Tables Turned

          When it comes to computers, my immediate family is not impressed with my abilities. There’s a lot of eye-rolling which usually escalates to exasperated sighs when I ask a technical question. My son got so frustrated when I repeatedly asked what my “desktop” was, he loaded a picture of Indiana Jones’ real walnut desktop onto my computer. It has souvenir black and white pictures of Indy and his dad framing the edges of the desk, and an authentic-looking coffee stain too. So, they would’ve been stunned if they’d heard me giving a detailed lesson in how to use Facebook.

My desktop.

When I was visiting my parents two months ago, I showed them some family pictures on my Facebook profile. After I returned home, one of my cousins in Tennessee started a family group on Facebook. One day another “cousin” posted a picture of herself at my Great Grandfather’s grave.

I’d never met this cousin. Her name was Melanie. The only Melanie I knew was one of my cousins who sadly died more than thirty years ago. This was not one of “my” Melanie’s nieces or grand nieces. I was puzzled.

               My father is the family genealogist, so I called and asked him who this Melanie was. He and my mom said that the only Melanie they knew of was the same one I knew. They speculated that maybe she was from another unrelated family with the same last name, Keolanui. They asked lots of questions about what she looked like, and her age.  Did she say who her parents were? Maybe this was identity theft. I didn’t say it, but I thought if I was going to choose a family to “steal,” I’d sure choose one with a more common, easier to spell last name.

               All these questions are what led me to give my parents, who are in their late seventies, a Facebook lesson. “My name is Laura. How may I help you?” I was ready to teach the parents who taught me everything from tying my shoe laces to how to drive when I was growing up.

I waited for them to log on to their computer. Remembering their desktop, I described the Mozilla Firefox icon, a little blue and orange globe looking thing. Yes, the orange part is a curled up fox. I told my dad to click on it. I walked him through Googling “Facebook.” He tried to go to Google Earth, but I got him back on the right path. He nervously told me he’d never Googled anything. My mother bailed out, telling me she had to go check on something.

               When the Facebook sign-in page came up, he asked if he should sign up. Definitely not. I told him how to sign me in on his computer, down to the details like it’s about two inches down from the top of your screen a little to the right of center. He liked my password.

Laura and her Dad when they're not on Facebook.

               I convinced him to bypass updating my security, and just click on Profile. “It’s on that blue line at the top, between ‘HOME’ and ‘ACCOUNT.’” He clicked HOME instead and was very excited to see everything pop up on my wall, “Oh, there’s a picture of you!”

               After much explaining from Puyallup, and much clicking in Hawaii, he finally got to see the mysterious Melanie. He called my mother back to the computer. Apparently, what she had to “check on” was the TV show she’d been watching when I called. I could hear him telling her she didn’t need a pencil or paper, the pictures were right there on the computer!

               They talked back and forth, cataloged different family members and their children, and after much debating, decided that my grandfather’s brother has a great granddaughter named Melanie. Mystery solved! She is a cousin, just don’t ask me how many times removed we are from each other.

               It was time to get Dad logged out. He had already accidentally logged out once while my mother was searching for the pencil. After I explained the “back” button--small round green button in the top left corner--he had gotten braver about clicking on things. As I talked him through his second log out, he had a good time clicking in the wrong places, and seeing pictures of our extended family. He playfully asked “who are all these good looking people?” I am proud that he successfully navigated Facebook, and relieved that I’m not still logged in over there in Hawaii.

               As if that session wasn’t reward enough, today, my technical skills were called on again. My daughter called from college. She is still a teenager (meaning she is computer savvy). She was trying to book a trip to Milwaukee for herself and two other music students to attend a music teachers’ conference. Granted, the initial, main reason she called the Mom technical support line was my credit card clout, but I did talk her through Expedia.com.

Who has redeemed herself? Who is building up her computer reputation now? I’m basking in the glow of my monitor while I can. I’m pretty sure this will be short-lived.

Laura Keolanui Stark is updating her status on Facebook. She can be reached at stark.laura.k@gmail.com.

