jumpingfish

At 6:00am sharp, Trudy’s phone starts beeping. She hops out of bed and gets in the shower and goes down to the lobby to get some coffee while her laggard husband sleeps in. The race, he figures, doesn’t start until 8:20, so there’s no rush.

She comes back up as he’s tying his shoes. They pin on their running numbers and gather their jackets and gloves and go downstairs to the breakfast bar for eggs and bacon and fruit and pancakes. The race, they figure, doesn’t start until 8:20, so why not?

They drive the short distance to the Alamodome where they pay the dime and park in the vast parking lot beside the starting line where the 1,500 or so runners are assembling. It was in the 40s last night, but the sun’s coming up, and they toss their jackets back into the car. The race doesn’t start until 8:20, and by that time it’ll be even warmer.

And then 8:20 comes.

From their place near the end of the line, they start moving to the starting line. It’s a gorgeous, sunny day with a clear blue sky. And the weather’s perfect for a 10K run.

Trudy leads the way. David shuffles along. Although he gets speedy a few times, he comes to his senses in each case and returns to his plodding pace. 

It’s an out-and-back course, and almost as soon as they start out, half-marathon runners pass them going back the other way. And then there are more of them. And then there are 10K runners, too. And then there’s the bridge over the railroad tracks. And then there’s the rock-n-roll girl-band cranking loud tunes. And then the turn-around. And before you know it, there’s the band again and then the starting line in the distance.

David picks up the pace. Trudy whispers words of caution. And of course, it turns out that that’s not where the finish line is. So by the time they enter the Alamodome, Mr. Speedy is back to his reliable, plodding pace, again.

Now they’re running out onto the track. Music is blaring from loud speakers, echoing off the ceiling far above them. They round the turn. And they’re in the final straightaway, side-by-side. The announcer calls out their names. And as they cross the finish line, hand-in-hand (corny yes, but true), they hold their hands up and an image of them in their red-orange jerseys appears on the jumbotron. And then there are snacks: apples and bananas and bagels and peanut butter cookies. And there’s a band on stage playing KC and the Sunshine Band.

What a good way to start Trudy’s birthday day. And since the race started at 8:20, there’s still so much day left.

On our way out of Kailua-Kona, we drove back along Queen Ka‘ahumanu Highway past the airport to … Target. Yes, Target. We needed a new suitcase to carry some of our new-found treasures. Sadly Target had none. (How is that possible?)

So our next destination was … CostCo. Yes, CostCo. Certainly they would have a suitcase, and sure enough they did. We wheeled it into the parking lot and threw it into the back of the Jeep, assured that we’d have more space to take stuff home.

And our third stop was Aloha Woods. Yes, Aloha Woods.

On our way to CostCo, at an intersection in the middle of an industrial park, I looked down a side street and saw Aloha Woods in the distance. This was the place that Sam the Ukulele man said would be a good place to stop for Koa wood. “It’s in an industrial park just past the airport,” he said, leading us to write off stopping there, since who drives to an industrial park on their vacation in Hawaii?

Yet here we were, and there it was.

From the outside Aloha Woods resembled a plumbing supply store. Or a paint store. But inside there was furniture of the likes of which we’d never seen before. Gorgeous, hand-crafted furniture made out of local Hawaiian woods. Drool-worthy designs with smooth surfaces and clean lines. Modern, contemporary, one of a kind, and … oh my the cost. Of course, contemporary furniture wasn’t going to fit in our new CostCo suitcase, so the cost was irrelevant.

“Can I help you?” a man asked.

I hummed and hawed a bit. There was no evidence of any scrap lumber in this place.

“Do you have any… I’m looking for Koa scrap. Do you know where I might find some?”

He nodded. “Follow me.”

We went around the counter thru a door into a warehouse in the back.

“Look thru those bins,” he said, pointing to eight large boxes. “The Koa is in the second one on the far side.”

I walked over and started looking thru the boards and scrap.

There it was. I didn’t even have to think twice. Two inches thick. Three feet long. About a foot wide. This was not just a scrap, it was the scrap.

Imagine a sawmill cutting lumber from the twisted, gnarly trunks of Koa trees. And imagine a scrap that falls off the mill at the edges where there’s not enough trunk to make a complete board. That’s what this scrap was. A cross-section of a Koa tree, one edge flat but the other edge tracing the twisted, gnarly edge of the tree.

