Back in the Saddle

Well, vacation is over, and here we are again - back in good ol' Fort Worth. To all of the wonderful family members and friends who we were lucky enough to spend some time with, thank you. It is truly because of such as you that our homecoming was so memorable and, unfortunately, far too short. However, life and all of its trappings called, and I was pulled inextricably from my 'utopian' island home. Travel affords one the valuable opportunity to take stock of the place(s) we were raised.
I often need to explain my decision to attend college in Wisconsin. Certainly, Beloit is a great school with a top-notch staff of weird, crazy, liberal and brilliant professors. And the 'liberality' of Beloit and its curriculum drew me to the cold, wooded north. Still, there we other schools, warmer colleges where I could have made my academic bead for the next four years. I chose Beloit because of how different and distinctly foreign from Hawaii that it truly felt. At first, this was a mistake. Thirty degrees below zero froze the sense of adventure straight out of me.
So, what does my quirky, self-destructive (I could have died from frostbite!!) choice of schools have to do with Texas. First, I never loved Hawaii like my first Christmas vacation back home. The weather, the food, the culture. I missed so much of life on the islands that I felt dizzy with anticipation upon arrival. The same was true these last few weeks. And here's the kicker, despite the predictions of mai tais, bikinis and sun tans at Lanikai that friends, coworkers, and even I myself made for this past vacation....I only went to the beach ONCE. It rained almost everyday. Furthermore, I was swamped with appointments, parties, lunches, dinners, rounds of golf, and every other non-beach and non-"Hawaii" (well, besides the golf) things to do, that I never had a typical vacation. But who could have asked for a better one.
Therefore, I return to the idea I visited at the beginning of this rambling post. It was the people who made my homecoming great. All of these sand and sun-free outings involved those whom I hold dear. So, Merry Christmas readers. May you all receive the irreplaceable, infinite, and impossibly valuable gift of someone to share your life with this Holiday Season.
See you next time!

Homecoming

Whew! Boy is it great to be home.  The slightly balmy, humid air; the green, gently rising Ko'olau's as you drive home from HNL (Waianae for those of you on the west side); and, most importantly, the food! My sole motivation for working out the last few days has been to justify the gross amount of local cuisine I intend on ingesting every, single day I'm home. While most visitors to our island home may ask: "What should I see? Where should I go? Which beach should I swim at?". Those of us who must now call Hawaii a homecoming look forward to two things (especially when the weather does not allow for a decent day at the beach): time with family and friends, and FOOD!
Mom and Dad asked where I wanted to eat after we threw my duffel bag in the truck, I quickly answered, "Big City!". Loco Moco w/fried rice quickly reminded me of all the pleasant times that my stomach and I had missed while living in Texas. I picked up a tasty bowl of spicy ahi poke and rice while shopping at Ala Moana the next day and proceeded to gorge myself on kalua pork quesadillas, sweet potato fries, and edamame at Ryan's that night. Sunday dinner with aunt and uncle meant Chinese dinner at Golden Eagle: honey glazed shrimp w/walnuts, cake noodle, shoyu steamed fish, hot and sour soup, sweet and sour eggplant, spicy fried chicken wings, and rice. Monday was Eric's (Meg's brother) beef stew, so ono! And Tuesday was a visit to the gastrointestinal paradise that is Choi's Garden for some traditional Korean cuisine.
Hawaii certainly has more to offer than a superb selection of local and asian inspired food. However, as far as I'm concerned, the only thing I miss more than my family and friends is the local fare.

San Antonio

The sweat dripped steadily down my back. Making a steady progression from the nape of my neck to the valley between my shoulder blades. Yes, this is Texas, outside, in the middle of August. However, it is only upon further recollection that I remember how hot and uncomfortable it was that day. Megan, Emily, and I were walking through San Antonio and I was finally able to rest my mind on a thought other than, “Why is it always a 100 degrees here?” or “How much can an average person sweat before dying of dehydration?”