Name That Tune

I’m not exactly sure what the connection is between US Presidents and mattresses, but to celebrate President’s Day, mattress retailers across the state had sales. John and I were patriotically imitating Goldilocks, lying on mattresses and declaring, “This one’s too hard. This one’s too soft. This one’s too expensive!”

We finally settled on one that “was just right,” and got the paperwork completed with our saleslady, Sylvia. John pulled the pickup around to the store’s loading dock. We waited around, hands in pockets. After a few minutes, I started singing (or whining), “Sylvia’s mother says Sylvia’s busy, too busy to come to the phone.”

John laughed and joined in, “Sylvia’s mother says Sylvia’s tryin’ to start a new life of her own.”  Neither of us had heard that cheesy song in decades.

Dr. Hook & the Medicine Show on the Cover of the Rolling Stone.

When we got stumped on Sylvia’s mother’s last name, “Please Mrs. La-La, I just gotta talk to her” he turned the song into Please Come to Boston by Dave Loggins.  Then we debated which other cities the “ramblin’ boy” who wouldn’t settle down tried to convince his girlfriend to join him in.

That lead me croon Glenn Campbell’s “By the time I get to Phoenix, she’ll be rising. She’ll find the note I left hangin’ on the door.”

For a couple of days now, we’ve randomly started singing other songs that told a story, or made one pop up on YouTube. There were other cheesy ones: Pina Colada, Tell Laura I Love Her, Polk Salad Annie, 50 Ways to Leave Your Lover, and Harper Valley PTA.There were rocker ones too: Roxanne, 867-5309 Jenny, Mary Jane’s Last Dance, and School’s Out for Summer. 

There were songs about life: the Shangri-Las’ Leader of the Pack, Elvis’ In the Ghetto, Bus Stop by the Hollies, Sheryl Crow’s Everyday is a Winding Road, and Folsom Prison Blues by Johnny Cash. Harry Chapin told a story in a Taxi and warned parents in Cat’s in the Cradle. Bobbie Gentry painted pictures of the south with Ode to Billy Joe and Son of a Preacher Man. Maybe Elton John’s Levon and The Beatles’ Eleanor Rigby should have been introduced to each other.

Then there were the real tear-jerkers: Honey I Miss You by O.C. Smith, Springsteen’s The River, Brook Benton singing Rainy Night in Georgia. But the one that still tugs at my heart is Kenny Rogers’ Don’t Take Your Love to Town. The drum beat chugs on after he’d begged, “Oh Ruby, for God’s sake turn around,” so you knew that rotten Ruby took her love to town anyway.

There aren’t many songs now that tell a story. Offhand the only current artist I can think of who sings a good story, is John Mayer. He writes lyrics that ring true, like No Such Thing. We need more musicians who can “Sing us a song, you’re the piano man! Sing us a song tonight! Well, we’re all in the mood for a melody and you’ve got us feelin’ alright.”(Billy Joel)

Laura Keolanui Stark could burst into singing a golden oldie at any time. She can be reached at stark.laura.k@gmail.com.

Hawaiian Quilt Quest

It’s not really an obsession because it’s not a separate thing. It’s woven right into the fabric of my life. Whenever, and wherever I travel, my quilt GPS is working. My eyes scan new horizons for any signs of quilt shops, quilt museums, or fabric stores. If you read my last blog, you know that I’ve also sucked my family members into my endless quest for all things quilty.

               There I was, in Hawaii, to help my mother recover from heart surgery. I’d brought a Hawaiian quilt wall hanging in my carry-on bag to work on. It’s a wedding present for my sister and her husband. They were married in December 2006. I’m just a little behind.

Breadfruit wall hanging in progress

               While I worked on their breadfruit quilt, and convinced Cynthia and Bruce that it really did exist, I started to crave seeing some actual, completed Hawaiian quilts. After all, I was in Hawaii!

