From Maui To Inglewood (2011)

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            For the past two years I have been living in Inglewood California on the same street one apartment complex over from the one I lived in at the age of three.  I live here with my youngest daughter Viva. Out of all my children she is the one that is most attached to being with me and has been very patient with what appears to the rest of my family as an odd transgression. 

            “From Maui to Inglewood?”

            “Why?” my eldest daughter asked on one visit, as we drove a long La Brea and stopped to let a woman cross the street. 

            “What is she wearing on her head?” Kailea asked me.

             “It’s a weave,” I said.

              “It’s a wig, and a bad one.”  She exclaimed wrinkling her nose.

            I have gotten used to the fake hair, and the fact that it looks fake.  I have even tried a partial weave myself but found I had no patience for the hours required to keep it up. It was the equivalent of having a pet, not a cat, but a weimereiner.  There is a long list of things that one is suppose to do when having a weave, of which I did very little of, never mind the fact that I work out regularly.  Most black women who enjoy the weave will let their bodies go for fabulous hair and sex is an activity, I hear, that must take place carefully, or sometimes not at all if one’s hair is freshly done.  I dated two men of my own race who understood that the hair was it’s own entity, not to be touched, but carefully skirted around.

             “Sorry, I shouldn’t kiss you while you’re brushing your hair, “ one man apologized.  I was struck by his tiptoeing.  Another apologized during love making when in a moment of passion he ran his hand along my hair.  After a while I ditched the oppressive beauty regime, and braided my hair instead just in time for a burgeoning hair revolution.  It seems many other black women are just as fed up and have begun wearing their hair natural.  However, “keep it simple,” has not infiltrated the You Tube vigils depicting natural hair journeys, the Big Chop, and minute measurements of the growth cycle on a month-to-month basis

            My daughter stares quietly out the window at the schlepy looking buildings that have seen better days.  Gaudy attempts at colorful pastel paint jobs only create one heaping monstrosity after another, the architectural face-lifts as creepy as the stretched skin and blowfish, botoxed lips on an anorexic old woman strolling Beverly Hills.  People in this part of town walk the streets in ill-fitting clothes.  Men with pants around their knees, over weight women in tight leopard spandex, spike heels, and enormous cleavage.  We pass gas stations, McDonalds, Popeis, Kentucky fried Chicken, El Pollo Loco, Taco Bell, and giant billboards advertising everything under the sun. Haphazard street signs that slant at odd angles to name streets that have been laid down at various points in time as the town grew give parts of Los Angeles a schizophrenic, cartoonish, Dr. Seuss look.  Freeway over passes wind and twist through the towns carrying an endless train of traffic.  At night the cars are rivers of light in the distance poring from one orifice into another. 

            Mekila, my son, has made various attempts to persuade me to leave LA, at the very least Inglewood.

            “Mom, I know you want to be around other black people and that you lived here when you were a little girl, but you grew up in a different culture.  Culturally you are very different from the people here,” he explains quietly as I stir my coffee with a straw at the convenience shop we are hanging out in, waiting for Viva, my youngest daughter, to finish school that afternoon.

            “Mom, don’t stir your coffee with that,” my son cries out.  I stare down at the thin red, plastic straw between my fingertips.  “It’s plastic,” he says in the same alarmed voice. “There are all kinds of toxic chemicals coming out of that straw.”  I get the same lecture from my son for drinking Pellegrino water, the carbonation, is sure to erode the enamel right off my teeth.  OK, most teenage boys don’t usually care about these kinds of things, but if they had a grandmother like the one my kids have, well…

            “Tell me about your mother,” one of my massage clients, an older woman in her early sixties requests.  I have been massaging she and her husband since I first arrived in LA.  They are wonderful people and my daughter and I have become regular weekly fixtures in their lives.  While I massage, my daughter sits and reads on the sofa.  How do I explain my mom to a woman who regales capitalism, rattles off the vocabulary of Wall Street lingo, and feels that much of what’s wrong with the health care system, and the housing market in this country is the fault of the general public acting irresponsibly, and that if only young people learned how to fill out tax forms, and understand the stock market while in school, we wouldn’t be in the mess we’re in today.  It is the private sector, businesses, she says, that is the life-blood of the economy, and when government gets involved, it creates a great quagmire of socialistic quick sand that is rapidly sinking this country.

