic Hawaiian cuisine off the grill, nighttime lava viewings, next week their is a big art crawl downtown, sounds like a big event for this sleepy town. It's a matter of asking around, exploring, or not, as many evenings we are content to sit under the stars, listen to nature's sounds and just enjoy.