Tropical Flowers to Cheer Your Day

Here in Hawaii the flowers bloom year round.

It's always a pleasure to visit the tropics this time of year when it's cold and dreary at home so I thought I would post some photos of the flowers around our condo to bring a little warmth into the hearts of you who are living north of the flower zone.

Plumeria have nice flowers and leaves

I haven't seen any of the other colors of Plumeria in this area. Maybe these white-yellow flowers are acclimatized to this area where it is particularly dry.

Hibiscus of many colors grow in the area. Many are hybrids.

Flowering trees are everywhere.

Bougainvillea of many colors are formed into hedges. Some are allowed to climb naturally.

 Ground cover with flowers.

More ground cover in bloom.

Hope you enjoyed seeing the bright flowers of the Big Island. Our week is drawing down and we head to Honolulu Sunday. I'll see what can be posted from there.

Autumn in Waikoloa

This time of year in Seattle tends to be wet and cool. But here we are in Hawaii, on the Island of Hawaii (also known as The Big Island), near the town of Waikoloa.

Gray Line tourist map of Hawaii

If you enlarge the map you will find Waikoloa and our condo at Paniolo Greens just about due west of Mauna Kea, the northern large mountain.  The elevation here is 410' although it seems higher because of the view down to the lava flows and ocean to the west.

It's the same time of year here but things are a little different in this part of the country. Today's temperature here in Waikoloa Town is forecast to range from 71 to 89 degrees Fahrenheit with winds NNE 10-20 mph with "abundant" sunshine. This time of year those winds (Trade Winds) blow 90% of the time. Only when there is a low pressure zone about 500 miles to the northeast of Hawaii do the winds reverse and blow for a day or two from the SSW bringing rain to this normally dry side of the island.

Our condo is situated on the second and third floors of the building. The entrance is on the south and the lanai on each floor faces almost due north overlooking the second and third holes of the golf course with Kahala Mountain in the distance.

Kohala Mountain just after sunrise this morning. Taken from the third floor lanai

This morning was the first time I've seen the top of the mountain since it is usually shrouded in clouds. I would judge the wind to be blowing right at that 20 mph forecast, if not a little harder so that may be a help in keeping the summit clear of clouds. 

The golfers hit down the number two fairway which runs parallel to our building. Many of them end up in one of the two traps that guard the green in front of our condo. I went out and checked last night and found the traps have a thin layer of small gravel covering a hard base. Pity the poor bloke who tries to hit out. Many of them just pick up and throw their ball onto the green.

Number three is a par three that crosses the pond behind the eucalyptus tree in the foreground. The men's' tees are off to the left in the photo. Even the white tees require a good strong shot into the wind to reach the green just on the other side.  Red tees are just to the right of the two Norfolk Pines so the ladies have a much easier shot at the green.

An hour after sunrise the golfers are hard at it fighting that wind. Taken from the second floor lanai.

From the other side of our digs we look east at Mauna Kea where we can make out the observatory domes glinting in the sunlight. To the south southeast we see the wide dome of Mauna Loa which so far has been covered by clouds.

Moving away from the condo complex at Paniolo Greens there is a small shopping center about half a mile away where we ate dinner last night at a nice Italian Osteria. There is also a grocery store and some small shops in that area. Other than that the area is given over to condos, lava fields and smaller houses with other villages at least fifteen minutes away, down the hill. 

Tomorrow I'll post some photos of the local flowers to show what the flora of Hawaii looks like this time of year.

Observations While Walking my Dog

My guard dog, Kuro, watching for bad guys while I watch Elliott Bay

When Kuro and I walk around our part of this planet we observe some interesting things. In some cases those observations seem pretty mundane but in others they seem profound. I won't label any of these observations one way or the other but I think there may be some of both and maybe a couple of 'tweeners.

A walk begins with the first step. I'm sure you have heard this old saying in various expressions but the fact remains, you can't start a walk (or a journey) unless you take that first step.

Sometimes I am uncertain whether the weather will permit a walk and sometimes I'm tired or would rather do other things. Kuro is a firm believer in this adage and when that time of day rolls around there better be a good reason for not heading for the door. Only a full blown rain storm or maybe a blizzard might dissuade him. Although, come to think of it, Kuro hasn't seen a blizzard in his three plus years of life.

In any case, when it's time for a walk he won't let me make excuses, so off we go by taking that first step,

Our brains are amazing. Our brain has often been likened to a computer. It can tell time with great accuracy. I haven't used an alarm clock for many years because if I set my mind it works better by bringing me out of sleep gently within a minute or so of the desired time. It is also good at telling direction. It probably would be better if we trusted it more and let it lead but we tend to mistrust our brain and depend on Google Maps or a compass or, you get my drift.

Our walks cover mostly city streets with their sidewalks and curbs. I've noticed that when I'm not paying attention my brain measures the distance to the next curb or pothole or broken sidewalk raised by a hidden root. As we near the obstacle unconsciously my stride lengthens or shortens as required to take several, seemingly full strides, before stepping up onto the curb or raised sidewalk or whatever. 

If I pay attention to the process it seems I can tell up to about eight steps in advance which foot will go onto the raised curb or other obstacle. It seems uncanny and accurate except when my normal stride would result in a half step and then my brain won't tell the part that communicates with me which foot. If I don't pay attention, as mentioned, it's all automatic. 

A whimsical sunset near home in Seattle

Noo clouds, no sunset. Around the Pacific Northwest we have lots of gray skies so people appreciate blue sky and sunshine. I like the blue sky too but I also know that if there are no clouds we won't see a beautiful sunset. When the sky is completely covered with clouds out into the Pacific we won't see a sunset either but we need some clouds to have one of those beautiful sunsets we all like. Next time you wish for a clear blue sky remember, if your wish comes true you won't see a spectacular sunset that night.

