Snowshoeing on Mt. Rainier

              Exactly one week after we were soaking up the warmth on a Hawaiian beach, John and I stood 5400 feet above sea level, enjoying the sunshine again, but this time it was reflected by snow. Time had slid by so quickly, that suddenly it was Spring, and we hadn’t broken in the snowshoes we’d gotten for Christmas. We figured we’d better get up to Mt. Rainier before the snow melted and the wildflowers bloomed. 

               After a morning spent running errands, we rummaged through our winter gear and loaded the car.  I cut the tags off the snowboard pants and jacket that I’d gotten on sale and rooted around for gloves and a hat. It would be ridiculous to snowshoe with my purse, so I stuck my driver’s license, cell phone, I-pod, and some cash into a Vera Bradley wristlet, a quilted wallet, and tossed it into the backpack we were taking. We filled up water bottles, and since we were in a hurry, decided against packing a meal, we’d buy lunch along the way. And, we were off like a herd of turtles!

               There’s a quaint inn and restaurant fairly close to the gate at Mt. Rainier, in Ashford, that we usually stop at on the way home. But since we’d gotten off to such a late start, John suggested we stop and eat on the way up instead. I agreed. We were both hungry, and would need fuel for snowshoeing. I sent the kids a text message that we were eating at the Copper Creek Inn on our way up the mountain. Sarah answered that she was jealous.

The food was excellent as usual, proven by the fact that when the waitress put a Calzone and French Dip sandwich in front of us, we were both sure that we’d only be able to eat half of what was there. Then we cleaned our plates. Our waitress asked if we wanted some of their famous pie. Our bellies were so full we told her that maybe we’d stop on the way down.

               Our Camry climbed up Mt. Rainier non-stop to Paradise. That’s where we suited up and strapped the snowshoes on. It was a glorious, clear, bright, sunny day. Good thing we remembered to bring our sunglasses. We headed up the trail. The new snowshoes were great, much better than the ones we used to rent from G.I. Joes. It didn’t take long for it to become obvious that I didn’t really need the snow pants and jacket, after all, it was about 50 degrees, and I was getting a good work out.  

               Although we should’ve guessed it, we were surprised at how crowded it was up there. The gorgeous weather had attracted lots of others enjoying what could be a last shot at winter. We snowshoed past a Boy Scout troop busy pelting each other with snowballs. They ceased fire to let us through. On a ridge above us a group practiced sliding down the slope, rolling, and using their pick axes to stop. A German couple asked us to take their picture. We chatted with a friendly group from Louisiana.

We didn’t get as far as we’d gone on previous treks. After about a half a mile, we turned around and trudged back. Other than trying to figure out how to lock the telescoping poles that came with the snowshoes, and a few blisters, it was a perfect day.

Back in the car, coasting down the mountain over wild rivers and through brooding forests, we decided to skip the pie at The Copper Creek Inn. We whizzed on by.

Twenty minutes later, I Iooked for my I-pod in that compact, wristlet wallet. It wasn’t in the backpack or any jacket pockets.  I didn’t remember putting it in the trunk, but we pulled over and John called my phone while I listened with my head hovering over the trunk. Silence.

The last time I remembered seeing it was when I texted Sarah. We backtracked to the Copper Creek Inn, hoping that’s where it was, hoping it wasn’t up at Paradise in the snow somewhere. In my mind I tried to remember exactly what I’d jammed in the wristlet when we left home. How much cash had I taken? Was my debit card in there?

               When we walked back into the restaurant, the waitresses greeted me with big smiles. “Hey, we found your phone! And we really like your wallet, it’s so cute!” I thanked them, relieved that they’d found it with nothing missing, and glad that we hadn’t gotten all the way home before we realized it was lost.  

               Then one of the twenty-somethings said, “Yeah, we looked at your contacts and called ‘Home,’ and ‘Mom and Dad.’ You always call the parents because they’ll know how to find you.”

               I bit my lip, “You know, my parents are in Hawaii.”

               She smiled, “Well, we thought so, because their answer machine said, ‘Aloha!’” Then she asked, “Hey, would you like some pie after all?”

