A lot of people think that karate and free sparring go hand-in-hand. I tend to disagree. One practices karate to ultimately avoid “sparring” in the classical sense, to avoid hand-to-hand combat. I was taught, the essence of karate-dō is to be able to defend oneself with the aim of inflicting minimal injury, only the force that’s needed to halt an attack. In training, I’m learning techniques that are designed to ideally stop an attack with one or two offensive executions.

A lot of people study karate so that they may free spar. In all my experience in martial arts, free sparring has been THE aspect of training that I have loathed with every atom of my being. I hated it when I was younger, I’ve hated it in memory, and I hated it until about 12:20 PM on Saturday afternoon.

With ten minutes left in class, Senpai Kūnane paired us up and announced, “Okay. Free sparring. Medium speed.”

I felt the horror flush through my face. I’m sure my eyes grew to the size of dinner plates. “Sparring,” to me, has always meant “pain and humiliation.” Almost every single time I was ever forced to fight, I got the wind knocked out of me. EVERY…SINGLE…TIME. And every single bout ended with me crying and getting yelled at.

Getting the wind knocked out of me, crying, and getting yelled at was one thing to endure as a child. But as an adult, the pain and humiliation would be nicely rounded out with a generous dose of sheer embarrassment. How many times have I envisioned my thirty-something self, doubled over in a corner, gasping for breath like a fish out of water and tears flying from my eyes.

The biggest difference would be, I’m sure no one would dare yell at me, but the silence would actually be worse. Certainly, one or two instructors would jump to the task of holding my arms out at my sides, crouching down beside me, telling me in that low, controlled voice, “Breathe…breathe…deep breaths…slow…inhale, exhale….”

I think very much I’d really rather die.

So Senpai Kūnane gave the direction to free spar. I looked at my partner–”Dr. Sensei”–and said, “I have NO idea what I’m doing here.”

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” she said. “We’ll take it slow. All you need to do is look for a target. Use the techniques we’ve been practicing in class. Don’t worry, you’ll be all right. Just take it slow.”

I took a deep breath, got into fighting stance, and hoped for the best.

We started out in a slow circle. Dr. Sensei allowed me a few seconds to get used to moving around, and then she put out a leisurely, much-anticipated punch. It was the most basic offensive technique, and I blocked it with the most natural defensive technique I know–a simple parry.

That was painless. She threw another punch, and I reacted in the same way, parry and move.

A minute or so passed. I realized I hadn’t been waylaid yet, hadn’t been knocked to the floor, hadn’t had her fist lodged between my lungs. I gained a little confidence and added in some counter-attacks.

Dr. Sensei picked up the pace, began to beef up her offense just enough to offer me a bit of a challenge to counter with a more varied defense.

Strangely enough, I began to enjoy the exercise. It wasn’t the simulated combat that I enjoyed (like so many other martial arts enthusiasts); it was the challenge to the reflexes. Kind of like playing a video game. Once it was clear there was no chance of injury, I felt safe enough to engage in the exercise and focus on what I was supposed to be doing.

I’m not so naive to think free sparring will always be so controlled and “safe.” Dr. Sensei–and Professor Sensei, after her–were both purposefully controlled, knowing this was my first trip around the block. And they’ve seen me train for several months, so they know what I’ve been exposed to and what I haven’t. They met me according to what they know to be my skill level.

But not everyone approaches sparring a beginner the same way. There are many, many people who are not very aware of what is appropriate in such a situation, and many who don’t care what’s appropriate in such a situation. It’s been my experience that sparring often brings out an ugly side of people; there is something to prove, an opportunity to yet again establish themselves as stronger, faster, fiercer.

I can remember quite a few people who I truly enjoyed before I either faced them in the ring, or watched them face someone else in the ring. It’s what I saw in their eyes, the expressions on their faces. Almost like hate. Blood-lust. Violence. A raw desire to hurt someone.

The perverse thing about it is, a lot of those eyes and faces belonged to kids.

I remember one tournament…I must’ve been ten or so. Through most of the first half of the tournament, I sat beside this kid I’ll call “Billy.” He was my age, same rank. We competed against each other quite a bit, so we were familiar.

Billy was the prodigy of his dōjō. I think his parents were senseis, too. Whenever he competed, dozens of people from his school gathered around the ring to cheer him on. “Get ‘em, Billy!” “That’s the way ta do it, Billy!”

He was good, and he always left with a handful of trophies.

That day, Billy and I ended up sitting beside each other through the first two competitions. Though we were competing against each other, the main challenge was to impress the judges. There was no one-on-one competition. Each person had a turn to go before the panel and exhibit his best.

The line was long, so Billy and I had a lot of time to chat. We talked about our dōjōs, our parents, school, what we did for fun, what our friends were like. It was kind of fun, getting the chance to get to know a kid I’d seen over and over again but never really spoke to. It felt good to make a friend who I shared so much in common with, who understood the pressures of being a young competitor.