            Just a few days before this rant from my client my mother was standing with members of the Occupy Wall-Street movement on Maui with grey packing tape stretched across her mouth to represent all of the voiceless people in the wicked corporate machine that runs America.   Mom also carries books on nutrition, Maitreya the Christ, and newspaper clippings about various political events in a brown paper bag where ever she goes.  She leaves long messages on my cell phone, reading to me from newspaper articles about marches, and of late, the occupy movement.  Conversations at social gatherings come to a grinding halt as my mom takes half an hour to read aloud two chapters from a nutritional book to a party of bewildered dinner guests caught in a lecture that they had no idea they would be attending.  All of the children have been read to from a well worn, creased, political comic book on the Gulf war several times while snacking on seaweed, rye crackers and alkaline water blessed by Mother Mary, who’s spirit performs these blessings through the medium of a woman that lives deep in the jungle in a clothing optional community. The children, as youngsters, have had the experience of going to a park with grandma, falling asleep and waking up at the forefront of a thousand person political rally, where grandma was arranging a group picture and then a spirited walk through down town.

            Maybe I moved to LA to experience the normalcy of mainstream culture.

My eldest daughter did not even blink an eyelid at this conversation that took place between a young East Indian woman with an English accent, dressed in brightly colored, flowing, hippy clothes and my mother and stepfather. 

            “I am on my way to Australia to hear my teacher for the last time before he checks out of this world,” she gushes. 

            “Oh, is he dying?” my stepfather asked.

            “No, he died a long time ago.”  My stepfather’s dark brows wrinkled, and he stroked his chin.

            “I meant your teacher, “ he said trying to clear up the misunderstanding.

            “My teacher died a hundred years ago he has been teaching in spirit on another dimension.”

            “But how do you receive his lessons?” My mother wanted to know.  She and my stepfather were very interested, but still a little confused. 

            “He will be channeling through the body of Swami Kukananda.  There are hundreds of us going because next week my teacher will be leaving dimensions connected to planet earth and he will be residing on a different planet.”

            “Ooh, “ all confusion had left the expression of my mom and stepdad and they smiled in understanding.  My daughter, Kailea, listened un-phased.

            Years later while living at my father’s in Inglewood, Kailea visited and practically choked on her food while watching the news. 
            “Today the body of a young woman was found in a dumpster.  It is believed that she is the fourth victim of a serial killer still out at large.”  The serious expression of the anchorwoman’s face changes and becomes more thoughtful.              “Crowds line up at the new micro brewery, where you can sample a variety of creative beers.”  The story continued for a few more seconds and was suddenly replaced by an ad for dish- washer soap.

            “You guys watch this while you’re eating dinner?”  Kailea exclaimed.  She was so shocked that she threw her head back and laughed at the absurdness of trying to digest one’s food while listening to such tragic news as a woman’s body found in a dumpster followed by deep concern for crystal clear glass ware.  Actually my dad and his family watched that stuff. Viva and I were just there. 

            Los Angeles is a relentless grind.  It is a string of towns, many of them only five or eight miles from one another but it takes at least half an hour to get anywhere.  It takes half an hour to move five yards in Santa Monica on fourth-street during the weekend. Everyone works hard here, it doesn’t matter what your job is.  If you are just working to survive, than maybe you have three jobs, and that can afford you a three hundred square foot studio apartment for only $2,000 a month with a housemate and six thousand to move in, parking is on the street, but hey, you’re in a decent neighborhood, no gangs, helicopters, loud domestic violent fight scenes, and you can walk to all the cute shops in Santa Monica and Brentwood.  Attorneys and movie producers work just as hard, ninety hour work weeks.  They live in places like Hollywood Hills, a maze of narrow streets shadowed by towering walls of earth. Gargantuan homes dangle precariously from cliffs that over look a view of the city from wrap around picture windows.  The annual property tax is enough to provide a comfortable lifestyle for a family in the mid west.

            To live in LA is actually to live in your car and at your job.  Making little money while in debt and living here is akin to attempting economic suicide, which is what I have been doing for the past two years. 

