the man from apple…”to infinity…and beyond!”

Thomas edison glühbirne

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I’m always in awe of those whose genius sets them apart from the rest of mankind…da Vinci, Edison, Shakespeare, and yes, Michael Jackson. Not just individuals, but empires like the Romans for their contributions, many of which improved our daily lives. My admiration also extends to persons who walk among us…doctors, airline pilots, chefs, scientists, astronauts.

In all actuality, I respect people who persevere…regardless of their career choices…my husband and my daughter among them. Or those who have a passion and pursue it…with a passion. My friend Becky has taken French lessons for many years…just because. She has made good use of it in her frequent travels to France. And at a luncheon with her class friends, they cooked and conversed…in French.

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I have a passion for many things, but not the patience to persevere long-term in most of them. Blogging…and being a wife and mother…have been the exceptions. I know for sure I’m not unique in this regard…”jack-of-all trades and master of none,” I mean. So my regard for Steve Jobs is two-fold. Until the end of his life, he pursued his passion with a vengeance. But the object of his pursuit is what left me in awe.

Technology leaves me…clueless. WordPress is the extent of my expertise, such as it is. How Jobs could fathom gobbledygook and harness it for global use, is way outside my realm of comprehension. The language alone is like Greek to me. URLs…permalinks…shortlinks…HTML…trackbacks…pingbacks. In a roomful of nerds, I would be the dummy struggling to regurgitate all the techno-speak swirling around me, and over my head. In a million years I would never have sat in on a brainstorming session with Jobs and his cronies. 

On the other hand, “Toy Story,” Jobs’ first Pixar creation is totally within my orb of intellectual understanding. And in tribute to the icon, hubby and I are sipping decaf coffee and munching on Buckingham Palace biscuits, a souvenir gift from friends…while settling in to watch the antics of…

Toy Story

…woody…buzz lightyear…and andy’s toys…my favorite legacy of…the man from apple…

………hugmamma.

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massage “therapy”

I’ve had an unusual last 6 months, with allergies and fibromyalgia taking its toll throughout the spring season. Luckily it was after I’d tended to my garden, preparing the beds for the growing season, weeding and laying bait to minimize the slug infestation. Summer was a busy time with travels to Venice, Italy and Irvine, California. And during the last couple of months I’ve criss-crossed the country to be with my daughter. So it was with great anticipation that I saw my massage therapist,  yesterday.

Under Jennifer’s very capable hands, I felt the knots in my neck and shoulder muscles begin to loosen and relax. I winced in pain when she worked one particular spot in the crook of my right neck area. I’d never done that before, so I knew I’d been in desperate need of a massage.

An “old soul” at 27 years of age, Jennifer is not only good for my aches and pains, but is also someone with whom I commisserate on just about everything. Like the rest of us, she has had to sort out her life. Married, with her own business, I think my massage therapist, and friend, should be congratulated for “making lemonade, out of lemons.”  

Jennifer is such a home body. Having had a bountiful garden this year, she’s been busy canning sugar pumpkins, and making apple butter and blackberry jam, and turning squash into homemade soup. And she was understandably proud of harvesting 20 ears of corn, for neither the deer nor the raccoons had ravaged the stalks. Contributing to their winter stockpile, Jennifer’s husband will soon be hunting elk with friends. She indicated that at least 500 pounds of meat can be had from one animal.

I’m amazed at the thrift and frugality in such a young couple. And yet it doesn’t seem to be founded only upon economic concerns. Jennifer chooses to live a simpler life in terms of material acquisitions. Her passions lie elsewhere, a horse with which she is training, and a determination to become a licensed practitioner of myofacscial-release. These do not come cheap. But they are meaningful and fulfilling goals, for which Jennifer is willing to make sacrifices.

