Homo Sapiens 3.0?

 

(Image credit: T.H. Jarrett (IPAC/SSC))

The observable universe, out to about 380,000 light years.

The entire universe is estimated at 94 billion light years across.

Copyright © 2021

by Ralph F. Couey

except where otherwise credited.

I came across a fascinating book by Dr. Michio Kaku, he of the wizened smile topped by a cloud of wavy white hair, and who is a frequent sight on science programs.  This book, entitled "The Future of Humanity," an arresting title to be sure, is a science-based glimpse into what our species could become in the coming millennia.  I appreciate that he doesn't make any value-based judgments or use thundering oratory to condemn us to our eventual self-destruction.  Books about the future without that are difficult to find.

In the book, Dr. Kaku discusses what evolution and technological enhancements might occur as we voyage into the far future.  His focus is on our ability to voyage ever further into space to explore the sun's family of planets, even reaching out to the Kuiper Belt and the Oort cloud, repositories of comets reaching nearly half the distance to the closest star.  Trying to plan and execute such voyages runs up against two brick walls, the incredible distances involved, and the fragility of humans.

During the heyday of the Space Race, we all just assumed that once we reached the moon, going to Mars would be the next step, just a few years off.  What we've learned since is how dangerous a place space is, and the multitude of hazards that exist.  

The obvious one is collision.  There are a lot of objects whizzing around out there, most of which are pretty small.  But even a grain of sand slamming into the side of a spacecraft at 10,000 mph would likely end such a mission in disaster.  Secondly, space is full of dangerous radiation, most coming from our very own sun.  The normal radiative flux is dangerous enough to humans. Occasionally the sun enters a more rambunctious "mood" and flings enormous flares off of its surface, sending planet-sized clouds of charge particles flying through the Solar System.  The Apollo astronauts were extremely fortunate to have not been on the moon during one of these events.  The effects would have been deadly.  For a crew sailing enroute to the planets, the danger is very real.  The current solution is to encase the spacecraft in a girdle of water, which has the ability to stop such intrusions.  

Making Plans. Yeah. Right.

Another glorious sunset...

It's been a busy few weeks, as my lack of attention to this site has demonstrated.  Not that I have millions of people out there hanging on my every word, but as I have learned over the years, writing is good for the soul.

We went to Denver and cleared out the storage unit, donating a pickup truck load of mostly clothes I'm way too small to wear now.  The moving company boxed up what was left, and the load has started the long journey to what has become our new(est) home.  

This has created a break point for us.  In the three years since we came to Hawai'i, it was always the plan to return to the Mainland (which is our term for the continental U.S.) at some point.  Having that storage unit there was a kind of promise that we would be back.  Now, that promise has been broken.  Having swallowed what feels like the world's second-largest mortgage, we are committed to staying here for the foreseeable future.  That's not a bad thing, necessarily.  We're both making enough to meet our expenses and continue to put money away for our retirement, whenever that day comes.  As long as we both work, we're good.  But if the day comes when one of us "has had enough," then we could be in a wee bit of a pickle.  

It's difficult to plan the unplannable.  If our recent history has proven to us, whatever we try to plan long-term, circumstance...or perhaps fate...has had a way of rendering plans irrelevant.  In defense, we've learned to be flexible; nimble on our feet to meet these new circumstances as they occur.  I suppose that could be called a strength.  What it is, is stressful.

We were able to spend time with our daughters in Denver, along with those two precious grandkids, who are growing up entirely too fast.  They are the kids of the COVID generation, growing up in the middle of one of the most serious public health crises in our history.  What stories they will tell their grandchildren!  

I think it's important to step back from the pressures of life and take a moment to appreciate the power of this historical moment.  It is a time to record our stories so that future generations looking back can uncover not just the large-scale facts, but the very human stories that we can leave to them.  I remember the impact of a book I read about the Dust Bowl, "The Worst Hard Time."  I can recount in general the facts of that meteorological and ecological disaster, but its important to know how those years affected the people caught in the middle.  So, I would encourage you to record your stories in a journal, or a blog, or somewhere where your great-great-grandchildren can access them and know in a very personal way what it was like to live during a pandemic.

Dreams That Come in Grandkids

 

Copyright © 2021

by Ralph F. Couey

Something wonderful happens to folks when they get grandchildren. The arrival of these chubby little bundles instantly become the most important things in life.  And the most beautiful and precious.

I suppose there's something anthropological going on here.  At its absolute base, the reason for life is to ensure the future by perpetuating the species.  But as we know, it goes way beyond that.  We are all linked to those people we call family, either by blood or marriage, and further connected by the generations that preceded us.  We, in turn, pass what we are to those who will carry those pieces of us into the future.

A couple of years ago, we took Mom out for her birthday to a restaurant in Aiea.  As the evening wore down, I gathered all the women present into a group photo, representing four generations.  It was and still is a powerful image.  One of the great sorrows that accompanied the corruption of my phone's memory card was the loss of that picture.  But it remains in my memory clear and sharp, a monument to the beauty of generations. 

I can trace my lineage back to 11th century France.  Cheryl's Okinawan and Japanese roots go back even further.  It's hard at times to wrap my head around the sheer length of those histories.  It also challenges me to make sure the future stays linked to those familial lines.

To a grandparent, a grandchild links sons and daughters and their parents in an even more personal way.  Now, we have both been parents.   Also, that child is the manifestation of that family's history and the hope for its future.  On a personal level, a grandchild is a vessel ready to accept the avalanche of love (and spoiling) that only a grandparent can give.

Old Roots, New Roots

Prairie Sunset east of Denver

Copyright © 2021

by Ralph F. Couey

"The best way to institute change

is to let go of those things that just don't fit anymore."

--Ralph F. Couey

It was a warm, lazy late afternoon. Looking across the neat, green grass, I could see our daughter Jamie's sweet dog Neil snoozing in the shade.  Being in Denver, the humidity was very low and there was a breeze, bringing to me a sense of contentment and even peace.  The writer in me loves these moments because its in this environment when the creative gears in my brain become unstuck.  As I look back, I remember how serene it felt to be there in that space in that moment, a moment when I needed some serenity.

It was a whirlwind visit this time, the main purpose of which was to gather up the remainder of our worldly possessions which have been in storage for the past three years and get them shipped to Hawai'i.  There's nothing big left, just a log of boxes and storage bins, more than I remembered, and my reverie is only slightly marred by the wonder of where in our home we're going to put all this stuff.

Home.  I guess its time to start using that word.  

For much of the last almost four years, we've haven't had one of those, only a long succession of extended stay hotels and other people's houses.  Even on our initial relocation here, we stayed in what was then, the home of Cheryl's mother.  Our stay here was never intended to be permanent.  At some undetermined future point in time, we were planning to return to the mainland, the exact location still a matter of discussion and debate.  The key driver in that decision would be the point when Mom would need to move to full-time respite care.  Her dementia is getting steadily worse, although from the neck down, she's as healthy as the proverbial horse.  

However, fate has a way of scuttling even the most contingent best-laid plans.  The first indication that there was debris in the gears was discovering that Mom's long-term care plan, sold to her by a living, breathing shyster, is completely inadequate for her situation.  The disability requiring the institutionalizing must be physical, and complete.  There is absolutely no provision for a mental or memory disability.  We had been casually talking about buying a place, taking advantage of the warp speed increases of home values here.  Once that possibility had been breached, it brought us to the conclusion that the only way to provide for Mom's long-term care was to buy her house and put the proceeds into an account for her future needs.  After getting the go-ahead from the family, we began the process, which completed  back in April.

