Christmas time is here

Woke up this morning knowing that it was time for my annual Christmas post where I talk about my dad and mourn his passing. Today is the 10th anniversary of that very difficult day; the day when my dad died of a heart attack a couple of hours before midnight on Christmas Eve.

I rarely talk about the moments of exactly 10 years ago, the right now of 10 years ago -- a few minutes before 10 AM. That morning I woke up full of anticipation. My brothers were all to be here, my older brother David and his wife Janice were arriving that very day. Norman was going to be bringing them to the island. My mom and brother Dwight had arrived the night before. I was just so full of joy.

Dad had been with us a couple of weeks already so when he got up, he remembered to move the Magi a little closer to baby Jesus. The three wise men always wander around the living room making their way to baby Jesus on Epiphany -- the 12th day of Christmas. I usually wait for the kids to go to bed and then move them for the next day to be found but that plan very often goes wrong. I'm far from perfect and even back then, my mind was soft and forgetful. So when I got up and the kids were milling about, Dad started humming the song "We Three Kings," and I panicked. But then I saw that he had moved them for me.

For a few hours that day, everything was exactly perfect. The whole family was there. We were all in one space, one house, under one roof. It was loud and noisy -- we were happy.

I didn't know that it would be the last time.

I think that's why it is hard to come up to this day. It doesn't mean that the days I have now are not good or not happy. But I don't get to have them with my dad, that's all. And that Christmas Eve 10 years ago was the last time I could have them with him.

Somedays I scour my faulty memory for more of that day. And I remember checking out, being distracted, just not paying attention. Of times when I was lost in my own tasks and didn't revel in those last moments with him. But I think even in that, it was a time for him to see that I was grown, involved in my own stuff, handling things like a grown up. My dad had done his job, even with the youngest of his children.

I miss you, Daddy. Always will.

My Statuses (or is it Statii)

I've noticed lately that a lot of my friends have statuses that read like angry old people yelling at kids to keep of their lawn. I suspect that this is how my generation is turning into the old people -- the transition much more visible now. I mean, if I look at the statuses of my "friends" who are in their 20's, there is the expected drama. The jokes, the lyrics from popular songs, and of course relationship angst. I think they're more apt to share stuff closer to themselves emotionally than their older counterparts.

In the 30 something crowd, there are a lot of pictures; predictably from weddings, baby showers and the like. I don't see a lot of text but then again, I don't have too many friends in that age range. I am getting old.

But my peers in their fabulous 40's -- we are a grumpy lot of people. It's kind of like we're just trying on the phrase, "kids these days..." or "what's wrong with people?"  I've tried to make my Facebook as nonbitchy as possible and yet, I still have my moments. Recent posts complain about the weather, actually use the words "bah humbug," and I talk about a bad hair day.

But I think the deal is that we -- all of Facebook people -- we all need to lighten up. This is the water cooler where we get to see old friends and read something funny that they might have written. It is the place where you get the brag about your kids or share pictures. And really, that's what we should be using it for. I don't want to hear you complain about your life or your perceived slights because if you've got computer access and internets, odds are you're doing well enough.

How great is it that I've got a place like my blog where I can complain about FB because I don't think we should be complaining on FB?

Comfort food

Thanksgiving just passed. We're in the throes of a major kitchen remodel so it's a hard thing not to have a kitchen on the holiday most associated with home cooking than any other. However, it has been years since I've cooked a Thanksgiving meal.

Last year, we went to Portland and had an Hawaii style feast with NO turkey. The two years prior to that and again this year, we ate at our friend's restaurant where he preps a beautiful spread complete with turkey.

Next year though, I'm going to make my own Thanksgiving meal in my new kitchen. One would think the remodel will be well over and done by then, right? So why wouldn't I have my kitchen to prepare a fantastic Thanksgiving meal?

That's the thing about Thanksgiving -- for my husband, it is full of comfort food, specifically, mashed potatoes and gravy. I mean, I'll make those things. But for me, Thanksgiving is incomplete without my mom's pancit and lumpia. Oh, and there must be pipikaula or poke to have with the beer and football; Uncle Johnny usually brought that. Would be nice if we could have some of Uncle Peter's noodles and maybe a pot of dinagaraan (aka dinuguan) with which to trick the haoles. That trick was a favorite of Uncle Morris -- usually played on boyfriends of the teenaged cousins of my childhood. There was always a pot of rice that didn't fall apart when scooped, but wasn't gluey or soupy. And the best part of the turkey was the jook that came the day after.