            Why did I leave Maui?  I wanted the chance to attend lectures that weren’t about raw food, yoga, the Dali Lama, The Secret, or the latest conspiracy theory.  I wanted to date men that did not come with a whole history from my friends of who they had dated previous to me.  I wanted more out of life than shorts, slippas, a pit bull in the back of a pickup truck, and a surfboard. Every day on Maui was eighty degrees, with trade winds, weddings, and people on honeymoon; it was one placid day after another. It was traveling thirty miles in twenty minutes to walk through half empty malls all the while listening to the strum of an ukulele, so soothing, that I might fall into a coma of boredom.

            In LA I sit in traffic, and get flipped off by the guy who was sitting behind me and lost his temper because I failed to move forward two feet when the space opened up.  I will never see that guy again.  On Maui I might have seen him that same night at a dinner party and it would turn out that we were somehow related through a string of familial connections so complicated that the cast of a Shakespearean play would look as sparse as a haiku in comparison.

            In La I get to date men, and learn what a wreak they are on my own.  There are also all sorts of interesting lectures on politics, and science by prestigious intellectuals, yet I am either too broke or tired from sitting in my car to attend any of them.  I am still at the terrifying stage, where I wonder if enough clients will call me this month to get a massage so I can pay my bills.  I am also still at that hopeful stage that I may succeed in LA after all and have the chance to enjoy my birth town.

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           “Where’s my purse?”  It was the fifth time she had misplaced the thing in the last hour.  I did not get up this time to help her look for it for two reasons: I knew in her drugged haze that she would find it again, and promptly lose it, and second I was falling into a lethargic delirium from the fog of stale cigarette smoke that formed a filmy blanket, creating the illusion of visible air.  Fresh cigarette smoke, hung in wisps on the gray cloud that enveloped us in the large, yellow school bus that was our transportation to The Grateful Dead show hundreds of miles away from home.  A friend of my boyfriend had scored us a ride with a dead head couple.

            Apparently, Frank and Alice, as they were called, started dropping acid in the sixties, and had not missed a day of altering their reality in some fashion since.

           “Cowboy, have you seen my purse?” Alice asked, looking under the musty fabric that hung below her sink, and housed, I was not sure what.  When Alice bent over, the outline of the hump that was her upper back became more prominent.

          “Here it is, Mom.”  Cowboy picked up his mother’s black bag that had been no more than a foot a way from her.  Alice stood up and I watched her dull, dark eyes focus on her son and the purse that dangled from his thumb.  Alice had great, big bags under her eyes.  The puffy, crinkly sacks spoke volumes of what kind of life she had lead.

            “I only sleep once a week,” she told me about a hundred miles ago, while we sat at the rickety dinette table that made up the kitchen part of their mobile home. While Alice never slept and spent her time rearranging the family’s drugs, her husband seemed to remain in a perpetual twilight slumber.  His catatonic state behind the wheel, with the bend and whine of blues chords playing from the tape deck had me and my friends worried. We quickly devised a plan to take turns keeping him company.  My boyfriend, Lang, was having his turn with Frank, trying to engage him in conversation.  My turn had been an hour ago.  I must admit I was mesmerized by his thick drooping mustache, and glazed over eyes. I sat and stared at him for a good minute, before he turned to me and asked if he could have a drink of my water.  “Uh, sure,”  I handed over the bottled water, and watched him wrap his lips around it, tip his head back and guzzle it down, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down under slack, bumpy skin.  He handed the bottle back, but I told him to keep it.

             “Oh Cowboy!” Alice called out staring at her son.  “You have colors all over you.  This acid is just amazing; did you get a chance to try it?  I think there might still be some left.”

             “I’m on coke right now,” Cowboy said.

             “Oh yes, well you better wait then,” his mother advised, turning away from him to fumble around in her cabinets.  Cowboy was fifteen, a year younger than me.  It amazed me that Frank and Alice had children, two boys, Mannie was the oldest.  Somehow their sons managed to survive.  It was chilling to imagine the boys as babies and toddlers relying on someone like Alice for everyday care. Alice pulled a photo album out of a cabinet that contained a box of fruit loops, a pile of marijuana buds and a single cup.

            “Here you can look at this, Married Girl,” she said handing me the album. 

