Tequila & Stieg Larsson In The Margarita Moon Pie

My magic Sunday afternoon happened. Big Guy and I took the kayaks to Lincoln Lake. He fished from his fancy red Field & Stream kayak. I floated in my lime-green, bathtub like Precision Swifty, aptly named the Margarita Moon Pie, accompanied by Chihuahua-mix Tequila and my copy of Stieg Larsson's The Girl Who Played With Fire. A chihuahua, however unhappy, will nap away worries about drowning. And a book, unlike a Kindle, can be read in a kayak. And this writer, Stieg Larsson, is one of my favorites. Larsson reveals himself in his writings. He supports the rights of individuals--even mentally shaky ones--to make their own choices. He values an independent press. He abhors violence against women, especially the illegal sex trade. None of these revelations is unique to Larsson. A lot of us feel the same way. But few of us have the gift to write novels that weave these beliefs into individual characters and situations. It's impossible to read a Larsson book without sludging through society's underbelly. At the same time, darkness doesn't saturate or drive his books--complex, flawed, prickly characters keep the story moving. Unfortunately, Larsson is dead. He wrote three novels and died before the first one was published. Once I read the last book of his trilogy The Girl Who Kicked The Hornet's Nest, there won't be any more Larsson. But tucked away in his first novel The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo are references to other writers. My guess, and I'll find out if I'm right, is that Elizabeth George, Sue Grafton, Gellert Tamas and Ake Edwardson tell intriguing tales that include a slice of themselves in each one. From wherever Larsson is now, and I think he's one of the good souls, I hope he sees his complex characters spring to life far beyond the borders of his native Sweden. I plan to take his recommended writers out for lake floats, too. My guess is that Larsson would approve. The Margarita Moon Pie is where I read and think about what's right and Tequila naps and/or worries about all that water. No Kindles invited.
What I'm reading now:  Faithful Place by Tana French.

I Got One!

It's more fun to fish when you catch a fish.

I finally caught one, a small mouthed bass.

Then I panicked. I didn't want my fish to die. 

So Big Guy freed it from the hook. 

It swam away, embarrassed.

Feeble-Minded and Laundry-Free

As soon as I age enough to look like a feeble-minded sack of wrinkles, I plan to vacation naked. Almost three weeks have passed since we returned from Hawaii. Vacation laundry still haunts me. Thanks to Big Guy's frequent flyer status, we took as much luggage as we wanted on our trip. And we wanted lots. Everyone didn't wear every bit of clothing, but every stitch of it got dropped down the laundry chute as soon as the trip ended. I've washed it. I've dried it. Now I'm folding shirts, matching socks and ignoring anything that needs ironing. I have time to think ahead to my naked trip. I'll wear one set of clothing to get to wherever I go and wear the same set on the way back. I will pack a towel for sitting, a huge bottle of sunscreen and a pair of sunglasses. I'll bring my flip-flops, too.

Beautiful Day In The Neighborhood

A Good Sermon Gone Bad

Some events stick with you. Years ago, I sat in the pew as an Episcopal priest declared "Heaven is not a fish-fry." Like a good sermon gone bad, I immediately quit worrying about my soul and started to worry about what food God serves to guests. Eternity is forever. And that's a really long time to be pushing food around the dinner plate. Afer visiting Hawaii, my bet is that God serves Spam. With as much time as God invested in creating Hawaii, sprinkling the islands from one end to the other with tins of Spam has to be a sample menu of some sort. Hawaiians love their Spam. They eat the jiggly, artificially formed meat-treat morning, noon and night. Trying not to think on the canned aspect, I ate an omelet egg, cheese and Spam sandwich and liked it. I also ate a seaweed wrapped Spam sushi roll, and I liked that, too. I didn't try the Spam-flavored shaved ice. But I'm feeling decidedly Spam-confident about finding something worth nibbling on in heaven. Spam isn't the first weird food I've encountered in Hawaii. As a child at Oahu's Fort Shafter Elementary School, I remember the school cafeteria ladies serving what seemed to be raw fish for lunch. On our trip, we stopped by my old school and  I asked a kindergarten teacher about the lunch menu. Raw fish isn't served now, and she didn't know if it ever had been served. But, she added, squid is on the menu. Apparently school kids, even in paradise, can't catch a break. In heaven, though, it'll be different. It'll be Spam-tastic.

