by Lehua Parker | Mar 27, 2015 | Mainland Living
My head hurts. It’s another migraine, one on the epic scale that I’d hoped were gone forever. It’s been a couple of years since I had one last this long–three days now–and longer still since I’ve had one I couldn’t force myself to function through.
If you’ve had one like this, you’ll know what I’m talking about. All you want to do is lie in bed in a dark room with silent tears streaking down your cheeks because any noise is like an ice pick through your eye.
But Moms can’t simply go to bed for days, nor can people with mortgages and car payments, students with classes, or really any human with responsibilities beyond themselves. I have horses, dogs, cats, kids, and deadlines, so I swallow pills, chug colas for the caffeine, and try to deal. The family sees the squint in my eyes and the frown lines across my brow. The white pursed lips are another giveaway. They mostly try to walk softly and leave me alone.
Through the fog I think of bed, that soft, billowy haven of cool sheets and darkness. I imagine lying in the comfort of fabric softener and down pillows and try to ignore the vise crushing my head, the pulsing of a brain that feels too big for my skull. I try to write, to fold laundry, to plan meals, but I’m not really here.
I know my triggers. I try to avoid them, but sometimes they sneak up on me like the Roadrunner does the Coyote. The Coyote plans and plots, but the Roadrunner is always ten steps ahead with an elaborate ruse to trick the Coyote. Dynamite and falling anvils, the Coyote always gets it in the end.
Being the Coyote sucks.
I know the stages. In a couple of hours if the pain doesn’t ease, I’ll be unable to do much of anything, too tired to move, but unable to sleep. Then the mental howling will begin. For me migraines are the body’s way of telling me that I’ve been living in crisis mode for too long. Things buried, pushed aside, and ignored in the moment of triage are now clamoring for attention. It’s when things are safe, when there’s time to pause and examine that the past comes to haunt me.
I wish I knew how to exercise my demons once and for all. Until then, I will count the hours until my next pain medication and try not to whimper.
by Lehua Parker | Mar 12, 2015 | Island Style
When I was five we lived in a house on the beach at Kihei Lagoon. I remember getting up as dawn was just a shell-pink hint in the sky and running barefoot down the grass and onto the cool damp sand. It was rare, very rare to walk along the water’s edge and find a miracle: a small glass ball that had broken free from a Japanese fisherman’s net to float through miles of open Pacific Ocean to land at my feet. I only found two—one faint green and the other amber, but I remember marveling at the slightly misshapen glass spheres melted and shaped from discarded liquor bottles. It was the kind of thing that would hold a mermaid’s wish or a message from a sea star, and I never forgot the sense of magic and wonder they brought.
It was the distance, I think. How could something travel so far?
Now as I wander along beaches it’s not quaint glass balls or even shells that I find. It’s plastic. Bent, broken, sun-bleached discards from Asia, America, Australia. Bits of bins, bags, and ephemeral stuff too travel-worn and trashed to identify properly. It’s everywhere with more coming ashore on each tide.
I admit I’m a casual recycler. I understand reduce, reuse, and recycle, and I do my part to live lightly on the earth as long as it’s simple, practical, and fairly painless. Compared to true eco-warriors I’m a poser.
But seeing the pervasive plastics in our oceans and along our beaches have made me more concerned than all the weeping Indians, earth-warming alarmists, and give a hoot owls combined. When I see the damage to our reefs from abandoned fishing nets that drag along fragile coral, when there are more white bags than white sand, and when the levels of toxicity in our fish make them unsafe to eat I have to ask how do we stop? We can’t strain the ocean and pull every bit of trash out—where would we even put it? This is not a California-Hong Kong-Sydney problem. It’s a world problem.
I have the glass balls to prove it.
by Lehua Parker | Mar 9, 2015 | Mainland Living
We rushed into a pew and quickly lifted a hymn book from the rack just as the congregation starting singing. Suddenly, my daughter poked me in the ribs. “Mom!” she hissed. “You forgot to put on your make-up!”
Oops.
I thought back. Yep. Morning routine interrupted. I showered, brushed my teeth, put on moisturizer and deodorant, and then got called to help with some family non-emergency. Later when I rushed back to the bathroom, I did my hair by braille. Grabbing my glasses was the last thing I did before we flew out of the house. No time or thought for a mirror check.
My daughter scrambled in her bag and handed me colored Chapstick. “I only carry mascara in my gym bag.”
“Really?” I asked. “Is it really that bad?”
She gave me the look that said are you really asking me that?
I heaved a sigh and swiped a couple of strokes across my lips. “Better?”
The sideways tilt of her head and frown said it all.
“What? Should I go home and come back? Am I that hideous?”
She patted my arm. “Well, think of it this way. At least you’re not one of those moms who can’t leave the house without a ton of make-up on.”
