The Things She Left Behind

Almost thirty years ago my mom died rather unexpectedly after a short illness. Less than a year before her death, I had moved overseas to teach school on a US military base in Germany. Although I was blessed to be able to spend several days with her before she passed, I returned to Germany a few days after the funeral and did not directly participate in the division and distribution of my mom’s stuff--all those material possessions we collect unto ourselves over a lifetime. Nevertheless, my dad and five siblings designated certain items for me, and eventually they all arrived at my overseas household. For almost three decades they then accompanied me through eight moves across four countries and three continents. Now, as I unpack myself into my new home, I have had the chance to more mindfully reflect on some of these things she left behind.

For whatever reason, I received the primary pieces my mom deemed essential to carry in her purse:  black leather gloves, a collapsible cup, a comb, and her wallet (sans any money, mind you).

Black Leather Gloves. My mom died in the winter, toward the end of February actually, and in Utah cold days come with winter, some of them bitterly so. In all my memories, her winter gloves of choice were black leather--a preference that offered warmth with a certain elegance and a good grip on a steering wheel. In my mind’s eye I can still replay her putting on black leather gloves, taking off black leather gloves, and her hands resting on a steering wheel sheathed in black leather gloves. Twice while living in Asia I rescued that final pair of black leather gloves from marauding mold, yet now I’ve entirely surrendered them to oblivion because I finally had a plan to make them part of a written record. I only wish I had taken a photo of them first.

Collapsible Cup. Even before I left for Europe, my mom carried that collapsible cup in her purse. When I first uncovered it in her purse (she had tasked me with finding something for her from her purse, lest you wonder at my motives), I had a good giggle and teased her about it. She insisted that while on the go it made taking a pill--usually an aspirin, in her case--so much easier than trying to swallow one down while sucking water from a drinking fountain. And back in those days, by the way, she would never have considered buying a bottle of water. The thought of my mom drinking from that collapsible cup still makes me smile. Sometimes I wonder if she ever imbibed her favorite guilty pleasure--that would be Mountain Dew--from that cup since she only ever drank Mountain Dew when out and about on her road trips and never in the presence of her family. (She forgot to discard the visible empties from the car one time and then ruefully confessed in rather flustered embarrassment when questioned; her one-time secret became part of favorite family lore: Mama drinks when she drives--Mountain Dew, that is.)

A Comb. Small, white, and with one tooth broken off. I wonder why she didn’t replace it, but I also know the answer: It still performed its purpose satisfactorily, so, in her mind, no need for replacement really yet existed.

Her Wallet.  Certainly not a new wallet at the the time of her passing, and now thirty-plus years later of existence (in addition to enduring twelve of those years in the thick, heavy humidity of Asian summers), its faux leather exterior began to crumble in my hands as one more time I explored the items enclosed, all of them--sans any money, as previously noted--still situated in their assigned slots and compartments:

• A receipt for the purchase of glasses.

• Blood donation card with the American Red Cross.

• Membership card for the Daughters of the Utah Pioneers. My mother was an avid quilter and active in quilting groups as both a teacher and an organizer. When I asked her why she wanted to be a member of the Daughters of the Utah Pioneers, her angle was quilting--access to historical quilts and the chance to promote quilting in general. I believe she also became a member of the Daughters of the American Revolution for the same reasons, but there was no membership card for that organization in her wallet.

• Medical ID card for the Salt Lake Clinic.

• LDS temple recommend. The one in the plastic casing had expired in December. I wondered if she had not renewed it because she had been too sick, but no--in with some papers in another slot I found a current temple recommend; she just had not yet placed the new one inside the plastic casing.

• TWO library cards, one for the Salt Lake County Library System and one for the Salt Lake City Public Library. Yes, my mom liked to read. She read lots and lots--books and magazines and newspapers. Even when the family went on vacation, my mom would not let my dad suspend newspaper delivery because she wanted access to those newspapers when we returned. We moved multiple times as I was growing up--Utah, Colorado, New Jersey--and one of the first things we did after establishing a new residence was head to the nearest public library to get library cards.

• Driver’s license.

• Voter registration card. My family talked politics at the dinner table and at family reunions. Still does. My gene pool is political!

• Handwritten notes(1) on the back of the paper insert in the packaging of a Weather-Rite Emergency Poncho.
  
