Sally’s blog

I've spent way too much time lately trying (and failing) to edit old 8mm movies that are part of the legacy left by our parents. Dad wasn't a great photographer, and given the technology of his era, he could make his audience seasick just watching home movies. They are nearly faded away in some instances. But my brother had them converted to VCR and now digital, which should preserve them until the newer, better, something else comes along.
The short clips tested my memory banks, and in a surprising number of instances, I would come up with the name of a person I knew half a century ago. Our parents' friends. Men and women who were important to them, not me. It's amazing what we have stored in our brains.
Most of the film clips are taken on vacation, which shouldn't be a surprise. That's when everyone hauls out the movie camera and records themselves in front of famous landmarks. But the real surprise was what an emotional response those old camping and beach scenes evoked. The happy times of childhood reel out in my mind without the aid of old movies. The old cement swimming pool fed by a thermal hot spring and cold mountain stream in Granite Creek, Wyoming is more vivid to me and my siblings than our classrooms, our neighborhood houses, our distant relatives.
Photography has come such a long way. Now a good mobile phone can capture an "aha" moment, and in short order they are available on the Net for anyone to view. Good, instantaneous, share-able. You can't beat it. As parents, hubby and I didn't take many movies of our kids. But I hope we gave them a lot of bright moments that they pull from their memory banks and relive when they need a healthy dose of nostalgia.

   The shopping cart is always a dead giveaway. At first she just had the usual plastic bags and wore too many clothes. Then she acquired a beach mat, a blanket, more stuff, and eventually a shopping cart to wheel it from one spot to another. She'd taken up residence under a tree in the small park near us. Nice, ocean view and restroom nearby.

   But more often lately she's been hanging at the bus stop with its uncomfortable cement bench, brick wall behind, and one of the city's busiest streets ten feet from her face. If she weren't crazy before, a week of living in those conditions would surely have tipped her over.

   Honolulu doesn't have answers to the problem of homelessness any more than any other big city. We have shelters, soup kitchens, and still people erect tents in public places or, like our neighborhood denizen, take over a bench. Some simply don't have money. But some have mental problems and lots more issues.

  This morning while heading into town, I noticed two police cars stopped, two cops having a chat with the woman. While heading home again later, a black SUV was pulled up to the bus stop, its flashers on and door open. I watched a man walk over and drop a styro container--bento box lunch--on her empty blanket next to the shopping cart. Happy Easter to him. And God bless.

           There’s a definite price added to living in Paradise.  While South Dakota is flooding and California struggles under state budget deficits larger than most nations, we console ourselves with thoughts that living in Hawaii is relatively benign. But we’re pricked with hundreds of tiny barbs that mount up until we realize that the cost of living is real pain. The expense of fuel to ship 90 per cent of goods is only part of it. Most consumer products travel from point of origin to point of purchase. We’re not so different. But since most of our goods come via ship, we pay the healthy wages of the Longshoreman Unions. And there’s the General Excise Tax (not sales tax) that pyramids with every exchange until the final number looks more like 12 per cent than 4.25.

            Here’s a mini comparison on grocery basics. The Hawaii numbers are from Safeway, taking full advantage of their savings card. The Utah market is in Park City, resort town not noted for low prices.

            ITEM                                                   HI                    UT

            Raisin bran                                           $6.49               $3.00

            Cucumber                                              2.49/lb               .99/lb

            Zucchini                                                  3.49/lb             1.50/lb

            Tomatoes                     reg. 7.44 saver  2.98/lb             1.99/lb

            Apples, cheapest          reg. 4.22 saver  1.99                   .79/lb

            Even good old Costco, same items and presumed savings from their huge volume of shipping, tacks on the price of Paradise. Blackberries were two dollars more, but they held the price on coffee.

            Food is the one thing no one can do without. We pay double for haircuts, four times as much for car insurance, and don’t even ask about real estate. When we think “Lucky we live Hawaii,” we focus on friendships and climate, the things no one has figured out how to attach a price tag.