Fudge. Maybe I should see if I can find a bag to put over my head.
And then I squared my shoulders. It’s not a photo op. It’s not like anybody else is even going to notice. God sees me without make-up all the time.
So I stayed through the service and went on to teach teenage Sunday School. They wouldn’t have noticed if I sprouted wings or grew a third arm. They’re teens. No matter what I say or do, I’m uncool and beneath their notice.
However, I did sneak out a side door before I had to talk to grown-ups. It’s okay for God to see the imperfections—the wrinkles and dark circles and spots; I know He’ll overlook them in His grace. But I really didn’t want a bevy of casseroles showing up from concerned neighbors who might think I was in the early stages of Alzheimer’s.
After all, if you’re wearing a dress, heels, and hairspray how do you explain forgetting to put on your make-up without sounding like someone who needs a casserole and a good house cleaning?
Hmmm. On second thought…
by Lehua Parker | Dec 30, 2014 | Mainland Living
I admit it. This year Christmas sneaked up on me. No decorations went up in the house until December 21st. A lone wreath my husband bought at Costco after Thanksgiving was propped on a sofa table for weeks waiting for someone to find a door hanger. The weather was the weirdest ever; in prime ski country we had no snow until early Christmas morning—a result, I am certain, of the fervent prayers of foolish people who believe in the necessity of a white Christmas.
But I digress. We’re supposed to be talking about poi here.
No snow, no decorations, no surprise that it was Dec. 23rd when my husband and I were frantically trying to get all the shopping done, shopping that I used to pat myself on the back for finishing before Thanksgiving. (My younger self was such an overachiever.) I’d invited my parents and my brother for Christmas dinner and now needed to figure out what to serve.
“Something simple,” my son requested. “Something good that can sit in an oven while we play cards.”
“You mean like a roast?”
“Yeaaahhhh.” Not too enthusiastic.
I thought some more. “How about a pork roast? I’ll make it kalua style.”
“Perfect!” He grinned.
What can I say? The kid loves Hawaiian food.
Running our last minute errands, my husband and I’d bought the roast, cabbage, and sweet rolls. Liquid smoke and alaea salt were already in the pantry. Rice, I thought, steamed yams, carrots for those who hate yams, haupia—I have two cans of coconut milk and cornstarch. What else?
Oh, no. “Uh, Kevin?”
“Yeah.”
“We need to run to a few more places. There’s just one thing I need to pick up for Christmas dinner.”
“What?”
“Poi.”
“Poi?” The car came to a screeching halt. “It’s Dec. 23rd!”
“I can’t serve a traditional Hawaiian dinner—”
“Without poi. I get it. At least we’re in Provo. You better pray somebody got a holiday care package they’re willing to share.”
Our first stop was L&L Hawaiian Barbecue. L&L Drive-Inn in Hawaii is plate lunch place the serves all the best local foods. In Provo I found it to be hit or miss—mostly miss.
I walked up to the counter, scanning the menu for poi.
“Can I help you?” asked the perky girl with long black hair pinned with a fake plumeria.
“Yeah.” I pointed to the tip cup taped to the cash register. “I’d like some poi to go, about that much.”
“Poi? You mean that kalua pork?”
I blinked. That kalua pork? “No, poi.” She looked at me blankly. “It’s mashed taro root.” Still nothing. “It’s greyish/purplish and thick like a paste.”
“Uh…” She yelled over her shoulder to the cook. “¿Tenemos poi?”
“¿Que?”
“Poi. ¿Hay poi?”
You have got to be kidding me. My husband saw the look in my eye, grabbed my arm, and shook his head. He slowly backed me away from the counter.
“¿Que es poi?”
Another voice from the back said, “No hay.”
“Sorry,” she called, but by that time he had me half-way out the door with a kung fu death grip on my shoulder.
For their own safety, of course.
Our next stop was a pacific rim/Asian market called Food From Many Lands. When I was in college it was the place to buy calrose rice, rice cookers, shoyu, kakimochi, and dubious Portuguese sausage. The same Chinese proprietor very kindly told me she didn’t carry poi, but the 7-11 next door was owned by a Hawaiian man who might know where I could get some.
Back in the car we jumped. Down the road was another Hawaiian food place called Sweets. When I walked in the beautiful young woman behind the counter began uncovering trays of teri chicken, beef stew, and other plate lunch staples. Hawaiian, I thought, hapa-haole and maybe some Samoan or Tahitian. “Hi,” I said, “I’m looking for poi. Do you have any?”
A panicked stare. “Um…”
Raised on the mainland. Bummers.
She disappeared in a flash.
Another beautiful Hawaiian woman came from the back, the girl’s mother perhaps, and eyed us with The Look. I knew it well. It was the look Hawaiians reserve for crazy haoles who had lived TDY at Schofield Barracks or Wheeler Army Airfield for a year and thought that made them Hawaiian. She spoke carefully and slowly. “We don’t have poi today.”