It was expensive. Scary expensive.  Sleepless nights expensive.  One thing goes wrong and we're toast expensive.  I tell my friends that we have "the world's second-largest mortgage."  Because it feels like that.  

Beach Wedding and the Faith of Hope

Copyright © 2021

by Ralph F. Couey

I've been on a bit of a writing sabbatical, partially because life has gotten very busy, but also because like all writers, I hit a dry spell.

While I was away, many things have happened, not the least of which was the honor of performing a wedding.

We had met the couple at church when we were still in Virginia.  We hit it off, and enjoyed several happy years before circumstance pushed us back out onto the road again.  I had been for awhile their co-Pastor, and while I can't attest to the value of any ministry I may have brought to them, in their warm and joyful spirits, they gave a lot of ministry to me.  The Bride's parents were and are incredibly precious folks, possessed of the kind of sage wisdom which is far too rare in this world.   

They contacted me a few months ago and asked me to preside.  At first, I was not sure I could pull it off because at the time, the state of Hawai'i wasn't allowing its employees (of which I are one) to travel outside the state.  But they had decided to come here to have their wedding.  I was honored and humbled to accept.

Through the weeks, I worked on the ceremony, wanting it to be as perfect as I could possibly make it.  They were coming a long way, and they deserved nothing less.  The choice of venue seemed to be the least complicated thing about it.  They wanted an outdoor wedding, preferably at or on a beach.  After some discussion, we picked Kualoah Beach Park, just north of Kaneohe on the northeast shore of O'ahu.  I was able to navigate the administrative stuff, getting a permit to do the wedding and a $2 million event insurance policy (actually cost all of $18).  We got together at a restaurant near Pearl City on Friday, and had a terrific time.  Like all good friendships, it was like we had never been apart.  

The day of, I woke up, feeling nervous, but very happy.  We left in time to make the 45-minute trek to the park.  Then the fun began.  I neglected to pick a specific spot, and the park is a pretty big place.  The only guidance I gave them was "Where you can see Chinamen's Hat island."  Well, when we pulled in, the place was covered with tents.  I had forgotten that local people like to camp out at the state beaches on the weekend.  We rendezvoused with the family and hurriedly looked for a spot where we could have a modicum of privacy.  The tide was in, so there wasn't nearly enough beach for all of us to gather.  But there was an unoccupied campsite with a picnic table and a large and shady tree.  We decided that was as good a place as any, as looking one way you had the majesty of the mountains, and the other way, the open sea.  I just hoped nobody would show up and move us out.

You Can't Keep a Good Pub Down...Forever

 

Copyright © 2021

by Ralph F. Couey

"There is nothing so silent as a room 

where the walls once echoed with the sound of laughter."

--Ralph F. Couey

I went to a wake today.  Well, sort of.  A popular pub has closed for good, a victim of the ruthless rules of the COVID economy.

For decades, (the exact date remains fuzzy), O'Toole's Irish Pub occupied an ancient brick building on the south edge of Honolulu's China Town.  The building was originally erected in 1891, and retains every bit of it's character and personality.  So obvious was it's pedigree that it has been the site of scenes from both movies and television.  The pub itself was a gathering place for many, where conversations echoed from the walls and washed over those who were there like a crazy kind of wave.  No food was served here, just alcohol.  But it was so much more than a bar.

The owner, Bill Comerford, was also the proprietor of nearly all of Honolulu's Irish Pubs.  Along with O'Toole's, there was Anna O'Brien's, Kelly O'Neil's, and the Irish Rose Saloon, all popular, always comfortably populated with those who appreciated the ambiance of the traditional public houses of the Emerald Isle.

I don't drink, so my appearances there were more for the live music.  Several evenings a week, someone, or several someones would be standing on the small stage performing not only traditional Irish music, but a little bit of almost every popular genre.  In the back, was another room where I was able to gather with a group of skilled and joyful musicians who allowed me to join them in celebrating some of the world's best and most popular music.  

I was just learning the music, painfully working on my bodhran (Irish frame drum).  They were encouraging and supportive, and also direct when they needed to be.  O'Toole's was one of three places where we'd gather to play.  One, Kurt Jones' Violin shop, also fell victim to COVID.  We haven't gathered in awhile because the rules didn't allow groups that large to meet.  It's been over a year since the last time we met, and I have to tell you I really miss those sessions.  My father once told me, "Surround yourself with people who are better than you, and try hard to catch up."  These were skilled, professional musicians who possessed an encyclopedic knowledge of Irish music, able to pull up from memory any one of the hundreds of tunes out there. Yes, there were standards, but what kept me coming back was the sheer joy with which the music was performed.  Irish music is happy music, even the sad tunes, and to play it with the elan it deserves takes a special kind of musician.  I considered myself so fortunate to be able to sit in.

Finally Getting "Normal" Back Again

Copyright © 2021

by Ralph F. Couey

"I didn't want normal

until I didn't have it anymore."

--Mary Stiefvater

For the past 16 or so months we've lived in a different world.  COVID-19 rewrote the paradigm for life in so many ways, from the macro to the micro, discovering life under restrictions that at one time might have set a revolution in motion.  We got used to most of it, the masks, the isolation, the masks, the distancing, the masks, and a daily visit to the websites where the grim tally of pandemic statistics were paraded before us.  It didn't take long before we began to mourn that thing we used to call "normal life."

In the past couple of months, however, many mainland states began to drop their restrictions, and people began to embrace the "normal" they had missed so much.  Here in Hawai'i, the bar has been set at 70% of the population fully vaccinated at which point all restrictions will be dropped.  But there was an article in the Star-Advertiser, the Honolulu daily paper, about how much convention business Hawai'i was losing because those events were relocating to states where the restrictions were far less draconian.  Predictably, Governor Ige, in a press conference, said that he might not wait until 70% to end the state of emergency.

The thing is, for all intents and purposes, its pretty much over anyway.  There are around a half-million tourists in the islands from all over the place, few if any wearing masks or distancing, and the numbers of new cases are still very low.  I think if Hawai'i was going to have another breakout, it certainly would have happened by now.

So anyway, what I've seen in the past month especially is the way local people have kind of forced the issue.  On Tuesday late afternoon, I had a doctor's appointment downtown, and rather than inflict rush hour traffic on my emotional state, I decided to go to Kapio'lani Park and do my walking.  It's a great place to to that because it's entirely flat and one lap around the outside is exactly two miles.

The park started out as a horse racing venue for King David Kalakaua and named for his Queen Consort.  In 1952, after years of abuse and neglect, the 300-acre space was renovated into the magnificent greenspace it is today, bridging Diamond Head and Waikiki.  I have gone there on afternoons when I'm running early to work.  I park in the big lot off Paki Street, put a beach towel over the hot hood of my Mustang, and spend a few minutes drinking in the beauty.  Usually during the weekday, the park is pretty empty.  But as schools let out and people get off work, the park begins to populate.  That day, I parked the car and began my walk.  