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User name

Password

Email

Create a new one, remember the old ones

I’ve secured myself out of my own cyber realm

Mobile phone

Computer

Heart rate monitor

Camera

The manuals to operate daily devices

Read like encyclopedias translated from Chinese

Remote controls for

Television

House alarm

Car keys

Machinery talks without ever touching

Much like humans in a crowded world

Dimmer switches

Timers

Ecological bulbs

Warm or cool glow

Even lighting is no longer just an

On or off proposition. Too many choices

Walk

Read a book

Slice vegetables

Talk face to face

Simple activities, simple equipment

Bring peace to a cluttered mind

So Congress has passed an economic stimulus package that will supposedly save the nation and, by extension, the global economy from ruin. We’ll be shackled with trillions of dollars in debt for generations to come. And this is supposed to solve our problems?

I don’t buy it. Except, I do…because I have no choice.

I see the whole bailout process as the death of the American Dream, the idea that through education and hard work a person can improve his lot in life. Saving, living within one’s means, abiding by the laws, was supposed to provide rewards in the land of the free where all men are created equal. While our history has been less than perfect, it’s an ideal we’ve strived for with more than two centuries of success. Until now.

Nowadays, taxpayer is synonymous with patsy. Financial incentives are going to those who pay the least amount of taxes. It’s not enough that government collects money to provide for the common defense and those myriad functions specific to maintaining a nation, with this plan it plays a bigger role in every household. Last year checks were mailed out to encourage people to spend. We never got one. Nor are we expecting one with the current round.

The mortgage industry is blamed for triggering the economic collapse. And to fix it, Congress is passing laws to reward those who made bad decisions and save them from their own ignorance.  We homeowners who have paid our mortgage payments religiously each month every year merely feel stupid. Big Brother didn’t come to our rescue. Two of three grown children now own homes, abiding by the terms of their contracts. The third couple looked at homes and decided they couldn’t afford one, so they continue to rent. Were they foolish not to sign up for a “liar loan” and thus be eligible for a bailout?

My voice in the nation’s capitol isn’t even a whisper; nobody’s listening. Our elected officials hunkered down to craft a second version of TARP and immediately larded it with pork projects that have nothing to do with prodding a stalled economy. Governors and mayors went to Washington to plead their cases. While private businesses are cutting costs and laying off workers, government at every level is looking to grow. Some would call that socialism—traditionally not a stimulating economic model.

What do we teach our children now about fairness, rewards for good decisions, and incentives for saving and playing by the rules?  Would we be smarter to teach them how to “game the system” by running up debt and then declaring bankruptcy? Do we let them know there is no such thing as failure because our government, made up of We the People, is ready and willing to save them from themselves? At what cost?

Attended our first Sundance Film Festival movie this morning. Too wierd standing in line at the Eccles Center before 9:00, but that's the drill. The movie was saw was "Shrink," with Kevin Spacey as a psychiatrist who needs more help than his patients. We thoroughly enjoyed it, especially once we got accustomed to tuning out the F word. (Why do so many people think of it as dialogue enhancement?) The movie itself was good, but the overall experience improved it greatly. After the screening, the director and cast came on stage for Q and A. Yes, K. Spacey attended and participated with humor and grace, as did the others in this fine cast.

It so reminded me of writing conferences. The creativity brought forth in this ten-day festival is amazing. Some movies are real stinkers; some are terrific; all carry the hopes and dreams and talents of hundreds of people as they bare their artistic souls to the public. How often have I seen writers, pitch memorized and rehearsed, pouring their dreams out to editors and agents?

Sundance is celebrating 25 years, and this year's theme is "Story." Simple, appropriate. It's wonderful there are venues such as Sundance, Romance Writers of America, Maui Writers Conference, and others to  provide a platform for independent storytellers. We need their voices. I applaud their courage for pursuing their dreams.

Why waste time thinking up New Year’s resolutions when I have perfectly good unfulfilled goals left over from previous years? I can recycle the “lose weight” pledge; the same ten pounds are still riding around on my hips. And I have unpublished manuscripts stashed in files that would love to find an audience. They’re getting as dated as the calendars.

The only thing that’s really changed is my attitude and approach to the year opening before me. I’ve broadened my scope (along with other things. Darn gravity, anyway.) When I look at my overall health, I can only be grateful. No chronic whines of any sort. This, after yesterday of hard skiing and today a nice hike on show shoes in the high country. Instead of worrying about the extra pounds, I’ve decided to focus on improving two more insidious indicators: cholesterol and bone density.

