I have started a collection of mismatched china plates. The first member of this soon-to-be budding coterie was discovered at the Goodwill store in Hilo lying under a thin layer of dust behind a broken toaster and a one-eyed Raggedy Ann.

china plate

Isn’t she lovely? Her refined elegance is marred by a small chip on her back but her spirit still shines through and she has not once spilled my baked beans onto the floor.

In the beauty of a chipped china plate, I see the beauty of life. I have learned that we are the reflection of what we have done with our lives. Most of us are tarnished, chipped, maybe a bit blurry. Along the road to arriving here, we have earned our wrinkles, gray hair, scars, aches and confusions. Rather than seeing these things as the ravages of time, I like to think of them as proof that I have lived, proof that I have not sat in a tower behind a locked door, watching the soldiers march past. I have more than once taken that frightening first step into the unknown and experienced again and again the joy of discovery, the universality of the human heart, and the magnificent release of laughter.

I love the feel of a nice china plate, but hate the idea of having a full set of matching china. If one plate gets broken, the set is diminished. On the other hand, if none of the plates match and one gets broken, nobody but the broken plate will be any the wiser and none will be diminished by the loss. The mismatched horde remains strong, not trying to be anything more than what it is, and every member is valued for its intrinsic uniqueness.

To celebrate what is either the ultimate in wisdom or a foolish naivety–honestly I don’t care which it is–I am gratefully accepting donations to the collection. With luck, I will have enough mismatched plates to host a dinner party by the time our hedge has grown enough to give us some privacy.

So if you want to be rid of your mismatched bits, please feel free to send them on. And if you could be so kind as to send them by UPS, I would be eternally grateful.



Profanity in Paradise


We have a lovely wooden deck behind our house, one of the reasons I wanted it in the first place. I imagined myself doing yoga, swathed in intoxicating smells and sights and sounds, feeling my nerves gently calmed by the hum of nature’s breath.

But I quickly discovered that most of the time, it’s either too hot or too wet to do yoga there, and although we don’t have many mosquitoes, the flies quickly chase away any notion of Zen budding in the yogi’s heart. But early in the morning, if I get the timing just right, I can roll out my mat in the last of the dew and feel the sun’s first rays kiss my face as they peek through the trees behind our garden.

I was having one of those wondrous days, feeling the Zen, my blood and breath moving as one. Then I heard someone shouting. I ignored it at first but slowly realized the person was shouting at me. I was in down dog with one leg in the air. I looked under my arm and saw that the shouter was Fukwitz Jr. from next door, a man I would guess is in his mid-forties. I’m no Victorian shrinking violet, but the words flying from his mouth were pure obscenity, the sort of oral flatulence that would make a sailor blush. F-bombs were falling willy-nilly, partnered with other words I sometimes use myself, but one in particular that I NEVER say.

Apparently, I was horrible to Junior’s mother, Mrs. Fukwitz, which is weird because I’ve only spoken to her once. She was rude, I was sulky, answering her criticism in monosyllables. There was nothing more to it. Somehow in Junior’s twisted mind, this got blown up like a Mr. Potato Head balloon at a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade.

After raging at my utter disrespect for the (F-bomb!) elderly, Junior said he’d spoken to ALL the (F-bomb!) neighbors and they all (F-bomb!) hate me, which is odd. The only other neighbor we’ve met is a man with a smoothie truck who warned us that Junior has a horrible reputation all along our street. Aside from that, anyone who hates me without meeting me is as stupid as Junior and I don’t give an F-bomb what they think.

The tirade went on and on. I was stunned, seeing images of the Tasmanian Devil drooling with impotent rage as Bugs Bunny dances around him, Wile E. Coyote blowing his own head off as cannons backfire in his face. (Meep-meep!) Words went through my head: Bully! Coward! Mama’s boy!

But I kept my peace, picked up my mat and met Rochi at the door just as Junior shouted that he was going to kick my ass, which nearly gave us both the giggles. Even in my current physical state, I would flatten him with one right hook and joy in my heart. The poor dear really doesn’t know me.

It gives me comfort to know that Junior is nothing but a playground bully with bubbles of spit at the corners of his mouth, a dead frog in his pocket and lice in his hair. But the anger, the need to vent it on a stranger, is beyond my comprehension. I’ve met bullies but had never come face to face with a genuine sociopath before. Part of me was mortified. What had happened to this person to fill him with such anger, such a driving need to hurt other people?