            After 10 minutes of strolling through the touristy district surrounding our destination, the object of my nerdy desire finally comes into view. Other than those iconic statues to liberty, justice, and freedom in the East that deserve so much of our wonder and respect, this little building has been a rallying cry for the cause of American democracy for nearly 150 years. And while I was certainly not expecting to be moved to tears, my first impression was underwhelming.

           The Alamo is a white, adobe building, about 30 feet high, and while I shouldn’t have to describe its shape, the impression upon first viewing is not one of wonder. I must admit, as a history major, I knew embarrassingly little about the Alamo and the epic battle that took place on its grounds. I am definitely not an expert after touring the grounds for what Megan and her mom called, “ALL afternoon”. But, at least I now know that the Alamo is not simply the iconic white building plastered across postcards and stamps. In fact, the battle took place in a compound the size of a football field. And the church that we commonly associate with the Alamo was actually the site of the Texan’s last stand against General Santa Anna’s 2000 troops.

            The Alamo of 2011 is still a place of incredible significance. I was surprised to find that all men are required to remove their hats when entering the church, and that the story of the Alamo’s restoration and preservation is nearly as compelling as the battle itself. However, the history can be read and viewed at numerous other cites. Like, here or here or here.

            While I meticulously made my way through all of the exhibits and videos and demonstrations that the Alamo has to offer, Megan and Emily were window-shopping nearby. After a couple of hours (seemed like 30 minutes to me, but the ladies insisted I was there the whole afternoon), we went back to our hotel and got changed for dinner. Megan and I found an interesting place called The Liberty Bar while flipping through the concierge’s restaurant book. Built out of a former convent, if the Garmin hadn’t insisted we had arrived I never would have known it was a restaurant. We walked in and immediately went up a steep staircase into what I assume must have been the nuns’ living quarters.

            The walls were lined with ‘classic’ paintings and the open kitchen made for a rather inviting atmosphere. I decided to be a bit adventurous and ordered the wild boar sausage, Megan was craving meat and got the rib eye, and Emily spotted a tasty looking squash soup. The soup was not all that she had hoped for, but Emily said it was ‘Ok’. Megan loved her big slab of beef, and despite how tasty my sausage was I couldn’t take my eyes off of the succulent steak.

            We ended the night at a bar near the hotel. UH was playing that night, and we all decided to have a few drinks while cheering on the ‘Bows (I know they’re The Warriors now, but old habits die hard). We stumbled into a ramshackle dive; Megan and I ordered a couple beers and Emily got a glass of Merlot…in a champagne glass. I had to add that peculiar fact because the Mexican birthday party going on behind us wasn’t quite strange enough. Well, the ‘Bows won handily and we all retired to our room for a well-deserved rest. Tomorrow would be a journey to the center of the earth….well, kind of.

Let's Catch Up

Hello Family and Friends,

After a rather prolonged haetus.... AHiT is back! (Like the acronym? I think it has a lot of punch. Haha! So punny...[On another side note, acronyms and abbreviations date back to the Roman Empire and Republic before it, where the letters, SPQR, stood for Senatus Populusque Romanus - 'The Senate and People of Rome'. Pretty cool huh?] )

I know that many have you have enjoyed "Story Time", and I am grateful for all those who read, commented, critiqued, glanced, clicked, etc. on my tales. A thousand thanks. However, Meg has recently reminded me that the original purpose of this blog was to chronicle my adventures in Fort Worth, TX. Therefore, the next few posts will be about the magnificent last month or so that we spent with all of the family and friends who graced us with their presence. Andiamo! (Let's Go!)