A spectacular sunset over the Pacific near Mexico last January

Seasons change despite my earnest entreaties. Especially near the end of one season or another I find myself wishing that we might have another week of that pleasant season before the next one starts. It never seems to do any good. The hand of Mother Nature moves despite my desires.

Sometimes I think I've been successful and the ending season seems to linger for an extra burst but then I'm shocked to see it leave after all. When we walk I need to remember to observe the weather, the flowers and plants, the temperatures, the sky and the feel of that season because it will soon change.

People tend to reciprocate. As I remember my youth, everyone I passed on the street would return a wave. Today it's not quite as certain, but I've found that even with the increased isolation and retreat into electronic devices we experience today, if you wave and say, "Hello" people will return the greeting. If I walk with my head down and ignore passersby, they too walk on by without a greeting or wave.

Another difference from my youth is the studied avoidance of looking at other people in today's America. I guess women and girls are taught not to look at people in case it might be taken as an unwelcome invitation but in the last fifteen or twenty years I notice that people in general of both (or should I say all) sexes, avoid looking at others on the sidewalk. Here again, I have found that if I look directly at them and say, "Hello," more than half will return the greeting.

In other parts of the world, particularly Asia, the custom of not looking at your fellow travelers has not taken over yet and people there will still look you in the eye as they pass and often nod a greeting.

Strangers are hard to read. This might be a corollary of the previous observation. We can't tell by their appearance if strangers, people or dogs, will be friendly.

Sometimes the meanest looking dog or his human will turn out to be very friendly and sometimes the nice looking guy will growl at me without justification. I think dogs have better manners.

Walking uphill is harder than down. Now, you might say, "What kind of dumb observation is that? Of course it's easier to walk downhill." But as the TV pitchman said, "Wait, there's more..."

When we go out walking I like to start uphill first because I'm fresh and I can get the harder part done early. Sometimes when I'm tired or not very enthusiastic I'll start downhill first because I find that once I get a few blocks into our walk I feel better and don't mind walking back uphill when required. Kuro doesn't care which way we go as long as we go.

Our walks vary in distance from 20 minutes or about one and one-half kilometers to an hour or about four and one-half kilometers.  Sometimes I think I'll take a short route but after a few blocks I begin to enjoy the evening and my company and we stretch it out to a longer walk. When we start off uphill I know we'll be having an easier time on the return so it's easier to go for the extra blocks and enjoy the neighborhood.

Stop to smell the roses. In the spring and summer I like to smell the roses because they are fresh. Some of their flowers are very aromatic and some have very little smell. I can't tell which is which so I stick my nose in them all and am often rewarded with a wonderful fragrance. Kuro sniffs all the plants too but he's not stopping to smell the roses, he's checking to see which of his friends has been along that way.

We never know what's around the corner. Kuro learned early on to look around all the corners whether we are turning that way or not. He knows there might be another dog or, better yet, a cat or a squirrel, or even better, a boy on a scooter. Cats and squirrels run away and boys on scooters make such an interesting noise he can't help barking and chasing.

I, too, look around corners, not just while walking but in other places where the unexpected can make an appearance. Maybe it's a sign of advancing age but I keep an eye out for the other driver that didn't see the stop sign, the child who hasn't yet learned to beware of cars or the pet that can't resist running across the street after that tempting squirrel.

Carpe diem. This ancient phrase from the Roman poet, Horace, is usually translated as "seize the day." In modern times it seems to be construed to mean "Grab all you can today and don't worry about tomorrow," but I think Horace was encouraging the reader to do what is possible today to increase the odds for a better tomorrow.

When I feel a little sluggish or tired I try to remember that walking is a great way to exercise, breathe some fresh air and raise my spirits. For a better tomorrow, try walking today. If you have a little dog to keep you company, so much the better.

Thrashing Time

Yesterday I had occasion to drive to Bellingham. It was a hot day and as I drove through the Skagit Valley I pulled off the freeway and rolled down the windows to observe the grain harvesting operation in a couple of the fields.

Farmers today use combines to harvest grain. It is an efficient operation where one man drives the combine and one or two more drive trucks to haul the clean grain to storage. The cabs of the trucks and combine are air conditioned so even though it is a tedious job it isn't so uncomfortable and the operators can listen to their favorite music or converse with friends via cell phone. In my truck I could feel the hot air, breathe the dust and smell the smells of harvesting wheat in summer but in their air conditioned cocoons those operators were just doing another job.

Seeing those combines working the fields reminded me of the late forties when things were a little different in the grain harvesting business on Grandpa's family farm there on Orcas island.

 As the wheat ripened in August we would hook the old Farmall tractor to the binder and head for the field.

From the days of the hand sickle to the cradle scythe, harvesting was a labor intensive operation. They say a good day for a skilled man using a cradle scythe was three acres. Another person would gather the cut stalks and tie them into sheaves and another would stack five to seven sheaves into a shock for drying. With the development of the binder into the modern machine I pulled, we could cut and tie at least ten times as much in one day.

Since the binder was built to be pulled by a team of horses it had a long tongue and a spring-mounted seat for the driver operator. The cutting bar was on the left with a rotating wheel of wooden bars above. The cutter would cut the wheat, the bars would knock the stalks back onto a canvas carrier and the cut stalks would be carried across the bed and up a forty-five degree slope and dumped into the bin to be tied. The bundles would be wrapped with sisal twine (binder twine), knotted and dumped out onto a carrier on the right side. The carrier was composed of slightly curved metal bars so when enough sheaves had accumulated Grandma would drop the carrier and the sheaves would be swept off by the ground.