I held up the scrap and turned it so that the long flat edge was horizontal. And I gasped. Held this way, the twisted, gnarly top edge took the shape of three waves. And the color of the wood at the edge was grey-white rather than rich red-brown, as if the waves were crashing on a beach.

“This is it,” I said.

Back in the front of the store, the man and a woman working behind the counter helped us wrap our treasure in bubble-wrap. They were remarkably patient, helping us wind the bubble wrap around and around the wood, taping it down securely with generous strips of packing tape.

It cost more than I wanted to pay. But to tell you the truth, I wouldn’t have flinched at a piece of art costing twice as much. 

We thanked them both as we left the store. We put the wood in the back of the Jeep beside the new suitcase (no way it was going to fit inside). And we got back on the road.

My brother parked the car in a spot along the street that was surprisingly easy to find. We fed the parking meter in spite of its astoundingly user-unfriendly interface. And we started to walk up the sidewalk toward Lamar.

“You want to go to Huts?” my brother asked. “They have great burgers.”

“Wherever you guys want to go,” Bill said.

“Sure!” I said, seeing a good excuse to ditch my no-carb diet for a day. (After all, these two were visiting Austin, and I’ve been so good.)

We crossed the street, went inside and sat in a booth. My brother leaned over to Bill and said, “They have really great burgers, here.”

After taking our drink order and giving us some time to study the menu, the waitress took our order.

“I’ll have a bowl of soup and a tuna salad,” my brother said.

The waitress turned to Bill.

“I’ll have soup also and the grilled chicken salad,” he said as he closed his menu.

I’m thinking to myself, we come to Huts, my brother raves about the burgers, and these guys order salads!? My chance to have some carbs was quickly evaporating.

“I’ll have the Kelly Burger,” I said quickly, but the guilt had caught up with me. I leaned forward and added, “Can I have it without the bun and fries?”

“Look at you,” she said to us.

The fair and industrious Trudy suggested I go to the ukulele hoedown without her. I gathered her intent. Her laptop was in the room. She had words to share and photos to post. She had likes to collect. Facebook was calling.

On the lanai downstairs, a warm breeze was blowing off the water. It was now nighttime, and it was dark just beyond the railing of the verandah, but here there were chairs and tables and a warm glow of lights recessed in the broad ceiling.

The Keauhou hoedown. It is called a kanikapila, and they have been doing it on Wednesdays for years. It wasn’t hard to find. Past the front desk, up two steps and around to the right, there were several dozen people seated in circles, all of them playing ukuleles.

I found a chair in the back.

Gentle ukulele music filled the space and spilled over the railing, flowing out into the gardens. There were old timers who leaned back in their chairs strumming confidently. There were newer timers leaning forward focusing intently on their music. Some had loose-leaf binders of songs. Some had songbooks. Some had iPads with the music paging by at the mere swipe of a finger. And in the middle of the group, there was a man, one of the old timers it seemed, playing a walking bass, a lightweight, three-stringed, fretless upright bass that from a distance looks more like a thin piece of lumber with a cord coming out the bottom.

Song after song they played. At the end of one, they would stop, and someone would ask, “What next?” And there would be a suggestion from the crowd and nodded ascent: “We haven’t played that one in a long time.” And then they came to the final song. They all stood up. The man in front of me turned and motioned for me to step forward, and he held out his hand to me.

This is what they do when they sing Hawai‘i Aloha. They stand. They hold hands. They sway from left to right.

And everybody sings. 

Working from home on Friday…

Backyard chores. Compost to take out. Green house to open. Listen to the Wren singing in the sun. And joyful noise of kids from the schoolyard a block away.

A wiry-haired Terrier lying in my lap, oblivious to the clicking keyboard or the sounds of Skype. A happy black-haired dog sitting in the backyard sun, content in the knowledge that the man is home today.

A short drive for a bunless burger wrapped in lettuce for lunch. Jacob smiles with his round face and joyful eyes, “Hey man, haven’t seen you in a while” and reaches out to shake my hand.

Dogs in the doorway at 5:00pm. “What are you waiting for!? It’s dinner time!”

No evening commute. Going out the door for a jog before the sun goes down. And meeting the mommy just back from work walking the wiry one and the black one down the sidewalk. “It’s the man!” she tells them and lets the wiry one loose.

What a wonderful day. What a wonderful way to start a weekend!

Let’s think about Monday on Monday.