Writing might not be my passion, but it is my pleasure. I’ve lowered my expectations. It makes for fewer disappointments and allows me the freedom to choose where I want to expend my energy. If full-length novel fiction isn’t in the future, that’s okay with me. I have a couple of travel projects I’d like to complete. Short fiction and creative essays are fun and don’t weigh on my mind like a sword of Damocles. I’m interested in giving our kids and theirs a bit of family history. And I’m not one to cut and paste scrapbooks.

That leaves writing. 

So I’ve tailored my list to match my limited goals. If I don’t make it to 2010, please don’t write on my epitaph, “She didn’t live up to expectations.”

As if Christmas season weren’t enough to bring on the nostalgia, I’ve been nudged back into “small kid time” by two recent requests. My sister is compiling a collection of memories of our parents from each of the six siblings. And the daughter-in-law of my cousin requested a short essay along similar lines.

I can’t say for certain whether time has added a patina to history, whether I’m looking back through rose-colored glasses, or if we really did have an idyllic childhood. I only know that being a kid in the fifties suited me perfectly. We lived in the middle stretch of a dead-end street anchored by our elementary school at the bottom and my grandparents’ house at the entrance. Two sets of aunts and uncles lived in the neighborhood. Over the years, what had been an apple orchard eventually turned into a totally populated street, and we were there to see the construction. Oh, the glorious mounds of dirt! The heavy equipment! We marched as armies up the hills and into the foundations cum foxholes. We played hide-and-seek through the framed shells of future neighbors’ abodes. In small packs we migrated from house to house, going home for meals and bedtime.

As we got older, the borders of our neighborhood expanded. We rode our bikes to friends' houses and walked to junior high and high school, both a decent haul. (This is where my kids will roll their eyes and say, “Yeah, Mom. The character-building thing.) So I have to add a disclaimer here and say that this was Utah and it snowed, so of course parents would give us a lift occasionally.

The thought that sticks with me is the freedom we felt because of the relative safety of both the neighborhood and the era. As long as the parents knew where we were and with whom, we were free to come and go. Adults didn’t intrude into the world of childhood. We weren’t scheduled with an abundance of activities, yet we never lacked for things to do. If moms and dads worried about their kids getting snatched by strangers, they didn’t convey that to us. The usual hazards of scrapes and bruises and occasional broken bones happened. Stuff does. Nowadays when I buckle on a helmet to bike or ski, I wonder how any of us made it to adulthood intact.

Our situation wasn’t unique. When talking to peers, the stories are similar all over the country. One grew up in urban Chicago, another in plantation Hawaii. Cars and front doors were left unlocked. Kids had room to roam, responsibilities, and aspirations of becoming anything they set their hearts and minds to achieving.

If there’s a wish for the New Year, it would be to give that sense of security to the current generation of children everywhere. Mid-eastern children shouldn’t have to worry about being bombed in the marketplace or their own homes. African kids should be called in for dinner and know there will be food on the table. And Americans growing up in the land of plenty should be able to run and play and live without fear in those precious early years.

We've been put on a diet and didn't even sign up for it. While the fast food industry has been accused of super sizing everything, food packagers who stock our grocery shelves have quietly been reducing the sizes of items. They might not think so, but we notice.

We notice that all the measurements we had to learn in school seem to be irrelevant. Individual containers of yogurt used to be eight ounces: one cup. Now containers are six ounces or even less. Buy a half gallon of ice cream? Not anymore. Someone, apparently looking out for our waistlines, repackaged dessert into cylindrical or cutesy oval containers that range from 1.5 to 1.75. The very high priced were always small, but have gotten smaller still. And breakfast cereal manufacturers haven't reduced the size of the boxes, just the contents within. A pound of processed grain with a few nuts and raisins thrown in comes in great big boxes. For kids, that means big pictures on the outside. For adult cereal, it has large numbers touting dietary fiber. That's right, the portion that's indigestible has become a selling point. When you open the box and slit the inside liner to discover the thing half full, then you read the small print: contents may have settled. Yeah, right.