Thanks here to my sister, Retha, who, after reading my last post, reminded me that whenever she left the house, Grandma wore rubber knee boots because she was afraid of snakes. Never mind that we don't have poisonous snakes here, she worried so much about them she wore those uncomfortable boots. Incidentally, I've always admired the Japanese name where they are called "nagagutsu" literally translated as long (nagai) shoes (kutsu).

Grandpa bought ankle-high black leather shoes that had hooks on the uppers. He would wear them to town and to dances then as they got older he would wear them around the farm. On the other end he always wore a hat. Again, when it was new it was for town and other social functions and when older it was a permanent fixture on his head. His face and neck were suntanned a deep brown but from his eyebrows up his skin was white.

Of course, back then we never wore safety glasses, hard hats, safety boots or ear protection. It seems like I wore an old pair of tennis shoes. We didn't know any better. While we use safety precautions today for most things, people (especially younger) seem to forget that loud sounds can permanently damage the audio nerves.

It was there on the farm that I learned to tie the first real knot since I learned to tie my shoe laces. The spools of binder twine were mounted on two spindles. One was being fed into the machine and the other was ready to go but the end of one spool had to be tied to the beginning of the second so the operation would be endless. The knot used to tie the twine together was the square knot and it was important because if an inexperienced hand tied a granny knot the knot would come untied in the binder and the knotting mechanism would have to be re-threaded. That was a time consuming process so NO mistakes allowed.

Later Grandpa or some of us would work the field to stack four sheaves cut side down with one or two more laid across the top. After drying for a few days they were ready to be transported to the threshing machine, or "thrashin' machine" as we knew it.

Every day Grandpa would carry a gallon jug of well water to the field, place it in the shade of a shock of hay or wheat and we'd have a drink once in awhile. For lunch we had a sandwich prepared by Grandma earlier that morning. No bottled water or refrigerated coolers for us. The work was hot and dusty but since we didn't have contrasting air conditioned spaces we didn't mind.

After the wheat had dried it was thrashing time.

A day or two before the appointed day we would load available wagons and the truck with the sheaves from the fields then early on thrashin' day a couple more old flatbed farm trucks would arrive and head for the fields to load.

Grandpa would fire up the old Caterpiller tractor, twist the drive belt once, stretch it between the pulley on the back of the Cat and the bull wheel on the thrashing machine, draw it taut and engage the pulley. The Cat would groan, slow then return to speed. The wheels and pitman rods on the thrashing machine would come up to speed and the workers would come up to speed.

A loaded truck or trailer would be jockeyed into position alongside the gaping maw of the thresher with its chomping teeth designed to break up the sheaves. Two men unloaded the wheat then that vehicle was driven to the field to be reloaded by the field crew and eventually driven back to the thresher to feed that hungry machine.

Straw and chaff passed through the machine and were blown out the pipe on the back onto what became a huge pile of straw. The clean wheat grains sifted down through the various screens and were lifted by an auger then dumped into the bag chute. The bag chute terminated in a double gunny sack holder with a diverter lever. As each bag filled the man stationed there threw the diverter lever, tripped the holder rod so its teeth released the full bag, replaced it with an empty and quickly sewed the bag shut with a bag needle and cotton twine. By that time the second bag would be almost full and he would go through the routine again.

When I was in Vietnam last year I saw this threshing crew using a foot-powered  machine. A basket and
the  ambient breeze were used to winnow the chaff from the grains of rice. 

The size of the crew varied but usually consisted of two boys driving vehicles, two men in the field pitching sheaves onto the vehicle and one stacking them, two men feeding the machine, one bagger and one helper preparing bags and reloading needles, one man toting and stacking full sacks and one relief man to spell off the workers as the need arose. The machine and the workers worked straight through until noon.

Old threshing machine similar to the one Grandpa had. Sheaves were fed in on the left, straw blew out
the right and grain was bagged on the  other side (out of view here) of the machine. 

While the work in the fields was going full bore the work in the kitchen was going just as fast. The women and older girls had been working since breakfast getting ready with food "enough to feed a thrashin' crew" as we said in those days. 

There would be bread and butter, a roast or two, fried chicken, potatoes with gravy, maybe some vegetables from Grandma's garden and pies and cakes along with cold milk and hot coffee. Plenty of calories but no overweight people because the hard work burned up all those calories.

Back to the field the machines were fired up again and more grain waited to be threshed. 

In the evening most of the crew would go home, we would help Grandpa do chores and we finally got to eat again. There at my place at supper would be a bright fifty cent piece, my wages for the day. I was very proud of earning that money.

I say most of the crew went home. Smith was the exception. He was Grandpa's hired hand. He would show up at the farm in the late spring, stay all summer and then disappear in the fall. He said his name was Smith. He got room and board and Grandpa may have paid him something at the end of the summer. Today it would be almost impossible to be a "Smith" since we require endless paperwork and identifiers of both employers and employees. Well, except illegal aliens. I guess one of those could pass as a "Smith" with a disreputable employer.  

After dinner there was no TV, video games, personal music piped straight to eardrums, Facebook or other such diversions since none of those yet existed. Well, TV had been invented but was unknown at that time on the Island. 

Not that we had time in any case since we soon hit our beds, hayseeds, dust, sweat and all. Back then baths were few and far between. More likely we would make a trip to the lake or the saltwater beach on Sunday to wash off the accumulated grime.

Work, eat and sleep was the general rule. Overall, I think it made me a better person.

Instant Travel

Northgate Park is a nice park just north of the downtown Durham area and is only three blocks away from our son and daughter-in-law's place. It has one of my favorite walking trails.