I knew that the Wilcox Hawaiian Quilt Collection is the biggest collection of Hawaiian quilts in the world, but it's at the Kauai Museum,(kauaimuseum.org) on the island of Kauai. (I can’t believe I lived on Kauai for three years, but never saw those quilts because I wasn’t a quilter then). My husband, John, and my parents told me they’d seen some beautiful Hawaiian quilts at the Mauna Kea Beach Hotel—on the Big Island of Hawaii. A neighbor island junket to see quilts was out of the question. I was there to help mom.

I seemed to remember a quilt display at The Mission Houses next to Kawaihao Church when we lived on Oahu twenty-something years ago. I surfed online (missionhouses.org) to see if they had a Hawaiian quilt exhibition, and was disappointed that there was only a virtual tour of the quilts. It was an appetizer, but didn’t satisfy my craving. I needed to visit some "live" Hawaiian quilts in person.

I quizzed my parents to see if they knew of any Hawaiian quilt exhibits. They mentioned the Mauna Kea Beach Hotel, and asked if I’d seen any at the Bishop Museum last spring. Then in a light bulb moment, my father said that he knew where there were two beautiful Hawaiian quilts on display.

          He had gone to visit an elderly relative at his condo, and remembered a Hawaiian quilt in the lobby. He promised to swing by there the next time we were in downtown Honolulu.

A few days later, we parked outside the Kukui Plaza Condominium Complex. Dad told me the name of the relative, so that in case the security guard asked what I was doing there, I’d have a more legitimate answer than “snooping around for a glimpse of a Hawaiian quilt.”

I opened the lobby doors, and it was like opening an unexpected gift! A forest green appliqué quilt took my breath away! The pattern design was intricate. The symmetry was exquisite, and the lei around the entire quilt added the perfect finishing touch.

It was one of the biggest quilts I’ve ever seen. Softly lit, it was framed in koa: a rich, deep brown, highly prized wood native to Hawaii. The genius in charge of displaying it had the brilliant idea of making the opposite wall a solid mirror, so it was as if there were twin quilts facing each other.

Hawaiian quilt in the Waikiki side lobby of Kukui Plaza, Honolulu, Hawaii.

I took my camera out and snapped some photos. I was so taken by the quilt, I hadn’t noticed the security guard sitting behind his desk. When I looked over sheepishly, he smiled. I could tell that he appreciated me appreciating the quilt.

I asked if he knew who quilted it and what the name of the quilt was. He told me that he didn’t know anything about it, and added that he’d talked to the condo management about that. We agreed that it needed a label. A quilt that spectacular, deserved to have its maker acknowledged, its story told.

Then he mentioned that there was another quilt at the other entrance to the condo. I asked if I could walk through to see it. He shook his head no, but in a kind of verbal wink, told me what street the other entrance was on. I thanked him, then floated out to my parents’ van, and thanked them too.

I told my father that we needed to drive around the block to the other entrance. I hoped the security guard on the other side would be as friendly, or at least look the other way. He did. I took pictures of the sister quilt. It seemed to me that both quilts were stitched by the same quilter. This one was also striking, and not labeled either.

Hawaiian quilt in the Ewa side lobby of Kukui Plaza, Honolulu, Hawaii.

A few days later, I asked my parents to take me back to Kukui Plaza. I was getting close to the border on my sister’s quilt, and I wanted to see how the mystery quilter handled the border on her quilts. Did she continue the echo stitching from the center appliqué, or stop and echo the border?

               This time I forced my mother out of the van to see Quilt #1 by telling her it was less than thirty steps away. I wanted to see if she agreed with my opinion that the flowers in the pattern were orchids. She was also impressed with the quilt’s beauty. She agreed that the flowers were orchids, and she should know because she has 30-50 orchid plants that she grows in her back yard.

Cattleya orchid

               Mom didn’t see the second quilt, but I know that the heart-shaped flowers are anthuriums. 

Red anthuriums.

              There’s also red ginger, possibly white ginger, and possibly crown flowers in this quilt. 

Red ginger

White ginger

Crown flower

             It would smell sweet and tropical if they were real flowers, instead of quilted ones. If only quilts could talk; I have so many questions. Despite their elegant silence, my Hawaiian quilt craving was satisfied with the pleasure of seeing these two quilt gems. And now you too can take in their beauty without having to fly to Hawaii, and talk your way past the security guards. Aloha!