Fixing To, In Paradise

A real surfer keeps stacks of surfboards stuffed under his house. That's what I discovered when we stayed in a backyard studio apartment owned by Surfer Guy and his wife. They live on Oahu's north shore, one block from Rocky Point Beach in a house wedged on a tiny patch of ground. It's guarded by a Jack Russell and comes with a five-foot wide right-of-way to a deserted strip of sandy beach owned by a striped, calico cat. The only fly in their patch of paradise would be their neighbor Grumpy Old Guy. He sits on his carport and screams at cars to slow down. He screamed his island greeting at our rental car, a Chevy, as it turned onto the street between the two houses. Big Guy tried to return the greeting, luckily the car windows were up. As we pulled up to our rental, Surfer Guy met us at the door. He was fixing to replace a clothes dryer. "Fxing to" in that it took four days for the new dryer to move out of the yard and into the basement. In Hawaii, "fixing to" is contagious. We awoke the first morning "fixing to" see the sunrise on the beach, but settled for seeing it from our front porch. Birdie kept "fixing to" do her summer homework. Daisy kept "fixing to" stay up really late at night. I kept "fixing to" make some phone calls and Big Guy kept "fixing to" peel the Chevy around the corner really fast. But there's no way to rush in Hawaii. Birdie set aside her homework. Daisy gave up on turning us into night people. I let my phone die. Grumpy Old Guy wasn't on the carport when Big Guy thought about gunning it. After five nights, we checked out of our studio to head toward Honolulu, I got the point of Grumpy Old Guy's island greeting. Get the dryer installed, you'll do laundry. Drive too fast, you'll won't get anywhere faster. You'll simply be stuck that much quicker behind someone driving slow, probably Grumpy Old Guy savoring one more day in paradise.

Chicken Lady

We almost met Chicken Lady. As we ate dinner outdoors at the Shark's Cove Grill on Oahu's north shore, she walked around back to rummage through the grill's dumpster. The wild chickens, who nibbled near our feet, took off after her. At that moment, I learned, motivated chickens move fast. They formed a ragged half-moon around Chicken Lady. Then a second ragged curve, this one of feral cats, gathered behind the chickens. Chicken Lady, bent over waist-deep in whatever, started flinging scraps behind her back: Some juicy bits landed near chickens, other tidbits landed near cats. She kept a few pieces for herself. "Girls," I observed, "That's what happens when you buy a one-way ticket to Hawaii." During the next few days, we watched Chicken Lady make her rounds and discovered she lives with a pet cat under a patch of shrubs along Waimea Bay Beach. She was the first of many homeless we saw on Oahu. Most probably started their Hawaiian adventure with a dream to live in paradise, then tumbled into mental illness. Chicken Lady sleeps and wakes to the sound of the surf. She feeds the chickens and the cats. They would miss her if she wasn't there. To live by the ocean, to be needed: It's still a scrap of paradise.

School Starts

Today, Birdie began her senior year of high school. Just like her first day of kindergarten, Birdie decided to wear a purple shirt. This one didn't have a silver star etched across the front. And the rest of her outfit is different. She traded out the matching purple knit skirt popular with five-year-olds for a decidedly brief pair of denim shorts, popular with teens. And her backpack isn't pink and purple. Now it's practical black. Looking at her in the fuzzy light of morning, for a moment I wondered, where did my baby go? I wanted sweet five-year-old Birdie back. Then I shook sentiment aside. I embraced my prickly teenage Birdie in a no-nonsense hug, wished her a good day and returned to bed for a few minutes more. By choice, Birdie fixes her breakfast, pulls together her backpack, fills her water bottle and makes a lunch. Then she drives herself to school. All of that's O.K. I raised her to do for herself. Now she can. Not only am I proud of her, I'm also well-rested.

The Giant's Passing

The giant book store that is closing has crept into my nighttime dreams. I stand at the entrance with a "30% off original retail price" coupon. But there is nothing to buy. Bankruptcy sellers have marked everything to 75% off. My coupon is worthless. Most of the shelves are empty. A forlorn copy of a James Shatner autobiography lays on the floor; footprints mark the cover.  As I awake, this much I know is true: I hate those 30% off coupons. Before the giant book store inundated my inbox with discount coupons, I paid the asking price for books and I bought books when I wanted to read them. Then the coupons started. I got the crazy notion that it is wrong to pay full price for a brand new book. Purchasing books became a matter of waiting for a coupon. A lot of good books didn't get bought. Now, for lots of reasons, the giant is dying. Its passing marks the end of my misguided obsession with linking books to coupons. Tere are better places to buy books. St. Louis has a strong alliance of independent book sellers who sponsor book clubs, host book signings, support their neighborhoods and often offer books that large chains won't consider. Most important: They don't flood my inbox with an unending stream of impersonal discount coupons. I shop Rebounds for recycled books. But I'm done with buying new books only when I am given a discount. For those got-to-have, first-read treasures, I plan to shop the independent stores. I will pay a fair price to own and read a new book. I will dog-ear to my heart's content and then pass my book to Rebounds. I get store credit and my read becomes someone else's treasure at a sweeter price. Don't misunderstand: I love a good deal, but no longer will a coupon determine where and when I buy books I want to read.
What I'm reading now:  Everyone Worth Knowing by Lauren Weisberger.