I go into the park near the south end on W. Club Boulevard and follow South Ellerbe Creek Trail as it winds through the pine and oak woods alongside Ellerbe Creek. Crossing W. Lavender Ave., it drops the South part and becomes Ellerbe Creek Trail.

It's a pleasant walk, even in the heat of the day which this time of year runs in the mid- eighties to mid-nineties. Depending on the time of day the trees shade most of the trail.

After crossing Lavender, I walk around the west side of a large dog park and head on north until the trail takes a jog on W. Murray Avenue and then continues north until it terminates at Stadium Drive. In all, probably a four-mile round trip.

If I walk the full course it takes a little over an hour so sometimes I stop at Murray Ave and head back home.

About a block north of the dog park is where the "instant travel" of this post's title comes in. As I walk around a slow bend in the trail I come upon a cleared field of about two acres on the west side of the trail where KRJD radio station has its three broadcast towers. The field is mowed occasionally to keep the weeds from growing too high and to provide access to the towers and their guy wire anchor points.

At midday the sun shines on the field, the stubble from the cut grass is dry, there is a little dust in the air, the humidity is just right and that well-remembered smell takes me instantly to the hay fields on Grandpa Mac's farm on Orcas Island where my brother and I spent summers in the late forties and again in the early and mid-fifties.

Grandpa had a small Farmall tractor but his other farm  equipment was left over from the horse farming days when he first settled the farm there in Crow valley. Instead of mounting on a tractor and using a power takeoff as is common now, his mower had a long tongue that would have connected to the team's harness and power to move the sickle bar was taken from the turning cleated steel wheels of the mower. There was a spring-mounted seat on top of the axle where Grandma sat and lifted the sickle bar as necessary.

After the field was cut and the grass dried into hay we would hook up the old hay rake with the same long tongue and seat atop the axle where the rider would trip the rake at the right time to line up the accumulated hay with the lengthening windrows.

Next came the hard physical work. There were no balers in those days so the hay would be pitched into shocks by Grandpa or a worker using an old fashioned pitchfork and lots of elbow grease.

Finally would come the crew loading the hay onto a wagon or truck bed. The guys lifting the hay onto the bed were hard workers, they guy spreading the load was experienced and knew how to interlock the forkfuls and tie them together so the hay wouldn't fall off the wagon on the way back to the barn.

My brother and I were too young to work the forks so we were tasked with driving the tractor or truck. Since our legs were too short to reach the pedals one of the men would put the truck in "granny" (compound low) so all we did was steer close to the hay shocks so they could load the hay as we drove along slowly.

All the while there was the ever-present smell of dry grass mixed with dust. What a wonderful smell, as I remember it, although it probably wasn't so good at the time. The dust would fill my nose, the hayseeds and loose pieces would fall down the neck of my shirt and mix with the sweat. But it was good hard work and made me appreciate a big meal at the end of the day.

A farmer in those days was a jack of all trades.

Grandpa had a typical small family farm. I don't remember how big it was but I seem to remember him saying 270 acres or something close. He had maybe fifteen-twenty milk cows, chickens, a few hogs and sometimes turkeys or geese. There was the big barn with its haymows and stanchions for milking, the adjoining milkhouse with an electric separator (although it had to be brought up to speed by turning the long handled crank before the motor could be turned on), a chicken house with a storage area for bags of grain and barrels of gasoline, a bunkhouse where itinerant workers could sleep, a blacksmith shop, the woodshed, the main house and, of course, the two-hole outhouse, the original gender-neutral bathroom.

Grandpa's day began with a cup of coffee and a hand-rolled cigarette while listening to the news on the old radio, then off to the barn at 0600 to milk the cows. Even though he had a vacuum milking machine he had to strip the final few squirts out of each cow by hand. There was hay to be thrown into each cow's stanchion feed box along with some ground grain to sweeten the deal and encourage them to come to the barn for milking.

Next the fresh milk would be separated into cream and skim milk. The cream was sent to the creamery for cash and the skim milk went to the hogs along with a little mash. Along the way the barn cats got a little milk in their saucer.

After morning chores came breakfast then started the work of the day. Tilling the fields, mending fence, planting grain, cutting and putting up hay, harvesting grain with the old binder, threshing (again with the old stationary threshing machine before the days of the combine) and in between getting in wood, patching roofs and making repair parts for the machinery in the blacksmith shop.

In the evening the cows came home and were milked again, the cream separated, the hogs slopped, and finally came dinner followed before long by a well earned night's sleep. Next morning the routine started all over again.

On Saturday night Grandpa and Grandma took a bath and sometimes went to the dance at the Deer Harbor Grange Hall. They would dance the polka, the Schottische, waltzes, foxtrots, the occasional jig and even some simple square dances. I only attended a few of their dances (probably because I was too young to leave at home) but I don't remember them dancing swing dances, the Charleston or The Lindy. The men kept a bottle in their car and sometimes would go out for a "breath of fresh air." Grandpa's drink was gin and 7-Up, without ice of course, since this was before the days of plastic coolers and even household ice makers,

Speaking of ice, up until the late forties Grandma had to make do with an icebox and a cooler in her kitchen. I'm sure you know what an icebox is but a cooler is not much known today. A cooler was a tall box cut into and mounted on an outside (usually north) wall with three or four shelves, a roof and screened in walls. Sometimes the outside of the screen would be covered with louvers to keep out the weather while allowing cool air to flow up through holes in the shelves of the cooler. There was a door on the inside so Grandma could put things into and take them out of  the cooler from the kitchen.