That good feeling lasted all day. Even when we were herded together for the final competition–sparring–I was happy. Of course, I was plagued by the usual nervousness that went along with gearing up and drawing numbers so the judges could pair us up with our opponents, but the fear was diluted a little with the contentment I had at finding a new friend.

Unfortunately, my number matched Billy’s. The two of us would face each other in the ring.

Being the optimistic little girl I was, I thought Billy and I would hang out until it was our turn, just like we had all day. But instead, Billy’s dad pulled him away to a far corner and began coaching him and warming him up.

I thought, “Well, maybe today won’t be so bad. Billy knows I hate fighting. He won’t go out of his way to hurt me, and everything will be okay.” My nervousness all but disappeared. Even when they called my name to take my place in the ring, I wasn’t scared.

Imagine my shock when I stepped to the line and saw Billy was not the Billy I’d been talking to all day. He was stiff; he glared at me through two narrowed eyes that bunched up into a mean scowl. He gnawed on his mouth-guard and breathed like a crazed bulldog at the end of a chain.

I was so taken aback by the change in Billy that I didn’t even notice the referee give the command to begin. Before I could even blink, Billy was across the ring and on me, flailing away at my head, my stomach, my ribs.

So began the same old dance: my opponent beating me with every limb, and me bruised, crying, and trying desperately to suck some air back into my jolted lungs. And who was the hurt-ER? Billy. Billy My Friend. Billy with whom I had so much in common. Billy who understood me. Billy who would show compassion and control.

Billy took first place in sparring that day. After it was all over, he dragged his trophy over to his father, went back to his fold, a champion. As most kids did after the work was done, he changed into his street clothes and went to run with the other kids.

I was far too hurt and confused. I bought some nachos and a Coke from the concession stand and spent the rest of the time sticking close to Mom, trying to figure out what happened, who Billy really was, what I’d done wrong, why I felt such an injustice, and if I were justified in what I felt.

I don’t think I ever trusted another kid I hung out with before the sparring competition. From that day on, it was always in the back of my mind that this person might be an animal under all that human-kid.

And you know, that suspicion and expectation has followed me even to today. Granted, I do have the reassurance that I will never let anyone force me to spar, so I’ll never find myself in that exact situation again. But I’ve also made up my mind that I will not give up. Sparring goes with the territory of training; it’s natural in the progression.

I don’t loathe sparring on the whole the way I did when I was a kid. I enjoy watching matches and seeing the application of all I’m learning. I find it intensely interesting to see that expected metamorphosis that happens when one faces an actual opponent. It’s exhilarating, intriguing, quite a study of personality.

But it’s also frightening. I’m most afraid of looking upon the countenance of my dear instructors and seeing that same terrible animalism I saw in Billy so many years ago. From that moment, I know I couldn’t help but view them in a different light.

To break the bow of her lips, white-wash the heat from her cheeks and leave her flesh as cold as old wax.

To bind her ribs, her hips, her calves, to fell the arch of her foot and level the curve of every ivory finger.

How ardently you love the girl, how lovely she is all rooted and reaching to you as you alone are the sustaining sun.

Surprise! I did not recognize
That the title I had bought
Was not what I’d initially thought,
But a Longfellow anthology!

Not only will I now enjoy
The ode to Evangeline and Gabriel,
But also thirty-six additional poems and tales,
All for five dollars and fourteen cents!

Though I’m thrilled with my new find
And the many literary perks
That come in reading Longfellow’s selected works,
There is a downside I can’t help.

Like that derned cell phone ringtone,
Or that infernal chipmunk song,
I’m sentenced for an undetermined time
To think and speak in meter and rhyme.

And this is why I generally
Make it my strict policy
To stay away from formal verse,
Lest I fall victim to “The Dr. Seuss Curse.”

—

Interestingly, a reader directed me to the “UL library special collections.” I was told to dig up “Joel Lafayette Fletcher’s speech written in late in 1940’s, The Acadians in Louisiana Today,” if–says the reader–I want some inspiration on Evangeline and the Acadian people.

Now how cool is that? Almost like a treasure hunt, with obstacles and risks and all the like…. I’m not, after all, a student of UL, so there’s the possibility I may meet some resistance when trying to gain admission to the college library special collections.

Then, I may have to seek special permission, or–even more exciting–I may have to contact my anonymous reader and request his personal aid in accessing the facility. Maybe with a skeleton key left in an envelope in the bottom of a potted plant, or a forged document stuck between the pages of a certain obscure book shelved in the wrong section…. Maybe I’ll have to hide in the library bathroom until the doors are locked, then climb through the ventilation system, drop down into the special collections room, tethered to the end of a black nylon rope….