               We asked her to box up two slices to take home, but when she told us it was still warm, we parked ourselves on stools at the counter. Freshly baked, warm blackberry pie and cold vanilla ice cream after a day snowshoeing—it doesn’t get much better than that!

               When we got home, I called my parents and explained. It’s been a very long time since someone called them about me. They were glad that there was a happy ending, and amazed that in the space of one week we’d gone from the balmy beaches of Hawaii to the snowy mountaintops of Washington.

Laura Keolanui Stark is planning the next field trip. She can be reached at stark.laura.k@gmail.com.

Spring Break in Hawaii

This seems to be my year for short, fun-packed vacations. My tan has not faded from our Spring Break visit to Hawaii and neither have my memories. It was a vacation and a mini-family reunion all wrapped up together like lau lau in a ti leaf.

               My brother Bob and his wife Kathleen flew in from Maui. They had us cracking up constantly. My sister and her husband Bruce cooked a delicious meal for all eleven of us, and helped me add to my teapot collection at their favorite antique store. Mom and Dad led the two-van caravan for the around-the-island tour that included stops to be awed by high surf at Sunset Beach and Waimea Bay, to see Dole’s pineapple fields, and check out where LOST was filmed. Before our trip to the Bishop Museum, my Dad reviewed our extensive family genealogy with us, giving us clues to look for at the museum and helping the kids get back in touch with our Hawaiian culture.

We also got back in touch with the warm Pacific Ocean spending many hours boogie boarding at the same beach where my brother learned to body surf, and where my father saw a barracuda latch onto a body surfing classmate’s calf during his boyhood days. John and the kids also surfed at Waikiki while I soaked up the sun and a Chi Chi, too relaxed to bother to walk a few feet to watch the St. Patrick’s Day parade march down Kalakaua Avenue.

We savored the almost endless list of special local treats we crave from Hawaii: malasadas, Chantilly cake, saimin, crispy gau gee on cake noodles, mixed plate lunches, green tea ice cream, and shave ice. My son and his girlfriend managed to catch the bus to a luau at the last minute after being stuck in an excruciating, traffic jam on H-1, part of everyday life in Honolulu. We all got to giggle while holding onto our clothes and hair at the Pali Lookout, and take in the spectacular view of the Windward side between gusts.

We re-lived family memories that covered a century, so many relatives, so many places infused with significant family history. We caught up on what aunties, uncles and cousins are doing now, and learned about some serious family health problems. The absence of some of the things I used to always do when I visited made me a little sad. None of my grandparents are alive, and a favorite auntie and uncle have passed away. No more calling out “Hui!” as we climbed the steps to visit them anymore. I missed them. My grandparents’ beach house in Hauula where my parents honeymooned, and where later my mom, brother, sister and I lived when my father was in Vietnam is gone. The mango and avocado trees at my house had to be cut down. The missing reminded me that time passes, and that the Hawaii I grew up in is gone.

John and I pointed out to the kids our first tiny, cramped apartment in a rough neighborhood where we spent a lot of time circling the nearby blocks in search of a parking space because we were too poor to pay for one at the apartment. The sagging family-owned store, built in the 1930s, that we’d walk to to pick up some bread or eggs was still there, jammed between other apartment buildings. We showed them the bike-lane that John rode his 10-speed bike, and later his mo-ped on, to get to the University of Hawaii. Then we pointed out the high-rise building that we ended up in, on the sixth floor, with a parking space, a block from the Ala Wai canal with a view of Diamond Head. There’s no way they could appreciate what an accomplishment that was for us.

But back to the present. Even though there were lots of funny moments, including my mother substituting a wooden calabash on her head for a hat, I think I accidentally provided the funniest vacation moment. It happened at the Dole Pineapple Center. After our long ride, we got in line to buy soft-serve pineapple ice cream cones, to be exact, four waffle cones. The girl behind the counter, obviously very experienced, deftly handed all four cones into one of John’s hands. Four cones in one hand! It made me really nervous!

