My Hawaiian Life, part 2

My house came into my possession somewhat equipped with basic appliances--stove/oven, refrigerator, and microwave--but I purchased a washer and dryer the first week I actually took up residence because laundromats are not places I prefer to frequent on a regular basis for weeks or months or years. In support of that preference, I have experienced a 4-year stint with laundromats once in my life (and I'm not even talking about the kind in the basement of a college dorm or apartment complex, something I've also done) Although there are some fun stories to accompany that four-year stint, I do consciously choose to have laundry facilities in my home whenever possible.

My dryer is electric--something worth noting here because electricity in Hawaii is expensive, and electric clothes dryers rank high on electricity consumption. Early on in my Hawaiian life, I noticed that many homes had clotheslines of various sorts and manufacture in the yard, in the carport, across the lanai, under the eaves. Last summer my "home improvements" included having a clothes line installed on the back lanai.

When I was a little girl, my mother did not have a dryer. I remember her hanging laundry to dry on a clothesline and that she had strategies and techniques to employ in that endeavor: one item of clothing shared a clothespin with the item next to it to conserve clothespins and line space, and underclothing hid in the interior of the clothesline configuration, concealed from perusal by neighbors and/or the public. Before my family had a dryer, if it arrived on the scene when we still lived in Colorado, I was nine or ten. I recall the clothesline in the backyard of the Colorado home and asking my mom why all the undies hung in a certain section--hence, that explanation! If the first dryer actually happened when we lived in New Jersey, well, then I was eleven. But after the first dryer, we always had both a washer and a dryer in our home. One time when I was in high school and we lived in Utah, I remember folding clothes with my mom and she told me how much easier laundry was with a dryer and that things like towels felt nicer when dried in a dryer than when line-dried, but not bed sheets; line-dried sheets were the best.

I have had clothespins in my possession at least since I was married, and I've carried them with me to maybe ten different places of residence across four countries and three continents, but I have never had a clothesline. Until now. Granted, I have purchased a few more clothespins to add to my collection now that I hang clothes on a line in real life on a regular basis. But until my Hawaiian life, I don't believe I ever envisioned myself routinely doing laundry using a clothesline.

My dryer is still employed, just not as often. Towels, for instance, are truly better when dried in a dryer--softer and fluffier. And occasionally a speedy dry-time becomes essential for some scenario or another. My mom was right, though. Line-dried sheets are the best; they have a certain crispness to them that no dryer can achieve.

I suspect my mom found doing laundry that entailed the use of a clothesline for drying purposes for a family that included multiple children quite labor intensive. Also, when there was a baby, she used cloth diapers as well! I, on the other hand--and there is just me--quite enjoy the hanging out and bringing in of clothes that dry on a line. I like breathing in the scent of freshly washed laundry, designing the line-up for each row, being enveloped in between two parallel planes of strung-up laundry, and reopening memories tucked away from long ago.


NOTE: Depending on the month, my electricity bill is $10-$15 cheaper than it was before I had a clothesline.

My Hawaiian Life, part 1

Two and a half years in, I live pretty much ensconced in a Hawaiian life, and it is good. But a lot has happened since the lava eruption of 2018, and I have decided what better opportunity to attempt to create some record of it than while in social distancing mode during a pandemic.

Although retired from a forty-year career as a teacher, I have a part-time job in a different career field these days--working as a paraprofessional with at-risk youth under the direction of licensed mental health therapists. Granted, my actual working labors are on hold at the moment as I engage in more stringent social distancing. Still, in more normal times I spend one-on-one time with my assigned kids, usually out somewhere in the community or driving around in my car. We talk and we do stuff and we talk. Except when one of your kids is a four-year-old. Instantly, the DOING totally dominates.

Until last fall, all of my kids have been teens or pre-teens except for a brief stint with a seven-year-old. And then this therapist approached me with the chance to work with the four-year-old, and the four-year-old was still three!

First of all, after serious toil, sweat, and almost tears (until YouTube and my car owner's manual saved the day), this happened--

something I had come to believe I would be omitting from my life experiences.

And then, this happened:

There was a three-year-old in my life for two hours twice a week!

Now he's four, and I have become well acquainted with the playgrounds of at least eight parks situated from Hilo to Mt. View to Pahoa--in addition to their restroom facilities, as adequate or inadequate they may be. I swing on swings again...when I'm not pushing said four-year-old on his swing so he can "fly." Occasionally, I even slide down the slide at his behest.

I now accept full blame for introducing another human being to the pleasurable hilarity of popping bubble wrap with fingers and/or by walking or jumping on it. I have returned to a zoo--a place with which I have a conflicted relationship since having had opportunities to view so many of those same animals in their natural habitat--because a kid with an intense playground obsession will forsake it all (cool zoo playground included) to lead me to each to new animal, to illuminate with steady chatter the details of teeth or eyes or color or sound, showing me again how to see with new vision the splendor and wonder of the world. I have learned to look for sharks at grates over street drains, although I still refrain from feeding them grass and I only listen to the four-year-old regale us all with the "Baby Shark" song. I construct castles again with building blocks, glory in building a tower, and screech-laugh at the destruction of a collapse. I have discerned that for a four-year-old, one with impulse control issues who is rarely allowed into the interior of many commercial establishments, a store can be a fantasy realm where even the discovery of shoes or red juice or blue juice or bread or a ball is a magical thing.

And I am humbled at his generosity and unexpected concern for me: I bring him snacks, and he is ever willing to share. One time I gave him a small package of Oreos, which he opened (with a little help from me, but he was in charge!) and then gave me one cookie for every one he ate himself. When he has multi-colored Gold Fish for a snack, we now play a game where we identify how many and what color(s) I receive. With colors, he is spot-on; with numbers greater than three, not so much. Numbers beyond three generally acquire the label "lots." And then there's the umbrella, something you may have already surmised holds great fascination for him. I carry two in my car because, you know, I live in a rainy land. When he enters my car, he inquires about HIS umbrella. He always wants to take it with him to the playground or wherever we may disembark. but I insist that it has to be raining. One time at the zoo, the day was misty, moisty, and I let him bring HIS umbrella, but I did not carry the second one. Eventually, when it began to rain with more intent, he wanted to protect me, too, with his umbrella. Of course, he also wanted to hold the umbrella, so you can imagine how well that worked. Still, I crouch-walked with him under that umbrella for several stretches, and I bet we looked cute!

Little kids, though, are not inhibited by social norms. Boogers and bathroom exploits, particularly the preponderance of toiletting explanations regarding "shi-shi" and "doodoo," can give one pause, especially when one holds said kid's hand quite frequently. Nevertheless, I am missing my four-year-old this week. Living life with the joie de vivre of a four-year-old is surely a worthy aspiration.