The cooler was a very useful device because, as the old saying goes, "if you can't stand the heat, stay out of the kitchen." Grandma's cookstove was an old Monarch wood-fired range. The fire box was on the left, ash bin under that and the oven to their right. The top of the stove was all cooking surface, ranging from the hottest, right over the fire box to the coolest far on the right side of the stove. Above the cooking surface there were two warming ovens and the important chimney draft which in conjunction with the firebox draft controlled the burn rate of the fire. Grandmas was an expert in getting the correct heat for the cooking at hand but even she couldn't do much with the excess heat generated by that efficient heat producer. Especially in the summertime it was stifling in the kitchen.

In those days before electric or gas water heaters, water was heated by running a pipe back and forth on the left side of the fire box. Water would come in the bottom, exit the top and by convection move the heated water to the hot water tank which stood next to the stove. Sometimes Grandma would need hot water for washing or something and would feel the tank to determine the hot water supply. If there wasn't enough she would fire up the range even though she didn't need the fire to cook.

Mounted on the wall to the left of the hot water tank was the telephone with its mouthpiece mounted on a swivel stalk that moved up and down depending on the height of the user and the earpiece attached by a wire and cradled in the forked holder on the left side of the wooden box. On the right of the box was the hand crank that rang the bell used to ring up the operator (with one long ring) or other people on the party line by ringing their particular combination of short and long rings. It seems like Grandma's ring was a long and two shorts. Or was it a short and two longs?

Well, my trip via instant time travel is drawing to a close. I remember more details of those days some seventy years ago than I do the details of what happened yesterday. Maybe I'll be moved to take another trip through time to remember other adventures on the farm. For tonight, it's time for bed.

Charlotte to Durham by Amtrak

Ikuko and I decided to take the Amtrak train from Charlotte to Durham. It's a scheduled two hour and forty-two minute run through the countryside of North Carolina and we thought it would be a good chance to see some rural scenery. We should have been forewarned by the taxi ride to the station.

An hour before the train was scheduled to leave we got our bags together and asked one of the bellhops to flag us a cab to the station. He put us in an unmarked car waiting at the hotel and told the driver to take us to the Amtrak station.

From my research I knew the station was about two and one-half miles straight south on Tryon Street. The driver pulled out of the hotel and headed east on Trade Street. After a block I asked him where he was going and reiterated we wanted to go to the Amtrack station on Tryon Street. "Oh," he said, "Can't take a left on Tryon." but he did turn and get on Tryon headed south. About halfway there he pulled into a service station and turned around, headed north and got on his phone, apparently asking a friend (foreign language, not Spanish) where the station was.

By this time I had my phone out and was watching the map. I told him the address and which way to go but he was confused and took a couple more detours before finally getting us to the station. When I asked how much, he said it was fifteen dollars. It should have been a ten dollar ride.  I paid him but no tip for him.

Into the station we went. I had tickets in hand but needed to check at least one bag so went to the baggage window. Ended up checking two bags at no additional cost, which was nice.

By now it was thirty minutes until scheduled departure so I went to the window to see about our reserved seat numbers since they weren't on the ticket I had printed off in the hotel. It turns out Amtrak reserved seats in coach are catch as catch can. One of the passengers in line said that some station masters call for parties traveling together so they can board first and sit together but that didn't happen this day. Actually despite the crowd in the station there were plenty of seats on the car bound for Durham so Ikuko and I sat together anyway, even if we were traveling backward.

Forty-five minutes after scheduled departure time the train finally pulled in and we boarded. Well, we were on the way even if a little late. Little did I know that Amtrak plays second fiddle to the freight trains on these tracks.

We hadn't been traveling long when we were off on a side track cooling our heels. Finally a freight went by and we got under way again. We stopped at stations and a few more times for freight trains and finally arrived in Durham about two and one-half hours behind schedule.

Thankfully, delays in modern travel are easily communicated to people who might be meeting the train, as in this case when son and daughter-in-law would have been waiting at the station for those two plus hours without the texting and mobile phone capability we all have these days.

Ikuko and I used to riding Japanese trains so this was a little different. The seats were comfortable and the checked baggage system was efficient. When the train was running it was fairly fast and convenient but when it was sidetracked it was frustrating. The most annoying feature was the apparent disregard for the schedule, especially when compared to the on-the-minute departures in Japan.

More VFW Convention

My last two posts mostly concerned the two major party presidential candidates and how they addressed our convention. Today I'll cover some of the other things we accomplished here.

Our convention is the supreme authority of our organization and as such acts through the delegates to enact and modify laws governing how our group operates, which people are appointed as our leaders and various goals and programs for the current and future years. Our individual posts, districts and departments (state bodies) operate under the umbrella of our national organization and are governed by its constitution and bylaws, These governing documents are called Manual of Procedure, By-Laws and Ritual in the VFW and other names by other groups.

This year there were almost one hundred proposed amendments and revisions to be considered and voted on by our convention. Many of these were minor housekeeping changes but some were substantial and all required vetting by the various committees and then a vote on the floor of the convention.

In addition to the changes in our governing documents there were many other items of business. There were many guest speakers including Secretary of the VA Bob McDonald, who is a great speaker.

VA Secretary Bob McDonald

Awards presented included the VFW Americanism Award to artist Scott LoBaido; Hall of Fame Award to comedian, actor and retired USMC Lt Col Rob Riggle; National Teacher Awards to three teachers; a $30,000 Voice of Democracy Scholarship Award to Grayson Campbell and the Armed Forces Award to BG Roberson from the US Army Special Forces Command (Airborne). We also met our 2016 VFW Buddy Poppy Child, 12-year-old Jaeden Davis.

BG Roberson addressing the convention

Wednesday, July 27. We elected Brian Duffy as our new Commander in Chief. Chief Duffy is our first veteran from Desert Storm to hold that office. We also elected Karen Anderson as our Quartermaster General. She is also a veteran of Desert Storm and the first female veteran to hold that office.