            From the start of the bus ride my boyfriend and I became known as the married couple to Alice.  She had taken a great liking to me and Lang over our other friends, Steve and Nate.  I opened the album and was confronted with the image of a single, enlarged eyeball.  “That was me at that festival,” Alice said.  “What was that festival Frank?” But Frank did not respond.  He either didn’t hear her over the electric undulations of Buddy Guy’s guitar coming from his sound system, or, well I was hoping that he just didn’t hear her.  Was he awake?  I looked over in Frank’s direction, and saw he must still be with us, Lang was talking to him, and my boyfriend’s body language was relaxed. I turned back to the album at Alice’s prompting, and examined other pictures.  There were Alice and Frank, young and smiling, it looked like, although it was hard to tell, as sunlight streamed from behind them, washing out most of the picture.  The rest of the album followed the same vein, the chronicles of a psychedelic life.  Alice would point out something now and then with a knurled, veiny hand. 

             After doing some calculations in my head from looking at the pictures of Alice as a young woman in possibly her twenties, holding one of her baby sons, I surmised that she was only in her forties. 

            “You are so young here,” I said pointing to the picture of hippy girl in a long, flowing dress with flowers in her hair, and a baby on her hip as she stood happily in a field, a cigarette dangling from her full lips.

            “That’s Mannie with me.  I was young, I’m forty now.”  Steve looked up sharply, his eyes wide as he stared at Alice.  A life of drugs, alcohol, and no sleep had aged her far

beyond forty.  She looked like a washed up sixty year old.

            Through looking at pictures in the album Alice recounted the story of her life with Frank.         

           “We’ve been on tour with The Dead for over twenty years now.”  I nodded, as she rattled on.  “I don’t drive anymore though because I almost got us all killed.  I needed some sleep, so I took some elephant tranquilizers; well those things just knocked me out.  I woke up and was wondering why cars were coming at us.  Turns out I had jumped lanes and was going against the grain of traffic.”

           “But that’s never happened to Frank right?”  Steve asked, his distraught clearly visible on his face.

          “Oh no, Frankie’s a great driver.” 

            I set the album down and watched with heavy eyes Nate and Mannie having a conversation about the marijuana market.  We were pot growers and Mannie wanted to know what our wholesale price was.  Cowboy drummed his stubby fingers on the sink counter, and bobbed his head to the music.  When he saw me watching him, his face lit up in a smile.

           “Want some coke?”  He asked.  I shook my head, no.  For a pot grower, I was fairly drug free.  I smoked maybe once a month and my alcohol consumption was even less frequent.  I yawned.  Alice, catching on that I was tired, fussed over me in her own druggie maternal way.

           “Where is the married boy?”  She asked.  Lang turned around and waved at Alice.  “Come on honey, come lay with your wife, she’s tired.  Cowboy, put the married couple in the bed.”  I really didn’t want to lay down in their dusty, dank looking bed, but my eyes just didn’t want to stay open.  The carbon monoxide was settling into my brain from the cigarette smoke.  I felt like Dorothy in the field of poppies.  I did not have to be coaxed much to lie down in the bed with my boyfriend who wrapped me in his arms protectively.

             I a woke to someone vigorously shaking me.

            “Come on Celena wake up, we’re here.”  I turned a way from the hand pulling at me. 

            “I need to sleep some more,” I mumbled.

            “I’ve got to get her out of here man,” I could here Lang saying as if from a long distance.  “We all need to get out into the fresh air.”  I was being pulled up, much to my dissatisfaction, and roughly brought to my feet. Come on, let’s go outside.”  I stumbled after Lang, following him out of the bus.

              Crossing my arms to retain my body heat from the cold morning air I stood blinking at the pale light of day in a clearing somewhere.  Mannie was walking a way across a meadow yelling to Nate that his family would be in Santa Cruz next month to buy some of our pot.  Cowboy stood waiting for his brother, grinning.  The boys waved at us before turning away.  Frank and Alice had not left the bus yet.

             “Frank and Alice were just going to lay in the bed with us, Lang told me, as I stood half awake.  “And I couldn’t wake you up.  It was like you were in a coma.”

             “Humph,” was all I could say.

