you should…talk to strangers

Not something you often hear, especially from a mom who’s been very protective of her only child, even now that she’s 27.

While NOT talking to strangers is still a good idea for youngsters, doing just the opposite might be exactly what the doctor orders for our ailing adult society.March 2011A 00059

Remaining clueless about one another will prove to be humanity’s death knell. Wearing blinders isolates us from the possibilities. And without them, what kind of hope is there for our future? Life offers no guarantees EXCEPT that we’re all in it for the long haul…until death do us part. So why not let your guard down and reach out to someone…as often as you can.

March 2011A 00061Reaching out to others who reach right back…totally makes my day.

My insatiable curiosity, and gift for gab, make it impossible for me not to want to know… “Whaaas up?” So when an idea takes hold, I usually follow its lead.

Today, while enjoying a celebration of my native Hawaiian culture at a local retailer, I happened upon an elderly gentleman in a wheelchair. He reminded me of a famous entertainer my husband and I had taken our parents to see a few times when we were visiting the islands. Rather than drop the thought, I stopped to ask the woman sitting next to him if he was from Hawaii. It turned out that they were husband and wife and were originally from Honolulu. Until moving to Seattle recently, they had lived in Nevada for more than 20 years.

Mr. Cummings was from the same town as my husband, and his grandfather had been in law enforcement in my hometown…before my time, obviously, since Mr. Cummings looked to be in his 70s, or perhaps 80s. Small, small world…getting smaller every day.

It felt so natural to chat and laugh with total strangers who felt, if only for a few moments, like friends of the family.

I can’t recall ever being rebuffed when I’ve extended myself in a gesture of friendliness. I can only remember being repaid in kind. My experiences have encouraged me…

…to talk to strangers…

………hugmamma. March 2011A 00046

weekly photo challenge: solitary #2

Solitary…being the only one. Makapuu Lighthouse…Honolulu, HawaiiCanoe…Waikiki Beach, Honolulu, HawaiiOne-of-a-kind…Art Gallery, Waikiki, Honolulu, HawaiiMy Keiki Wahine (daughter)…Halekulani Hotel, Waikiki, Honolulu, HawaiiWaikiki Moon…Honolulu, Hawaii

…yours to enjoy…someday…when you visit…

………hugmamma.   🙂

sleep, “ever catch up?”

12-hour digital clock radio

Image via Wikipedia

I envy those who regularly fall into bed at 10 p.m. or earlier. I’ve not done that in many, many years. I’ve always been the proverbial “night owl.” Bedtime for me is midnight, 1 or even 2 a.m. And every night before I close my eyes, I murmur to myself “Gotta get to bed earlier, 10:00, tomorrow night, 10:00.” It’s become more like a prayer, than a resolution.

Downtown Honolulu, HI, view from Punch Bowl.

Image via Wikipedia

I can recall when we were first married, and were renting a nice 2 bedroom apartment in Honolulu. We could afford a larger unit because my husband worked odd jobs around the complex, in exchange for the discounted rent of $125 a month. Can you believe that? An unheard of amount in a major metropolitan city these days, but especially in Honolulu.

University of Hawaii

Image by wertheim via Flickr

My husband had just graduated from a private Catholic college; I was finishing up my last year at the University of HawaiiBetween trying to be the good, little wife, and the good, little student, I was “burning the midnight oil.” I was also interning as a 4th grade teacher as a requirement for the 5th-year teaching certificate towards which I was studying. Oftentimes, I’d take a break from all-night cramming, and do a little household cleaning. I’d even run the vacuum. I was 20 when I married, so what did I know about the right time to do chores? I did them when I could. Funny, the neighbors never complained. But my husband did. He had to get up early for work.

Winfrey on the first national broadcast of The...

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While my penchant for cleaning late at night has dissipated, my desire to hang onto the last moments of a waning day have not. No matter where I’ve lived or what course my life has taken, there never seem to be enough hours in the day to do all that I want. That’s not to say I make the most of every minute. No. I dawdle…a lot. I stop to read parts of the newspaper. I crouch down beside Mocha to tell her I love her and nuzzle my face into hers. I catch parts of Ellenor Oprah.” I munch…munch…munch. I pick up Sitka. Oh, and of course, I blog. Those of you who subscribe, or are regular readers, know that I blog. Can’t help myself. Love to write.