While my family and other customers looked on, I anxiously tried to be helpful by taking two of the cones. John, sure that he had all four cones under control, apparently wanted me to take only one. Looking like two lumberjacks on either side of a saw, we pulled back and forth. After a few urgent tugs, I managed to pry two cones away from his unwilling hand.

Oh no! One started to topple! I wasn’t about to let it hit the floor! So, I lunged, and bent backwards like I was doing the limbo. The now empty cone remained in my right hand. The ice cream plopped, cold and sticky, onto my right boob.

So, I did the only thing I could do. I shot an accusing look at John, like it was his fault. He boomeranged that look right back at me. My daughter shook her head, called us immature, and took the intact cone from my left hand. My brother snickered, “Nice catch!” I started laughing as I took the empty cone, and scooped the ice cream off my chest back into the waffle cone where it belonged. There was no argument over which cone was mine. I swabbed my t-shirt and hair off with a napkin, and ate my doubly refreshing pineapple ice cream cone surrounded by laughter. My new family nickname is “Pineapple Boob.”

Six days full of family, fun, food, Hawaiian beaches and sunshine flew by. It wasn’t easy getting on the plane to come back to Washington, leaving so much behind. It never is. But I know that we’ll go back again. And I can still smell the fragrant ginger, plumeria, and tuberose leis scattered throughout my home here.

Laura Keolanui Stark is still thinking of more things she wishes they’d done in Hawaii. She can be reached at stark.laura.k@gmail.com.

Home Alone

            When my husband goes out of town on business trips, without fail, weird things happen at home. This time, the dogs spent the early hours of the night barking viciously upstairs while I was trying to get some quilting done downstairs. They take their jobs seriously when John leaves telling them to protect me and guard the house. At midnight I decided to go to bed. The dogs settled down for the night.

            At 3:30 in the morning, I felt someone breathing heavily on my face and looking at me. T-Bone, our Labrador/German Shepherd mixed dog was sitting beside the bed staring intently at me through the darkness. His little buddy, Suzy the dachshund was with him, but since she’s short, she wasn’t breathing on me. She just kept shaking her head to get her tags to jingle.

I’d like to say that my dogs are like Lassie, trying to warn me of an earthquake or other impending danger, but the last time T-Bone did this, it was because my cell phone was beeping as the battery went dead.

Before I could switch the light on, I heard a little chirp. That meant it wasn’t my cell phone dying. It was a smoke detector, one of seven in the house, or the carbon monoxide detector. Great! Why don’t these things die in the daytime? Why is it always between two and three in the morning when the batteries start to fizzle out? I stumbled around in the dark, fumbling for lights. T-Bone pranced and smiled proudly following me.

            Another chirp, ok, the culprit was downstairs. The dogs followed me down, acting like this was the most exciting thing they’d ever done, maybe a milk bone would be forthcoming. I stood at the bottom of the stairs waiting for another chirp. Chirp!

It wasn’t the carbon monoxide detector. Of course not, that was plugged into an electrical socket and easily accessible. It was the smoke detector up on the ceiling. I pulled a chair up under it, climbed onto the chair and reached up. I couldn’t reach it. I’m sure John would’ve been able to.

            I looked around and spotted a bar stool.  I clambered up on top of it, noting that it probably wasn’t the safest plan. I’d left the cushion on the 9” circle where you normally sit.  I was sleepy, and now I was wrestling with the smoke detector over my head. I warned myself not to be startled when it chirped again in my hands. As I twisted and turned, losing circulation in my arms up over my head, struggling to get the cover off, it dawned on me that if I fell, my husband wouldn’t be home to find me until dinnertime. It occurred to me that the “I’ve fallen and can’t get up” commercial didn’t seem so stupid now.

            I was getting impatient. Lefty loosie! Why wouldn’t this stubborn thing come off??? And then it did. But not the way the manufacturer intended. The whole thing came off; plastic anchors, ceiling plaster and all. Then it chirped again, cheerful to be free. I got off the precarious stool, not gracefully, but successfully. I pried the dead batteries out and left the whole mess, guts and all, on my sewing table.

            The dogs were satisfied that they’d saved me from the mysterious chirping, almost like when Helen Keller’s dog saved her from a fire in her house. I read an extra chapter in my book trying to get back to sleep. My husband will get to try out the new drill that he got for Christmas. It’s a win-win-win situation.      