The Teeny Titan of Tech

 

from bulkmemorycards.com

Copyright ©2021

by Ralph F. Couey

It's such a tiny little thing.  A piece of gray plastic about the size of my little fingernail, so small that if it were accidentally dropped into a bowl of Saimin, it would likely end up in one's stomach without any realization on the part of the consumer.  But it's small size is really a testament to how technology has blown past expectations.

This thing is called a micro SD card, descended from the mini SD card, which descended from the SD card (which looks enormous now), and traces its ancestry all the way back to the old floppy disks when they were really floppy.  It's capacity, helpfully printed on it's face, is 256 gb.  How much is that, you ask?  Well, Grasshopper, according to a Google search just done, it would hold 4.8 million printed pages.

A fair-sized book, to be sure.

When I bought my Galaxy Note 9 two years ago, I ordered this card as extra storage.  The phone itself has a capacity for a terabyte.  And that's 75 million printed pages.  But at the time, a 1tb card was just a bit too expensive, as was the 512gb version.  But despite my fixation with "way bigger is way better" with regards to data storage, this one has proved to be plenty big enough for it's assigned tasks.

I had transferred my entire iTunes library, some 1,700 songs, onto the card and then painstakingly organized them into several play lists.  When I'm walking, or in the car, I can tailor my listening experience depending on my mood, whether traditional Irish, Smooth Jazz, Praise, and one I call "Sing Alongs,"  from which I can entertain myself as long as nobody else is within earshot.  I also record my sermons, not out of ego, but rather to perform a stiff analysis of content, pacing, voice level and tone, all those things that have made me a better public speaker.  

Also stored there were a host of pictures and videos, ranging from nature shots and videos, to more mundane things, like an image of my vaccination card, and the number code that identifies the keys for both the Santa Fe and the Mustang.

I have subscriptions to both VUDU and Movies Anywhere.  Through those apps, I have about 160 full-length features, some of which were downloaded to the card for viewing while flying.  All in all, it has been a great little piece of tech.

Until three days ago.

Age, and the Immortal Mortals

"Heroes are often treated as gods,

seemingly immortal to the young eyes

which behold them.

But there is no more devastating moment

when those same gods have aged;

and those no-longer young eyes can see 

that they who were once thought immortal 

were mortal all along."

--Ralph F. Couey

Copyright © 2021

by Ralph F. Couey

Growing up, I had heroes, like everyone else.  And like most other boys, they were athletes, mainly because they were on TV all the time, and that was the window through which I viewed the world.  I related before about my brief face-to-face with Mickey Mantle, and how much power that moment had, and still has for me.  I still remember Saturdays on NBC, watching Koufax, Drysdale, Mantle, Mays, McCovey, Colavito, Yastrzemski, and all the others who were living my dreams.  In their prime, they were tremendous athletes, seemingly capable of all kinds of heroics at the drop of a hat.

But time exacts a price.  People get old, muscles get weak, minds become weak, injuries refuse to heal.  We still see them on occasion, showing up at old-timers games, or ceremonial occasions.  It is always a shock to see what age has done to them.

A number of years ago, an old-timers game was played before one of the All Star games.  All the old heroes were there, gimpy, wrinkly, some showing a gut where once was a flat belly.  J. R. Richard had been a fireballing pitcher for the old Houston Astros, a man with blazing speed and pinpoint control.  During this contest, he came out to the mound for his half-inning -- and couldn't get the ball to the plate.  Pitch after pitch looped in and dropped on the grass in front of the hitter.  It was so sad to watch.  On another occasion in Houston, former running back Earl Campbell was to be honored.  Now, Earl had been a player of recent vintage, at least to my perspective.  He was a powerful man, an intimidating runner with absolutely the largest and strongest legs I've ever seen on a human being.  His name was announced and the crowd came to their feet.  Here came Earl Campbell.

In a wheelchair.

We want to think that our heroes will never age, will always be the same as we remembered them.  But this is not realistic, particularly for those of us whose best years lay behind us.

I read a lot of history, and am intrigued by the accounts of great people who accomplished incredible things.  The older accounts of people who lived before the camera was invented, are decorated with oil paintings, which after all are an expression of the artist's impressions.  The portraits of George Washington, for example, don't differ a lot from early on through the Revolution.  It is in the presidential portraits where we see the impact of the years.  

My Birthday; My Life

 

"Past a certain point, a person begins to realize 

that every year which passes deposits things

of great value into the account of life.

The arrival of wisdom is when we realize

that because of age and experience,

and what they've taught us, life hasn't made us old. 

But rather wealthier than our wildest dreams."

--Ralph F. Couey

Copyright © 2021

by Ralph F. Couey

May 23rd is my birthday, and by the time you read this, that day will have arrived, so it is appropriate for me to post my annual reflections of this day.

Some people yearn for the return of their youth.  That is literally the last thing I want.  I remember me when I was young, insecure, dumb, impulsive, and absolutely no clue of who or what I was supposed to be.  While I may have had energy and ambition, I had no direction, so those years became a kind of nightmare of wandering through a forest, having lost track of the trail.  I suppose what is wanted is to have that youth back coupled with the knowledge and wisdom acquired into old age.  It doesn't work like that.  If we could step into a time machine and go back to our 20's, we'd still find a brain stuffed full of bad decisions.  

Today, I've reached the age of 66, as someone once opined, "two-thirds of the way to Hell."  But as I considered the state of me, I realized that I really didn't have much to complain about.  Of course, I have health issues, but overall because of my commitment to diet and exercise, in many ways I'm in the best shape of my life.  My crises were all in my 40's and 50's, and now in the past.  Instead of gloom, all I see are possibilities.

I've been thinking about how I'm different now.  I remember being young, and feeling that softball was so much a part of my life, that I feared getting to the point I couldn't do it anymore.  In the middle of my motorcycle years, I feared the moment when that joyous activity had to be set aside.  But those moments came and went, oddly without the anticipated trauma.  The last game of softball I played, I was thrown out at first base by the left fielder because I just couldn't get down the baseline fast enough.  I faced that moment with a great deal more pragmatism than I expected.  I walked away from the game that day and really haven't missed it at all.  I remember that last motorcycle ride I had, a delightful spin through the Shenandoah, a day of fall colors and dappled sunlight.  I sold the bike a month or so later, because I realized that my reaction time had slowed to the point where riding in traffic had become dangerous.  Again, I walked away.  I still miss those rides, but those memories will be with me forever.

I now have a Mustang, fulfilling the dream of that 9-year-old boy who still exists deep inside.  I feel young again driving that car, and even eight months into this relationship, each time I get behind the wheel is still as exciting as the first time was.  I'm so very grateful to have experienced this.

Moving On!

"V" for Vaccinated!

"If you are pained by external things, 

it is not that they disturb you,

but your own judgement of them. 

 And it is in your power

to wipe out that judgement."

--Marcus Aurelius

Copyright © 2021

by Ralph F. Couey

Life has hurdles, or sometimes just speedbumps, those moments when, in anticipation there is anxiety, and when past, a sense of relief.  For many of us during this Pandemic, its been that moment when a point has been reached that at least a large part of the danger has passed.  When the vaccines began their rollout, we were told that when a certain percentage of the population had received the shot(s) something called "herd immunity" would have been reached.  For an increasing number of cities across the Mainland, that point has been reached.  Mask mandates have been rescinded and that illusive thing called "normal life" is once again in reach.