Some members of our Washington delegation, including Junior Past Commander Aaron Stoltz and new Commander Nestor Tamayao,  parading around the floor to welcome our newly elected Senior Vice Commander  Keith Harmon

Karen Anderson, our new Quartermaster General                                              Bob Wallace, our new Adjutant General

Incidentally, I sometimes hear from older veterans of the Vietnam War that they were rejected for membership in the VFW during those years of the war and for awhile afterward. Our new Adjutant General, Bob Wallace, is a veteran of the Battle of Hue and received three Purple Hearts for wounds during that time.. He joined the VFW in 1968. Of course, I can't speak for all the posts in our organization but he is an example of a veteran who was welcomed into the VFW during the height of the Vietnam War.

When not busy with convention business I had a chance to look around Charlotte. It's a bustling city with lots of construction in the downtown area and plaques and statues on corners everywhere commemorating the grand historical past of this important part of America.

One of the many water features in the area

"Firebird" in front of the Museum of Modern Art

The oldest Catholic Congregation in the city occupies this church, now staffed by the Jesuits.

Other plaques and statues abound within the downtown area. The Mecklenburg Declaration of Independence is commemorated here as are several other historic moments in Charlotte's past.

This plaque is one of many along Liberty Walk in downtown Charlotte

After taking in the cultural side of Charlotte it was time to take in nourishment of a more physical kind.

Across the street from our hotel was a restaurant called The King's Kitchen, a nonprofit where they served good southern food and trained some of Charlotte's homeless in the restaurant trades. The first time we ate there I had a flounder calabash which was good. When it came time for dessert I wanted to order the blueberry bread pudding but it required a 20-minute lead time so we decided to go back another time.

The next time we went back I ordered their pot roast special. It also was good but the highlight of the evening was the blueberry bread pudding. It was served in a cast iron skillet and was hot from the oven with a large dollop of vanilla ice cream. Absolutely scrumptious.

We couldn't eat all of this excellent blueberry bread pudding for two

I mentioned in an earlier post that our hotel was being renovated so the dining room was a makeshift operation in a third floor space. The staff made up for the inconvenience by serving pretty good food for reasonable prices.

A pretty hefty corned beef sandwich (the remaining half) in our hotel dining room.

    

Trump in the Queen City

So today had a little different character. As I reported, yesterday was a kind of blah day whereas today had more excitement.

When I arrived at the Convention Center this morning the security lines were long and slow but I was surprised to see the hall mostly full when I walked in a few minutes after eight. By the time Trump arrived a little after nine-thirty there were probably half again as many in attendance as there were yesterday for the morning session when Hillary addressed the crowd.

We were warned twice that signs were not allowed and if displayed they would be confiscated and the holder removed from the hall. We were also admonished to stay out of the aisles and away from the front of the stage.

When Trump came in the crowd was much more animated than yesterday. There were lots of cheers and whistles. A few people sat on their hands but not as many as yesterday.

Trump's VP choice, Mike Pence, spoke first.

VP pick Mike Pence addressing the convention.

Trump spoke some from teleprompters but mostly off the cuff. When he talked about "Crooked Hillary" six or seven Black women got up and walked out so I guess not everyone was happy with his speech.

I didn't see any signs and the crowd was well behaved, about what I would expect from the demographic.

After he finished speaking, Trump went down in front of the stage and shook two or three hands and then left, in contrast to yesterday when Hillary spent at least ten minutes shaking hands and greeting fans.

When we left the convention center for lunch the young Black guy was still out front with his Trump regalia. "Only fifteen dollars," says he as I walked by. 

No sign of the Hillary table.  

Politics at Our VFW Convention

Here in The Queen City we are experiencing a heat wave in the weather and another in politics.

Downtown Charlotte is a beautiful area with many modern buildings and many plaques and statues representing events of long ago. It seems there are construction sites everywhere Even the Marriott Charlotte City Center, where we're staying is being remodeled with a temporary lobby on the third floor and a "pop up" restaurant also on the third floor in what is normally one of the meeting rooms.

But back to politics.

I thought I'd use "politics" in the title of this post since that word seems to garner a lot of interest from readers in Russia. My last post, "Politics in Seattle" gathered twice as many readers from Russia as there were from The USA during the past week. Not sure what's going on there but thought I'd give it another test.

A local entrepreneur set up these tables to sell Trump items outside the Convention Center. 

Yesterday when I was at the Charlotte Convention Center I noticed an enterprising local businessman had set up a row of tables right outside where he was hawking Trump hats, shirts, etc. He was using his smart phone to take credit card payments and seemed to be doing a good business.

Today he was there again doing a brisk business after Hillary gave her speech. Just up the sidewalk there was another table with Hillary T-shirts and hats but no customers. Maybe I came by at the wrong time or maybe it's a commentary on the candidates' relative popularity at this particular time and place.

At today's joint meeting there were the usual delegates from both the VFW and our Auxiliary. In addition there were swarms of media types and lots of guests there to see Hillary Clinton as she solicited our votes.

First everyone had to stand in line to go through the security check, then stand in line to go into the hall and even stand in line to go to the bathroom.

Lines for the TSA screeners and lines for the escalators.

Mayor Jennifer Roberts welcomes the group.

While we waited for the main event Bill entertained us with a little saxophone music.

Cool music from a cool cat.

Finally we got word that Hillary's helicopter was near and she would arrive within five minutes.

As she came on stage there were a few boos, some cheers and general politeness from the delegates. Some folks sat with stony expressions, some cheered but I didn't see anyone walk out nor did I see any political signs. 

After she finished her speech she came down off the stage to press the flesh of some of her more ardent admirers who had gathered near the front of the hall. Her Secret Service guardians probably didn't worry so much when she was with the veterans but they were vigilant nonetheless.