Prelude (cont.) - Part IV

Part IV

      Torin arrived home the following morning. He and Epona waited out the storm in the corner of the stable. It was too cold to sleep, and Torin was afraid someone might sneak up on them in the middle of the night. Besides, without light, finding his way home would be nearly impossible in the snow. Following tracks was pointless and he could not see any familiar landmarks, the sleet was so heavy. Instead, he stuffed some dry straw into his coat and pants and leaned against Epona's warm hind legs.
       Enjoying the heat that radiated from her thighs like a summer afternoon, Torin slipped into a somber doze. His head began to sink to his chest and soon the blinding white turned into a soft black....A fire flickered above him. Hovering, suspended in the air like a ghostly apparition. It was a single flame, like a lit candle; it shifted and stretched against some unfelt wind, then curled into a tight coil. Suddenly, it shot off like an arrow in flight. Torin gave chase, but he struggled to keep pace. His legs somehow felt twice as heavy and no matter the effort, he could run no faster than a brisk stroll. The fiery apparition continued to pull away and a wave of panic seemed to overwhelm Torin. He would be left alone, in the bleak void, blind and without a soul to hear his desperate pleas. Torin was on the verge of tears. He tried to force himself to move faster, to sprint with all his might. But the ground was a thick bog, sucking each step into the vacuous black ground and every belabored step was only more futile than the last.
     The flame was now at some unseen horizon. Like a dying star in an empty midnight sky. He sank through the floor, steadily watching the flame rise higher and farther away, until at last  he saw nothing. He fell headfirst into some other dark space, devoid of even the faintest light or the sound of his own terrified gasps for air.
     "This is it," he thought. "I have died, and my God has rejected me."
     For an eternity there was nothing. Then, a voice.
    "Breath.....Although your heart has ceased its rhythmic beating, you must still draw in this putrid atmosphere and blow out the stale remains."
    Torin awoke with a gasp, as if he had come up for air. The dream was over, and his fear and confusion were steadily subsiding as he quickly took stock of his surroundings again. Epona was anxious to leave, so Torin checked to make sure there was no one nearby and then slowly led her towards the front of the church.
     He could not remove the image of Father Gregory's neck splitting in half from an assassin's arrow. And he wanted to leave sight of the church as soon as possible. Once he was sure there was no one outside or one the road, he mounted Epona and road home, the path clearly visible now that the blizzard had passed. 

Prelude cont.

Part III

Instead, he heard women’s voices. Not that a woman was not dangerous, anyone who saw and knew Torin would almost certainly fetch the sheriff or magistrate and have him in shackles by the following morning. He sat under the podium of the lectern, hugging his knees to his chest. Although the wind howled outside, the hollow stone and raised arched ceilings in the chapel made even the faintest footsteps audible. These features, while visually pleasing also made for exceptional acoustics during hymns and sermons. Or so Torin assumed, he had never actually been in this chapel to hear a service or Sunday choir. Suddenly, he could hear the door, probably the one connecting the office to the chapel, open. The iron hinges squeaking ever so slightly. Then Torin heard footsteps. They were light, like a child or a young woman; definitely not a soldier, who would be stomping across the floor like a trotting stud. He expected to hear a gasp or a blood-curdling scream next. But none came. Torin sat in silence for what seemed an eternity. Sweat dripped down his spine. And he was so anxious he could barely breath. Every exhale seemed the loudest he had ever made and even the crinkle of his pants and coat against one another sounded like an alarm bell.

He pulled in his legs even tighter, as though the smaller he became, the less noise he could produce. Maybe he could disappear all together, he thought, if he pulled hard enough. No one came around the corner. Torin did not even hear the door close. Several minutes passed. While they were the longest of his life and Torin wanted nothing more than to stay curled in a ball, he could not linger. Whoever saw Father Gregory’s body still pose a threat, and the storm would not last forever.

Torin peered around both corners, double-checking that there was not a living soul in sight. Then he crawled out and scampered to the outfacing door as fast as he could. The blizzard had calmed down a bit, mirroring Torin’s nerves. But he still felt the harsh sting of frozen hail biting his nose and face when he stepped outside. Still, he was grateful to be out of the church and further away from the bloodied corpse of Father Gregory.