For me, that moment was Wednesday when I received my second Moderna shot.  I was worried about the after-effects after hearing all the horror stories.  Our youngest, when she got her second shot, became very ill, with a 103-degree fever.  Our son had a milder effect, body aches, dizziness, and fatigue.  In between were all the other stories.  

But I had a plan.

I did my homework.  After reading everything I could reach for, and talking to those whose experience was mild, I realized that there were some things I had to do.  The first was to drink as much water as I could hold.  I buy Propel brand water by the case, because it has electrolytes.  This is very good for people like me who perspire a lot during exercise. Also, it's flavored, and much more interesting than plain old water.  The water comes in 16.9-ounce bottles (why they can't squeeze one more tenth of an ounce in there is beyond me), and I normally drink several bottles a day.  For this event, I started that morning, drinking two bottles before getting the shot. Throughout the rest of the day, I downed twelve more bottles.  I made sure that I was thoroughly hydrated.

Secondly, I exercised.  When I got back from the vaccine site, I went straight for my dumbbells.  Normally, my routine takes about 25 to 30 minutes.  That day, I worked for 90 minutes, focusing on the biceps and triceps. This was to make sure that the drugs did not sit there in the muscle, but were forced to circulate.  Once my weight work was done, I went out and walked 4.5 miles.  I stayed active the rest of the day, doing yardwork and other things, resisting the urge to collapse on the couch.  Oddly, for the rest of that day, I had a rush of energy like I haven't experienced in a while.  I finally ran out of gas about 9:30 and went to bed.  

The next morning, I rolled out about 6:30 and took my mother-in-law to her daycare.  I felt a significant body ache, but honestly couldn't separate that from what I expected after my hard workout the day before.  I came back home and worked with the weights for awhile.  I still felt pretty good, and was hoping that the horror stories of "the day after" would not apply to me.  But, about noon, somewhere inside me, a switch was thrown, and I was hit by a crippling wave of exhaustion.  I still had chores to attend to, but it was hard.  When I wheeled the trash bin out to the street, I had to sit and rest, once on the way down, and once on the way back. Knowing that I couldn't work in this condition, I called off sick. after which I collapsed on the couch and began clearing the backlog of Law & Order episodes on the DVR.  It got warm inside the house, so I set up my zero gravity chair in a shady spot in the back yard, and that's where I spent the balance of the day.  It was like that up until about 8:30 pm before I began to rebound.  

Random Thoughts

Copyright © 2021

by Ralph F. Couey

It's been a busy couple of weeks.  Yes, we finally closed on the house and the documents were properly recorded, so we are homeowners once again.  Nothing has changed for Cheryl's mom, though.  As far as she is concerned, it's still her house and will remain so for the foreseeable future.  She needs that consistency, and there's no real reason to say anything, as it would only confuse her.  She's still a loving, gentle soul, a joy to be around when she's oriented.  I'm glad I'm around to have this time with her.  The house is in need of several things, not the least of which is an additional bathroom.  But any improvements will have to wait for awhile.  

My dumbbell regimen is going well.  I've increased weight twice, and now that those muscles are toned, I'm adding reps as well.  I'm beginning to see some results, not a beach bod by any stretch, but changes are happening.  I'm still having some trouble finding enough time to do my walking, but as my schedule begins to even out, I think that time will make itself available.  It's not just the exercise, but just getting outside makes a huge difference to my general mood.  I've come to realize that what goes on inside my brain is just as important as building muscles and wind.  

For me, life is a rhythm, a daily beat of activities and responsibilities.  I lost that rhythm in the past few weeks, and I could tell that the uproar was affecting me.  Now that all that hoorah is behind us, I'm beginning to regain that rhythm, not the least of which is frequent visits to this site.

I received round one of the Moderna vaccine, and round two will be administered May 11th, which is the first day of my "weekend."  I planned to be sick the next day, so I've cleared my calendar.  In talking to others, I get a mixed bag of experience.  Some got deathly ill, others had no effect at all.  One of my colleagues said all that happened was that he slept for 18 hours.  I know that overwhelming fatigue was a clear result of shot #1 for me, so maybe that'll be the worst of it.  Anyway, it'll be good to have that behind us.  Having been fully vaccinated, we will be able to travel with a clear conscience.  And a worry-free mind.  We are fervently looking forward to seeing our grandkids again.  Seeing them on Zoom et. al. drives home the point of how rapidly they are growing and changing.  We're missing the best years of their lives, and that just can't go on. Fortunately, Robbie and his fam will be out sometime in August for a visit, and that day can't arrive soon enough.  Our Colorado grandkids we hopefully will get to visit before then, provided my employer the Hawai'i Emergency Management Agency allows me to leave the state.  There's a lot of good pandemic news from the Mainland, but around here the fear has taken hold, and people seem to be far more comfortable with the fear, despite what the numbers are showing.  

Vaccinations are down, starting with the news about the Johnson & Johnson side effects.  While the occurrence of the problems were very small -- 6 cases out of about 7 million shots -- it was enough to give people pause.  I can understand that, but folks have to know that in order for normal to be restored, those shots need to happen.  It's the only way to get to herd immunity.  Its the only way to get our lives back.

This Very Bumpy Road

 

Copyright © 2021

by Ralph F. Couey

As anyone who had done it can attest, the process of buying a house is anything but soothing.  There always seems to be that last-minute demon that leaps astride what minutes before seemed to be a clear path.

Tuesday afternoon, I undertook the challenging task of cleaning out the refrigerator, that periodic journey of discovering which leftovers are edible, and which should be relegated to someone's science experiment.  It was going well, but as I piled the newly-emptied Tupperware in the sink, I noticed that the water wasn't draining.  I got out the Drano, but that had no effect.  I retrieved a newly-purchased but as yet unused plunger and went to work on the sink drains.  It was an interesting effect.  When centered squarely over the drain, there was a perfect vacuum, which meant that the drain was completely clogged.  So I did the traditional Couey male rescue.  I called a plumber.

The guy came within 90 minutes, and without delay went to work.  Oddly, he didn't snake the kitchen drain.  Instead, he went outside where the drain pipe passed through the wall and opened up an access port.  There, as you see in the picture, he discovered that the pipe was completely filled with...gunk, I guess, the accumulation of some 66 years of whatever had passed through those pipes.  He then wormed his way into the crawlspace, where the access to all the plumbing was.  There, he found that the pipe that ran from the kitchen drain to the central drain under the center of the house was similarly plugged.  At the other end, the pipe, corroded beyond resurrection, simply broke.

The crawlspace is common to all Hawai'i houses, and provides an easy way to access the house's infrastructure.  You couldn't do this in the mainland.  The pipes would never survive the winter.

Cheryl told me some stories about how she and her siblings would undertake adventures in that place.  But there are risks.  If you have rats, that's where they're going to live.  Also, roaches, spiders, centipedes and all the other critters endemic to a tropical environment like to live there.  But we had the house tented last year, and whatever was in that application is still doing its job.  The plumber reported, with great relief, that he encountered no living things while under the house. Not even kids.

A Moment; A Memory

 

Copyright © 2021

by Ralph F. Couey

Throughout our lives, we acquire memories, things that have happened or that we've witnessed, events that have been indelibly stamped in our minds.  They are an eclectic mix of magnificence and mortification, that have in so many ways defined the path we've traveled.