Politics in Seattle

In this blog I have sometimes moved beyond travel and observing the surroundings while walking with my little dog but I haven't touched on politics much. So far, that is.

My "Official Local Voters' Pamphlet" was delivered a week or so ago and a little later I received my ballot. I can't resist a comment or two.

For those of you who don't know, in this area we have one hundred per cent voting by mail. It has several advantages for the good people of Seattle. First it eliminates the rent paid to churches, schools and even our VFW Hall for the use of their facilities on Election Day. Second, it spreads election day out over a three-week, or so, period thus allowing activists to visit and encourage those voters who may not know the desirable way to vote. Finally, it eliminates that pesky identification question that might be raised at the polling place.

In this latter regard, I had a friend who for years bragged about voting both his own and his wife's ballot and even after his wife died he continued to vote for her until he finally died too. When they registered for absentee ballots back in the days before our universal mail-in system, he had actually signed her name then so there was no problem with forging her signature forever after. I'm sure he was probably the only one in the area who did such a thing but, just saying. . .

Back to the Voters' Pamphlet. This year of the seventeen people running for US Senator there are many claiming affiliation with the Republican, Democratic, Independent and Libertarian parties. Then there are candidates who prefer Lincoln Caucus Party, Standupamerica Party, Conservative Party and Human Rights Party.

The King County Elections Commission solicits information from the candidates to be published in the pamphlet.  This information cover five categories: Elected Experience, Other Professional Experience, Education, Community Service and Statement.

The information supplied by the candidates ranges from well thought out to forthright statements of "None" to "No information submitted" in some of the categories to, in one case, no information or photo at all submitted. I'm not sure why that last person even filed. And remember, these are just the candidates running for US Senator.

The statements range from well thought out and clearly stated to muddy, poorly stated single issue calls to action. In some cases they are not so much a call to action as just venting a pet peeve.

I suppose it doesn't make much difference what is printed in the Voters' Pamphlet since I suspect very few people actually read it. Most get their opinions handed to them from other sources, chiefly sound bites from their favorite TV channel or radio station, maybe their church leader or maybe the guy or gal or indeterminate who expounds from the other end of the bar.

I worry for the future of my country when the requirements to register to vote and to actually vote have been reduced to such a very low level. Registering to vote now doesn't require any initiative from an individual and to actually cast a vote, any warm (or even cold) body will do. No requirement to read or write or reason or think since those would all be illegal restrictions of, well, you get my drift. . .

My apologies for using up a blog post on what some would call a political rant but the way we elect our leaders in this country has degenerated into what I would call illogical at best, and criminal at worst.

But, on a brighter note, maybe there is an invisible hand (to use Adam Smith's term) that works across a society and even a civilization to mold and guide opinions regardless the intellectual capability of those opinion holders so that desires of the greater body prevail. Thinkers, writers and speakers may have a slight impact but that groundswell of desired goals may have reached a point where it is moving inexorably toward fruition.

I can only hope those goals are good for us all.

Summer in Cool Seattle

Yesterday afternoon my little dog, Kuro, and I went walking in the pleasantly cool weather we have been having lately here in Seattle.

We stopped at some blackberry bushes and I sampled my first wild blackberries this year. It seems that mid-July is a little early for the blackberries to be ripening but you can't argue with the sweet taste of ripe berries.

Ripe blackberries - July 10, 2016.

A little further along our walk I was looking at some Big Leaf Maple flyers and remembered that as a child playing with my siblings and friends we would pop open the seed part of the flyer, remove the seed, lick the inside of the now empty flyer and stick the wing to our nose. After I tried a few without success I remembered they had to be ripe and dried out before that would work. Probably just as well since I can't imagine what passersby would have thought if I'd been able to glue one of those things to my nose and walk on down the street. "Hey, Sally, look at that goofy old man with the funny thing on his nose!"

Maple flyers not quite ready to serve as nose wings.

This evening I decided to leave Ikuko to watch the depressing news of the world and took my little dog out early to survey the other results of the unusual warm weather we had earlier in the year.

Along one side of a nearby playground there is a patch of wild roses. Earlier in the year their fragrance would float down the hill and draw me closer to that sweet smell remembered from summer days long ago. Two years ago the park service cut the whole patch right back to the ground but they have regrown and are nicer than ever.

Wild Rose flower and fruits.

Colorful Wild Rose hips and blooms.

An unusual white (maybe albino?) Wild Rose flower just as sweet.

We came across a Mountain Ash with branches beginning to droop with the weight of the ripening fruit. The old folks would say it's going to be a cold winter when the Mountain Ash has lots of fruit.

Mountain Ash fruit ripening a little early.

On the north side of a protected rockery I found a Bleeding Heart still in bloom.

Bleeding Heart snuggled up against the side of a north facing rockery.

On a nearby south facing rockery we saw a Hen and Chicks, or maybe the Rooster of the family sending up a bloom stalk similar, but on a much smaller scale, to the way the Yucca families erupt with flower stalks.

Exposed on a south facing rockery this succulent thrives in the long summer days.

Here in the city some plants are forced to eke out an existence under difficult circumstances. We see Salal here and there and Oregon Grape is also found by roadsides and even in some yards. 

This, and most, Oregon Grape looks healthy this year, but is barren.

This year the Salal is doing fine but the Oregon Grape seems to be having a tough time. Some of the plants have just a few fruits but most are barren. Many of the Oregon Grape plants had small mummified fruit where the bright blue berries should have been.

Urban Salal bearing plump fruits.

Oregon Grape with just a few meager berries.