Then again, it may just be a matter of asking.

Reality is at times so much less enthralling.

—

On Longfellow’s Burial of the Minnisink

(Read full text of poem at hwlongfellow.org.)

First of all, I had to ask myself…What is a Minnisink?

The best answer I could find in reference is, the Minnisink (also “Minisink” according to other resources) are(were?) a Native American tribe who occupied areas in the North American northeast (New Jersey? New York?).

Longfellow’s poem, Burial of the Minnisink, describes the laying to rest of one Minnisink warrior chief.

The poem begins with an image…

On sunny slope and beechen swell,
The shadowed light of evening fell;
And, where the maple’s leaf was brown,
With soft and silent lapse came down,
The glory, that the wood receives,
At sunset, in its golden leaves.

…which I thought was so precise and illuminated. At this point, I still didn’t know what a “Minnisink” was, so I just enjoyed the images of the coast and the forest.

Later, Longfellow introduces the human characters, and then, I understood a “Minnisink” is a who. And how noble a who he is.

An image of the silver lakes,
By which the Indian’s soul awakes.

But soon a funeral hymn was heard
Where the soft breath of evening stirred
The tall, gray forest; and a band
Of stern in heart, and strong in hand,
Came winding down beside the wave,
To lay the red chief in his grave.

The remainder of the poem describes the brief life of the chief and his untimely passing; funerary details, including the putting away of personal items and the procession; and lastly, the leading in of the riderless horse.

Not one to spoil a good story for anyone else, I’ll withhold the climax of the tale. But I must comment: The ending lines brought genuine tears to my eyes. It was entirely unexpected. Maybe such things are common knowledge to most other people, but it wasn’t to me. I was actually grateful for my ignorance; I felt I was able to experience the full impact of the poem, both the language and the story.

—

The Riderless Horse

I remembered a recent CNN headline, “Riderless horse adds poignancy to military burials.” In reading Longfellow’s Burial of the Minnisink, I began to wonder where the riderless horse custom began.

Reads the CNN article: “The tradition dates ‘to Roman times, or Genghis Khan,’ Nielsen said, ‘as a high honor bestowed on high-ranking fallen warriors.’”

It seems the custom predates Native American practice.

The article also mentions the riderless horse (also “comparisoned horse,” or “cap horse”) in the funerary procession of JFK in 1963, how the image is iconic for the millions of Americans who recall the day.

I’ve been told a visit to Arlington National Cemetery is a profoundly humbling experience one will never forget. Burial of the Minnisink raises my anticipation of our visit in September. I’m quite mindful of the marked contrast between the earthy intimacy of the Native American burial and the white-gloved formality of a military memorial service. At the same time, however, I immediately recognize the honor, the grief, the love and devotion to the fallen is the same.

Evangeline: A Tale of Acadie…by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Reads Wikipedia:

Evangeline describes the betrothal of an Acadian girl named Evangeline Bellefontaine to her beloved, Gabriel Lajeunesse, and their separation as the British deport the Acadians from Acadie in the Great Upheaval. The poem then follows Evangeline across the landscapes of America as she spends years in a search for him. Finally she settles in Philadelphia and, as an old woman, works as a nun among the poor…[Spoiler ending sentence omitted.]

A poem I have never read. A name I’ve only known as a thoroughfare, except to hear it spoken in St. Martinville, to hear them speak of her with reverence and ownership.

I’ve only ventured through the first few passages (courtesy of Google Book Search), and I am spellbound, eyes glossed over, lips whetted with the dew of true romance.

This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,
Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,
Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic,
Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.
Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighbouring ocean
Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.

…

Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient,
Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman’s devotion,
List to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the forest;
List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy.

A story of enduring love…the story of the Acadian heart. My, but the words grab hold of the soul!

I’m ashamed I’m just now discovering the nature of one of the most beloved personas in Cajun culture. We spent months traveling back and forth to St. Martinville preparing for a play production at Duchamp Opera House. The old theatre sits just across the street from the church square where “Emmeline LaBiche” (the “real” Evangeline, according to tradition) is said to be buried. There is even a statue of Emmeline nearby. I have never visited the church, never seen the statue, never seen the grave, and never read the poem.

But Longfellow has captured my imagination with only a few lines. Love at first sight. I’ve made up my mind to buy the book tomorrow. It will only take me a few days to read it, and then, I’ll make the pilgrimage to St. Martinville to walk the grounds and visit Emmeline, as is proper for a resident of Acadiana.

I fear reading Evangeline may lead me to even more severely romanticize the Cajun culture I love so dearly but know so little about. In the past, I’ve scorned the same kind of naive sentimentality foisted on the Hawaiian culture, because I felt the starry-eyed fascination was more spawned by a subjective, contrived idealism rather than a genuine admiration and reverence for the true identity of the Hawaiian people. Now, the tables are turned, and I’m challenged to love Cajun culture with a pure heart, a trained mind, an educated selflessness.