Laura Keolanui Stark is always on the lookout for all things quilty. She can be reached at stark.laura.k@gmail.com.

Welcome to Palouse, Washington

People say that everything happens for a reason. I’m not totally convinced. There’s a lady in Palouse, Washington who is probably still scratching her head about a random, unexpected visit from two strangers.

Sometime during fall semester, Johnny mentioned that he’d spotted a quilt shop in the small town of Palouse. One of the requirements for a class he was taking was community service. He chose to volunteer at an elementary school there. 

During our phone call, he told me about his adventures working with little ones on Math night. He described what a challenge it was explaining to a first grader how a Sudoku puzzle worked. He laughed about two brothers and their competitive sibling spirit. He said on the way to the school, he’d driven by a quilt shop, and promised to take me there the next time I visited him at WSU in Pullman.

The unique hills of the Palouse, eastern Washi

So, on my last visit, Johnny drove me over 15 miles of rolling wheat fields that still had patches of snow on them, to the tiny town of Palouse, population 966. 

We drove right down Main Street and parked across the street from the shop. But, when we got up to the front door of Small Towne Quilts, and peered inside, it was dark and empty. Taped to the door was a sign saying they’d moved to W. Illinois Street. No problem. It was a small town. How hard could it be to find?

Main Street, Palouse, Washington

Pretty hard. We made several passes through town, around a grid of blocks, up and down the hills, and past the elementary school where Johnny had volunteered. I waved to school kids and their bus driver (hey, they started it!), and wound up in a neighborhood before we decided to return to the shop and get the phone number.

Then we drove back to where we thought the quilt shop should be. We parked in front of a big, old house with the right address, but it had no quilt shop sign. It was in a residential neighborhood, and there were no cars in front of it. It didn’t even look like anyone was home.

Johnny dialed the number on his cell, and as soon as it started ringing, passed it to me like a hot potato. A lady answered as I fumbled with the phone. I told her we were looking for the Small Towne Quilts shop.

She asked, “Are you in front of a house with red gables? Am I looking at you?”

How do you answer that? I told her we’d walk up to the front door.

Apparently, she had been looking at us. She opened the door and it was like being at home. A dachshund ran right at us, and started barking furiously. The lady ignored her, and walked us inside. The dachshund quieted down when I told her to hush. She was a miniature; “our” doxie, Suzie is a regular one, but they sure had similar personalities—a little slow to warm up on first meetings. One big difference though, was that this one, named Alice, had blue eyes!

The shop owner, Bev, explained that she’d closed her shop so she could focus on the long arm quilting part of her business. She led us through her house into her studio where several sewing machines lined an outer wall full of windows that looked out onto the back yard. A long arm quilting machine was the centerpiece of the room. She told me that she hadn’t set up her fabrics yet, it was all upstairs. I think if I had asked, she would’ve taken us up there, but I felt like we’d already been intrusive enough.

We had a friendly chat about quilting, and inheriting dachshunds from college-bound kids. Her son asked her to take care of Alice while he went to WSU. He’d recently told her that he wanted “his” dog back. She told him that she didn’t think it was going to happen.

As we talked, Alice would run up, and gently place a hacky sack on top of Bev’s foot. Bev would flick it into the dining room or down the hall, and Alice would tear off as fast as her short, little legs could carry her to fetch it. Great idea! Although, I’m not sure it would work with our two dogs. T-Bone and Suzie already look like a double-decker bus when they start running together, and I’m always worried Suzie will get trampled.

Bev got a kick out of Johnny finding her shop for me. I told her he’d been trained to spot quilt shops on all those Shop Hops I’d dragged him on while he was growing up. She invited me back the next time I was in Pullman, gave me her business card, and told me to check out her website.

Welcome to small town America, where people are friendly even when total strangers barge in unannounced. Bev is probably still wondering what that was all about.