Laura Keolanui Stark still appreciates smoke detectors, even though . . . She can be reached at stark.laura.k@gmail.com

Sew Expo Hangover

          The Sewing & Stitchery Expo ended yesterday, and today it feels like the day after Christmas: empty shopping bags, empty wallet, but a lot of really great toys to play with.

          This year I went for three out of the four days even though I initially planned to go for only one day. When I started scheduling seminars, Plan A flew out the window, Plan B was a mere flash, and I sent in Plan C. Plan D is what I got. Some of the seminars I’d requested had sold out, so they’d substituted my alternate requests. But, I’m pretty sure that I hadn’t listed a couple of them at all. Looking at the tickets they sent, I felt the same way I do sometimes when I reach my destination on a trip, and open my suitcase---who the heck packed this stuff?

          As it turned out, the surprise classes were pleasant surprises. In 50 minutes, Dr. Bob unwound all my thread problems in his Thread Therapy class. He explained thread characteristics, which needle to use with different specialty threads, and told a great story about how his 14 year old son used water soluble thread on bathing suits to liven up a pool party.

          It wasn’t all fun though at Expo, within 15 minutes of entering the gates, I got in trouble, my modus operandi. My offense this time was stepping over the chains to get into a seminar instead of winding around through an utterly empty maze. I just can’t seem to stay between the lines. The seminar was worth the scolding. It was “Japanese Design Basics for Quilters.” June Colburn talked about the differences between Western design in artwork and Asian design. I will incorporate many of her insights into my quilts, and finally cut confidently into some of the gorgeous Asian fabrics I’ve collected.

          In between seminars, I shopped, and shopped, and shopped some more, severely testing my creed, “Never buy more than you can carry.” Every year I tell myself that I don’t need to buy anything else. I have mountains of fabric, notions, and books. Yet every year, I add to the mountain. I blew my budget, and until next payday, my meal planning will revolve around whatever I can forage from our pantry or freezer. I’m thinking of it as a kind of creative scavenger hunt. Dr. Bob had a piece of valuable advice on what to say to our husbands when their eyes bug out on seeing what we haul home from the sewing expo. He told us to say these magic words, “There was a drawing.” And, there was a drawing at the end of each seminar. We just don’t have to divulge whether we won or not.

          By far, the best part of this year’s expo was a gift from my friend Carol: tickets for three of us to see Eleanor Burns in a Quilter’s Night Out. Eleanor Burns is one of the top quilters in America, and has her own show, “Quilt in a Day” on PBS. For years, Carol and I (and apparently a lot of other quilters) filled out suggestion slips asking Sew Expo to get Eleanor Burns to come. 2010 was the year our pestering paid off! We each got to chat with Eleanor and get her autograph at her booth. She is as delightful in person as on her show. At Quilter’s Night Out, she wowed us with her quilt show, reminisced about 30 years of taping her show, shared bloopers that had us laughing until we were in tears, introduced us to her family, and got hundreds of women up on their feet to do the chicken dance.

          Expo was crowded. Some people were rude. Some days it rained. Scones fueled me when my energy levels sagged. One day I slogged a half a mile through the parking lot to my car while packing my shopping booty with me. Overall, this year’s Sew Expo lived up to its billing of “the biggest sewing party in the country!”

Laura Keolanui Stark is starting a new quilting project! She can be reached at lkstark@yahoo.com

Super Bowl Sunday

          Super Bowl Sunday morning everyone in the Louisiana house awoke with a smile, anticipating the big game. We all found a way to stay busy.  We women set about grating chocolate for the chocolate fountain, chopping onions for pico de gallo, mashing avocados for guacamole and stuffing jalapenos. We set out the decorations—Saints banners, glittery fleur de lis pendants, Mardi Gras beads, and a cake that looked just like a Saints football helmet. As the guests arrived, the standard greeting was “Who Dat?!” New Orleans’ new anthem, “Black and Gold,” boomed all through the house as we geared up for the kick-off.