I’m not naïve enough to believe in paradise, but was feeling comfortable, welcomed, starting to feel like we are home. But that experience poked a hole in my soul. I could handle the foul language. It was nothing I hadn’t heard before, but I had never had such fiery venom directed at me. The generous part of me knows Junior is sick, possibly not responsible for what he does, maybe not even aware of it. The less generous part of me hopes he falls into a crack in the lava and burns for all eternity while flea infested slugs nibble on his danglers.

Again and again, kind and well-meaning people have said that we deserve to be here, to live this life, after all we went through last year. I have wondered how much ‘deserving’ has to do with it. At the same time, though, did I deserve to be shouted at like that? What could Junior possibly hope to gain? Did he expect me to panic, to crumble into a weeping puddle of despair? Did he hope I would fight back, get into a profanity pissing match?

What he did accomplish is to put a veneer of tarnish on paradise, which is probably what he wanted. It makes me profoundly sad to think that gives him satisfaction. But more than sad, I’m angry. He’s made me afraid of my own home and that breaks my heart.

I’ve run the “what if it happens again” scenario in my head a thousand times. What to do? Call the police? Turn the hose on him? Tattle to his mommy? Make the sign of the cross and pray for him? Do a little jig and pretend I’m a nutbag, too?

None of the above, I think. I plan to keep ignoring him, the whole Fukwitz clan, and wait for him to get bored or the hedge Rochi planted to grow tall and thick. There’s the silver lining. Things grow tall and thick in paradise, whether you want them to or not.

baby hedge

Auntie Eda

At Kamehameha High School the other day, I was helping a very nice young man with his costume for the upcoming production of Hairspray. He asked me, “May I call you Auntie Eda?” I wrinkled my nose and asked him back, “Must you?”

When I first met my sister-in-law, I found that she had instructed her two daughters to call me Auntie Eda. “Heavens no,” said I, sounding a great deal like an Auntie. “Aunt Eda if you must, but just Eda will do nicely.” I was still in my 20’s after all, not at all ready to wrap myself in a shawl and settle into a rocking chair.

Along those lines, I was once at Sears with my mother. I was about 16 but looked younger. Ma was shopping for a fridge. I knew she wouldn’t buy one with an ice maker, so I wandered off to see what the washing machines were up to. A sales clerk approached. “May I help you, ma’am?”

MA’AM???? My head filled with visions of myself barefoot and pregnant, dropping out of high school, moving into a double wide with black velvet paintings and Barbie dolls in ball gowns used as toilet paper covers. I backed away from the man slowly, hoping he hadn’t really noticed me.

So the nice young man’s question brought back haunting memories, but he went on to explain that Auntie is a term of endearment and respect. I felt my heart do that Grinch thing as years of training, assumption and bias melted away. I suddenly completely sure that it is OK to be who I am, or even better than OK. It is exactly, perfectly just how it should be, right now, right here.


I don’t know if happy is the right word for how I feel. I think it’s more like vastly content, or a vast deal more than content, to misquote Jane Austen. You can always want something more, something different, something bigger or smaller or cheaper or more expensive. Or you can be satisfied, pleased and grateful for what you’ve got.

big car little car

Case in point: That’s my car on the left, L’il Six. It is absolutely all the car I could possibly want right now. The pink truck on the right, on the other hand, is a concept I can barely get my head around, but I bet it makes its owner happy.

Big car, little car. It’s all a matter of perspective.

Auntie Eda is going to go make dinner now.

Adventures at the DMV


When I graduated from college, my mom bought me a 1974 Super Beetle and that meant I had to get a driver’s license. So I borrowed a friend’s car and took the road test, in Iowa. I don’t know how things are now, but it was pretty easy. I passes the first time, although the officer did say, “When you want to change lanes, you should look over the same shoulder as the lane you want to change to.” I guess she could tell I meant well even if I wasn’t a very experienced driver. I drive that car very happily until I left the States and ended up in Japan.

Back in the day, it was easy to switch as US license for a Japanese one. There was just an application and the eye test. I switched since you can’t renew your US license by mail and I didn’t want to be without any license at all. Eventually, I got a gold license, a privilege reserved for those with no tickets or accidents. That was easy for me since the only time I ever drove in Japan was on a very straight road in the middle of Hokkaido during our honeymoon. I remember the landscape was flat, fields on both sides, a couple of milk cows and a coke machine standing forlornly by the road. Even that was harrowing.

After I arrived in Hawaii, I used my gold Japanese license to rent a car, then buy a car and insurance for that car, but I figured we live here now and ought to have US licenses so we don’t have to carry around our passports for ID. Plus my Japanese license says I was born in Showa 38, which is 1963 and not to be confused with 1938, and it expires in Heisei 33, which by most reckoning is 2021, not 2033 by which time I will be very old and wrinkled indeed and might not care much about driving anymore.