             “Well shit you guys, lets hike out to the concert,” Steve said.  I followed my three friends through the damp grass.  The sun slowly rose through the arc of the sky and as we walked, we were joined by every kind of psychedelic dead head that one could imagine.

              It was a year before I saw Alice again.  As I sat waiting at the bus stop to go home, she and Cowboy happened to come strolling up the street arm and arm.  They recognized me right off, and both gave me hugs. 

              “Are you visiting?”  I asked.

              “No.  We moved here,” Cowboy said.  “Hey we’ve been trying to score some Quaaludes,” Cowboy said in a low voice.  Alice leaned in conspiratorially with her son, her expression all business.

              “We thought you might be able to help us out,” Alice said.

              “Sorry, I just don’t know.”  I told them.  I had no idea what Quaaludes were, and I watched their faces fall with disappointment.

              “Do you know of anyone that might know?”  Cowboy asked.  I scanned my memory of people I knew, but I couldn’t think of a single person.  I shrugged.

             “Well that’s OK Hon,” Alice said good-naturedly.  “We’ll find someone.”  The bus pulled up, and Cowboy gave me the peace sign.  As I sat looking out the window, I watched the two walk slowly away.  I realized that Alice was hobbling a little and that Cowboy’s arm was not just there for affection, but support.

Of Mice and Men

           If you live in Hawaii you are going to have encounters with insects and rodents, there is no getting around it.  If you live in a rural area your encounters will increase three fold. However, if you live in an old house with a rusted roof in a rural area then you have passed the boundary of encounters, and are now involved in a forced coexisting living arrangement with various creatures.

            My mother once moved into a brand new cottage in a rural area of Maui.  It was built expressly for her to stay as a nanny for a family of four, who had no spare rooms in their 15,000 square foot home.  Her first night in the new, little studio cottage, the walls still freshly painted, a rat chewed the screen above her bed, and dove through the hole it had made. Flying through the air, a flash of fur, it landed on her bed, skittering off and hiding somewhere in the kitchen.  This, I would call an encounter, an unpleasant one, that left my mom screaming and the man of the estate running from his home to see what could be the matter with the new nanny.

            In my home the sound of rats chirping and squabbling with each other, their tiny feet scurrying through passageways in the walls, and their tails hanging from between the bamboo that was our ceiling was an every night occurrence.  There was a six-inch gap between the bamboo and the single layered, rusted, corrugated roof. The roof was so rusty that my husband had long ago taken to hanging Folgers coffee cans from the bamboo to catch the numerous leaks when it rained.  Gecko’s, thin skinned, gummy looking creatures, not unlike a newt, congregated on the walls clucking loudly now and then.  Giant roaches had installed a whole town in our kitchen and briskly scuttled about their business.  Their business was getting into all our food, the sound of their sharp sticky claws making a dry, crisp sound against the grain of our ply wood floor.  Mice multiplied exponentially, and biting ants marched up and down our furniture, creating a highway across my bed in the afternoon, so that I could not even lie down for a nap, if I so wanted.  Centipedes slithered about insidiously, biting unwitting victims in their sleep.  I had been bitten twenty times in my thirteen years on the property.  Wasps built homes on the outside walls of our house and sometimes swarmed the courtyard.

            My husband was impervious to all of this.  While I complained that we needed a new roof, he sat naked in his armchair, drinking black coffee and looking over one of the Encyclopedia Britannica.  His wide, pale feet were often dyed green from mowing the lawn bare foot.  I tried to do what I could as a mom with no carpentry skills and no money to hire someone.  Much of our belongings were kept in plastic boxes and the food in plastic bags within plastic boxes.  Yet all of this plastic needed to be replaced on a regular basis. Containers would often become soiled with piss and pellet turds ; the hard plastic boxes were chewed through by our rat pests as easily as a soft plastic bag.  The gas fridge was ancient, and barely kept cold, for the lining of the door and the installation had worn out. As a result roaches took vacations among our groceries.  Our stove had a back entrance filled with rough, pink installation, the rats often thought it made a perfect nest, and would sometimes get roasted in their sleep.  Most of this mayhem I was able to hide to some extent when we had guests.  Once in a while a friend might scream and thrash at her hair if she happened to pull down a teacup from our kitchen shelf and a gecko came flying out at her face.