  
  
  

• Poetry clippings.(2) I love poetry; in fact, I am one of those people who actually owns poetry books and reads them. My passion first flamed in high school, and I remember one time I wanted to discuss with my mom some of the poetry we were studying in my high school English class. She read one and then looked at me and said, “Evelyn, poetry isn’t really my thing and I don’t understand it very well.” And then she didn’t want to discuss the poems with me. That surprised me because she had read poetry to us all through my childhood. So, for a decade or so, I just loved poetry on my own. But since the discovery of poetry in my mom’s wallet, poetry kept with her and close at hand, I think my mom had a relationship with poetry after all.
  
  
  

• A photograph of her first grandchild--Justin. At the time of her death, my mother had not been a grandma very long. She loved being a grandmother, and one of her voiced regrets before her passing was that she wouldn’t have more time being a grandma. She now has seventeen grandchildren and twenty-one (if I counted correctly) great-grandchildren.

I have other things she left behind as do my brothers and sisters. Perhaps they have become a flicker of light within the hazy mess of memory or maybe the piece of an illustration for the stories we need to write.

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(1)

Handwritten notes written on the back of the paper insert in the packaging of an emergency poncho:

Hope - expect tomorrow to be better
Optimism - habit of hoping
Faith - hope against great odds

“He who has a why to live for can bear almost any how.” 
(Friedrich Nietzsche)

“Your mood has a direct effect on which information you bring to mind in a judgment.”

(Dr. Gordon Bower, Stanford)

A winner expects to keep on winning, a loser, losing.

10 Techniques of Hope

 1. Find your own silver lining. After lose, think of what is left.

 2. Avoid self-pity.

 3. Learn to laugh.

 4. Borrow hope from others. (Parenthetical notation I can’t read for sure but looks like “Base of A.A.”)

 5. Broaden your options.

 6. Take charge.

 7. Practice daydreaming.

 8. Use denial to cushion despair--for a short while.

 9. Avoid global thinking--one day at a time.

10. Don’t panic.

(2)

The Atlantic Monthly, March 1984, “Whiplash,” by William Matthews

           Whiplash

That month he was broke,

so when the brakes to his car

went sloshy, he let them go.

Next month his mother came

to visit, and out they went

to gawk, to shop, to have something

to do while they talked besides

sitting down like a seminar

to talk. One day soon he'd fix

the brakes, or–as he joked

after nearly bashing a cab

and skidding widdershins

through the intersection

of Viewcrest and Edgecliff–

they'd fix him, one of these

oncoming days. We like

to explain our lives to ourselves,

so many of our fictions

are about causality–chess

problems (where the ?! after

White's 16th move marks

the beginning of disaster),

insurance policies, box scores,

psychotherapy ("Were your

needs being met in this

relationship?"), readers' guides

to pity and terror–, and about

the possibility that because

aging is relentless, logic too

runs straight and one way only.

By this hope to know how

our disasters almost shatter us,

it would make sense to say

the accident he drove into

the day after his mother left

began the month he was broke.

Though why was he broke?

Because of decisions he'd made

the month before to balance

decisions the month before that,

and so on all the way back

to birth and beyond, for his

mother and father brought

to his life the luck of theirs.

And so when his car one slick day

oversped its dwindling ability

to stop itself and smacked two

parked cars and lightly kissed

another, like a satisfying

billiards shot, and all this action

(so slow in compression and

preparation) exploded so quickly,

it seemed not that his whole life

swam or skidded before him,

but that his whole life was behind

him, like a physical force,

the way a dinosaur's body

was behind its brain and the news

surged up and down its vast

and clumsy spine like an early

version of the blues; indeed,

indeed, what might he do

but sing, as if to remind himself

by the power of anthem that the body's

disparate and selfish provinces

are connected. And that's how

the police found him, full-throated,

dried blood on his white suit

as if he'd been caught in a rust-

storm, song running back and forth

along his hurt body like the action

of a wave, which is not water,

strictly speaking, but a force

that water welcomes and displays.

--William Matthews

July 1958, R.S. Magazine, p. 443

With You Away

I thought I could not bear to view

The yellow daffodils,

Nor watch the early grass of spring

Make green the rain-black hills.