For me, comfort food is hot rice and crispy fried spam. Or maybe Portugese sausage and eggs. Even a hot bowl of S&S saimin with kamaboko fish cake is the food of my youth. And yes, of my soul.

I like go home.

Sorry

Sorry is an interesting word. I've been thinking about it lately because there are many instances when this word would be appropriate. I try hard to be understood by other people. I try to be careful in the meanings of the words I choose to speak.

Sorry doesn't have to be the hardest word.

The other day, my son was tossing the ball with my dog while we were watching a movie as a family. My daughter had set a coffee mug on the piano bench, a coffee mug that was part of a set I had received as a present from my husband for my birthday last year. When predictably, my dog jumped for the ball and knocked it with her nose to hit the coffee mug and sent it crashing to the floor, I was upset.

My son refused to say he was sorry. I get that he thought it was an accident. He said that the dog hit the ball and it in turn hit the cup, so he was unapologetic. My dog for her part was properly apologetic. She came up to me, ears folded back, big eyes begging forgiveness and climbed in my lap for kisses. My daughter said she was sorry also since she had left the cup to bring up to the kitchen later.

In this case, saying you're sorry could have meant, "I know it was an accident, so it's not exactly my fault, but I'm sad that your cup is now broken. I see that it upsets you that the cup is broken so I feel compassion for your loss." See, would that have been so bad? For example, when you hear that somebody's grandpa died and you say, "I'm so sorry," you're not saying that you killed Grandpa and are responsible. You're saying that it is sad that Grandpa is dead and that you know that the person is upset by that. You are displaying compassion.

Another weird misunderstanding of the word, "sorry." A friend of mine was looking for new work as his present place of employment had become a hostile work environment. He had a very promising interview but in the end, didn't get the job. When he told me, I said, "I'm so sorry." To which he replied, "No need to apologize. It wasn't your fault."

See, again, here I was using the word, "sorry," as a way to express compassion for my friend's disappointment with not getting the job. I wasn't trying to claim blame for him not getting the job nor did I think I had anything to do with him not getting that job. It isn't as if I called the interviewer and told her not to hire him. I didn't drive him to the interview and get him there late. I didn't spill mustard all over his suit before the interview so that he smelled like a hotdog. See, those infractions would have merited his statement of, "no need to apologize." I was NOT apologizing. I was expressing compassion.

So because I'm not feeling terribly creative. I'm not going to put a button on this essay.

Sorry.

Ohana

My cousin Grace came to visit a couple of days ago. She and her husband just left this morning.

A little history -- her story is so close to my story not just because we are double first cousins (her dad and my dad & her mom and my mom were siblings), but because we were on two ends of a spectrum. She was the eldest grandchild and I was the youngest for a good long time. She's 12 years older than I and we resemble each other so much that I simply think if I want to see what I look like in the future, I just need to look at my cousin.

Damn, I still look good in 12 years.

On this visit, she told me stories about our family -- the one that existed before I was born.

I was 2 years away from being born when my father's father died. The stories I can remember being told of him weren't terribly flattering. I remember being proud that he was a luna (boss) on the sugar plantation so he was one of the few who rode a horse. But I was also told that he was a womanizer who would find the prettiest of the new arrivals and bed them if he could. I was told that he was merciless when it came to punishing his children for misdeeds -- that he'd tell the kids to cut their own switches for their whippings. He was vicious to the point that my grandmother would intervene asking if he wanted to kill his children that day.

But this week, I was told of a grandfather that I didn't even know I missed. The one I think I would have loved. The one whose lap I would have crawled up in and in whose arms I would have fallen asleep. If only he had waited here to meet me.

My cousin told me about crabbing with my grandfather, all the uncles and her dad. My grandfather was a water luna for the plantation so he had the keys to all the gates and roads on the plantation. There was a beach that was only accessible with Papa's keys and every Sunday, the extended family would get together to fish.The kids would wade or swim out to a platform from which my grandfather would lower a cone shaped crab pot. He would tie aku head to the cage and because the visibility was so clear the kids would peer over the edge of the platform to watch the crabs climb to the pot. At some point, Papa would judge the pot to be full enough and he and the uncles would huki it up as fast as they could. They'd dump their catch into a big bin that they would bring back for Mama to cook.