Grocers used to be more helpful with the shelf stickers. In some instances, alongside the item name, price, etc. they have done a cost per unit breakdown. That way we know what we're paying per ounce. But they don't always keep the tags updated, and I've noticed that on some items they don't always compare "apples to oranges." (forgive the grocery analogy) Across the row will be costs per ounce on five items, and then you spot the gourmet label. Sure enough. It's figured in cost per gram.

Toilet paper at 1000 squares per roll, but heft the package and know it's not gonna do the job. Aluminum foil, one box measured in square inches, another in linear feet. Juice and juice lookalikes--if you compare 100 percent juice with 27 percent, how is the cost per ounce even relevant? In that case, size of container might be the same, but they've reduced the quality of the contents, which is even more insidious. Same with meat products that have been injected with salt water and spices. We know we're paying more and getting less.

It seems the only thing that hasn't been reduced is the price.  We're forced to become smarter shoppers.

            Used to be, as soon as we stepped off the plane in Honolulu the scent of plumeria wafting on a breeze greeted us. No matter what time of day or night, thick warm air enveloped me and made my airplane-dehydrated skin feel better immediately. The lei greeters weren’t there on our behalf, but their very presence welcomed us. We knew we were home.

            Nowadays when returning to Hawaii, it’s not the time difference that affects us most, it’s the changes, and the unchanged, that remind us we’re back. Making it through the airport with a few illusions of Paradise intact is the first obstacle. The orange cones, yellow caution tape, and if it’s raining, large buckets are permanent fixtures on the open terminal. First impression of Oahu, for us and millions of others. The walkways, so badly in need of repair that they’re a safety hazard, are beyond filthy. The wiki-wiki bus looks every one of its 38 years. And in baggage claim, cold as a meat locker, people watch carousels amidst the drabbest of brown and cement architecture anyone could possibly devise for a tropical destination.

            The cab makes its way through heavy traffic, something that hasn’t improved in our absence.

            The newspaper in our driveway also tells us that not much has changed in local politics in our absence. Our incumbent mayor is accusing his rival of campaign shenanigans: volunteers who are really staff are working on city council time. This should be laughable since the squeeze is on all government employees to campaign. In the accumulated mail is a postcard urging us to vote for the incumbent and signed by a friend of ours. She was told when she accepted the C and C job that she would be donating some of her vacation time to work on campaigns. Coerced volunteerism isn’t an oxymoron in Hawaii government.

            Day two after our arrival, we need to buy groceries. Sticker shock gets us every time. Reminds me of the tale about a frog in a pot that will sit while the heat is turned up gradually until it boils to death. While here, we don’t see the gradual increases. But when mainland prices are fresh on our minds, we know we pay almost two dollars more per box of cereal, up to four dollars a gallon more for milk, and about a dollar fifty more for a dozen eggs.  We shut our eyes to prices, not just of groceries, but everything. From gasoline to haircuts, insurance, taxes, there isn’t a thing we can name that’s a real bargain in Hawaii. So we don’t talk about the cost of living here. In fact, we hold ourselves in check so that we don’t always “talk stink.” Too much negativity only depresses us.

            Day three, and we’ve done some reconnecting and got our sleep patterns on a better schedule. The house has lost its stuffiness, and we happily note that the ants didn’t carry it away. We make appointments, set up tennis and golf games and dinners with friends.  Gradually we fit back into our own routines and take up the reins of our destiny. We drive over washboard roads—“skinned” in DOT terms that means half-assed maintenance with faulty materials—without complaining. We stop thinking our garage is cramped and count blessings that we have a two-car garage with a door that closes. We wear sandals, mine a hot pink that match nothing, and know we’re in style.

            And then we go to the beach. Thanks to a friend with a military husband, we join in a potluck picnic at Bellows on a glorious afternoon. With our bellies stuffed, we drop our beach chairs and ease into the soft sand that powders our feet and soothes to the core of all problems. Friendships and perfect weather: two intangibles without price tags that can’t be messed up or regulated. We watch boogey boarders, body surfers, kids in sunhats and rash guards and volleyball wannabes, castle builders, posers and more. When the lure of the turquoise water and crashing waves becomes too strong, we peel off shirts and sunglasses and wade through the shore break into warm water that makes our islands—our islands—what they are.

            And finally we’re glad to be back.