In another park where there is the right micro-climate we saw a nice crop of Fire Weed blooming earlier than usual, already about one-quarter up the stalk as its buds open, flowers attract the hungry bees and then the seed pods form.

Buds to flowers to seed pods as the Fire Weed attracts bees all summer.

Kuro and I agree that walking, even through our city neighborhood, is much more pleasant than watching the TV news-people rehashing events of the day, week and year, ad nauseam. 

While walking I also find it pleasant to challenge people to smile. If I smile and give a pleasant greeting most people will reciprocate, some with a wide smile, some with just a pleasant "Hello," although there is the occasional sourpuss who will rudely ignore the greeting and walk on by with head down.

Even that occasional snub is inconsequential if I treat it as a game and instead count the friendly returns. 

I agree with Louis Armstrong as he sings:

"Grab your coat and get your hat

Leave your worries on the doorstep
Life can be so sweet
On the sunny side of the street"

Saturday, A Long Travel Day

Saturday morning we woke around 0530, Japan time and before the day was over we had spent 36 hours traveling and still weren't done.

We ate breakfast in the hotel, finished packing then checked out about 1030. Since our flight wasn't until ten minutes after midnight we didn't want to get to Haneda too early so we checked our bags with the concierge and walked through some of the back streets of the Minamiazabu area round our hotel.

Space is at a premium in Tokyo so, while there are shrines and public parks with open spaces, most of the space is tightly filled with buildings. The main streets have stores, restaurants, beauty shops and even a Maserati dealership near our hotel. The large blocks are divided into smaller sections with small streets serving smaller restaurants, smaller businesses and some houses. Houses are often only twelve or fifteen feet wide but extend back into the lot perhaps 30 or 35 feet and are often three floors high. This allows the maximum of street exposure for other buildings such as small restaurants and other commercial buildings.

As we walked around the back streets we came across what looked like an old fashioned yakitori restaurant/bar. It was still closed but had an Japanese and Engish menu in the window listing all the different skewers on offer. No time to sample the goods this trip. Maybe next time we're in the area.

During the past week as we've walked back and forth to the subway station, and again today as we walked around town, both Ikuko an I commented on the number of small children who were making there way to or from school or whatever business they had. They were walking along by themselves or with another small child with no apparent concern for bad guys. We've always seen school children going to and coming from but these children were five and six years old. It seemed so strange to see them on their own. Something you wouldn't see in our times in the US. 

Those young children did remind me of when I was in the first grade and waked about a mile each way to my elementary school when we lived in Alderwood during the War. I'm not sure what has caused the changes in the intervening seventy-some years but those earlier, more trusting days are still alive and well in Japan.   

Back at the hotel we retrieved our bags and caught a cab to Hamamatsucho Station, took escalators up a couple floors then caught an express monorail to Haneda International Terminal. A trip that I had expected to be an hour or more turned out to be about ten minutes in the taxi and 13 minutes on the monorail plus five minutes transfer time.

When we went through the security line there was a small family group ahead of us so the watching supervisor called us over to her window, scanned the Q-Code on the inbound page of our passports and sent us through the X-Ray line. I was asked to remove my laptop from my bag but nothing about shoes, belts, small bottles of liquids (drinking liquid bottles were banned) or other impediments to speed. We were through security quickly.

Haneda is the fifth busiest airport in the world but it just doesn't feel like it. The quick inspections mean people don't have to show up three hours early and the crowds around the departure gates don't build until 30-40 minutes before scheduled departures plus the terminal seems like it is more spread out. SEA seems much more crowded even though it is only the 31st busiest airport in the world.

So there we were at Haneda Airport with nine hours to kill until our scheduled departure at ten minutes after midnight. It seemed like a long time but not impossible and we would be home in Seattle by 2230 or so.  Little did we know what surprises awaited us.

About 1730 our flight showed up on the Departures board but it was listed as "delayed" with an estimated departure of 0345 Sunday morning. 

Fortunately Haneda is as comfortable as an airport can be. There are comfortable chairs, strategically placed dining areas with several cuisine choices in each area and there are even some pods of semi-recliner chairs with privacy soft walls on three sides so sleep is possible. Ikuko and I made ourselves as comfortable as we could, had dinner (sushi for me, curry rice for her) and even caught a few winks while waiting for the hours to creep by.

I must say that Delta made the delay as easy as possible by providing bottles of drinking water, sandwiches and other snacks and providing frequent updates.

Finally, about 0200 our flight arrived, passengers departed and the cleaning team did their thing. Our group of tired passengers boarded, got settled in and we pushed back at 0345. We made our way onto the taxiway headed for the end of the runway. Suddenly the plane slowed and stopped. After a few moments the captain announced that there was a problem with a fuel pump and we needed to return to the gate.

Fearing the worst we headed back to the gate, parked and waited. Finally good news. The trouble with the fuel pump was  not mechanical (necessitating a long delay as replacement was made) but something in the software and a "reset" did the trick. We headed out to the runway again about 0500 Sunday morning Japan Time.

After a smooth ride across the Pacific we arrived in LAX ten plus hours later about 2215 Saturday night PDT. Again we sat on the tarmac waiting. Another announcement told us that there wasn't a slot for us (probably due to the upset schedule) so we would go elsewhere and be bused to the Immigration and Customs area. 

By this time our scheduled connection to Seattle was long gone. We thought we might be able to catch a 2330 flight on Alaska but after the bus ride and entry to the Immigration area we kissed that idea goodbye. It took us 35 minutes just to get through the line at Immigration then another while to clear Customs so we finally got out into the night air and re-entered Delta's Terminal 5 a few minutes after midnight Saturday night. We had been traveling through two Saturdays (thanks to the International Date Line) for about 36 hours and still weren't home.