Torin walked around the back of the church, hoping to catch sight of Epona or the stable. Sure enough, the clever two year-old had found the only shelter for miles. Torin had heard of extreme weather and blinding storms across the seas on the continent and to the far north and east, but anything more than rain or snow was unusual for England, even in the dead of winter. Torin wanted to leave, despite the storm. Unfortunately, Epona was determined to stay. She dug her hoofs into the frozen dirt as Torin attempted to pull her from the stable. He even tried to drag her out by her bit, but she only shook him off and retreated even further under the makeshift roof. “C’mon girl,” Torin implored. But she only neighed loudly in defiance. Fed up and confused by her sudden and untimely stubbornness, Torin sighed and walked around behind her, determined to push the petulant beast into compliance if he had to. But just as he was pressing his numb hands against her backside, Torin heard voices.

Epona had actually tipped him off to their presence. Her mood suddenly changed and Torin felt her tense as the strange voices approached. It was definitely a man’s, and not one, but several. They were coming from the office side of the church, where Torin had first entered.

At first he only knew they were talking, but as they came closer to the rectory doors, Torin heard what they were saying. It was a pair of priests, and they were talking about Father Gregory.

“Are you sure?” One of them asked, in a peculiarly high-pitched tone.

“Positive. Leonas paid him last night. Providing a description was easy. Who could miss a priest as fat as a cow with the face of a pig?” They both chuckled. The second was older than the first, his voice deeper with a slight rasp, possibly from a cold or old age.

“Well, I’m glad the business is done with. Nothing worse than to remove someone from the fold. As gluttonous and simple as the man was, I am saddened by his passing.”

“The conditions could not have been more justified. And it was not we who committed the crime or even condemned the man.”

“Indeed, brother.”

“The Lord will surely forgive us the small part we played.”

“I pray He does.”

Torin was running.

Prelude

Part I

Torin was running. The sleet cut down and through him. He stopped, briefly, to regain his bearings. But standing still only allowed the blizzard to build another coat of snow over is eyes and nose. He shook the flakes off like a wet dog and prayed the storm had not sent him in the wrong direction.

Torin’s horse had escaped less than an hour ago, but finding her would be difficult. Winter is the perfect season to follow a heavy animal like Epona, her hooves leaving deep marks in the packed snow. Unfortunately, this blizzard had blown away the tracks, or simply filled them in again. Torin was becoming desperate. He was about to call off his search and return home when he caught sight of a small church. He thought he could make out a stable to the side. Even if Epona was not there, he could at least take shelter for a few moments as the blizzard passed.

Suddenly, the winds picked up speed and Torin was blinded once more. Barely able to see five feet in front of him, he held his arm over his face to block the stinging flakes and frozen hail. Exhausted and grateful to be out of the storm, he wiped off the sleeves of his wool coat before knocking on the side door of the rectory. There was no answer. Torin experienced a moment of panic as he realized that there might be nobody inside. Unable to overcome his sense of decorum, he knocked softly a few more times, but there was still no reply. He tried the handle, and remarkably, the heavy wooden frame budged. He pushed a little harder and soon the entire door swung upon, revealing an empty room.

Candles lined the shelves and windowsill, and a smoldering hunk of birch wood still glowed in the fireplace. Forgoing his manners, Torin quickly shut the door and shuffled over to the warmth of the smoking embers. While enjoying the sensation of his fingers and toes returning, he began to look around the office he had stumbled into. It probably belonged to the local priest. A man Torin had never met, because his family was Jewish, but he had seen several times. Short and fat, his face reminded Torin of their neighbor’s prize hog, his cheeks bulging at the side like he had two hunks of bread stuck between them. Not unlikely, considering how much the clergy ate. Some appeared to lead rather humble lives, but far too many looked as though they ate enough to feed the entire village, Torin thought with disgust.

Despite his obvious gluttony, Torin heard he was a kind and sensitive man, someone who would not send a freezing boy back out into a storm, he hoped. Now that feeling had returned to his extremities, it was time to look for priest Piggy-face. It would be better if he wasn’t found, like a thief, hiding in the office. He would appear much more trustworthy if he were the one to inform the priest of his presence and not the other way around.