So we went to the DMV, light in heart and mind, thinking that for once an exchange with officialdom would be pleasant.

Ah, the naive heart and its rose tinted sunglasses.

They shut Rochi down flat–until he gets a social security number, he can’t get anything but a one year international permit, and those are only issued in Honolulu.

And me? I have to start from scratch. Step one: apply for a learner’s permit.

I honestly thought the officer was joking. No such luck. She went on to say that before I could even apply for the permit, I had to take the written test, just like I had when I was 16. I really had to bite my tongue not to say the things I was thinking. It’s not her fault, she’s just doing her job, blah blah blah, but still, the Monkey of the Absurd was doing somersaults in my belly and I was having trouble controlling him.

You only have to get 26 of 30 questions right so I figured I had a pretty good chance. I got three wrong, but they were concerned with speeding, passing school buses and drunk driving, none of which I do. Most of the questions were common sense anyway, which reminds me of the written test I took in high school and my favorite test question of all time:

An ambulance approaches from behind you with its lights flashing and siren wailing. Do you
a) pull over and stop
b) turn around and go the other way
c) follow it and see where it’s going

I laughed out loud and was sternly scolded by the uniformed officer overseeing the test, so today when I felt the urge, I held the Monkey tight and slipped him a couple of bananas to keep him quiet.

I booked the first road test appointment available, which is December 3, so I will be driving illegally for at least two months. And here’s the kicker–when I show up for the test, I have to be accompanied by a licensed driver over 21 years of age. Rochi doesn’t qualify since, technically, he doesn’t have a license either. I was scratching my head about that one when I remembered that Ma will be visiting then. Both officers behind the counter smiled and said that would be fine, but just then the Monkey slipped out of my grasp. He made me turn to the people waiting in line and say in my best good-girl voice:

My mommy is coming to the DMV with me! Isn’t that great?

I paid my $12, was photographed and fingerprinted (!) and given my learner’s permit, which is nestled inside my wallet next to the driver’s license I’ve had for 30 years, which I used to buy and insure the car which, technically, neither of us is allowed to drive. And then I got into that same car and drove it to home, soberly and within the speed limit, and didn’t pass a single school bus on the way.

How do you like them apples?

eda car




Our subdivision has its own private parks, including one that has a pool. This is nice for a couple of reasons. One, hardly anyone uses it. Two, it’s only a couple of blocks from my house. Three, hardly anyone uses it. Four, despite this being Hawaii, there aren’t many places to swim; all the lower Puna ocean spots recently got eaten by lava. Five, hardly anyone uses it. Six, it’s a really nice pool, solar powered, clean, and has ozone treated water so there is no chlorine so no chlorine stench. The first time I swam there, the air smelled of gardenias. Today, it smelled of freshly mown grass. And six, did I mention that hardly anyone uses it?

This dearth of bodies in itself would be pretty marvelous, but imagine coming from years and years of life in Tokyo. Sure, there are pools, plenty of them, but they are never more than three feet deep and there are plenty of hot, sweaty people to fill them. And the rules. Ah, there are oh-so-many rules. You can gain entry to a public pool for a mere $3 but:

-Two hour limit and everyone must get out after an hour to rest
-No food or drinks, not even water
-No jewelry or hair clips
-No make-up or sunscreen
-No running, diving or pool toys
-No more laughing, no more fun, Quaker meeting has begun

The staff are vigilant about enforcing the rules–in my head, the guys are wearing only tiny Speedos and paste-on Hitler mustaches. In effect, there is no swimming since there’s very little water between the bodies anyway. My impression: people soup.

So today, there were a few people lounging by the Honu Street pool but I had the water to myself for a few delightful minutes, a degree of self-indulgence I hadn’t felt since last month’s hot fudge sundae, but coupled with the joyous freedom of movement that only water affords and there were no volcanic rocks to step on and not a calorie to be gained.

me in pool

Of course, it couldn’t last.

It would be foolish to seek perfection in paradise. Anyone who thinks they will find it here is kidding themselves. The only perfection lies in how we perceive the world and how we handle the ways it tries to influence us. While yoga and drumming and costuming (more about that later) are challenging but incredibly fulfilling, we are discovering that our only neighbors are raving lunatics. I had been warned that this is lower Puna and there are problems with drugs and vagrancy, but I was not expecting threats and obscene childishness from next door. It is a heartbreak.