I thought my heart would break when blooms

Were on the apple tree,

With sunlight dappled underneath

And you not here to see.

I thought the rose and violet

Would put my peace to rout;

That I would have to seal my room

To keep their perfume out.

But I was so prepared for these,

Had such a courage gained,

That they had come and gone and still

My fortitude remained.

Until about an hour ago,

When near the west porch wall,

I found the treasured knife you lost

While pruning vines last fall.

--Enola Chamberlin

From Paradise Lost, bk. V., lines 507-540, John Milton

[Adam and Eve discuss “obedience” with their heavenly visitor to the Garden, the Angel Raphael.]

Adam says to Raphael:

O favourable spirit, propitious guest,

Well hast thou taught the way that might direct

Our knowledge, and the scale of Nature set

From centre to circumference, whereon

In contemplation of created things

By steps we may ascend to God. But say,

What meant that caution joind, if ye be found

Obedient? can wee want obedience then

To him, or possibly his love desert

Who formd us from the dust, and plac’d us here

Full to the utmost measure of what bliss

Human desires can seek or apprehend?

    To whom the Angel. Son of Heav’n and Earth,

Attend:  that thou are happie, owe to God;

That thou continu’st such, owe to thy self,

That is, to thy obedience; therein stand.

This was the caution giv’n thee; be advis’d.

God made thee perfet, not immutable;

And good he made thee, but to persevere

He left it in thy power, ordaind thy will

By nature free, not over-rul’d by Fate

Inextricable, or strict necessity;

Our voluntarie service he requires,

Not our necessitated, such with him

Findes no acceptance, nor can find, for how

Can hearts, not free, be tri’d whether they serve

Willing or no, who will but what they must

By Destinie, and can no other choose?

My self and all th’ Angelic Host that stand

In sight of God enthron’d, our happie state

Hold, as you yours, while our obedience holds;

On other surety non; freely we serve

Because wee freely love, as in our will

To love or not; in this we stand or fall:

Ambling About in Autumn

Autumn and Hawaii may be a contradiction in terms since Hawaii, in autumn, has little in common with the temperament and complexion of lands that begat the term and concept of autumn in the first place. What I’ve noted, though, is that nighttime temperatures have dropped enough that I snuggle in with a sheet and a quilt at the beginning of sleep instead of adding that quilt in the wee hours of dark morning. Tourist numbers seem to have decreased somewhat, and certain fruits have appeared at farmers markets as others have exited. I saw both rambutan and mangosteen at the farmers market on Saturday, and neither of them graced any farmer’s display during the summer. Apparently--from what I’ve read--the south swell of summer is shifting to the north swell of winter, and whales will soon commence cavorting in waters off certain Hawaiian coastlines. Otherwise, I putter on in much the same fashion--to include clothing--as I did in summer.

In October I actually washed my car by hand on my own driveway with my own hose for rinsing--something I haven’t done in at least thirty years. My car was dirty, though still presentable--the blessings of a white car--but I hadn’t realized how dramatically the grit/dust of pahoehoe lava eroding into a developing topsoil can dull the brilliance of white. Once I completed my first swipe of my car with the soapy rag, the spaces still requiring a wash were shockingly discernable. At the moment, though, my vehicle is blindingly white.

This month I eliminated the house ants: I succumbed and purchased ant bait, the kind where the worker ants take the poisoned bait back to the hive and kill the queen. Whether or not I have actually instigated a queen-killing, I do not know. The bait has been out for a week, and the worker ants don’t come around any more. Hmmmm….

And also in October I solved the mystery of the fruited vine wound decoratively round a power line that looked like maybe it held young avocados but avocados don’t grow on vines. It is lilikoi--passion fruit. (I might need one in my yard someday.)

And speaking of yards, mine remains largely blank although I have adopted my niece Kim’s approach to landscaping: piecing pieces together with the hope that the ultimate design of the patchwork is pleasing. Indeed, some latent DNA is emerging: the farmer/rancher from my dad’s line and the gardener from both sides of the family. I head out to the yard to work for an hour but lose myself in the labor for three or four.