            “Now you just sit over here and I’ll make you some tea,” I would say leading my guest to the safest corner of the house to relax.

            “What are all these black things floating around?”

            “Probably just some loose tea herbs?”

            “No, I think these are ants.”

             My children would have shrugged and fished them out, or just drank it. 

             “Do you mind that there are a lot of ants in your tea?”  I over heard my son ask my daughter, Kailea, who had requested honey.  When she made a face, he generously offered his.

            “I think there are just five in there,” he told her, as he set the tea down.  This was doable.  Five could easily be scooped out with a spoon.

            “Brian ought to just burn this place down and start over,” Our friend Dean commented dryly.  He opened his own zip lock bag of Double Scoop Fritos for his shell-shocked Korean girlfriend, that he had met in Tokoyo, and brought with him on his visit to stay with us.  Every year he came to stay for ten days or so bringing a different girlfriend.  Why he put these women through the experience of staying at our home, I’ll never know.  Dean’s girlfriends always arrived with visions of luxury resorts and coutour shopping instead they got the Maui version of Beverly Hill Billy’s and ABC shopping.  Just moments before Dean’s sarcastic comment, his girlfriend had pulled a Dorito’s bag out of our food cabinet that was not stored properly.  When she put her hand in the bag to take a few chips three cockroaches flew from the bag and raced up her arm.  She screamed and began jumping and thrashing about while, Mekila, five-years-old, at the time, stood watching her calmly.

            “You’ve never seen roaches before?”  Mekila asked.

            “Apparently she has never seen roaches running up her arm from a bag that she thought contained chips,” Dean said, helping his hyperventilating lover over to the kitchen table and sitting her down.

            While Brian was neurotic about everything being in it’s place, and looking neat on the outside hidden funk fell right off his obsessive-compulsive radar.  A toy lying out or an unwashed plate received his deepest disproval, but hills of termite dust, and rat skeletons found among the back dishes were OK.   I spent my first six months living with him in a whirlwind of deep cleaning.  Upon first entering his bedroom, one might see a neatly made futon on the floor, some paintings he created on the wall, an arm chair with a colorful Mexican blanket folded and tucked neatly over the chair cushions, a wooden, shuttered closet door, and a sky light over the bed that lit up the room in a friendly, inviting way.  Upon closer inspection, it would become apparent that the walls were covered in dust and that the bed when sat on emitted plumes of more dust.  The closet was full of old clothes and shoes dating back a few decades, the fabric moldy and full of holes from the roaches that like to eat cloth as well.  It was clear that this room was decorated back in the 1970’s, and than never used again.   When I was just my husband’s housemate I would catch him snoozing in his armchair in the living room taking two-hour catnaps.  I never saw him go up to his room.  Once I became his girlfriend, I was given free rein to get rid of what ever I liked.  I took complete advantage of this opportunity.  Like a game show contestant that has just won a supermarket, shopping spree, I ransacked the house filling up dozens of black rubbish bags with most everything I could lay my hands on.  Moldy clothes, old giant stuffed ninja turtles that belonged to my stepsons, but hadn’t been glanced at by the boys for several years, odd bits of junk that filled all the drawers of the house went into the bags. I pulled back the arm chairs in the living room and found a thick layer of mulch courtesy of the pet rabbit that lived in the house and liked to sharpen it’s teeth on the dry wall and anything rubber laying around.  My daughter once left her Barbie out and found it later, half it’s face chewed off, giving the doll a grotesque quality, not unlike what a woman might look like if half her face was chewed away by a wild animal.  The mulch, thick and stinking of ammonia having been fertilized with, no doubt, rabbit piss, I shoveled up and put outside in the compost where it belonged.  Carpets were dragged out of the house where I beat them over and over again with a broom, as they hung airing from the clothesline.  With no electricity or running water I was living out my early 1900’s farm wife fantasy, but it wasn’t quite as romantic or fun as I had imagined.  Yet with all the cleaning beetles were dismembering the dried out bamboo that was our ceiling into fine powdery dust and flakes of rusted roof misted our home everyday, like a cold morning frost. I longed for pet cats that would gobble up the rats and mice, but we already had a dog that chased cats. 