            The game started with everyone’s eyes riveted to the movie theater sized screen. We were all loading our plates with crawfish, oysters, barbecued ribs, steaks, sausage, spaghetti and meatballs while keeping one eye on the game as the Saints took on the Colts.  

Then someone brought one of the family dogs in injured. Indy had been run over by a golf cart. While the game played, we called the emergency animal hospital, and loaded Indy into the back of an SUV. Our hostess, Dawn, left with him at the end of the first quarter. She got back at the end of half time. Indy would stay overnight where the vets could keep an eye on him. He had a broken vertebrae.

 We added prayers for Indy to prayers for the Saints. Then came the gutsy onside kick. Jumping, screaming, high fives, and hugs filled the house. It was a hard fought game, but we breathed easier in the second half. After one of the Saints touchdowns, we cranked up “Black and Gold” on the sound system so loud, it blew the fuses for the big screen! Someone yelled, “Look, there’s a TV upstairs!” We stampeded up into the loft and crowded around an average sized screen. Our focus on the game continued up there until the big screen started up again.

When it looked like the Saints had the game locked up, we all exhaled until late in the fourth quarter when the nanny told Dawn (who is a nurse) that she felt sick—chest pain, shortness of breath, numbness in her left arm. We called 911 and two ambulances and a fire engine arrived. As the EMT’s loaded Maria into one of the ambulances, our host, Lee persuaded the EMT’s from the other ambulance to hold up a Saints jersey and pose for a picture. Maria also smiled and waved as she left. Only in Louisiana!

After the final seconds ticked off and the Saints’ victory was history at 31-17, after we’d cheered, hugged, dance and screamed, we went the emergency room to check on Maria. The doctors said she didn’t have a heart attack, just too much tequila and Tabasco sauce. We said our good-byes since we were leaving early in the morning. On the way home Dawn quipped, “I guess it’s not a party unless someone ends up in the emergency room.”

At home we watched the party on Bourbon Street. People were wild with jubilation. The police sitting atop horses had smiles on their faces as they watched the crowd. Every once in awhile a hand would come up out of the crowd and stroke the horses’ noses.

On our way to the airport the following morning, lines of people circled the buildings of New Orleans’ Times Picayune hoping to get copies of this historic edition of the newspaper. Cars and people lined the streets near the airport, waiting to greet Drews Brees, and the Super Bowl Champions when they got home.

We flew the long way home—through Philadelphia—the only free mileage flights we could find back to Seattle. I proudly wore my Saints t-shirt and Mardi Gras beads. Every Saints fan boarding our flights acknowledged me with at least a knowing smile and at most a rousing “Who Dat?!” It seemed like everyone across the country was a Saints fan for Super Bowl XLIV, February 7, 2010.

Let the Good Times Roll!

Standing on the curb waiting for to be picked up, the familiar breeze laced with gulf air blew past carload after carload of family and friends greeting each other with smiles and hugs, that “Naw’lins” accent bouncing around in my head once again.

               My husband and I had returned on a whim and free airline mileage. Neither of us was born in Louisiana, but both of us consider it one of our four homes. Louisiana is where we met. LSU is where we got married in a small campus chapel. It’s also where we made friends that became our second families.

               That Louisiana family is who pulled up at the airport to embrace us, decorate us with shiny purple, green, and gold Mardi Gras beads, and then swear us into the “Who Dat Nation” as we barreled across Lake Pontchartrain. They filled us in on the thousands of male fans who dressed up in drag to fulfill a vow of Buddy Diliberto, the late, New Orleans sportscaster who famously declared he'd wear a dress if the Saints ever made it to the Super Bowl. After 43 long years, the Saints were Super Bowl-bound. We learned the words to “Black and Gold” blasting from the SUV speakers, and before we even got “home,” we stopped to buy Saints’ Super Bowl t-shirts, temporary tattoos, and jewelry.

               Five hours later, we’d pulled up chairs in a family café for my favorite “back in Louisiana” ritual—feasting on spicy fried shrimp—either straight up or dressed in a po’boy, along with a cold, long-necked bottle of beer. John and our friends slurped down oysters on the half shell. We caught up on our lives and relived old times, with “who dats” from all over the restaurant randomly punctuating our laughter.