Did Longfellow love the Acadians? Did he love the land and the people, as did James Michener the Hawaiians?

I may have been guilty of accusing Michener of romanticizing and idealizing the Hawaiians of times past.

From “On James Michener’s Hawaii - Chp. 1 & 2“; Pana Hula archives, written 2 Sept. 2004…

Michener’s command of the English language is glorious, and I find I am at times so caught up in his spell, I forget all about reading critically, questioning his accuracy or comparing his interpretation of Hawai‘i’s history with facts and opinions to which I’ve been previously exposed. I put off consideration of the author’s subjectivity (the novel is–after all–a work of fiction) and allow myself to drift along on the currents of his excellent tale.

With this in mind, I have to wonder how a kanaka maoli’s perception of Hawaii differs from that of the general readership. Is Hawaii considered by Native Hawaiians to be a sentimental white man’s contrived fantasy? Or do they view Hawaii as a valuable contribution to the celebration of the culture? Or, is Hawaii simply disregarded altogether?

I may follow suit, despite my best intentions. Inevitably, some prose or art will come from the lingering euphoria of reading Evangeline. No doubt, the reading coupled with a visit to St. Martinville will stir me up, and the senses and images won’t let me rest until I’ve created something that will speak for my moved spirit.

But will it be genuine? Will it be a reflection of Longfellow’s Evangeline Bellefontaine? Or will it be a stiff ‘Ailina-mannequin crudely wrapped in a cheap Longfellow knock-off? Campy and synthetic, like cellophane hula skirts?

I did it. Made it through two classes tonight. And I didn’t even get sick.

At the last class I attended two weeks ago, Senpai Kunāne introduced a series of techniques that occur in the next form we’d learn. I was really excited about that, really anticipating learning a new kata (form), since I’d been working on the first one since summer began. I practiced the new techniques at home, hoping I’d have them down pat by the time we put them together into a pattern, but then, the trips began, so I never got back to class to learn the form.

I figured everyone else had already moved on without me, everyone else would know the new kata by the time I returned, and I would be “that student” who would need to either be taken aside to catch up, or shove her brain into high gear in order to absorb the information as quickly as possible so as not to hold up the rest of the class.

Thankfully, I saw neither scenario. We picked up right where we left off, and now, I’ve learned the new kata. Yay!!!

—

Couple changes in the weeks of my absence.

1. Sensei Sunshine got a haircut. One of those short, classy-sassy layered ‘dos, like Meg Ryan’s shag (right), only Sunshine’s style doesn’t come off as “tousled,” but rather chic. And Sunshine’s not blonde; she’s a green-eyed brunette, and the cut looks absolutely fabulous on her.

2. The only other female beginner in the class hasn’t been back since before I left, which means I’m alone again in my rookie-ladyness. Bummed about that.

I was told many students who join the dōjō don’t stay beyond the initial three months. They don’t expect training to be so difficult and demanding, so they drop out.

It’s frustrating for the staff, because they want students to succeed, but encouragement can only go so far. At some point, a student chooses either to push past the fear and pain, or not to. The senseis can’t make that choice for us.

So, permanent membership is modest. But, the good thing is that–if a student sticks it out, then that’s evidence she’s dedicated and won’t give up on account of hard work or the few inevitable setbacks. Dedicated students means a dedicated dōjō, and that’s the stuff of a school’s longevity. At least that’s what I think.

—

Masatoshi Nakayama’s Best Karate Series

Sensei Sweet tipped me off about Nakayama’s series of books, Best Karate. I believe the entire collection of (at least) eleven volumes is–in Nakayama’s own words–”Dedicated to my teacher GICHIN FUNAKOSHI.” I think that’s beautiful and fitting.

Purchased:

• Best Karate 1: Fundamentals
• Best Karate 2: Comprehensive
• Best Karate 5: Heian, Tekki (basic forms)

The covers of each Best Karate book feature a black and white photograph of the Master Nakayama.

It’s really interesting to me to see relatively modern depictions of these founders.  I guess in my mind, I’ve thought of the founding fathers as rare and elusive, like the photographs of Dad that I know exist, but cannot place.  I guess I overlooked the fact Master Nakayama was alive and still very much active in my own lifetime.  I was thirteen years old when he passed.

I aim to finish reading all three books by the end of the month.  Another really cool thing about getting my hands on the Nakayama books at this particular time–I’ll be studying Nakayama’s biography as I read his written works, so in a sense, it will feel like he’s teaching me from his place in the past.

I’ve gotten the same sense when reading Funakoshi’s Karate-Dō, like Master Funakoshi is sitting with me in the same room, reaching way back into memory and recalling pivotal experiences of his youth.