Laura Keolanui Stark will continue to make random surprise visits to anyone associated with quilting, so watch out! If you want to see Alice the blue-eyed dachshund, she’s on Bev’s website: www.smalltownequilts.com

Milestones

     This weekend was a weekend of milestones.

     The first milestone was my daughter’s. She moved out of her dormitory and into an apartment in December on her own. A friend of hers is studying abroad for a semester and Sarah’s sub-letting her one-bedroom apartment. John and I have never seen “the apartment,” so we were relying on GPS, a campus map from the visitor’s center, and directions from Sarah via cell phone to find her new digs.

Sarah Stark at her new apartment near WSU.

      Just a block away from the President’s house, nestled in among fraternity and sorority houses, her apartment is one of four in a huge, 1920-30s (?) house. We carried our bags up onto her welcoming front porch, up one flight of stairs, and she turned the key to let us in.  

       The door opened to reveal vintage character: high ceilings, spacious rooms, white mission style moldings framing generous wide doorways into each room. Tall windows let light pour in. Her bedroom is bigger than her bedroom at home, and looks out on the street. The kitchen, once the back porch, overlooks the town of Pullman. We went shopping and found a little half-moon bistro table with two stools so she can sip her tea at breakfast and greet the day. There’s a fire escape at one window, so I told her she’d definitely have to watch West Side Story.

       The wooden floors are painted navy blue and the walls are beige. The silver old-style radiators are ornate. She’s got a good eye for decorating and the pictures and bedding she brought from her dorm fit perfectly. It was comfortable and warm with an old European style.

       She had planned for our visit. There were cinnamon rolls for breakfast, and all kinds of loose tea for us to choose from. She’d also gotten a key made for us, so we could come and go while she was in class.

        Johnny’s milestone happened Saturday night. In December, he found out that he had won the Washington Idaho Young Composer’s Competition. His piece, March, made its world premiere on January 29, 2011 at the Domey/Gladish Auditorium in Pullman, Washington. The auditorium filled as we sat front and center, anticipating the big moment. The orchestra tuned. The lights dimmed. The conductor introduced Johnny, then raised his baton, and the hall was filled with the sound of his piece, March.  

Composer John K. Stark.

        Johnny’s explained in the program notes:

March was originally written for solo piano. Most marches in America are upbeat pieces written for wind band, and are not normally played in the concert hall. I wanted to compose a different kind of march, one that stepped outside the norm. The idea of playing a march in a concert setting instead of the typical outdoor venue intrigued me. I also wanted to create a ‘darker’ sounding march as a contrast to most American marches. Inspired by Russian-style marches, March was written for orchestra rather than band to utilize the vast color palette and dynamic range of the orchestra.      

           

After the final note was played, the audience applauded enthusiastically. Johnny beamed. We all did: family, and friends, many who had traveled across the state for this special night. 

Composer John K. Stark with his parents: John and Laura Stark.

Throughout the night, at intermission, and later in “the yellow room,” people told Johnny how much they enjoyed his piece. Most said that they didn’t think they were going to like it because it’s a modern piece, but after they heard it, they were surprised that they really enjoyed it. The funniest comment was from a gentleman in his 70s. He told Johnny that he liked March, asked if he’d ever been to Russia, then asked Johnny if he was a dirty Commie.

       Later that night we toasted Johnny in celebration. He wisely noted that even though his piece was recorded and we’d be able to listen to it on DVD, there was nothing like hearing it played by an orchestra, live, the only way that composers like Beethoven’s and Mozart’s works were originally heard. He thanked us all for coming to share the debut with him.

       We fell asleep in Sarah’s apartment with the background sounds of a frat party going on across the street reminding us of our college days. 

       When we woke up, all was quiet, and it was snowing! Silver dollar sized flakes sifted down covering campus. As a true West-sider, I was excited, and had a sense of wonder about the falling snow! From her air mattress and sleeping bag in the living room, Sarah looked up out the window, and sleepily observed, “If the flakes are that big, then it’s not really that cold out.” Three semesters at WSU and she’s a seasoned East-sider.