               A Mardi Gras parade rolled slowly past the front plate glass windows, loud and raucous. The waitress bustled by and asked if I’d like a go-cup for my beer to take out front to watch the parade. I answered “No.” I wanted my hands free. Between shrimp and hush puppies, I ran out onto the sidewalk to yell, “Throw me something Mista!” both hands raised high in the air—a skill learned in college that has never appeared on my resume—to catch those shiny beads.

               A high school band stalled in front of us, the drumline pounding out a Mardi Gras beat while the rest of the band gyrated, instruments held up high. And there I was, dancing in a Louisiana street once again, as I had decades before. The floats cruised by, masked men slinging strings of beads out to the crowd.  A little guy held up high in his mom’s arms pointed up with amazement at strings of beads caught in a leafless tree. He grinned and nodded in agreement when I commented that it was decorated like a Christmas tree.

               Late into the night, I caught beads, ate shrimp, laughed, danced, and sang. I celebrated being a citizen of the “Who Dat” nation, sharing in the pre-game excitement that had taken over bringing back the free and easy exuberance that had been a part of New Orleans pre-Katrina. Laissez les bons temps rouler!

Laura Stark is decorating her house with Mardi Gras beads and cooking shrimp gumbo. She can be reached at lkstark@yahoo.com.

Road Trip

          161-512-167-18-90-26-195-270. No, that’s not the mysterious numeric sequence from “Lost” or the Fibonacci code. It’s the numeric sequence of highways I take when I drive across the state to WSU where my kids are students. That’s where I was headed, so I loaded my car up with croissants, paper towels, and toilet paper from Costco, home-baked New York Crumb cake, odds and ends that they’d forgotten to take, and a shopping bag of goodies from a roommate’s mom. I packed my own bag, and made sure to load my I-Pod with music (especially an updated Zumba playlist) to keep me awake. Last, I stopped at the library to check out some audio books.

            There’s nothing like a road trip to lift my mood. Even though I was eastbound, the first song on my Road Songs playlist was “Southbound” by The Allman Brothers. It chugged along as I cruised along and merged onto Highway 18.

Up in Snoqualmie Pass I turned the music off so I could appreciate the view. So many times before, I cut the music off up there to fully concentrate on the road while driving through what seemed like a washing machine of rain. I was lucky this time, the temperature was 34°, no snow or rain, so I relaxed and soaked in the beauty.

In Ellensburg I stuck with our family’s tradition. I stopped and ate at McDonalds. It’s uncanny how many times we’ve run into people we know in that particular McDonalds in the center of Washington state. Once it was our cousins from Hawaii who called out to me. They were on their way to drop their kids off at the University of Idaho! But on this trip, no chance meetings, just a few minutes to eat,  stretch my legs, and text John and the kids that I was almost halfway to Pullman.

Why was I on this almost epic 5-1/2 hour, 300-mile journey that included city driving, mountain driving, and two-lanes-through-farmland driving? I was on my way to attend the Washington State University School of Music Festival of Contemporary Art Music Student Convocation. Both Johnny and Sarah were listed in the program. Johnny, the Music Composition major, composed two short pieces for piano. Sarah, the Music Performance major, was the pianist who performed them.

Throughout their childhoods, they watched each other perform at recitals and school music programs, but February 4, 2010 was a highpoint on their musical road. Sarah took the stage and adjusted the bench at the Fazioli grand piano as we all waited expectantly for the first notes. Johnny had confided beforehand that it was much more nerve-wracking to be performing than to be sitting in the audience as he was. She took a deep breath, and began playing the pieces with her exceptionally perceptive musicality. How had he heard all this in his head? How had he written it all down? After the last note was played, Sarah stood gracefully amidst the clapping, and extended her hand to acknowledge the composer, her big brother, searching for him in the audience. He rose from his seat and bowed to her and the audience.

The next day, I stopped to fill my car’s gas tank up for the return trip. I smiled. My heart was still full from Sarah and Johnny’s performance. That has lasted for the entire trip home and beyond.