“Oh. Do you know where we could get some?”
“Try the Hawaiian 7-11.”
Hawaiian 7-11? Another round of send the haoles on a wild nene chase? Seeing the confusion on my face, she continued.
“It’s just up the block. They might have some in the freezer.”
“The Hawaiian 7-11?”
“Oh, yeah. He has all kinds of things there—poi, laulau—”
“Laulau? No way.”
She laughed. “Check it out.”
“Thanks!”
When we pulled up to the 7-11, I was disappointed. Nothing about it said Hawaii, no signs about deliciousness available inside, no throngs of Pacific islanders standing in line for last minute stocking stuffers. I walked through the entire store and saw nothing out of the ordinary—just coffee, burritos, chips, candy, gum.
Sigh.
Then my husband called from the other side of the cash register, the part of the store that looked like employee-only storage. “You gotta see this.”
And there it was. A freezer case with char siu manapua, red Redondo’s hot dogs, S&S Saimin, a pink slab of kamaboku fish cake, laulau, cubed ahi for poke, spicy and mild Portuguese sausage—and frozen 1 lb. bags of Taro Brand poi.
Score!
Next to the freezer were mostly empty shelves (it was Christmas, after all), but there were a few bags of crackseed, kakimochi, jars of guava jelly, and li hing mui powder. I grabbed lemon peel, dark arare, rock salt plum, dried cuttle fish, cream crackers, spicy sausage, and two pounds of poi. I handed my credit card to the clerk and tried not to gulp at the total.
It was Christmas after all. Well, Dec. 23rd. And everyone knows two day poi is the best!
by Lehua Parker | Oct 14, 2014 | Travel
Monday, Oct. 13, 2014
I am sitting in a cafe in the middle of an ancient bull fighter’s arena in Barcelona, Spain, that rivals any modern mall I’ve seen. There’s a cup of hot chocolate the consistency of a melted Hershey bar next to me. My two years of high school Spanish is just enough for shopkeepers to smile indulgently and speak to me in their perfect English. It should embarrass me, but I’m relieved.
A woman with a 5 month old named Gabe is meeting me. Teething and totally off his schedule, Gabe is the mellowest kid I’ve ever seen, but there are some inescapable realities of traveling with an infant we’re dealing with.
Gabe is a chick magnet.
Or maybe just a person magnet because it’s not just abuelitos or senoritas that make google eyes at him. On the metro Gabe had hard-core punk rockers–tattoos, shaved mohawks, and piercings–vying to make him smile.
Good thing he’s a soft touch with an easy toothless grin.
There’s something about a baby that reminds us we’re all human. With Gabe around, everyone is a little softer, kinder. Gabe is soaking it all in through his big baby eyes and mostly going with the flow.
Some day his parents will show him his passport photo and tell him all about his trip to Spain. He won’t remember a thing. But maybe, just maybe when he’s long out of diapers and binkies there will be a sound, a scent, a flash of light on a curved wall and for a brief moment Gabe will remember the Barcelona sun and the pattern of leaves against the sky on the Las Rambas walkway as it arced above his stroller canopy.
Or at least wonder why the sound of a train always puts him to sleep.
by Lehua Parker | Oct 5, 2014 | Island Style, Mainland Living
Knowing when I was going to get mail used to be a simple thing. Never on Sundays. Around 11:20 am Monday through Friday and around noon on Saturday. There was no reason to keep checking the mailbox—one delivery a day brought all I was going to get until the next time the mailman made her rounds.
Yeah, our mailman was a lady, but we still called her the mailman. When I was little I thought the word was mail ma’am. I also thought the song Cherish You was all about cherry shoes, but that’s another blog post.
Growing up in Hawaii, I could predict when I might get a card or letter from my mainland family. Christmas and birthdays were a sure thing. Presidents’ Day, Groundhogs Day, Flag Day—not so much. I’d haunt the mailbox the week before an anticipated arrival but ignore it the rest of the time. A kid can only get so excited about Hawaiian Electric bills, Longs ads, and mail addressed to Resident.
But with email, you just never know. Any second somebody could be sending that all important message, the one you didn’t know you were waiting for until it arrived. I find myself reaching for my smartphone and checking my inbox way too often in meetings, watching tv, at kids’ soccer games—even church. I’m starting to feel like Linus with his blankie.
I’m not ADD. I can choose when I’m going to pay attention and can sustain that attention for a scarily long time when I’m engaged. My problem is low boredom threshold.
It’s easier to let people think I’m ADD.
My head hurts. It’s another migraine, one on the epic scale that I’d hoped were gone forever. It’s been a couple of years since I had one last this long–three days now–and longer still since I’ve had one I couldn’t force myself to function through.