Sun and insects have notably informed my gardening ablutions and apparel. First I apply insect repellent with DEET, taking special care to cover my wrists, ankles and neck. I wear over-the-ankle socks with my shoes because with short socks, I still end up with bites around the short sock line despite wearing repellent. At Walmart I purchased these light khaki-colored cotton twill pants with a drawstring waist in the Boys Department for $8 apiece: size XXL. (There are a few perks to being small.) They do not flatter but they do serve their purpose--relatively cool and an insect-contact-with-skin deterrent. A long-sleeved cotton T-shirt, sunglasses, a wide-brimmed hat, and garden gloves complete my ensemble. A vision of loveliness I no doubt am not, but I avoid checking in the mirror to be sure one way or the other.

The “patchwork pieces” of my yard underway this month include these:

(1) A small plot of lavender--multiple varieties--above the the septic system drainfield area. From my reading (I google regularly: septic systems, hibiscus, water catchment, herb gardens, raised garden beds, bougainvillea, etc.), planting vegetables, especially root vegetables, or plants with woody and/or complex root systems above the drainfield area of septic systems is not recommended.

(2) An herb garden in pots. From what I learned at a church-sponsored women’s symposium last month, I should never have to buy fresh herbs or green onions because they are so easy to grow. Two weeks later, and I no longer buy herbs. I merely slip outside to my herb pots and snip off whatever I desire. Cilantro--high demand for me since I mainly prepare southeast Asian or Mexican, and both cuisines often incorporate cilantro--occupies two pots. 

Still working on the green onions, though! What I have at this point, I started from the chopped-off ends of green onions purchased at the market. I have now purchased a packet of seeds as a back-up plan.

Eventually I plan to have my herb garden on raised beds--along with some vegetables and flowers--but for now they reside on the rocks situated as “landscaping” by the builder/seller of my house. Meanwhile, I have concluded that scent is an herb garden’s secret power. At moments I just stand amongst my herb pots and breathe deeply.

 Two cilantro, one mint, one rosemary

Basil, parsley, and green onion.

Green onion peeking through in the pot on the right.

(3) Two baby bougainvilleas bloom on the south side.

(4) I planted four different varieties of hibiscus. Here are two of the varieties blooming at the moment as "toddlers."

I asked John, my neighbor across the street who has helped me with weed eradication--about planting a lawn, and he laughed. Without bringing in topsoil to spread over my rocky and graveled expanse, native grasses will conquer any planted varieties. Okay then.

Well, I do have a lot of rocks--mostly lava-spawned--so I have decided to use them.

I am moving some of the nearby uncovered rocks to create this wall/edging at the back of the yard. (I think the builders bull-dozed quite a collection of them to the yard edges.) Two of those rocks now located here I had to roll into place because I couldn't pick them up!

Right now I'm thinking of placing my raised garden beds on rock platforms. We'll see how this evolves. (You can see the rock "wall" in the back and a bit of my catchment tank.)

I continue to envision a plumeria tree in my yard. My googled articles warn that plumeria are temperamental, and the starter trees selling at Home Depot go for $119. Hence, my plumeria in the yard resides in dreams only. One day, though, I will plant one. I think I have determined its space.

Just because I like the red geranium living in a pot on my front lanai.

ACT III, Scene 1

ACT III

Scene 1

Setting: My brand new, and never-lived-in, house on the island of Hawaii, windward side (think RAINY). August and September--the beginnings of all things to make a life in Hawaii after spending the past thirty years living overseas in Germany, Japan, South Korea, and then Japan again...but Okinawa for the second stint.

At Rise: Although I have been informed that my household goods arrived at the Port of Hilo the last week of July and just await Customs clearance, no firm delivery date is established. Nevertheless, I have officially arrived on island only to reside in a largely empty house. True, the house comes equipped with refrigerator, stove, oven, and a microwave, and, two days after my arrival, I also take possession of a washer and dryer purchased at the end of June during a brief foray to the island. I have a blow-up bed, a set of sheets, a blanket, a set of towels, and two suitcases worth of stuff. Oh yes, and wifi! Don’t forget the wifi! (Another item high on the priority to-do list for that June foray.) The windows of the house wear no “treatments” whatsoever, so I tend to arise with the light and hunker down with the dark.