        Five days later, Johnny was at a campus coffee shop when a professor approached him. He recognized Johnny from the concert, and told him that he takes his four year old son to classical music concerts all the time. He said that his son doesn’t usually say anything about the music, but after hearing Johnny’s song, he exclaimed, “I really liked that song!”

        This week at WSU the Music Department is holding their FOCAM music festival. Johnny had two of his compositions for clarinet and flute played. A few days before FOCAM, a reporter from The Daily Evergreen, the WSU student newspaper, interviewed him. “’Most professional performing groups tend to play old music,’ Stark said. ‘It’s hard to get people to play new music because the public mainly likes music from the Classical or Romantic periods. There needs to be a forum for contemporary music.’”

        Two major milestones for our two “children” making their way in the world.

---DVD’s and Blu-Rays of the Washington Idaho Symphony with March are available from Skeeterbuggins Productions. Web: http://www.skeetrbuggins.com/iwashjan2011.htm. 

---You can see the article “Annual art and music festival starts today” in the 2/3/11 edition of The Daily Evergreen. Their website is: http://www.dailyevergreen.com/story/33694.

Laura Keolanui Stark has quite a stack of programs from the Washington Idaho Symphony. She can be reached at stark.laura.k@gmail.com.

Hau'oli Makahiki Hou (Happy New Year) from Hawaii!

            It has been more than twenty years since I greeted a new year in Hawaii, but I slid back easily into the rituals that are a unique part of Hawaii’s culture. A few days before New Year’s I darted into Long’s drug store, my mom’s list in hand, to pick up fireworks—three strings of firecrackers each 12 feet long. My parents told me that this would be the last year that Hawaii residents would be able to honor the Chinese tradition without getting a special permit. I can remember during my elementary school days, the streets of Kapahulu (maybe most of Hawaii) buried under red paper when I woke up on January 1 from all the firecrackers popping the night before.

            On New Year’s Eve, I was the runner in our mission to gather all the special foods necessary to ensure a good start to 2011. Our first stop was at a tiny restaurant in Kaneohe that I’d never been to. My assignment was to get a pound of Roast Pork and a pound of Char Siu. I almost failed.

When we first pulled up, it was closed. My parents dropped me off to find parking. I noticed that the restaurant was dark inside, but the door was unlocked, so I went in. A man popped his head out of the kitchen and told me to come back in a half hour.

            I met my parents and explained. We drove around for awhile and then returned. My mother was puzzled that they’d open “so late” (10:00am) on New Year’s Eve.  At 9:50 I went back and made the embarrassing discovery that I’d gone into the wrong restaurant.  I was supposed to go into the Chinese restaurant Kin Sun, but I went into the Korean restaurant, Yoonyson, I knew there was a “Sun” somewhere in the name. Kin Sun’s business was hopping. They had opened at 9:00. We had a good laugh about that.

Korean restaurant on the left. Kin Sun, the correct restaurant on the right.

Then we drove to the other side of Oahu to Chinatown. While Dad and Mom circled the block for a parking space, I stood in line on the Pauahi street sidewalk outside of Char Hung Sut waiting for the treasured Dim Sum treats. After the earlier mixup, I double checked to make sure I was in line for the right place. 

I had my list written down:  6 manapua (steamed Char Siu Bao—white balls of dough with a nugget of sweet red pork in the center),  8 pork hash (Siu Mai—little money bags of pork), 8 pepeiau (that's the Hawaiian word for ear, which is what this dim sum is shaped like), 8 half moons (half circles of meat wrapped in a noodle casing).  (Warning: don’t try to order these treats by the first names I Iisted unless you’re in Hawaii, because those are the Hawaiian names.) A disappointed groan went up from the line when the owner came out, and announced that there might not be enough manapua . I turned to the gal in back of me, “Kinda makes me want to get a dozen when they make more instead of the six I came to get.”

She laughed, “Yeah, I know, I was going to get a dozen, maybe I’ll get two dozen.” That supply/demand economic thing can suddenly turn a reasonable person into a greedy one. I resisted though, and stuck with my original order to leave some for the ones behind me.