On this particular day, all the uncles were ready to go home with their spoils. They tried to convince my grandfather to leave but Papa was sure there was a big one just waiting to be caught. He lowered the pot one more time and they saw it:  a huge Samoan crab.  The kids held their breath as they and Papa watched it cautiously approach the tattered aku head. The second the last leg crossed over into the basket, Papa and the uncles quickly pulled the pot out of the water. Papa threw it onto the dock and the big crab was spoiling for a fight. It had its claws up ready to pinch and was hurriedly scooting towards the side of the dock. My father was wearing rubber boots that day, got behind the crab and stepped on its back. Uncle Johnny quickly put sticks into the crab's claws so it would clamp down on them. So satisfied, the remaining two brothers tied up the claws with lassoed string and into the bin it went.

The family returned to the house in Ewa victorious.

Grandma prepped the pot, putting in tomatoes, onions, garlic. All my cousin could remember was that it was a big pot on the stove and although Grandma was talking in Ilocano so she couldn't understand what she said, Grandma was obviously happy. They were going to eat good tonight. Then Grandma put the crabs into the boiling water including the large Samoan crab.

At first, nothing happened. But there was fight still left in that big crab. Grace remembers its legs reaching up over the edge of the pot. Mama grabbed the pot lid and slammed it down repeatedly on the pot, forcing the would be escapee to meet its fate.

My cousin doesn't remember if she ate those crab. Only that watching Grandma cook them was very traumatic.

The story of my grandfather crabbing with his adult boys just enchanted me. I think because I'm a parent myself, the thought of the teaching and training my grandfather must have given his boys puts me in awe. The way my cousin remembers it, she was maybe 7 years old at the time, the uncles all moved like a well oiled machine. Each one knew exactly what to do and how to do their part. It was over in moments. She didn't say but I imagine how contented my grandfather must have been to see his boys work together so well. Even the trust of throwing that prize crab onto the dock just knowing his boys would take care of it amazes me. I imagine that those Sundays must have been the culmination of everything he had come to this country to achieve. His kids were all educated or on their way to being so. His boys had children of their own and they knew how to fish and crab and clam -- to harvest from the bounty of the sea -- to feed this brood. His boys were so close, they worked together as one.

Shortly after the claiming of that large Samoan crab, my grandfather went to have lunch with my cousin's mom. Aunty Lydia was a physician. He complained of difficulty swallowing. Aunty took him to lunch to observe Grandpa's ability to swallow which had become so impaired he ended up spitting out his food as he couldn't make it go down. Aunty ordered studies and discovered then that Papa had a brain tumor.

It was operated on and while they were able to remove the tumor, during recovery he suffered a massive stroke. He was never the same again.  My grandmother refused to let him go and with her care he lived for another 2 years. He died when Grace was around 10 years old.

I wish I had been able to meet him. I wish I had memories like Grace had of Grandpa.

Ah well, at least I have stories of him now.

Another one bites the dust

Yesterday was my birthday.

I'm actually pretty accustomed to having my birthday lose out to the needs of Halloween festivities. I'm also accustomed to having to plan my own celebrations because often times they don't happen unless I do.

But this year, that didn't happen. Well, mostly. But I think babysteps and kudos are deserved all the way around.

This year I gave a list of 3 things that I'd like to do to my husband. I made arrangements for my younger kids and assumed that my eldest would be bailing to hang with his friends. I only made the caveat that everybody needed to be home by 8:30.

And then I waited to see if anything would come to fruition.

A few days ago, I had a touch of anxiety and worry that nothing was going to happen. In years past, I'd tell my friends that I didn't know what was happening on my birthday because I'd hoped there were plans that I was unaware of. I'd wait to see and then discover on the day that nothing was happening,  so I'd go trick-or-treating and have some cake. I suppose people who don't have their birthdays on Halloween and have dinner at Red Robin as their back up plan versus trick-or-treating would envy me. I announced that it was fine if we didn't do anything on my birthday. If tickets weren't purchased or what have you, we didn't have to push it. The day was going to be busy enough.

I gave him a way out. But thankfully, he didn't take it.

It was a satisfyingly busy day. I woke up half an hour earlier than normal so I could turn my youngest into a zombie princess. Second year she's opted for that. I just covered her beautiful face and neck with lots of tattoo gashes and teeth marks, put on a sparkly rhinestone head band, and put her in a dressy dress. Done.

