My Island Time

I’ve just begun a house-and-pet-sitting gig, some good news I’d alluded to but did not share in an earlier post, for fear of jinxing myself.  Isn’t it darling?  BC and I have finally settled in, alongside feline siblings Caesar and Pierre, four chickens and a rabbit named Bucky.  I feel just like Laura Ingalls.

 I’ve enjoyed these Caretaker positions in the past, for it gives me a chance to explore a new place and get a temporary feeling of permanence before moving on.  The owner’s in Hawaii for a spell, completing her recovery from a horrific accident involving a snowmobile, a patch of ice and a tree.

Chairish the Museum donation,
Monmouth Museum, NJ

Poor woman’s lucky to be alive, and she’s got tremendous stamina.  Not wanting to divulge much information, part of her therapy has been renovating her home in the Historic District, and I’ve offered to help with some cold-weather projects.  Refinishing furniture is a particular passion, and with a fully equipped basement like Dad used to keep, I’m in my glory.

Before: circa 1960's
painted over several times

You’ve undoubtedly seen or read about someone (typically wearing a loincloth) being introduced to a bedroom for the first time; next morning they’re found sleeping on the floor.  That’s me.  After 33-feet of Ruff Life and 16-feet of the trailer, I can’t live in such an enormous place.  So the de-clawed (by a previous owner) cats freely roam upstairs and down to the entry; pocket doors close off the DMZ (formal parlor and dining room); and BC and I live in the kitchen and den.  We have separate baths.

It’s more than enough space.  I can’t believe how many things I’ve misplaced already.

Hawaii.  I’m jealous, but not the kind if I’d never gone myself.  Twice I visited buddies Rita and Tom, who were stationed on Oahu at the time.  As MY luck would have it, the first time was following Tino’s fatal heart attack.

From Oregon, Hawaii is just a hop-skip-and-, so to speak. Taking turns with babysitting detail, my friends came up with some inventive ideas to take my mind off my grief.  Rita and I beached, shopped and swung through trees like Tarzana and Jane.  We took a quick flight to Kauai for a day, driving along a road with a drop-off into hell, and shared like good, old friends do.

But I have to admit that the day I spent with Tom was something else.  Driving home after visiting the Pearl Harbor memorial, we came upon a surfing competition.  I’d never seen one other than on TV, so Tom stopped.

The beach met the road; we walked about a hundred yards or so, and plopped down to watch. The surfers were still quite distant, but we didn’t have our suits and wanted to stay clear of the water.  Wave after wave brought oohs and aahs from the crowd, and Tom and I talked like only men and women who are not involved can speak to one another; know what I mean?  Never having a brother, I can only guess it’s the same, without the sibling rivalry to get in the way.

“That wave is sure comin’ in close, huh?”

 

“Don’t worry, it won’t reach us.”  Famous last words.

All of a sudden Tom shouted, “Run!” exactly like the Captain yelled, “Dive!” and the Jumpmaster, “Go!”  Apparently at those times my body acts on instinct.  We snatched shoes, purse and keys while turning and scrambling in the sand, doing our best to get away from that rogue wave.

To no avail.  It swamped us, of course, and while we were not dragged out to sea, every orifice was coated with sand.  We stopped at the nearest restaurant to clean up and have a drink; I can imagine what we looked like when we walked in.  Tom, by then an experienced Dad, used a napkin to brush the sand out of my nose.

My second trip to their Hawaiian oasis was no less spectacular, involving a trip to the summit of Diamond Head, two broken ankle bones and a rescue mission, complete with helicopter, back down the mountain, but that’s another story.

Considering the homeowner’s own accident, I sure hope she’s having a more restful time in our truly beautiful 50th.  I’m jealous because I’m writing during yet another Oregon downpour.  I don’t mind being wet, as long as the sun shines once and awhile.  Aaahh, there it is...

Two shoes and
pitchfork defenses

I consider my time as Doctora Doolittle to be good training for future Caretaker positions, although the hens scare the hell out of me.  I’ve learned not to hold out my ring finger or wear the jacket with tassels, but honestly, I can’t seem to avoid wearing anything the girls don't find amusing.

Maybe the amusing part is watching me run, wielding my little pitchfork in defense as I gather their daily average of 3 tasty eggs.   Here they’re blocking the door to the coop; I’m too old to be traumatized each morning.

So they’re being adopted, and if she wants more when she returns, no problem with getting new, the owner says.  It’s amazing how easy it is to get rid of chickens around here.  I guess they’re like kids; if you have one, might as well have half a dozen.

An island isn’t just a rock in the water; it’s a state of mind.