NOTES:

1. On August 9, my household goods are finally delivered. I begin dwelling within canyons of boxes. My Okinawa downsizing was certainly not sufficient, so I commence the most serious discard scenarios of my life. And somehow it is easier than ever before because this time when I meet up once more with the stuff accumulated over a lifetime, I can actually say, “Nope, I really am not going to need that,” and “This just doesn’t have magic for me any more.”

2. Every year of my life since I was six, I have headed off to school at the end of summer break, either as a student or as a teacher, until this one. At moments it seems strange not to be in school now, but the reality of not being there is not bothering me much. Whether it is because I remain quite overwhelmed with a house to unpack, put-together, and maintain along with a yard that is largely a blank demanding immediate attention (and I seemingly in a losing competition with the total jungle of a next-door lot seducing that blank so thrivingly to become one with it once more) or because of other circumstances, reasons, or states of mind, the fact remains that I putter through my days never accomplishing all I intended, and that is so very normal.

3. And let’s return to that blank that is my yard.  May I remind you how well things grow in Hawaii--things you want and things you don’t--because the growing season has no end...as in never ever. I do love that wild orchids grow at the edges of my wee plot of land and that I have  successfully planted hibiscus and bougainvillea and now have a notion to attempt a plumeria. And I also design--still in my mind--the herb/vegetable garden out back, but I must do further research because I may need to use raised beds to compensate for my dearth of soil situation?! (I’ll get back to you on this one.) Meanwhile, the native weeds and wild grasses have the capacity to grow multiple centimeters in one day despite the seeming lack of topsoil!

Then, when engaged in yardwork--as in pruning those jungly nether regions--I discover vegetation, considered houseplants in all my former lives, flourishing in the Hawaiian wilderness without any human care, and each species is gorgeous, lushly green and steroidal in size and reach!

4. Several mornings each week I go for a run, usually in my neighborhood. Since school started, I wait until seven or so to avoid the sporadic clumps of students and the convoy of school buses they await because by seven the little roads will return to mostly empty and mine alone. There is one school bus--a short one--still on it’s route sometimes, but the driver and I just wave and go about our business. My business, in addition to the run, includes analyzing yards for landscaping ideas, scattering the feral chickens roosting in the verge or parading across my path, puzzling out what fruit could possibly be hanging from the vine entwined around the cable wire above the road that look rather like avocados but avocados don’t grow on vines, and mobilizing the dogs.

Probably at least half of the homes in my neighborhood have dogs--multiple dogs, in fact. Most are fenced, penned, or tied. I excite them, though, when I run by, and they yap and bark at me or else at the dogs across the way who are also yapping and barking. I can’t decide if they are warning me away or asking to come with me. Some change their chorus to a mournful howl as I leave them behind. A few I’ve met with their owners. Hula Girl is my favorite--dog, not owner!

5. I am close to mastering the layout of Home Depot and Ace Hardware. I have purchased a power drill to accompany my power screwdriver. I understand the purpose of silicone grease as part of the process of changing filters for my water catchment system--still a wet endeavor for me, but I am improving. I have a clothesline project currently in my sights but believe I will have to hire out the building of shelves over the washer and dryer space.

6. Yes, food can be expensive in Hawaii. A loaf of bread often costs $6+, and a twelve-pack of soda in aluminum cans comes in at $7 on sale and usually more in the $9 range. Good thing I rarely desire bread, and I prefer my Diet Coke in bottles...which is a cheaper way to buy it here, by the way. Of course, I can always assuage my thirst for said beverage with a purchase of a large Diet Coke at McDonald’s for $1 plus tax--which is four more cents, should you be wondering. Fresh produce is always less expensive at the farmers markets than at the grocery stores although grocery stores will carry produce not available at farmer’s markets. I rather enjoy my forays to farmers markets and average at least one foray per week. At the Hilo Farmers Market on Saturday, and only on Saturday, this couple sells homemade brownie/cookie bars that are presently my to-die-for treat. I sample all their samples every time--double chocolate, salted caramel, butterscotch/macadamia, and lilikoi (passion fruit) and then buy the discounted twinpack with a salted caramel one and a lilikoi one. The twinpack lasts me three to four days if I’m disciplined, two when I’m not.

Although vinegar and Dove’s dark chocolate cost less at Walmart, Target wins the price wars more often than you might think. So I signed up for a Target credit card that I use exclusively at Target because it also discounts all my totals an additional 5%. I have become a collector of coupons, and a Costco member. (Giggle all you want and then revise your image of me; I have had to renegotiate my image of myself!)