So I will continue to pursue my inner Om, keep my feet on the ground and above all, stay rooted in calm. Short of torching their house, there is little we can do beyond not letting them ruin our lives.

However, there is a favor I would ask of you, gentle reader. If I age, say, 10 or 15 years and then dye my hair purple, develop a double D bust and park myself by the pool wearing a neon green string bikini with fringe, then light a cigarette (!!!), please slap me. Slap me hard.

no smoking

Pub Cheese

Pub cheese

What ho? Pub cheese? In my local Hawaiian supermarket?

My curiosity was piqued. I had heard of–and enjoyed–pub food, like Ploughman’s Lunch and Cornish Pasties and Steak and Kidney Pie, but what could make one cheese pubbier than another? Visions of Tislet and Cheshire and Stilton danced in my head. Upon closer observation, I noted “sharp cheddar”. And more, it said “Gourmet Spreadable Cheese”. How could I go wrong?

Little did I know.

In my innocence, I brought it home, opened a Longboard and a packet of crackers. The sweet angels of anticipation danced a cha-cha on my taste buds as I pried off the plastic lid, peeled back the plastic liner and….

Pub cheese inside

Oh. Oh, dear. Dear me. Alas. What was this?  I peered into the container, barely daring to believe what I saw, unable to process the image before me. The texture resembled marshmallow peanuts, those denizens of the purgatory where evil sweets carbonize for all eternity, elbow to elbow with candy corn and Peeps. This was evil, pure evil.

marshmallow peanuts

Choking back my horror, knowing in my heart that I had to persevere, I spread a bit on a cracker and took a bite. With a jolt, I realized that this substance, this aerated orange travesty, had never been cheese, much less sharp cheddar, the go-to of cheeses, the Savior of Lost Recipes, the cheese all processed cheeses bow to in homage. This aerated travesty may have been a distant relative of Cheese Whiz, a cousin twice or thrice removed perhaps, a dubious honor at best. I bowed my head, feeling ashamed, out-played by the power of my own gullibility.

Still, the beer is only a little flat, the crackers aren’t totally stale, and there’s no point in letting perfectly awful junk food go to waste. If you’re in the ‘hood, feel free to drop by, take your shoes off, set yourself down.

I’ll just fix us a snack.

Flowers 8

Is that a gun in your pocket?

I was noodling around the Interwebs and discovered that just down the road a bit, the Nanawale Estates VFW was having a breakfast this morning. The very thought brought back wispy childhood memories of church dinners and barbecues at the Community Grove. This was an ideal opportunity to combine my enduring love of going out for breakfast with doing something good for the community. It was also very high on the list of things I never thought I’d do and I revel in new experiences.


Arriving at the VFW, we were given a warm greeting by Commander Deb and then piled up our plates: French toast, hash browns, scrambled eggs with cheese, sausage and fruit cocktail fresh from a can. (Ahem.) Eight dollars well spent. That was at 9:30 this morning; it’s after 3:00 now. I’m still not hungry.


As I stuffed myself with this bounty, I soaked up the conversation around me. There was a group of men discussing the horrible treatment they’d received from veteran’s hospitals. The one sitting closest to me said he had served 26 years, had seen two wars, and was treated like trash by hospital administrators. This is the treatment they get after willingly putting their lives on the line? How can that be true when we are sitting in breezy sunshine, eating good food, listening to birds sing?

I was feeling the warmth of human connection, empathy, the shared pain of lasting scars, the challenges we all find a way to survive, when one of the guys made a joke about how he had once been married and that was worse than anything else. They all laughed, belly laughs, guffaws. I felt my empathy drain away. I knew they were just being guys, needing that twisted machismo that seems so important to men but only thinly veils their pain. I didn’t have the energy to respond so I pretended not to have heard.

There was an artist at the farmers’ market who had a similar effect. His detailed freehand line drawings of Hawaiian plants and birds and ocean creatures were so full of life, I was considering buying one. Then I noticed he was working on a drawing of a sub-machine gun, a solid, metallic symbol of death. I nearly gasped. If he truly wanted to alienate me, he could have drawn disemboweled kittens, but the gun was effective enough. I sighed and moved away.

After so many years in my Tokyo oyster shell, I feel disconnected from who I once was. These moments of interaction with others help me define who I am becoming, help me learn to trust my instincts, my intuition. Each day feels as if my heart is pumping moments of other people’s lives through my own veins, absorbing their realities and perspectives, finding strength and wisdom from both their sameness and their difference. In a sense, I am rediscovering myself, finding me in others, finding me in me.

blue flowers