Some memories we call up, an moment of purposeful recollection.  Others lie dormant, until one day they spontaneously jump out at us, like a crazy housecat, demanding our immediate attention.

This evening, I was at work reading a paper on the USGS website about volcanoes.  It was written in heavy scientific jargon, and it was slow going.  I took a break and while I was resting my brain, one of those snippets from the past jumped up.

It was the summer of 2002.  I had been struggling with multiple issues of job and self-worth.  I had completed my second bachelor's degree and had applied for a job with the intelligence community.  One of those agencies had responded and I had ridden that particular horse with growing excitement until I received a devastating call that I hadn't made the final cut.

To say I was disappointed utterly fails to define what I felt.  Much of that was anger, I now realize, and I stomped around the house for a week or so, making everyone else miserable.  Cheryl then stepped in, and with that marvelous insight of being able to read me like a book, said in no uncertain terms that enough was enough.  "You get on the motorcycle, go west, and don't come back until you've found your smile."

It took about a week and a half to get everything ready, but on a surprisingly cool July morning, I rolled out of the driveway and departed on a 9-day adventure that was one of the most healing experiences of my life.

Riding the Roller Coaster of Events

 

Copyright © 2021

by Ralph F. Couey

Looking back over the past six weeks or so, has been like racing through the dark aboard a very fast train.  We have been extraordinarily busy, consumed by multiple obligations, not the least of which has been the purchase of Cheryl's mother's house, and coincidentally, the Yanamura ancestral family home.  Every once in a while, I look up, catching glimpses here and there of the rest of life as it whizzes past the windows.  The good news, is that I think we're in the home stretch.  All the required paperwork has been filed, or will be in the next 24 hours.  Closing is set for <gulp> this Friday or Saturday.  

In a perfect world, I would have taken some time off to prepare.  But a deteriorating staffing crisis at work has put me (and my colleagues) in the position of not being able to be away.  So, I'm galloping along  with about 5 hours of sleep per night, trying to balance some very large plates on some very small sticks.  Looking at my weekly walking mileage and how it has dwindled of late enforces how little time I've had for any other pursuits.  My usual place of decompression, Hale'iwa Beach Park, has only seen me once during this period.  The memory of that couple of hours looms large in my mind.  

It was a warmer day, as winter in Hawai'i goes, and the breeze was calm.  For the first day in weeks, there was no large swell coming in from the broad reaches of the North Pacific, so the surface of the water was almost flat, and the surf coming ashore arrived with barely a whisper.  I set up in my usual spot, surprised that there was almost nobody there.  The surf schools, of course, weren't teaching.  I saw only two small families, both speaking in languages I would hesitatingly describe as Nordic.  The day was bright and clear, and as I gazed out from the shore, I could see a countless number of diamond-like points of light as the water caught and reflected the sunlight.  Sea turtles were active among the rocks close to shore, and it was a treat to watch them gracefully glide around, occasionally sticking their heads up for a quick look-see.  A palm log, a piece of debris from the cascade of flooding rains that ran rampant throughout the state a couple of weeks prior.  It bobbed and weaved close ashore, never quite reaching the beach.  Towards the end of my stay, the tide began to recede, and the log headed out to sea.  It was a perfect, quiet day, and for a short time, my cares and worries fell away.

I left in time to come home to make dinner, although I admitted to Cheryl that it was a difficult parting.  I would have loved to stay until sunset.

I would have made a great beach bum.

There are living in Diamond Head Crater a sizeable herd of feral cats.  Most were trapped and removed last fall, after some cat-hater who hated that we were feeding them sub rosa, called animal control.  But one managed to elude the dragnet.  It's a female orange tabby who seems way too friendly to be feral.  It could be that the cat was brought into the crater and abandoned.  Anyway, she hides out during the day, but once the sun goes down, she appears on the front steps of our building.  Of course, we are feeding her.  I named her "Pumpkin," because she is orange.  Over time, our relationship has improved.  At first, my attempts to pet her resulted in some serious claw action.  But now, when she sees me, she purrs and comes up for a scratch.  Pumpkin is a tough cat because there are a lot of other, much less friendly critters (animal and human) that roam around this ancient volcano.  But its nice to have a friendly, furry animal around.  

Bulking Up...Kinda

 © 2021 by Ralph F. Couey

It's a rare member of the male gender who doesn't at one point look in the mirror and get the urge to pump iron. For some, that desire strikes in adolesence while for others it may hit during adulthood. The motivation generally sources from competition. For the most part, (and

this may be a hazardous generalization) girls dig muscles. But there's also the desire to be

respected by other men, especially in a business environment where a lean, taut appearance is

part of what is expected. You know, survival of the fittest.

I've never been a part of that. Up until a year ago, I was always...um...large. But I did three things. I had a lap band put in, I lost 200 pounds, and then had the excess skin removed. While I'm far from model material, I am way leaner now. I've been exercising regularly since 2012, running, and then out of respect for my joints, briskly walking. My mileage is down this year because I just don't have the time like I used to. Still, I'm managing between 10 and 15 miles each week. Point being, my legs are in great shape. But I've done next to nothing with any other part.

I asked around and got some valuable opinions on dumbbells vs. kettlebells, and after searching and researching, I decided on a set of adjustable dumbbells by the fitness giant Bowflex. They'll adjust up to 60 lbs each, using a dial system. The box was delivered, and getting them in the house was a challenge. Once inside, I read the instruction manual, and then turned to a workout program I downloaded.

Since I had never done upper body work, I took things easy for the first three weeks. Once I was comfortable that those muscles were better toned, I upped the weight and intensity. I've been at this for about two months, and I'm beginning to see results. Not that I'm getting all bulgy, but when I have to lift or move things, its much easier. When I'm doing any kind of arm work, I have way more stamina. This really show up when I'm practicing my bodhran, that Irish frame drum. Playing a long set of fast jigs requires the ability not only to last, but to play accurately. I can do that better now.

The most surprising thing is that after all this time, my enthusiasm hasn't waned. Not only do I do the lifting 6 days out of seven, I still look forward to the challenge. This is a healthy thing for me, and if I'm faithful to my regimen, the long term benefits will be very good, and may add a year or two to my stay on this little planet.

If I can manage my time better, I'll add things like planks and crunches to the routine. I can then realize a better affect on the whole carcass. Like a lot of journeys, I'm not exactly sure where this will end up. But the greatest value is always in the journey.

Of course, there are the other things. The other evening, we were sitting on the couch watching TV. Cheryl distractedly wrapped her hand around my bicep. Suddenly she stopped, and squeezed the muscle. She then looked up, smiled, and said, "Wow!"

Like I said. Chicks dig muscles.

All of a Sudden...Home

 

Copyright © 2021

by Ralph F. Couey

Life changes. That simple two-word statement sums up the real truth of human existence.  And the only truly consistent thing that exists.  Sometimes change approaches slowly, politely; begging your pardon for interrupting the even tenor of the passage of time.  You can see it coming, and are ready for when in finally arrives.  Other times, change roars in from around the corner, or behind a bush, like a stalking tiger.  When it arrives, it does so, at times, with damaging effect.  Or, perhaps a sudden windfall, a providential change in luck.