7. War with the insects continues, particularly with mosquitos and ants (and my ants bite). The movers kept the doors to my home wide open for close to ten hours (with a perfectly acceptable rationale, of course), but apparently numerous mosquitos took that opportunity to colonize the interior regions of my house. About a month has elapsed, and only now can I safely sleep with a limb extended from beneath the covers without gaining at least one new red welt. I have invested in repellent with DEET, DEET-free repellent with lemon/eucalyptus, and several essential oils known for their insect-repelling qualities. My arsenal is loaded and employed evermore effectively. I seem to have regained control of the battle with the mosquitos; ant control remains a work in progress.

8. Mentioned previously, I live on the windward side of the island, and it rains here--a lot! All kinds of rain, too, ranging from a misty wetness with droplets too small to see all the way to torrents, where rain falls in sheets, in entire geometric planes, one beside the next and touching. When you live in a home with a metal roof, and I do, the music of rain changes and crescendos are mighty.

9. Balancing Monkey Yoga--so yeah, I just finished my two week stretch of new student come to as many classes as you would like for $20. I attended Steve’s basic yoga classes--suggested for beginners--and Vicky’s pilates classes. I like yoga but I don’t love it. I will acknowledge that my body benefits from it, but my mind has quite a distance to travel before I anywhere approach “zen.” In my mind I’m telling Steve not to talk so much or beseeching him to move us into the next position before the scream in my stretching muscles transfers to a scream emanating from my mouth. Pilates I enjoy more. For me it moves faster, I sweat and strive in ways more familiar to me, and I feel its connection to the world of dance. In each class I also confront the reality that I have not kept that flexible body of yore that did splits and backbends with ease.

I will continue at the Balancing Monkey, but next I plan to check out a water aerobics class to add into the mix.

10. Church is like it has been everywhere around the world, and yet church is also different. People I have never met greet me with a kiss on the cheek. Women with thick coils of long dark hair clad in muumuus designed with luscious color wear an aura of regal splendor. All beginnings have “Aloha.” Random prayers are offered in Hawaiian. One speaker dissects the Hawaiian language, explaining how “aloha” connects to the creation story of Genesis:  “alo” is our front, our outer self, who we are in this world; “ha” is the breath of life, the breath of God to give us life.

My Okinawa Realities

With three months now of life lived in Okinawa, I shall herewith share some observations, experiences, and trivia--trivial and otherwise--amassed thus far. And with the random nature of this collection, I shall opt for a list format.

1. Sunscreen. Although I have long been a queen of sunscreen compared to many of my friends and acquaintances, the abundance and intensity of Okinawa sunshine has galvanized the quantity of my application moments. I pretty much reapply whenever I head outside unless it's night time or it's raining! In my bathroom cabinet resides a large container of the stuff, and I carry somewhat smaller tubes in my purse and in my backpack. Even the glove compartment of my car holds a tube of sunscreen.

2. The Expressway. Okinawa has one expressway--perhaps a cousin to a freeway and a step-cousin to the Autobahn--that stretches about sixty kilometers from Naha, situated in the southern region of the island, to Nago, definitely in the northern half of the island but about fifty kilometers short of Cape Hedo, the most northern point. It is a toll road with eighty kilometers per hour posted as the maximum speed, but it has no stoplights--a most worthy perk on an island where stoplights abound in all populated localities. Tolls can add up quickly, though; for my commute, I travel less than ten miles on the Expressway at a cost of about $3 each direction. To encourage potential renters to consider places in "outlying" areas--like where I live--landlords are often willing to negotiate Expressway fees into the rent. That is my arrangement. Since I head to school quite early in the morning, I often use the regular highway on the way to work because traffic has yet to jam the route. After school, though, the Expressway usually wins the very brief debate about which way to go home. Already two gentlemen who man the tollbooth where I pay when I exit the Expressway recognize me; we have a regular ritual of greetings in both English and Japanese, nods and smiles, and then thank-yous in the two languages once again; it's like both sides of the conversation must showcase their abilities in the native and the foreign language!