The door to the nave was already open, so he simply removed his coat, shook off the melting snow as best he could and went looking for the priest, or anyone else who might be taking refuge in the church. But once again, to Torin’s surprise, there was no one here. The aisles were empty, so Torin went up to front and looked behind the pulpit, no one. He sat down on the step up to the platform, thinking of where else he could look. Suddenly, Torin heard a deafening thud. He peered around the pulpit and saw the double doors at the back of the nave burst open. It was the priest, but he was stumbling forward at great haste, pressing his right hand against his portly belly and clutching each successive seat in the aisles as he made his way up the narrow nave, towards Torin. Torin was about to stand to go to him, when a man in a dark brown cloak and hood appeared below the arches. A large quiver of arrows were slung across his back and Torin could see the innumerable feathers sticking up behind his head. Before he could process what was going on, the hooded figure drew back his bow and fired a dart through the priest’s neck. He whirled around as it pieced his windpipe, spraying crimson blood across the wooden seats and floor. As if reaching for the man, the priest held out a trembling arm and clutched the air as he fell. Satisfied that the priest was dead or on a certain path, the archer turned on his heel and walked back out into the storm.

Part II

Torin was in shock. Crouched behind the lectern, he prayed the man in black had not seen him. And despite the fact that he had left, Torin still found himself unable to move a muscle. Finally willing his body from its tense and anxious state, he stood up and took a few cautious steeps into the central isle where the priest now lay. His name was Father Gregory, Torin recalled. Ironic and sad that he had only remembered it after the man had been murdered in front of his eyes. His pudgy body was lying on his back, his head turned towards the side. Blood that had already begun to pool around the bases of several pews and Torin was hesitant to approach much further than the first row. He could see the dart, protruding from either end of Father Gregory’s fat neck and decided that he could do without the trauma of looking into the lifeless eyes of a man who had just died a frightening and gruesome death.

Suddenly, Torin was acutely aware of the danger he was in. No doubt people would wonder why a Jew was standing in the middle of a church with a dead priest on the floor. He would be lucky to escape prison and ever luckier to escape a lengthy interrogation and questioning from the local magistrate. Torin needed to leave. But it seemed that fortune would not smile upon him during such a dark and tempestuous winter day, for right as the thought of flight passed through his mind, Torin heard the door to Father Gregory’s office open. Unsure that he could make it out the front before the person entered the chapel, Torin dove behind the lectern once again, and prayed that nothing as horrific would occur this time.

Story Time!

Although this blog is a wonderful way for me to stay in touch with all of you, I would like to try something a little different. I have begun writing a story and I want you all to be a part of this arduous journey through my inadequate will-power and overwhelming desire to be lazy. So here's the deal: I need your help!
I will make a truly honest attempt to put bottom in chair, elbows on desk, and fingers to keys this week. Hopefully, come next week, I shall post the first chapter of a story for you to read. Seeing as how I have no clue what direction it will progress, I invite ALL of you to communicate your ideas. More importantly, I want to hear that you want MORE.
If you are anything like me, you are motivated by a desire to make people other than yourself happy. Seeing as how I cannot help the feeling that writing is a purely self-induced obsession with viewing my own thoughts on the screen, the prospect of at least piquing your curiosity and entertaining you for a few brief moments is rather gratifying. So, what do you NEED to do? Nothing. Just read. If you like it and want more, let me know.....Thanks guys!

What I Learned from Transformers 3

I think that Transformers 3 illustrated the point most clearly for me in all of its CGI glory. I know, this above sequence of words should never actually be written or said in any utterable language. Not sure what an ‘un-utterable’ language would sound or look like. Just another thing to add to my ‘must-Wiki’ list of things I want to know enough about to impress others with random trivia, but not so much that people feel they could have an actual conversation with me about. For example, I’ve always wanted to know how a black hole works. But I refuse to discuss the temporal ramifications of passing through an Einstein-Rosen bridge (Notice insertion of random name-drop for academic impressiveness.). Anyway, back to the frustrating life-lessons learned by Michael Bay’s third installment of “Your Childhood Means Nothing to Me and My Insatiable Lust for Giant Fireballs,” also known as TRANSFORMERS!!!! I add the exclamation marks and capital letters throughout because I’m quite certain that Mike screams out the name when he talks about it. He may also try to say it like James Earl Jones or Mufasa, but that’s neither here nor there.