After a half hour wait, spent celebrating when I made it to the door, then when I made it down the step into the tiny room with the counter, then when they took my order, I finally stepped back out onto the sidewalk triumphant. I held the cardboard bakery style box stamped with the red Char Hung Sut logo by the string wrapped around it. It was warm and heavy with the prized food.

As the new year ticked closer, mom called our favorite Chinese neighborhood restaurant to order noodles. The tradition is to eat long noodles right after midnight, so that you will have a long life. She was stunned when the lady on the phone told her they’d be ready in an hour. She double checked whether she’d heard that right. Yep, one hour. Usually the answer is, “Ten minute.”

I was the runner again. There were no parking spaces open. One look at the faces of the people when I walked through the pick up door, told me this wasn’t going to be as simple as I thought. Apparently, the woman who’s usually in charge wasn’t there on their busiest night of the year. The young girls trying to hold down the fort were crumbling under the glare of annoyed customers whose orders weren’t ready. I managed to get out of there with my noodles, glad that I didn’t work there.

At home Dad rounded up some punks (smoldering wooden sticks, not juvenile delinquents) from former years to light the fireworks with since I forgot to get any when I got the fireworks. My sister, Cynthia, and her husband, Bruce came over to celebrate with us.

I called home at 9:30 Hawaii time, 11:30 Washington time to double check on how Johnny was doing cooking the Chow Funn. Before I’d left, I’d shown John where to get the ingredients in Fred Meyer’s grocery store. Johnny and I had made Chow Funn for his Life Issues class (sort of like Home Economics) in junior high school, and he’d watched me cook it over the years. Sarah had taken over my usual new year’s eve cleaning frenzy, and vacuumed the house. They had the fireworks we’d bought and reserved after the 4^th of July ready to go, and they knew how to go around the yard banging on a pot like I usually did. They assured me that they were ready to go. At midnight Washington time, I called to wish them all a happy new year.

Here in Hawaii, Dad gave Bruce instructions on where to set up the strings of firecrackers—one by the front door, one on the side of the carport, one strung from the clothesline by the back door. I was glad that my mom didn’t have her hearing aids in. I didn’t want her heart getting startled by the loud explosions. I was jumping every time they boomed, but she was fine.

When midnight struck, Bruce and I went around the house and lit the strings of hissing, popping, smoking red firecrackers. I banged and clanged my pot around my parents’ house in Kailua. A fog of smoke hung over Hawaii for a few hours while we ate our Chinese food for good luck. When the trade winds eventually cleared the smoke out, hopefully they also carried away any bad luck.  Have a Happy, Healthy, and Prosperous 2011!         

Laura Keolanui Stark is helping her mom and dad in Hawaii while her mom recovers from open heart surgery. She can be reached at stark.laura.k@gmail.com.

Recovery Report

On December 22, 2010 my mom had double bypass heart surgery. This Friday, seven days into 2011, we drove to Tripler Army Medical Center, the huge pink buildings that overlook Honolulu, for her post-surgery checkup.  

,

Tripler Army Medical Center, Honolulu, Hawaii.

After a chest x-ray, we met with her surgeon. He listened carefully to her heart with his eyes closed, checked the incision, and then answered all the questions we’d written out on a notepad.  He adjusted some of her medications, and added something to help her get rid of the water retention in her feet. Her instructions were to keep walking and doing her breathing exercises. I know that our family is definitely breathing more easily as we watch her make good progress in recovering.

Christie and Larry Keolanui at Windward Mall.

            Every morning, mom, dad, and I go to the mall before it opens and walk. Mom is getting more steady and faster every day. The extra benefit is that my father has started mall walking again. They’re making progress and seeing positive results pretty quickly. It’s good to see them active again. It won’t be long before they’re increasing the laps they walk around the mall.

Mom and me at Windward Mall, Kaneohe, Hawaii.

Laura Keolanui Stark is in Hawaii helping her mom recover. She can be reached at stark.laura.k@gmail.com.