Several months ago, it came out in conversations that Cheryl's Mom's long-term care plan would be unequal to the task for which it was designed.  She used to have an excellent one.  Then some shyster of a salesman sold her the current junk plan for the sole reason that her monthly payments on that plan would be less.  That created a problem.  After some discussion, and a long, searching, thoughtful consideration of the matter, we offered to buy Mom's house from her.  She would get just about all the equity, which would cover all her long term care costs for a pretty long time.  

Mom's dementia is getting worse.  She can't feed herself (forgets to eat), can't properly bathe herself, and requires help whenever she visits the facilities.  Caring for her has gotten increasingly difficult, and what we hoped would never happen, placing her in managed care, now appears more substantially on the horizon.  So this was something that had to take place.

We had figured that once we were no longer caring for her, we would return to the mainland to be with our grandkids in Virginia, Colorado, and California, all of whom are growing up entirely too fast.  Having no location there we really considered "home," we hadn't been able to settle on a location.  Now, it seems we have determined to put down roots in this stony, volcanic soil.

Insights and What Comes Next

 

Copyright © 2021

by Ralph F. Couey

A number of years ago, I had a singular experience, arising out of a heart catheterization procedure.  During the cath, my heart stopped and I...went away.  The experience is recounted here if you care to take the time.  Since then, I have continued to process the experience, and have realized new insights into what happened.  It still remains what it was, a life-altering experience, one that has re-shaped me and the way I view life.  And death.

I have shared the experience with just a few people, mainly because I am sensitive about other people's opinions of my sanity.  I have also read many books and articles written by others who have shared the same kind of experience.  While there are striking similarities, each one seems to be intensely personal to the one who made the journey.  

Many of those folks recount incredible stories of tremendous detail and vast perspectives, seeing earth and its people from the point of view of floating above the fray, tremendous celestial "cities" lit with divine light.  Also, they recount times when they communicated with personages -- or maybe "entities" would be more accurate.  They also report glimpses of Hell and darkness.  Reading these accounts I realize that I got only the 15 cent tour before I was sent back.  But I also realize that in the context of my life and spiritual needs, I received exactly the experience that I needed.

In the time since, I have lost family, friends, and acquaintances.  I miss them.  But I also recognize the beauty, peace, and joy that is theirs now.  I have also tried to honor my current associations with my care and attention, not putting off some kindness because of my schedule.  One of the profound insights from that experience is how precious this gift of life is, and that it is finite.  Time can only be taken from us, never given back.  I've learned to use time wisely and purposefully, especially with my relationships.

That's kind of old news, I know.  But lately, some other bits of knowledge have sifted through that I believe are important to share.

You are free to accept, reject, question, or doubt.  I've had some science-oriented people tell me that what I experienced was merely the actions of a brain desperately trying to survive.  Whatever.  I was there.

I knew someone who had lost a relative to a particularly merciless and painful form of cancer.   Their last weeks were spent in indescribable agony that even the best drugs would dent but never subdue.  I was asked what I think the afterlife was like for them.

Aftermath of the Aftermath: A Cold Assessment

 

Copyright © 2021 ESPN

Copyright © 2021

by Ralph F. Couey

Written Content Only

It's been almost a week, and the exquisite pain of Super Bowl LV is starting to become almost bearable.  My last post was, shall we say, succinct, reflecting my stark emotional response to what could charitably be described as a total humiliation.

As in every battle, someone has to lose.  And the loser has to be able to answer the inevitable questions of "why?" in response.  In the Chiefs' case, it can now be said, with a fair amount of honesty that the loss to Tampa Bay involved two major failures.  

First, the offensive line, a patchwork of out-of-position players, none of whom were opening day starters had been adequate during the 14-2 regular season, and for the first two games of the playoffs.  But up against a ferocious defensive line, this gallant group had no chance for success.  From the opening possession, Patrick Mahomes was running for his life.  In past games, these sprints invariably resulted in unbelievably dynamic plays downfield.  But the Buccaneers had a great scheme, which prevented the Chiefs receivers from getting open underneath, and getting behind the defenders downfield.  Mahomes was heroic in his efforts to make something happen, only to see his receivers blanketed, and when he on several occasions threw perfect bullet passes saw the ball slip past their hands to doink off their facemasks.  Even the Bucs, mic'd up on the sidelines were blankly astonished at the throws Mahomes made.  But in the end, even Patrick was not enough to change the result.

Oh, yes; the receivers.  Several analysts, most of them former NFL players, have been unanimous in their verdict that the Chiefs usually formidable group of receivers substantially let their quarterback down.  It's still too painful to re-watch the game, or even to view the..<ahem>...lowlights.  But still etched HD-sharp in my memory are the many times Hill, Kelce, Robinson, Watkins and the rest utterly failed in contested situations.  Mahomes made vague references in his post-game interviews about people not being where he thought they would be, which has to be interpreted as poor or error-filled route running.  One of the concerning incongruities at play has to be that even when the deep routes were covered, the intermediate or check-down routes were also unavailable.  Up to Sunday, Mahomes and his receivers, particularly Travis Kelce, seemed almost to be able to communicate via brain waves.  Not in this case.

Penalties.  No team can win championship games while committing them.  And there were some real doozies.  But in the endless analysis since, even those who were vehemently pro-Brady spoke repeatedly of the questionable nature of several of those calls.  Defensive Pass Interference called when the throw was clearly uncatchable.  And the one called on Tyran Mathieu that sent him into dancing histrionics.  Brady chased Mathieu across the field to deliver an angry message, but was not flagged.  Mathieu, however, was.  The analysts pointed out numerous times during that game when similar infractions were NOT called on the Buccaneers.  Did the penalties make a difference in the final score?  Possibly.  The timing of many of those calls killed promising drives by the Chiefs.  Since Sunday, a narrative has emerged that the history-making female, first one on a Super Bowl officiating crew, is a rabid Brady fan, even naming her dog after the Bucs QB.  This could be apocryphal, but noteworthy are the very loud calls for an overhaul of the standards for NFL penalties rising around the media.

Aftermath

Copyright © 2021

by Ralph F. Couey

They played ugly.

They lost ugly.

'Nuff said.

The Night Before

 

Copyright © 2021

by Ralph F. Couey

Tomorrow's a big day.  It's a day upon which most of America rallies around a common theme.  It is the day of the biggest event of the most popular sport in this country.  The final game of a tournament that played out over 20 weeks during which time some 30 teams were eliminated; left by the side of the proverbial road.  Tomorrow, the last two left standing will take the field to determine who will wear the crown of Champions of the National Football League.

For two cities, Kansas City and Tampa, it'll be a day of great pride.  Sure, the players will be on the field, taking and giving hits, grinding through any injuries.  But fans also share the ride.  All who tomorrow will wear the jerseys, hats, shirts, fly the banners and cheer - and suffer - through every moment, it will be a day like no other.

I am a Chiefs fan.  Have been since they moved to KC from Dallas in 1963.  I reveled in the wins, groaned through the losses, and suffered every one of the 50 years between Super Bowl IV and last year.  This year, our team is playing for a second straight championship, a feat only accomplished by a team, whose former quarterback now plays for another team, a championship team.  Nobody has been to more, or won more Super Bowls than Tom Brady.  He has rightfully earned every single superlative sent his way.  There is also the added spice that the games between that old codger and the shiny new superhero, Patrick Mahomes have been classic contests.  There is an enormous mutual respect the exists between the two, which only adds to their individual desire to win.