What I’m really trying to talk about here is finding a job. For those of you who subjected your senses to Mr. Bay’s embarrassing riches of wasted Hollywood talent, you will have noticed that Sam’s (Shia LeBouf) plight at the start of the movie is his inability to find work. How he manages to land a British diplomat that also looks like a Victoria Secret model (because she actually is) was never fully explained. One would think that if he could somehow bridge the enormous beauty, brains, and height gap between them, he would also have used these skills to convince an HR rep at Bank of America that he deserves a chance as a teller or in the mailroom. Alas, Hollywood blockbusters have once again found a way to relate with Americans, and it seems to be saying that none of us have a job.

Me personally, I have a job, but not much of one. How has the economic and social condition in our country deteriorated so quickly that even having a graduate degree does not qualify you to be a receptionist? I have literally applied to a dozen secretary positions in Fort Worth, and not a single one has called me back. I wish I could blame short-sighted employers or even myself (at least that would be an answer). But the more I talk to people my own age, the more I hear over-and-over again that having a college degree and a few years of work experience just isn’t enough these days. I mean, I spent a year in CHINA teaching English and learning another language that over a sixth of the planet speaks, and no one seems to find that the least bit attractive.

This is the example that KILLS me. Megan and I were in Costco, mostly because Megan loves Costo and I felt the urge to buy fifteen tons of JIF Creamy peanut butter and a three-story house to eat it in (I think they sells those now, too). Anyway, we’re pulling up to the counter with the six-bed, four-bath fixer and my tub of PB when Megan and I start talking about my job search. Her unrelenting love for Costco inspires her to suggest I work here, not a bad proposition I respond. So, as we’re getting rung-up she asks the cashier, a guy in his early thirties, if he likes working at Costco. “Yeah,” he answers, “I actually quit my teaching job to work here full time.” I think my eyes almost shot out of their sockets. My bulging retinas must have caught his attention, because he went on to justify this seemingly backwards change in profession. “As a cashier you can make as much as $22 an hour, and on Sundays I get time-and-a-half. Plus, their benefits are great, and now that I’ve been with them for five years they just give me a $6000 bonus every year.” Hard to argue with that monetary logic.

Has becoming a teacher really been pushed into near extinction by our lack of respect and compensation for this profession? Or has consuming industrial size containers of Cheetos become our national past time, and thus more profitable than shaping the young minds future leaders of this wonderful nation? I regretfully assume a little of both is at play. More to come…