While my body is grateful for my massage therapist’s skill, my soul is graced by her youthful wisdom.

for Jennifer, hugs…hugmamma.

interests, so varied

As with the surge in readership that I got from “stumbleupon” traffic, my recent posts “put a ‘face’ on the ‘unknown,’ and to a lesser degree, “an expert, in my opinion,” sent views “through the roof.” Where a day or 2 before, I had reached 3,027 views, 2-3 days after these postings, views are up to 3,470. It’s pretty heady to think that my words can draw so many to want to read what I have to say. I must admit to returning to re-reading what I wrote a number of times, trying to discern what it was I said that might have made such an impression. Whatever it was, I’m humbled to know that I struck a chord. I was moved by comments telling me as much, including one from Janice Langbehn and her children.

When I write about a topic, I am intensely passionate about what I’m saying. My feelings are genuine. Those who know me know that I am candid, only given to expressing my honest beliefs. Sometimes it’s integrity gone amuck. I’m not prone to do “battle” in person because my emotions can tend to twist my tongue, better known as being “tongue-tied.” And so I blog.

As a blogger I can say what I want, in a responsible way. Any writer will tell you that readership is key to sustaining the motivation to continue. I’m no different. When I first started, I thought I’d be content merely floating my “voice” out in the internet universe. I published 38 posts on blogger.com, never knowing if they were read, with the exception of a handful of friends who told me they had. So I went in search of another platform from which to launch my voice, and found Oprah.com. 

For the most part, I was a happy blogger in Oprah’s universe. There I honed my writing skills further, and began learning about the technical details. When that site changed its format to being more about OWN, Oprah’s upcoming, new venture, I gradually ceased blogging. I rediscovered my passion for it after taking a Blogging 101 class with Cat Rambo. The information she shared inspired me to look into WordPress.com.

One of the main things Cat told the 9 or 10 of us in class was that we’d need to write “something of value,” whatever that meant to each of us. A guy wanted to start a small business, an Asian woman wanted to post photographs, an Indian woman was a total novice but wanted to share her thoughts and feelings, another woman works for a nonprofit and was looking to increase its visibility. Cat thought sharing the details of my life experiences was an interesting blog. So I bought several “blogging for dummy” books, including “WordPress.com for dummies,” and proceeded down the path leading to the magical, yet mysterious, kingdom of Oz, or Blog-dom.

So here I am, happily residing in a “cottage” of words, offering shelter by the “side of the road” to passersby in need of a boost, as they continue their journey through life. My interests are so varied, that I am passionate about many things. But the mainstay will always be my compassion for people, especially the downtrodden, and more especially, children. Humor and laughter are also very important to me, and is often reflected in my “tongue-in-cheek” style of writing.

I blog, hoping what I post will be enjoyed, but I don’t write to increase my readership stats. Just as some “stumbleupon” readers have continued life’s journey with me, I would welcome having HRC, Johnny Weir, and AARP devotees along for the “ride” as well. But just as my interests are varied, everyone must pursue whatever catches their fancy.

so go chase some “butterflies,” hugs…hugmamma.

surrogate fathers

Reflecting back to my fatherless childhood, I was one when my father died, I probably pined for a male figure to parent me alongside my mom. But I don’t remember obsessing about it, although there were times when certain individuals were present in my life who I wished were my father.

My earliest recognition of just such a man was Uncle Lot. I adored him even though he was not really an uncle; “calabash” relatives were commonplace in extended Hawaiian families. Bronzed by the sun, silver white hair framing a handsome face, I imagined he loved me like a precious daughter. He and our Aunt Miriam, spinster brother and sister,  lived next door to the first home I ever knew, conveniently located across the road from the beach. When not frolicking on the sand or swimming in the warm waters, we’d be playing with Melabee, a German Shepherd belonging to auntie and uncle. We were always invited into their antique-filled home where we snacked on little sandwiches or small, scrumptious desserts. I always loved curling up in Uncle Lot’s lap, burrowing my sleepy head into his chest heavily scented with cologne. I’d rest there while he, auntie and my mom chatted amiably among themselves. I never wanted to leave when it was time to return to our house.  Their home was so much grander, filled with beautiful things, and food more delicious than was our usual fare. As a child I never understood aunty and uncle’s relationship. They were related, but they seemed so comfortable in each other’s shadow, like husband and wife. But they weren’t married, so I wanted Uncle Lot to marry my mom. Of course it was a child’s fantasy, and there it remained.