It's hard to describe my feelings on the eve of this historic contest.  Part of me, after assessing the massive weight of offensive weaponry at the Chiefs' disposal, and the growing toughness of their defense believes that they will win.  Decisively.  But there's another part that eyes with concern the patchwork offensive line that is tasked with keeping young Mahomes upright.  Across the line will be what is reputed to be the most dangerous front seven in the NFL.  This part of me acknowledges that there's no way to predict what might happen in the trenches tomorrow.

I'm not all bound up in worry like last year, because as I wrote the other day, the Chiefs were expected to be here, and a lot of people firmly believe that it will be they who hoist the coveted Lombardi Trophy by this time tomorrow night.  But, as they say, any team can beat any other team on any given Sunday.

We will be in church in the morning, but home in time for the start of the game at 1:40 pm, Hawai'i time.  I have to work tomorrow evening, which means timing my commute carefully so as to miss as little of the game as possible.  Since the game is also being carried on the radio, this will not present too much of a problem.  There is anticipation, to be sure.  But another part of me realizes that time for old people passes all to quickly, and before I am aware, the three to four hours will have passed, and I will be face-to-face with the result, for good or ill.

And the next day, Monday, will be just another day.

Super Bowl Sunday has morphed into an unofficial holiday.  It has been a day of gathering, celebrating, eating, like Thanksgiving without the turkey, or Christmas without the presents.  A lot of folks feel that the day after Super Bowl Sunday should be a holiday, if for no other reason, time off to heal the inevitable hangovers.

Sunday Afternoon Magic

 

"Sunday afternoons are filled with long, lovely hours

that fill the soul to repletion

and which pass all too quickly."

--Ralph F. Couey

Copyright © 2021

by Ralph F. Couey

I should tell you up front that I am fully aware that a major winter storm has marched across the United States, and is right now in the process of burying the Mid-Atlantic and New England states.  Having lived through four blizzards and shoveled up to 39 inches of snow more than once, trust me, I do feel your pain.

However.

For the first time in 20 weeks, there was no football today.  The excitement and tension of the season-long tournament and the frantic "one-and-done" nature of the playoffs was notably absent today.  The opponents in the Super Bowl have been set (GOOO CHIEFS!!!!).  Much of the folderol accompanying The Big Game has been eliminated by COVID requirements.  So, there remains for us fans, merely to while away the hours until next Sunday. I had good luck with traffic and found myself at the east end of O'ahu about 15 minutes ahead of schedule on my commute to work.  Rather than report **too early** I decided to engage in some vegging out time.

When I worked nights, I did my walks in the morning, starting at Kapiolani Park and walking all the way to Ala Moana and back.  I did this not just for the exercise, but to avoid the torture of traveling Honolulu freeways during rush hour.  By the time I completed my 6-mile jaunt, the traffic was clear enough to ensure a timely return home.  During that time, I acquired a real affection for the area.  I would park in a free lot on the north side of the park, and after rounding the eastern point, walked through Waikiki on Kalakaua.  Waikiki is what you'd expect, tons of tourists, a sky shrouded by high-rise hotels and apartments relieved by the stunning stretch along that legendary beach.  I don't have the time available to do that walk very often any more, but I have gone back to that parking lot on occasion when I have some time to kill.

Kapiolani Park was originally a horse racing track, to indulge King David Kalakaua's passion.  The wide-open space remains, and if you look carefully around the west end of the park, you can still see the berms that supported and leveled the track.  Nowadays, it's a magnificent greenspace, sitting between the loom of Diamond Head, and Kuhio Beach, the eastward extension of Waikiki.

Today was gorgeous.  The temperature was a delightful 77 degrees with a gentle northeast trade blowing.  The sky was a dome of deep blue, broken by a few cumulous clouds.  This is my favorite time of year here in Hawai'i, so much better than summer's humidity enhanced by the powerful rays of a sun shining on a latitude 1,600 miles closer to the equator.  

I parked the Mustang, and walked around to the front of the car where I (carefully) leaned on the hood.  As I looked across the massive greenspace, I relaxed and took in that singular Sunday afternoon feeling.

Winning, and a Sense of the Inevitable

 

"Winning takes precedence over all.

There's no gray area. No almosts."

--Kobe Bryant

I'm experiencing a curious kind of mild euphoria tonight after watching the Chiefs dispatch the Bills and pave the way to a second straight Super Bowl.  Last year was different.  The record was 12-4, we had watched in terror as Patrick Mahomes lay on the field with his kneecap on the side of his leg, and the path to The Game was swathed in thrilling comebacks and last-minute heroics.  So, when the Chiefs got to this point, the feeling was...well...giddy.

This year, the record was 14-2, and the march through the season was infused with a sense of the inevitable.  The Chiefs were the favorites out the gate, and remained so for the entire season.  There was concern that the last few games were closer than many thought they should have been, but tonight sitting on the precipice of a second straight Super Bowl, the feeling is that we expected to be here.

That sounds arrogant on its surface.  But this is one of the most powerful teams in recent memory, one that seems about to become a dynasty.  Anything less than this moment would have been a failure.  And not securing the Lombardi Trophy in two weeks will still feel like that.  In the post-game interviews, the players attitudes reflected joy and achievement to be sure.  But beyond that was the look in their faces, the inflection in their voices which stated loudly, "We're not done yet."

Last year, just getting to the Super Bowl after 50 agonizing years was a huge treat.  Now, the Chiefs have repeated.  They expected to be in The Game, and they expect to win.  It's not arrogance so much as knowing how good they really are, and knowing that there's no situation they can't turn into a W.  Last year, down by 24 to the Texans and going on a 51-7 run.  Down to the Titans by 10 twice and 17 once and still winning.  Against the 49ers, the Chiefs were down 10 halfway through the fourth quarter...and still won.  This is a team that was built by overcoming that kind of adversity repeatedly.  They are apparently convinced that they cannot be beaten, unless they beat themselves.  This year, the big target was on their back and teams brought their absolute best against the Chiefs.  The result?  14-1 (the last game against the Chargers being a throwaway with most of the starters on the bench), and a very real sense of invincibility.  That was the Patriots for most of the last two decades, and we roundly hated them for that.  But now it's us, and what was irritating about New England now becomes just the way it is.

The next two weeks will pass with exquisite slowness, as we await the game in Tampa.  A lot will be made about this being a virtual home game for the Buccaneers.  But in the end, it won't matter.  The game will be won or lost based not on the location of the field, but what happens upon it.  The Chiefs are already three-point favorites, and the game will be a great one.  But there can only be one winner.

It would seem rash for me to predict a Chiefs win.  Certainly, there are a lot of things that can happen.  The offensive line, iffy for most of the year, now has suffered a crippling loss in Eric Fisher.  That's a big hole to plug for a group that had already lost three of their starters since the pre-season.  They are what makes the offense go.  They open the holes for the running backs, and protect Mahomes from the depredations of big, angry men.  But even with that small cloud, my own sense of confidence remains high.  I don't think the Buccaneers can win this game.  I don't think Tom Brady can win this game.  I do think that Mahomes and the Chiefs will win this game, even given the weakened front line.  