Pass It On

With all of the ugliness that seems to seep through the radio, television, and computer these days, it is quite refreshing and actually rather unexpected to experience genuine generosity from others. As many of you already know, Megan and I just moved into a new apartment. "New" is a relative word in this case. Although we got a steal on this two bed, two bath only 20 minutes from Megan's school, we definitely got what we paid for. So, $560 a month may get you 1000 sq. feet in Fort Worth, but it won't get you watered or trimmed grounds, rust-free railings and stairs, a dry guest bathroom, a working kitchen fan, door knobs that are bolted to the closet door, a microwave, an A/C that blows cold air, or an apartment that doesn't smell funny.
Like I said, you get what you pay for. However, despite the many imperfections, its already feeling quite warm and cozy (although that may have something to do with the 110 degree heat....), and no problem is too large for some super glue, a fan, a little Frebreeze, a couple of work orders, and some tunnel vision before walking in the door.
So, back to the kindness of others. Some of you may not believe this, because I certainly didn't and I was there. While looking for a mattress, Megan came a across a free King that someone was offering on Craigslist. "Impossible," I thought. There must be a catch. So when I made the 90 minute drive to Terrell, Texas. After 12 hours on the job I arrived expecting to be disappointed. Rats, roaches, bed bugs, blood and urine stains? Something must be wrong with this thing, otherwise, why would someone just give it away?
Megan had emailed the owners several times and they seemed like alright people. But, I was ready to scream bloody murder should our nighttime rendezvous in the Walmart parking lot turn into a terrifying story of human trafficking. However, to y delight and relief, Scott and Dana were two of the friendliest Texans you will ever meet. And the grime covered, dump mattress I expected to find turned out to be as amazingly stain free as its previous owners. Scott even helped this writer with his bunny-ear knots and basically tied the whole thing to my roof as I pulled some rope around and held stuff. Wishing I had bee a boy-scout. That's ok, I can kick a little ball REALLY far. Useful skill, that is.
I drove our soft, yet firm, prize back to Fort Worth, refusing to drive a mile above the speed limit for the first time in my life. Fifty feels like ludicrous speed when your windows are down and a king size mattress is flapping on your roof like giant Pterodactyl wings.
As if the day were not filled with enough surprises, while we were unloading our booty, our neighbors were walking/pooping their dogs. The mother-daughter pair knew we were moving out soon and asked if we could use a sofa. "Um....yeah." Daughter lets me into their place and reveals two, spotless leather coaches. "We were going to sell them on Craigslist for $500," she says. Ouch...good, but way above our budget of 10 bucks..."But if you can't afford that, we'll just give them to you." What?! I muster a "Sure, that would be awesome." Followed by several by several thank-you's. I nearly kow-towed at her feet stepping out the door.
That day reaffirmed my faith in humanity. I know it's a corny sentiment, often shared by people who watch someone sacrifice their life or limb for others. but, acts of selfless kindness and generosity, like the two I witnessed/experienced on the same day, show me that despite the ugliness we may often feel rules this wonderful world, people are the force with the ability to change lives.

R.I.P. Popo

I'm not sure whether or not everyone know's this, but my Grandmother passed away a little over two weeks ago. She lived to be 96 years old. Last week I was back in Hawaii for her funeral and to celebrate the impressively disciplined and faithful life she lived. Below is the remembrance I gave at her funeral. I would also love to have my brother's speeches, as they spoke quite emotional and touching words about a woman who touched so many lives in such a subtle and profound way. I love you Popo, rest in peace.

I’m going to begin in a rather odd manner. First, by talking briefly about my Grandfather, Paul Chun, Bea’s husband. Now, you’ll have to forgive me, because for the rest of my remembrance I’m going to refer to Paul as Gung Gung and Bea as Popo. Seeing as how there are quite a few Chinese members, I know there’s a lot of Gung Gungs and Popos out there besides my own. But that is how I knew them, so this is how I will remember them.

Gung Gung passed when I was only nine or ten years old. I never really knew him that well, and at his funeral, while my older brothers gave moving remembrances, I sat in among the congregation. This was fitting; I had very little to say that day.

But, I was struck by how vivid and joyous the memories of Gung Gung were to my older brothers. Their emotional stories brought him to life for me, and made me truly miss him. I wished I had been able to stand here that day and tell you all how much I loved my Gung Gung. And how I adored and missed the man I now saw through their words.

I want to share a passage from one of my favorite authors, Ken Follett: “The important thing in life is what a man leaves behind in the minds of others, not the things that remain of himself.” This is a rather ironic statement when applied to Popo’s memory because Popo had, actually still has A LOT of stuff. In fact, Popo was famous in our family for the STUFF she kept.

Popo saved nearly everything. When I dropped off the mail at her house or brought up her groceries I would marvel at the vast jungle of Stuff piled atop her dinning room table. It was a swirling mass of paper. A sea of newspapers, magazines, letters, envelops, stamps, ads, coupons, pictures, calendars, pens, pencils, and paper clips. My father often joked, with a rueful grin, that one morning he would sneak into her house and shuffle the whole mess into a hefty garbage bag. In fact, I myself teased her by picking up various pieces of mail, reading them aloud to her, saying it was useless junk and pretending to cast it into the nearest trash can. At which point, she would almost jump out of her chair and demand that I pull it out because she hadn’t read it thoroughly yet. Ironically, because she was so diligent about writing today’s date on each piece of mail that came in, I knew exactly how long some of her envelopes had been sitting there. It’s 2011 now, and some things were still marked from the 1990s!