3. Roosters. Yes, you read that correctly. Even though night has yet to surrender to dawn when I leave for school in the morning, I hear roosters crowing somewhere out there in the darkness. They know the sun soon will announce its upcoming arrival at the horizon, and I know I really do live in an outlying locale.

4. Rice paddies. As referenced above, I am a bit of an outlier with regard to my place of residence. Just over the fence--and in full view from my side balcony--are rice paddies. The first time I saw my apartment with a realtor, the rice seedlings had just been planted. I have since watched their cycle of life all the way unto the harvest just over a week ago and now curiously await what comes next--another crop or some weeks to be fallow.

 I took this photo the first time I saw the apartment with a realtor.

 Scarecrows showed up in October.

 Harvest.

 And this morning...scarecrows down! 

But not this one at the far end. We had a wild rainstorm last night, so I think the two scarecrows down may be "an act of God" and not "an act of farmer"!

5. Student name of the year. This school year, like my sister Diane--also a teacher--I have a preponderance of students named Jaden/Jaiden/Jayden/Jadyn/Jaydon/Jadon. Eight to be exact. Six boys, two girls, and six spellings.

6. Creatures. So far I have witnessed the presence of mice, a rat, a mongoose (the result of an unfortunate import choice), snails, snails on steroids (another transplant by mistake), and a variety of insects. In my own home I have encountered a spider on steroids (he cast a shadow on the floor!...which necessitated the use of the vacuum) and also a cockroach on steroids--tropical climate must be synonymous with "steroid."  In fact, "Ricky"--because I felt like I could hear his cockroach exoskeleton actually click as he moved--and I met my first night in my apartment when I got up to go to the bathroom. I turned on the light and immediately understood I was not alone; Ricky occupied definite space there on the floor! He then scurried into oblivion as I contemplated how a cockroach found his way to an apartment on the ninth floor and survived for the weeks said apartment had remained unoccupied. We continued our nocturnal meetings for three nights in a row before I concluded there were too many of us and Ricky would be the designated one to exit. Still, Ricky just embodied too much crunch and muscle for me to confront him with brute force. The thought seriously made me shudder. Hence, I opened the bathroom cabinet and amongst the motley assortment therein located a bottle of body splash--healing garden green tea. I do not regret to inform you that Ricky ultimately succumbed to alcohol poisoning, and my bathroom smelled quite lovely nigh unto 24 hours!

I have not seen a habu--except for the one preserved in a bottle of sake on the bar near where we paid for a meal--and would most definitely prefer not to...especially in a real life situation. 

"Two native and two introduced species of habu snakes--venomous and aggressive in nature--inhabit the vegetation and jungle of Okinawa, making hiking and late-night ground travel very dangerous for people here."

I watch for them when I start a morning run before it's fully light and comfort myself with thoughts that they probably don't like being near the ocean...something I have no idea whether is true or not!

7. Beach men. Here I run the path that follows the beach coastline near my home. Most of my runs commence near the time of sunrise, and often fishermen have poles set up at various points along my route. Lean, sinewy, and weathered, some listen to a radio or follow something on a phone; others watch the sea zen style. Yet they always nod at me and some of them even smile.  There is one man who is not a fisherman at all, but he always shows at some point on any of my morning runs. This man never greets me; in fact, he never looks at me at all. He watches the daybreak over the sea while consuming a small morning repast: coffee in a can (probably from a vending machine or convenience store), a bottle of water, and something crunchy--a snack-like finger food fried crispy.

These photos I actually took on an afternoon run, so my regular morning beach men were not available for the photo op!

8. Cooler in the trunk. Well, okay, I just removed it last week because, after a foray into the commissary, I no longer feel the pressure to race home before my food melts and/or rots. But there is certainly a season here in Okinawa where one realizes some food may not survive the ride home without additional temperature protection!

9. Sea and sky. Always. And I may have a thousand photos before a year is up. Sea and sky--they are ever-changing and gloriously relentless in their capacity to teach me another facet of beauty.

10. Seasons? The calendar shows November, and the sweatiness factor--temperature and humidity--of August and September has begun to dissipate  Yet, I still sleep with the windows open and only a sheet and a summer coverlet. Although I often wear a hoodie or jacket inside buildings air-conditioned to temperatures surely in the polar range, I have yet to need one while outside. So, I think I may be learning a different pattern to the seasons.