Speaking of which, I still haven’t finished Karate-Dō.  I planned to read some tonight, but I had to WILL myself to stay awake long enough to record my thoughts from the day.  Still don’t feel like I’ve sufficiently expressed myself.

(Note: The coffee article was not excerpted on the aired version nor the printed version of the story, but a fragment of a line can be found on the “Interactive” tab under “‘Ailina” (the six-letter version of the name).)

Haven’t gotten a ping on the parenting article submission, but that may be on account I sent it to the editor’s outdated email address. Tried again today, so hopefully, I’ll hear something soon. If not, I’ve got a few more local publications that accept unsolicited queries. Will go to Plan B in a couple weeks if nothing pans out.

What to work on in the meantime? I promised myself I’d write a parenting article on the virtues of camping (natural disasters aside), but the inspiration just isn’t there. I’m sure I could throw something together, but I’m almost certain it wouldn’t have the heart it should have.

I think the lack of catharsis over the past two weeks has taken its toll, and now I’ve got to fight my way back to maintenance mode. I’m feeling a thousand different things at once–mostly panic and overwhelm. So much to do, so much to catch up on, so far behind. I don’t even know where to begin.

I can’t concentrate at all, much less focus enough to produce something tight and distilled. I tried a writing exercise last night, and what came out was fragmented, weak, and sentimental. Guess if that’s the way I’m feeling, that’s what I’ll produce.

But I have no time to be fragmented, weak, and sentimental. I’m under the gun, in more ways than one.

—

Karate Training

I haven’t been to class in two weeks. The emergency exit, camping trip, and 4th of July weekend took me out of town for the duration. Terrible timing, with belt testing only weeks away. After such a pause in training, returning to class is like starting over from the beginning. Again. I feel so bad about that.

I berate myself for my lack of consistency, but the practical side of me stands up for the fact I AM a stay-at-home mom raising five kids, and for two weeks out of every month, the raising is done by me alone. They are the priority; I wouldn’t have it any other way. I can’t apologize for my responsibilities, but I do feel responsible for my martial arts attendance and performance. I must be able to offer some commitment, and some consistency in that, if not for the sake of my training, then at least for the sake of my instructors and out of consideration for the other students who must endure review on account of me.

I can’t help the necessary absences, but I can do my best to compensate. I’ve decided I’m going to stay for all the second classes from now until test time. I already know I won’t be able to endure the physical demands of two back-to-back hours of training three times a week, but I’ll do everything short of falling out onto the floor. I’ll just have to tell the instructors–I’ll do what I can until I start to feel like I’m about to hurl my lunch. If it comes to that, I’ll hit the bench and watch.

That’s 4.5 weeks to prepare. Is that enough time for me to pull it together? It will have to be.

—

Karate Research

I suspect I’ll be shelving the pursuit of Dad’s history until after the D.C. trip in September. Just no way around it.
But now is the perfect time to step up my studies of Shotokan. Master Mikami will be the special instructor at the dōjō training camp in August, and I definitely want to have his history and lineage solidified in my head well before I meet him for the first time. He will be, after all, the first Shotokan master I will meet in person, and I definitely want to have a relatively complete frame of reference for his introduction.

This means I need to finish Funakoshi’s Karate-Dō. I’ve also purchased three books in a series of titles written by Master Nakayama (Funakoshi’s successor). It’s crucial I get through these well before test time, too, since the content comprises everything I need to know for the test, and then some.

—

‘Ōlelo Hawai’i

Hawaiian language studies will continue without a hitch. Noe (study partner) and I have transitioned from the Ka Lei Ha’aheo to the Nā Kai ‘Ewalu text.  Now that we have an established foundation, we can move forward into more complex points of grammar.  Conversation practice is consistent and progressive.  Lots of audio resources to help with pronunciation and vocal pacing.  Maika’i kō māua ha’awina.  Imua!
—

Vacation Planning

So this will be the focus of any spare time I may have over the next two months.  D.C. trip is right around the corner.  Date of Departure is September 16th.  Nine days of travel, multiple states, multiple destinations.

I believe the basic itinerary is just about finalized.  Still needs a few more tweaks, but it’s established.

Still have to book hotels, print maps, purchase tickets and/or passes.  I’ll have to set some deadlines soon to keep me on target, or time will leak by, and our best-laid plans will fall to pieces before we ever have a chance to set them into motion.

—

Moi

I’d have to say self-image is pretty healthy lately.  Fatigue has plagued me, but it’s no wonder with braving the wilderness and all.

The sunshine did me well, after the initial sunburn and insect bites dissipated.  Only a couple other times in my life I’ve been this dark–three straight weeks at the beach in Hawai’i, and an entire summer camped out on Galveston shore.  I do love Vitamin D.