Chatting with my husband when he arrives home from work and interminttently throughout the evening,  prepping dinner, dinner itself, cleaning up afterwards, more blogging, a little reading before switching off the light, and before long the clock reads midnight, or later.  Where does the time go? And it doesn’t help that Dr. Oz, and a myriad of others, continually advises that 7 0r 8 hours of sleep a night is mandtory for good health. I resolve to do better…in my next life. Promise. Meanwhile…

A Westclox Big Ben Clock

Image via Wikipedia

Are you an early bird, or a night owl like me, or both? God bless you if you’re both. I’d be napping all day.

know where i can borrow some hours?…hugmamma.

“a convertible that won’t muss your hair”

“Think of the biggest, most architectonic beehive hairdo in John Waters’s movie ‘Hairspray.’ Now add another foot of teased and tormented coiffure. Think Marge Simpson. Now go higher. Even such a splendid pile of ‘do’ as that will be safe behind the wheel of the 2011 Mercedes-Benz E550 Cabriolet with its standard-equipment ‘Aircap’ wind-deflector system.” Sounds like every girl’s dream car, fun in the sun, hair intact, looking gorgeous. Like Grace Kelly in “To Catch a Thief” with co-star Cary Grant, except movie magic kept her blonde tresses from separating into a stringy mess. That, unfortunately, was Bridget’s fate in “Bridget Jones’ Diary.” I’m not a blonde, not even a brunette, more like a henna-rinsed, nearly there “snow bird.” I’m neither a movie-star, nor a pretty, young thing. So why the obsession with sports cars? It’s on my “bucket list” of wishes. The image is of a carefree woman, devoid of material concerns, youthful, beautiful, outdoorsy without really being outdoors, and unattainable. Essentially, it’s of a woman in control. Again, there are the Grace Kelly types, controlling yet vulnerable, and the Bridget Jones types, not-in-control and out-of-her league. I’ve got a foot in each camp, controlling yet vulnerable AND not in control and out-of-my league. So sometimes I picture myself in a sporty convertible with the top down; but most often it’s of me in an SUV hauling plants or antiques. The latter is my reality and probably will be well into my seventies. Maybe my eighties? I’m not sure I’ll even be driving in my nineties, let alone sitting behind the wheel of Mercedes’ latest sports car.

Several years ago I lived my dream. I had visited my daughter at a summer dance program in Chautauqua, New York. Arriving at Buffalo’s airport, I drove the hour-and-a-half  distance in my rented yellow Ford Mustang convertible. With the top down, I breezed along highways and country roads. I felt in control and carefree. Radio blasting, I sang along with the upbeat music, grinning from ear to ear like the Cheshire Cat in “Alice in Wonderland.” But it didn’t take too long for the dream to wear thin.

When there was threat of rain, the top went up on the convertible. Rolling the roof up and down became a hassle. So it stayed put most of the time. In that position, getting people in and out of the back seat was difficult. It was ALMOST funny watching passengers buckle and unbuckle themselves in the cramped rear, especially if they were long-legged. When driving alone down solitary rural roads, I tried maintaining my carefree composure. But when I got lost I felt like the island girl that I was, looking for the landmark that would indicate I’d completed circling Oahu. Instead I crossed over the border from New York into Pennsylvania. Luckily, there were helpful strangers at gas stations and convenience stores, who steered me back on the right track.

I’d asked my husband to let me rent a convertible to “test the waters.” It was one of the best investments he ever made. That yellow Ford Mustang convertible was so gorgeous to behold, but so woefully impractical for my needs. My husband was grateful for my lesson learned. It let him off the hook from ever having to buy that sporty hunk of tin. So having realized the dream, I’m content with the image.

a baby-blue, volkswagon ‘beetle ‘ convertible, in my 80’s, now that’s another dream…hugmamma.