            Fed up one day, I drove to town and bought a large can of raid.  I returned to our house armed with the poison and marched up our stairs to the bedroom I shared with my husband.  I would spray this room first and kill everything.  I would close the door after I sprayed, I thought, and let everything die!  With visions of dead insects, I sprayed clouds of the stuff throughout the room.  After ten seconds I began to cough, and something was falling on me.  I looked up to see roaches emerging from everywhere, they seemed to materialize out of the walls, and were raining down into the room, falling in my hair.  Centipedes began to slither from crevices and wasps were swarming into the room.  My eyes were watering and through my coughing fit, I tried to wave away the cloud of raid, but it was too late, my room had turned into a swarming, scuttling aquarium of arthropods.  I ran out the door and gasped at the ever-growing body of wasps that were swarming the living room.  Gathering up the children, with no time to spare, we ran outside, where a cloud of wasps were angrily congregating in the courtyard. 

            “Quick to the car,” I ordered.  Wide eyed, the children ran as fast as their little legs could go to the parking lot where I opened the car door and we all retreated inside watching, astonished, as our home slowly disappeared in a cloud of flying, whizzing things.  My husband didn’t bat an eyelash when he came home that night from his gig and I recalled the whole gruesome tale to him.

            “What you need are glue traps,” Trevor, our friend from Jamaica told me regarding the rodent problem. Trevor lived in Sweden and like Dean came almost every year bringing a new Swedish girlfriend.  Unlike the Japanese girls, European girls are earthy and nature loving, and their vacations are longer, so Trevor was usually with us for a few months or so.  Trevor was a John Henry with a machete.  Give the man a machete and watch miracles happen.  As the story went, at one time our almost seven acres of property that we shared in a 60/40 split with Brian’s brother Bill was covered with hau bush.  What is hau bush?  You the reader might be inclined to ask.  It is a bush, of thick, springy wooden braches that twist and intertwine into sometimes an impenetrable fortress.  My step-daughter Nia once got lost in it when she was five and while Aunty Rosa and I could hear her plaintive cries, it took us half an hour to find her. 

            At one time hau was highly revered in Hawaii and was used for almost everything.  Canoes, bowstrings, fasteners for lauhala baskets, hula skirts, shoes, you name it, and it was made from hau.  The hibiscus flowers that grew from the hau were just as useful in a medicinal sense.  But by 1978 when Brian began clearing the property to build a home, hau was just a nuisance.  Hau grows fast and ferocious like the evil thicket of thorns and branches that sprang up in the story of Snow White.              Brian met Trevor while building his home.  Up on the roof, he looked down to see where he had placed his hammer and found Trevor smiling up at him, hammer held out helpfully to my husband.  The two became fast friends.  On the following year of Trevor’s second visit to Maui he showed up with a black man from New York, a city slicker, and a completely bewildered guest.  This New Yorker, much to his dismay found him self put to work with a machete along side Trevor and Brian for several days to clear the hau bush. I can imagine what a horrifying maze of tough knurled wood they must have been dealing with.  Pausing from his work delirium, Trevor’s friend commented, “I know hau, I just don’t know why.”

            My first recollections of Trevor are of a large, naked black man with a machete, working from dawn until dusk, clearing bushes, digging up things, fixing wires, and laying down piping.  It was Trevor that diverted the water from our larger catchment tank to the house, so that I did not have to lug buckets across the yard to bathe four children, while seven months pregnant with the fifth.  Trevor also installed solar lighting in our outhouse. There was a collective gasp and a sacred hush that fell over us as he flipped the switch from in the house and we saw the little outhouse from the kitchen window glow with light.

            After observing the out of control rodent problem, Trevor showed up from town with a bag full of glue traps. 

            “Those don’t work on the rats, and their now too clever for the traps.”  I told him.  He winked at me.

            “It’s for the mice, we’ll figure out the rats later.”  I helped him peel the covers off the glue traps and we placed them everywhere.  In the food cabinets, behind chairs, under the children’s bed. 

            The next morning as I made coffee, I heard Trevor yell.