As a kindergartener I remember we were in a different home, one that I would live in until I moved away to college. Our Chinese landlord lived next door. At first it was “Popo” (grandmother) to whom we paid rent, but upon her death, her son Ah Sing assumed the responsibility. I became long-lasting, best friends with his daughter, an only child for many years. A brother was born into the family when my friend was in high school.

Ah Sing took pity upon my situation, a fatherless child with a mother struggling to support her young family. He would include me on outings with his daughter. One vivid memory is of a visit onboard a navy submarine docked  in the harbor. I still have a small, black and white photograph somewhere, of me perched on a metal seat on an outer deck, long, black hair caught up in the breeze, a furtive smile on my lips, a shy glance directed at the camera. My girlfriend’s mom was not as receptive toward me however, perhaps because I wasn’t a fit companion, being poor. No matter, I became a fixture at their home because I was like a sibling my friend wanted, and another daughter Ah Sing cherished.

The only physician I recall visiting as a child was Dr. James Fleming. His shoulders seemed broad, as though he could carry the weight of the world on them, well… at least that of the sick who visited his office. His hair was a sandy blonde, he wore spectacles and he always had a smile on his face. His bedside manner was comforting, especially to a child who rarely saw a doctor because it was an expense my mom couldn’t regularly afford. But like other generous people in our lives, Dr. Fleming discounted  our fees and never pressured my mom for payment. Receiving a lollipop or large, orange gumdrop was one reason I behaved during an appointment, but more importantly, Dr. Fleming felt like a father if only for the time I spent with him. When I was much older, my mom told me that he had offered to adopt me since he had no daughters, only 3 sons. You can imagine how elated I felt, and disappointed, that I never got to live the fairy-tale life of the Lahaina Flemings. But more than anything, I would have liked to have felt the love of a father like Dr. Fleming wash over me.

My father-in-law, now deceased some 20 years or so, treated me like a daughter. When I first spent time with my husband’s family, I thought my father-in-law didn’t like me. I always seemed the butt of his ribbing. Teasing was something I grew up with as the youngest, and I wasn’t particularly fond of it. I never had the wherewithal to fight back, and felt I must not be loved, or liked. Increasingly, as I was around him more, it became obvious that I was a favorite of my father-in-law’s. I guess I was a combination, pretty Hawaiian girl like his wife, Catholic raised and educated, attending college, with lofty ambitions that might rub off on his eldest son. But best of all I could out-talk the “Portugees,” as he would love to tell me, himself being Portuguese. We could banter back and forth endlessly. My father-in-law, looking much like and behaving very much like my husband, was the closest I ever came to having a father. So it saddened me to see his body, and spirit, deteriorate through the 8 years he survived after a massive heart attack which destroyed 50% of his heart.

And then there’s my husband. A Catholic seminarian a week prior to our first meeting, he had changed his mind about being called to the priesthood. Having left home after completion of 8th grade, he had spent the next 4 1/2 years studying theology. I’ve often joked that God was preparing him for an even greater task than leading the faithful, and that was keeping me on the “straight and narrow,” which he has successfully done for 40 years.

Because I was fatherless as a child, it was imminent that my daughter bond with her dad immediately. So I didn’t look to either my mom or mother-in-law for help when our baby was born. I wanted my husband, myself and our daughter to forge a strong and loving union which would survive the ups and downs of whatever lay ahead. And to this day, our strength as a family continues to thrive upon the foundation upon which it was built. We enable one another to follow our passions, knowing that our love and support is always available 24/7.

So while I may not have had a father of my own to nurture and guide me, there were those to whom I could look for the wonderful qualities that I would one day find in a husband. So I thank my “fathers”, of whom only Ah Sing survives, on my lovely, island, childhood home of Maui.

 very fortunate to have had surrogate fathers, love me…hugmamma.