Going to her house was always an adventure because I never knew what I might find. A March 1955 National Geographic? Maybe shoes she bought from the ‘70s, still neatly packaged in a dusty box? Ziploc bags with a receipt from April 5^th, 1985, that’s almost a year before I was even born. And sometimes I would find true treasures, like a picture of her trip to Southeast Asia with Gung Gung, faded and cracked around the edges, just lying on a shelf in her closet. Few things were placed with more care than the next, but they all had a place in her home.

That was Popo’s way. She had little care for formalities, no time for luxuries, and no patience for trivialities, except Jeopardy. She sat in the back of this community church for decades. I never saw her ask a question, give a speech or sing a song. But, I know she has been one of its most faithful benefactors, and over most of her 96 years, she was in attendance every Sunday. In many ways, she still is sitting back there, enjoying the camaraderie of her follow members, listening to the word of the Lord, and moving closer to her maker.

Popo was not one who often told you how she felt with words. Instead, she showed you with her actions. Popo actually scared me as a child. She threatened to lace my fingers with chili pepper if she ever caught me picking my nose again, or wash out my mouth with soap for saying a bad word, both things I still do, sorry Popo. As a teenager, my often-blemished face caused her to give me a sheet of thin cosmetic papers to wipe off the oil from my pimply skin. And when I returned from college one summer with a stomach full of beer and pizza she said, “Be careful Stephen, you’re getting fat, huh?” But despite her blunt, insensitive style, she couldn’t hide her love. Each time I told her I was leaving to go back to college or spend a year abroad she forced a little smile, clutched me firmly and wrapped a tiny arm around my neck. Her grey-blue eyes welled up with tears and she told me….. “Study hard!”, or, “Don’t forget to eat your vegetables”. But when she finally let go and said “Goodbye”, I knew she was really saying, “I love you.” THIS is the image she left behind in my mind, and I pray she has done the same for you.

A Dog's Life (June 6th - 12th)

It's been almost 1 week since I touched down in Dallas-Fort Worth. Max, Beth's dog, has come to stay with us for the next week. As Beth and Charlie travel to Costa Rica on their honeymoon, Megan and I are, once again, spoiled with the comforting presence of a care-free animal. Mas has love to spare, and like Buddy, he seems to give it away to those who seek it. Although he's not quite certain of my intentions yet, the gray topped Maltese-Yorky mix has just settled his fluffy head against my foot as I write this thought. He must be confused and a bit scared, as Megan pointed out. Licking his paws, changing positions, and bolting up on the bed to look around the room at certain times; it is apparent he still has to adjust to his surroundings. That's sort of how I feel right now.
When I walked in the door of the townhouse condo that is to be our home for the next year I was bursting with energy. The morning after I arrived I woke nice and early (9:30am, not bad considering it was still 4:30 in Honolulu). We drove Kristin to the airport and when we got back I cleaned her old room. I vacuumed everything. Moving dressers, chairs, nightstands, even her old bed to reach every corner of the dust soaked carpet. Then, I finally texted Megan as I racked my brain over the best possible configuration for the bed, dresser, and TV. The rest of the day I spent unpacking and cleaning the kitchen, my office for the next year. Wednesday through Friday involved trips to Super Target, Walmart, Goodwill, and CVS (the Longs of the mainland). It's hard to believe the number of warehouse sized supermarkets and chain restaurants here. By Sunday (today) my enthusiasm and excitement has wound down. Like Max, I feel anxious. Dropped in an unfamiliar landscape and unsure of what awaits me in the future, I must trust that those around me (Megan) will provide support. But judging by the quality of our care-takers, I think Max and I will be just fine.