So, I am thrilled to find my team back in the Big Game.  But there doesn't seem to be the need to dance and launch fireworks.  

Because this was supposed to happen.

Two Wheels, One Heart, and Many Perfect Days

Copyright © 2021

by Ralph F. Couey

In the spring of 1993, I had landed a job at a Caterpillar plant in Boonville, Missouri.  We were living in the south part of Columbia, which gave me about a 60-mile round trip commute.  Although I had a fairly efficient car at the time, the gas (at a confiscatory $1.12 per gallon) was eating us up.  After years of unsuccessful lobbying, Cheryl, out of the clear blue, suggested I look into buying a motorcycle.  

Once I recovered from this considerable shock, I began my search.  I was fortunate in that I worked with a guy named Mike who knew a lot about bikes.  He taught me a lot about all the ins and outs of not just riding, but maintaining such a machine.  After a considerable search, and some help from some co-workers, I found my first bike, a Suzuki GS-550.  It was a very basic bike, but with enough engine for freeway commuting.  It was on this bike that I learned, first riding around the neighborhood, then some cautious forays around town.  It was a good bike, although afflicted with the electrical problems for which Suzukis of that era were notorious.  I fell a few times, not at high speed, but usually trying to execute an ascending right turn.  The only casualties were the handlebar mounted mirrors.  Fortunately, there was a motorcycle salvage yard not too far away which provided a reliable supply of replacements.  

                         

As time passed, I gained skills and therefore confidence.  On Mike's fervent recommendation,  I attended a Motorcycle Safety Foundation-sanctioned beginning rider's course.  Over that long weekend, I learned a ton of valuable information as well as skills that the experienced instructors assured me would help keep me alive.

I passed the course and a week later took my motorcycle rider's test for the state license.  It was pretty straightforward.  First test was to be able to locate all the switches on the handlebars without looking for them.  Then, I rode a straight line at low speed, making sure I took all of the allotted time.  There was a test where I accelerated quickly, and brought the bike to a controlled stop within a specified distance.  The last test was a slalom through some tightly-packed orange cones, which I had to complete without stopping or putting a foot down.  Between the class, my own practice, and Mike's sage advice, I passed the test with flying colors.  I took the written test, and received a temporary license.  A couple of weeks later, I got the real thing, actually my regular drivers license with a motorcycle endorsement.  

I got better with practice, and I began to expand my rides, taking on some twisty roads and finally, the Interstate.  At that point, I felt ready to turn my commute over to the bike.

I had that bike for about a year, when I was able to acquire an old Yamaha 1100, a kind of chopper-looking machine.  A few months later, I bought the bike I had always had in mind, a BMW 750.  Eventually, I was able to sell the Suzuki (having gotten tired of fixing electrical issues) and the old Yamaha, but at one point, I had three bikes in the garage at the same time.  Man, did I feel wealthy!

A Round of Haiku

Copyright © 2021

by Ralph F. Couey

A second try at Haiku...

The moon rises full 

Over the sea, calm and smooth 

The wind, warm and soft. 

The sound of grandkids 

Laughing, shouting with joy 

Is missed by my heart. 

The sound of the waves 

Gliding across the white sands 

Brings peace to my soul. 

The days pass so quickly 

The gift of time, here and gone 

Age steals the future. 

I stare in the dark 

What did I do with today? 

Did I make a friend? 

I sit down to write 

Will inspiration help me 

Fill empty pages. 

Remember the past 

The memories sweetly flow 

From a simpler time. 

Driving late at night 

I see another driver 

Wherefore are ye bound? 

Stars fill the night sky 

They shine across the light years 

I look at the past.

Sitting on the couch 

Her head rests on my shoulder 

This love has blessed me.

Life...And Taking Stock

"If all men are brothers

then why are the winds and waves

so restless?"

Hirohito

Copyright © 2021

by Ralph F. Couey

Since I retired in 2017, our lives have moved from one upheaval to another.  We actually enjoyed the constant changes for awhile.  We sold our home in Virginia and lived for brief periods in Aurora, Colorado, Casa Grande, Arizona, and San Dimas, California before returning to Aurora for awhile.  All these moves were connected to Cheryl's work as a travel, or contract nurse.  After being anchored to one place for so long, the moves were in a way exhilarating.  There was always a new adventure on the horizon, a new place to get to know, each with it's own particular, even peculiar charms.

Then in 2018, Cheryl got an assignment at Tripler Army Medical Center in Honolulu.  She was ecstatic, for she was finally going home.  

Before leaving Colorado for the last time, we made the tough decision to sell or donate nearly all of our possessions, including some beautiful furniture we had hauled around through our many moves since the late 1970's.  It was hard, but at the same time liberating.  We were no longer chained to 11,000 pounds of "stuff."  What used to fill a 2,400 square foot house has been pared down to a single storage unit, containing mostly winter clothes, Blu-Rays, and some legal documents.  At some point when travel becomes less cumbersome, we intend to go back and clear out that last space, especially since after my surgery, none of those clothes fit me any longer.

Upon our move to Hawai'i, we undertook the primary care for Cheryl's aging mother.  As the months have rolled past, that care has gotten more challenging.  She is 94, and her memory and cognitive abilities have continued to decline.  The family has given us a lot of help, and that has made things less stressful.  But as time has passed, a kind of routine has finally established itself, a kind of existential train that carries us through the week.

Monday, we have a private caregiver come in for eight hours.  She has been wonderful, and cares for Mom like she was her own.  This enables me to exercise and run errands before leaving for work in the mid-afternoon.  Tuesday, Irene takes Mom for the day, this despite the daunting task of caring for her husband who had been ill and had to begin dialysis.  For me, this is laundry and house cleaning day, one of my two days off each week.  If I get everything done, then there might be a couple of hours for me to retreat to Hale'iwa beach where I sit, empty my brain, and just listen to the waves.  I get home in time to cook dinner for us.  Wednesday is my other day off, and usually Cheryl's as well.  In the morning, we take Mom to adult day care, after which we either play pickleball or ground golf in the morning, and run errands in the afternoon.  

Thursday is my Monday, work-wise, and I get up early to take Mom to day care.  I walk around Ewa, preferable because unlike Pearl City, Ewa is flat with lots of shade.  After logging my four or five miles, I return home, clean up and hopefully catch a nap before going to work.  Friday is a repeat of Thursday.  Saturday, Cheryl spends the day with Mom, and after doing my walk and puttering around the house, its back to work.  Sunday, Merle picks Mom up for the day and we go to church.  After lunch, I get ready and go back to work.  Cheryl meets some friends in Kaneohe for pickleball, getting home in time to be there when Mom returns.

And that's pretty much our week.  Some things have changed, after having two slow-motion falls in the bathtub, Cheryl and her two sisters now bathe Mom, despite her strenuous objections.  This had to be done, not just because of the fall hazard, but repeated infections made it apparent that she was not able to clean herself.  We have to watch her carefully in the evenings because she gets restless and begins to wander around the house, which sometimes results in falls. Caring for an aging parent means there is no status quo, there are always changes, and always negative.  Even more distressing is the much more frequent comments that she wants to die.  None of us want that, or are even remotely ready for that.  But lurking out there is the sad knowledge that any day could be the last day.