And as silly and juvenile as it may be, I indulged in a little vice I’ve coveted for a while now–colored contact lenses.  It’s not that I’m dissatisfied with my natural black eye color–”two muskadines in the buttermilk,” as Mama Lola used to say of me when I was a baby.  I’m perfectly happy with my eyes, though at times, they do make me appear tragic and forlorn.

It’s just that lighter colors give my face a completely different look.  “Honey” looks warm and summery, brings out the deep auburn highlights I paid for (again) and rounds out the gold tones in my hair and skin.  “Hazel” goes great with the emerald greens I like to wear.  Not so sure about “gray,” but I theorize it may make the pinks and lavenders a little more friendly on me.

I think what sealed the deal, though, was the girls when they said, “Hmm…those contacts make you look younger.”  That was enough to quash any misgivings I may have had about accessorizing with something so (literally) superficial.

And my head’s on straight.  That’s all I have to say about that.

—

Homeschooling

…is in full informal mode.  Of course we continue our exploration of American History in preparation for the trip to the Capitol.  The next two weeks, however, will be devoted to refreshing on Entomology.  Next field trip is to the Audubon Insectarium in New Orleans.  The outing will be so much more fulfilling if the kids’ heads are filled with bugs and all their fascinating features.

Priss has just a few more weeks of summer voice class.  The others chose swimming lessons, but in order to save for the D.C. trip, we decided to just buy another pool to replace the last one that finally gave out last summer.  Funny that a pool purchase would be more economical than three swimming tuitions, but that’s the way it worked out.  Besides, with proper maintenance, the home pool will last exponentially longer than a six-week session, and the whole family can swim every day throughout the entire summer if we so choose.

They’ve already chosen their fall activities, too.

• Priss - voice
• Bunny - gymnastics
• Moe - acting
• Squeak - piano

Not sure what Rocky wants to do, but I’m sure he’ll tell me when he returns from Fla.

It’s great for them to be involved in extracurriculars, but that does put a cramp on travel.  I think Miner and I both have come to agree travel is the very best experience and education we can offer the kids.  There’s nothing keeping us from providing that, so…Why not?

But I’m too tired to begin an in-depth analysis of all that tonight.  More emails to reply to, have to catch up on the night’s participation at the writing group.  And I still haven’t eaten anything for supper.

Responsibility eclipses the sweet little luxuries that normally provide the much-needed catharsis to keep my shoulder to the grind; no time for study, training, drawing, writing, or research. But I can’t complain. A few days submersed in the silence and…well…nature of nature are an expensive, yet highly effective treatment for boiling blood-pressure. A natural sedative. It’s worth it.

—

The bane of last month’s camping trip was untimely digestive ailments. This time, the challenge was external and entirely beyond our control. Three days of showers and thunderstorms.

We knew the forecast well ahead of time. We took note of the time frames, and we decided to brave it anyway. An hour or two of rain just wasn’t enough to cancel the trip.

So, we all piled into the van and the truck–Miner, me, the girls, and the dog along with food and supplies for six people for three days. Little did we know that “thunderstorms” meant just that–a thundering STORM.

—

Day 1: Rained Out

The front muscled its way in from behind the trees, barreled in over the creek and right away took to pounding the tent, the mess shelter, the outhouse. Tarps and hanging clothes whipped this way and that on their cords. Everything not weighted down rolled away like litter tumbleweeds. And the cold wind blew through our skin right to our bones.

Pitiful. The rain dumped down by the bucketful, and we huddled together under the 10′-by-10′ shelter (no walls) shivering, chattering teeth, lips and fingernails withered and blue. When we couldn’t stand it anymore, Miner grabbed some sopping branches from the immediate area, and the girls and I tried to take our minds off the cold by breaking long sticks into small sticks for kindling.

An hour later, Miner had conjured a tiny fire in our dripping, makeshift kitchen. We pulled our chairs around as closely as we could and stuck our wrinkled feet all but right in the embers. Once warm, we were able to tolerate the next slow, heavy hour it took for the storm to pass.

In the aftermath, we complained for ten minutes about the felled outhouse, then laughed for the rest of the day as we made solid plans for how we might better deal with the expected storm the next day.

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Day 2: Rained In

Wiser than the day before, we made sure all the supplies were well water-proofed and stored. Plenty of kindling and firewood, though we wouldn’t need it during the rain.

The family plan called for immediate “in-vacuation”–that is, everyone to the tent the second the first raindrop falls from the sky. That’s exactly what we did. Zipped ourselves up in our 10-person tent, cuddled up on our air mattresses, snacks and drinks handy for munching (because we remembered to bring the food bag with us).

I don’t know how long we “hunkered down,” but it didn’t seem like all that long. The girls entertained themselves with their camping journals, and Miner and I either chatted or slept, or maybe both intermittently.