            “Wow! This is beautiful, look at this.”  I came running to see the beauty that he was staring at in our cabinet and saw the four glue traps we had set down the night before, teeming with mice.  He slapped me on the back beaming.  “Isn’t that the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?”  He asked.  I could quickly think of a hundred more beautiful things from the top of my head, but I was pleased.  The children came to look and my son, the most empathetic, compassionate person you could ever meet, asked sadly if the mice would have to suffer long with their mouths and feet stuck to the glue.  I rounded up the children and sent them out to play.  Without their judging scrutiny I gathered up the traps of vermin and tossed them in the rubbish.  At this point I would have happily shot them all to bits.

            Getting rid of the rats was another matter.  To me they were bigger pests than the mice, partly because they’re larger causing more damage and when they ran at you in a panic of disorientation, it was truly frightening.  My husband and I had experienced not being able to start our cars because some rat had chewed the wires.  There were also the unpleasant experiences of having rats die under the hood of my car, and turning on the heater only to have the car fill up with the smell of a decaying rat carcass.  With our dogs multiplying, cats were out.   Many of the rats were savvy to the way the traps worked.  We devised all sorts of mechanisms, but most caught just one rodent and many times not even that.  It was at this time that Brian announced he was going to hire a service to have someone come out with poison on a regular basis.  Seeing Trevor and I trying so hard finally inspired him to take action.

             A week later the exterminator drove up and knocked on our door.  He had with him a stack of black plastic boxes full of bright green poison pellets.  Each box had a nifty little hole for the rat to squeeze through and eat the pellets to its furry hearts content.  We were all delighted and followed the exterminator around, watching with heightened joy as he strategically placed the boxes in various parts of the property around our home.

            “You folks have a lot of fruit trees, which is part of the problem. That’s what really draws the rats.”  The exterminator told us.  It was true. There were guava bushes galore, lilikoi vines, and bananas.  After the exterminator was finished the whole family, as well as Trevor and his girlfriend, stood in the yard and waved goodbye to him, it was like we were saying farewell to Santa Claus.

            Days later there was a huge storm.  Trade winds ripped through the ridge that we lived on at 40mph rocking the house violently.  Parts of the roof that was most unstable, slammed up and down creating a crashing sound in our home, and nearby branches of trees scraped the outside walls, the effect was eerie and ghost like.  Lightening flashed from the sky and the wind howled and shrieked through every crack and crevice.  I ran about with bowls setting them on the floor in various parts of the living room to catch the rain that the Folgers coffee cans weren’t getting.  Unfortunately when I went to bed that night, rain had leaked through the sky light and my side of the bed was soaked.  I went back downstairs and slept with the younger children in their bed.

            The next morning the storm had passed.  It was unusually quiet, not even a bird chirped.  The sky was clear and once again I could hear myself think.  As I set about making breakfast, I heard a whoop from Trevor, who had emerged from the guest building.

             “Come see!  But this is lovely.”  I was a bit leery this time, as Trevor’s idea of what was lovely and beautiful were, I was finding out, quite different from my idea of the same adjectives.  I opened the door and stepped outside to see Trevor standing shirtless and in his ashram, wrap around pants.  He was pointing at something, and I followed the direction of his finger to see a drowned rat in the middle of the footpath leading up to our home.  But as I looked around I saw that there were drowned rats everywhere in the glistening, damp grass.  “Wonderful! Wonderful!”  He said, laughing out loud, showing off his white, healthy teeth.  The rats, it appeared, found the poison, and gorged themselves.  As they hemorrhaged from the inside, and became disoriented they had wondered out into the storm?  Strange, I thought.  “Come, let’s shovel them up,” Trevor suggested, a bounce in his step, as he went to the shed to grab the shovels.  You would think our yard was littered with gold.  He returned shortly with a shovel for me, and one for himself.  My three-year-old daughter, Viva, had wondered from the house in her nightgown to see what all the ruckus was about. 

            “Careful,” I told her.  “Watch your step, there are dead rats everywhere.”  Her large blue eyes grew larger, as she surveyed the situation.  Fascinated she watched me scoop up three dead, carcasses, the fur matted, and slick on the flattened bodies.  I walked with my daughter, following, across the front yard, through the driveway, across the dirt road, and to a cliff where I tossed my first batch.  Trevor followed, whistling to himself.

“Mom?” Viva said. 

“Yes, my love.”

“Those rats are yuck.”  Yes they were.  They were the most yucky, wonderful things I had ever seen.