Then I was off to my second child's school to chaperone their field trip to the science museum. I had been warned to bring ear plugs but the kids were not noisy. It was a fun field trip. My group of 7 girls had 2 rabid Justin Beiber fans and when a boy who vaguely resembled Justin arrived at the museum, it was all I could do to keep them from assault and battery charges. They kept "accidentally" touching him or bumping into him and then running back to the group to tell us how they touched the Justin Beiber look alike. That poor boy. I was able to keep my girls together by having them self select buddies, inform them that they had to tell me where they were wandering off to so that I would not panic, and lastly, when I say "Potato," they say, "Potahto." It worked out pretty well. If I said potato, I knew I had their attention if they answered back potahto.

We got back home at around 3:30 PM. Disappointingly, I didn't get to wear my Jessica Rabbit costume.  I had tried it out a few days prior and did a spectacular job on the makeup. I posted pictures of the completed look on my Facebook and Google+. I had lots of positive feedback. And then showtime came and I couldn't get my eyelashes on right, the lips looked funny, the eyebrows were misshapen and  I couldn't get the wig to sit on my head correctly. So with 20 minutes to spare, I scrubbed my face, put on a pretty dress and regular makeup and ran out of the house not dressed as anything but a regular person.

My husband took me to a bar near the ferry for dinner and drinks. Then we ran off to the Underworld Rated R tour. I had hoped it was a special Halloween themed tour but it was just their adults only tour. It was really entertaining and fun. After having drinks with some of the other tour patrons post tour, we headed back towards the ferry. Having just missed it, we opted to go to the Seattle's Great Wheel ferris wheel on the waterfront.

What a spectacular view! If it hadn't been nighttime, I think I might have been a little more nervous about the height. But since it was evening, it was just a pretty time.

We came home to kids who were up too late but who had been waiting for cake since they didn't yet have enough sugar coursing through their blood streams. And I unwrapped my present -- a Duostar Karaoke set with hundreds of songs included. So excited to play!

It was a very very good day.

Birthday wishes

I've been having trouble falling asleep lately. My husband suggests that I turn off the artificial light sources a few hours before bed -- you know, the computer screens and my telephone, as well as the overhead lights. But how exactly am I supposed to check my Facebook without all of that? Plus, we like to play video games to relax. Can't exactly slay dragons without a computer monitor.

But this is sleep  -- probably the best thing in the world that I do on a daily basis. Sleep is bliss. Sleep is restorative. Sleep is just yum.

Been running on tired for a couple of days. Went camping this past weekend and stayed up too late each night and got up too early each morning. Plus, I woke up several times in the middle of the night. Here in my own home, usually the sleep is better but there is always somebody to interfere with my sleep.

So I took a midday nap.

Climbed up on my bed, wrapped myself up in my favorite blanket (because my bed was already made and I didn't want to have to make it again) and fell asleep. This is going to sound like a crazy dream but I was on a phone call with a woman I had done some work for in the past. She was trying to give me more money for the work I had done because she was convinced that I hadn't been paid. But I was feeling pretty good in the conversation because I was engaging and funny and was certain that she was going to hire me to do more work.

I was sitting on my sofa and I turned to my left to see my Uncle Nofre walking towards me in his bathrobe carrying his overnight bag. He looked like he had freshly showered and finished blowdrying his hair. He told me, "Come on, make ready. We have to go soon."

I was caught up in his voice, I hadn't heard it in so long. There was always something playful and joyous in it. There was a touch of brass, caramel, and melody in how he spoke.

He sat down beside me and smiled at me and I stared at his hair -- kind of auburn. He was always trying on new hair colors to hide his gray. My grandfather's hair was all white. My uncle was headed that way too. His skin was dark brown, like he'd been sitting in the Hawaiian sun a little too much. Eh, clouds are closer to the sun so the better tan, I'm sure.

And I started crying.

When you start crying in your sleep, it is always a surprise. You don't see it coming towards you like you do when you're awake. When you're awake, your eyes start to pool with tears and if you're lucky, you can tamp that down so that you can regain your composure. But instead, I started crying right in the middle of it -- the big gasping sobs in the middle of the sea of grief. No time to regain composure, no time to prepare. Just one big tsunami.

And I woke up gasping for air, wailing for my uncle, and my face wet with tears.

My birthday is coming up shortly. I want to believe that my uncle was just coming by to wish me a happy birthday, just like the last time he made an appearance in my dreams right before his birthday. He was always amazing about that. Never, ever forgot a birthday. So that's what I'm going to believe. I know it's magical thinking and I'm a grown up. I shouldn't embrace such childish things. But I'm going to believe that he was here for my birthday.

I really miss him.