We passed the rest of the day searching for petrified wood, which we found in great abundance, and samples were more than twice as large as the ones we found at “Arrowhead Shoals” many months ago.

Explored a good quarter-mile downstream and found a beautiful white-sand “swimming hole” (in the classic sense of the word); spent at least an hour thrashing around there, and sizzling our backsides under the Louisiana sun (burns, blisters…won’t ever neglect ourselves like that again).

Then, ended the night with a steaming cup of campfire coffee, making jokes about fictitious constellations, and speculating about the ulterior motives of fireflies. Never slept better.

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Day 3: Day of “Departure”

“Just a little bit longer….”

That was me, begging for a little more time to dig around in the creek bed for the next larger shard of petrified wood. Miner graciously relented, and “a little bit longer” turned into two hours past the established departure time. Oh, the family paid dearly for it.

The third storm put the first to shame–like the third Billy Goat Gruff, only with the troll’s temper.

The minute the clouds began swirling, we rushed the kids up to the van so at least they would stay warm and dry.

At first, the drizzling wasn’t so bad. We were able to get most of the supplies packed and loaded into the vehicles. Really, the only things left to take care of were the tent and the outhouse. If we worked fast enough, we reasoned, we could get it all folded and bagged by the time the bottom dropped out.

Not so.

Drizzles and drips…ha. God turned on the faucet. It was a “gully-washer.” Ever tried breaking down a tent in the rain? folding it up? stuffing it in the bag? It can’t be done. If the wind is catching at the corners, if water and sand simply collect and slosh around in the creases and crevasses, if the rain in your eyes and up your nose prevents you from seeing what you’re doing. No such thing as “folding” anything in the rain.

We ended up wadding the whole thing up (tarp included) into a big, sloshy ball; dragging it up to the truck; and tossing it into the back. Same with the outhouse. It was all we could do. “We’ll clean it off and dry it out at home.”

So, with all our belongings ready to go, kids anxious to get on the road home, and all starving for a hot meal (and a fresh cup of coffee for me), we cranked up the engines, put them in gear, and…

…didn’t move. The wheels spun a little. Then a little more. Then a lot. The next thing we knew, the van was a foot deep in what we call “gumbo” down here.

That’s right. STUCK.

Miner and I fought with the tires for over an hour. We tried quite a few creative ideas: shoveling, laying down rotted wood and leaves over the mud to (theoretically) give the tires some kind of traction, paving the rut with landscaping bricks we happened to have in the trunk from the last trip to Lowe’s.

None of that worked. We gave up at 5:30 PM, reasoning we really couldn’t do much with the few hours of daylight left. Besides, the kids were miserable, and family headquarters were less than half an hour away.

The executive decision was to drive to Mother Refiner’s for the night to regroup. At least then the kids could get a hot bath, a hot meal, and a good night’s sleep. Then, Miner and I would hit it again the next morning, bright and early, with a renewed sense of creativity and optimism.

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Day 4: Triumph

From Lowe’s:

• three heavy duty towing chains (2,000+ ton workload)
• two D-links
• two shackles
• one come-along

The girls stayed back at Mother Refiner’s while Miner and I set out back into the woods. We took our time getting going, stopped for a hot breakfast and two giant cups of coffee. We had all day and knew the job wouldn’t be quick and easy.

The strategy was to tow the van out with the truck, which might’ve been possible, except the entrance road was a series of sharp S-curves, mounds, and several obstacle saplings. A straight tow just wasn’t feasible.

What we ended up doing was tying off to at least a dozen trees and ratcheting that thing out, one angle at a time, inch by painful inch. Every now and then, the vehicles were positioned just right that the truck could tow the van for a few feet. But inevitably, the clearance was too tight again. Repeat: tie off, ratchet, ratchet, ratchet, ratchet.

At one point, the truck got stuck, too. That’s some indication how thick the “gumbo” was. It sucked down all four wheels of Miner’s 4×4. His engine might’ve melted through the hood for how hot it got, revving and revving and doing absolutely no good.

So his truck saw some ratchet action, too. Even though progress was excruciating, I don’t think either one of us thought for one moment we wouldn’t get out of there. Plenty of trees to tie off to, and really, no danger of the chains breaking. No rain, no shortage of humor, frequent breaks, and quite a few fervent prayers from the kids back at Mother Refiner’s.

It felt like hours upon hours, but in reality, we rolled both vehicles out of the muck only two hours later. The van and truck were coated in mud from stem to stern. My slippers felt more like platform shoes for the several layers of clay stuck to the soles. No telling how many mosquito bites we have between the two of us.

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Next Trip…

Miner, me, the kids, the dog, and both vehicles are in one piece and good working order. For all the rain and strain, we still had a blast, and we have another gallon or two of petrified wood to show for our efforts. It really was a fantastic trip, and we didn’t hesitate to start making plans for the next time we’ll trek out into the wilderness.

We thought an August trip to a state park might be a nice change of pace. We might stay in a cabin for just one night, spend a day fishing and a day hiking before heading home. Won’t happen, though. D.C. vacation is just two months away, and all our resources have got to go to that.

However, we do plan to visit the new Insectarium in New Orleans later in the month. Just as many bugs there as we encounter in the woods, except there’s no danger of being bit.

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* Black Bone Bend - Our “spot” on Bull Creek, so named for the (disgusting) black bone I pulled from the water in my search for petrified wood. Miner assures us the bone wasn’t human. I don’t know what kind of bone it was, but I threw it away from me faster than I could get the horrified shriek out of my throat.

Just spent the entire night immersed in 1950s Hawai’i–scanning, cropping, renaming, saving, printing, captioning, organizing. My entire collection of Civil Air Patrol archives and pre-1959 documents and photos are now uploaded and compiled in a chronological scrapbook. They are ready for mailing first thing in the morning.

The recipient is “Uncle Jack,” Dad’s best friend from grade school through high school. I count it a small miracle that we actually connected and he generously shared his memories of their crew running around the war homes neighborhoods, breaking their backs all year long in preparation for the Civil Air Patrol Drill Team competitions on the mainland (which, I might add, they won every single time), and yes…training together in karate (though details are few and far between).

Uncle Jack sent me a package this week with two beautiful photos of the CAP team in formation, complete with individual identifications, and a long, comprehensive (though outdated) list of classmates and their contact information. I cannot believe I now have in my hands such a valuable resource. I’m simply astounded.

And exhausted. Thoroughly. I can barely see straight. I’ll probably dream of the scan interface; nightmares of a progress bar that will never, ever make progress! Now, THAT is a metaphor for life.

Oh, I miss Dad terribly. If I weren’t so afraid of “losing my place,” forgetting to follow up on some crucial piece of information, losing my stride, I’d take a break from the Dad research and focus on something lighter for a little while. I’m afraid of burning out.

I guess I’ll be forced to step away from it all later this week. Another venture off into the woods for three days of low-blood-pressure minimalism. That is, unless one person shows ANY sign of gastrointestinal upset. In that case, we aren’t stepping foot out of the house.

Spent ALL DAY deep-cleaning the house.  “Dogs are barkin’”; biceps are about as useful as wet noodles.  Was exhausted by 9:00 PM, so why am I still up?

Because the parenting article is FINISHED!!!  Yay!!!  It’s as polished as it’s going to get, and it’s ready for submission.  Sent the query within the hour, so now, we wait.

Hoping for an acceptance on the heels of what I think is a national publication acceptance (or some form thereof).  Got a ping on the coffee essay I wrote last week over at iReport.  Appears it’s destined for 15 seconds (if that) of fame some time next week.  Will have to wake up with the roosters if I want to catch it on American Morning.  No details as of yet.

I’d say that’s a valid excuse for not hitting the sack at a decent, responsible time like a decent, responsible person.  Burning the midnight oil to accomplish something worthwhile.  Dozens of other things I should also be doing, but with writing, gotta strike while the iron’s hot.

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What’s next for me?

I’m not sure, but I think I should probably make it a goal to write at The Advertiser at least once a week.  Nonfiction (other than journaling) has never really been my forte, but there are always jobs for freelancers.

Besides, community blogging is relatively pressure-free.  There’s no query-submission-consideration-acceptance/rejection process.  No one spends money on ink, so there’s no worry about whether or not an article will do well or land flat.  You write to participate and contribute, which is a great community service.  An involved community is a happy community.  Right?  Write.
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It’s the oddest thing, and I haven’t quite figured it out, but it seems like everyone in this house is happier when I’m writing.  Seriously.  Even though writing makes me grumpy in the mornings, distracted when the sun goes down, and a frayed-and-frazzled wreck when a piece is out for consideration, everybody seems to feel so much more…”rooted” (???) when I’m producing.

Usually, I’m pretty good about picking apart the Why of a scenario.  But on this one, I’m utterly stumped.

Ua ha’o wale au i ka ‘ōlelo Hawai’i.  ‘Ano kapu ia’u kēlā no ka mea hana i ka pilikia ma ko’u hale.  ‘A’ole hiki wale nō.

‘A’ole heluhelu ke kānaka nui i kēia mau hua ‘ōlelo me ka maopopo (pēlā paha ua hewa ko’u mau ‘ōlelo Hawai’i?).  ‘A’ole ma’i kēlā…mamake au i ka mokupuni pono’ī no ka alelo noa.

Ua noa ko’u mana’o wale nō.