On Preparing for a Trip

Three days before leaving on any trip my house is in chaos. Covering the bed, mounds of whites, coloreds, and darks wait for folding, the desk across the room littered with to do lists, bills, and homework needs sorting, the kitchen floor is spotty, covered in a thin film of dust and debris, and refrigerator science experiments require ongoing dishwasher cycles as I pull out moldy smelly spaghetti, grey refried beans, mushy, runny cucumbers, and several unidentifiable past dinners. A constant brrrrring from the phone, the dog’s persistent scratching at the back door, and my five children pleading to invite friends over, increase the commotion. My heart beats faster, the veins in my neck stick out, leaving me feeling like a screaming tea pot, boiling and steaming.

I always want everything in perfect condition before we leave. It’s like I am preparing to die and I want everything in order before I go: bills paid, pets taken care of, dishes washed, and house clean - just in case we never come back. Returning to a clean house motivates me. I put away the stuff from the car instead of leaving it sitting in suitcases for days until I get around to unpacking.

The problem with cleaning is the more you put away, the more you find to put away. I look around the kitchen, starting with the stack of multi-hued school papers my third grade twins Brooke and Kendra have left for my perusal, quickly glancing through, noting their grades, I toss the stack in the recycling bin along with odds and ends from the mail pile, a used plastic whip cream container, two water bottles, and an empty milk jug. The first layer gone, I now see the dishes in the sink from last night’s dinner, as well as cereal bowls from the this morning, some still half filled with soggy Frosted Flakes, peanut-butter smeared knives on the counter left, and a dozen empty cups scattered along the bar, counters, and table. Stashing everything in the dishwasher, I peer around the kitchen expecting clean counters, and see the third layer. Miscellaneous toys, a bright green Polly Pocket coat, a red rubber ball, a dominoes tile, the dog leash, some spare change, stamps, an empty can I missed for the recycling box, and a pair of gardening gloves. These items don’t belong in the kitchen, making them inconvenient to put away, which is why they are probably still in the kitchen. Surely now I am done, but usually there is at least another layer before the dirty counter tops are in plain sight. It really doesn’t seem that bad. Somehow my eyes must get used to the clutter.

I can understand the scripture from Luke 6:42 that says, “How can you say to your brother, 'Brother, let me take the speck out of your eye,' when you yourself fail to see the plank in your own eye? You hypocrite, first take the plank out of your eye, and then you will see clearly to remove the speck from your brother's eye.” My house often mirrors my soul, cluttered, messy, layered in junk, but I get use to my disorder, finding it easier to sort out someone else’s life then my own. With a lot of gunk in my own eye, I decided to work through a twelve step program. Twelve step programs teach how the atonement can work in your life. My life was my kitchen counter. The more I worked on me, the more I found to work on. I stepped over my clutter, shuffled it around, tucked it under the rug, but when I really looked at it, saw it, and dealt with it, I felt spiritual pathways opening up, no longer cluttered by layers of accumulated muck.

Once the house is clean, packing begins. Packing everything for everyone is time consuming: matching their clothes, grabbing their toothbrushes, choosing their entertainment. Now I let all five children and my husband decide what will go in their suitcases within the parameters of my designated packing list. I don’t even double check their bags when they are done.

Scott, my husband of twenty-one years, is an experienced packer. A salesman for the first fifteen years of our marriage, he traveled all over the world, becoming adept at clothing selection, space maximizing techniques like stuffing your socks in your shoes, and keeping his toiletries to a bare minimum. Sean, a senior in high school, is also well traveled. Band trips, and science and scout camps, provided packing opportunities ranging from dinners with congressmen to roasting marshmallows around a campfire. Granted he may have packed a week’s worth of clothes for scout camp, but I’m pretty sure he wore the same thing the whole week. My middle girls, Megan and Kimber (fifteen and twelve respectively), are sensible, reliable, and consistent. I can rely on them to pack exactly what’s on the list, pack light, and be ready to go on time.

My youngest are nine year-old twins. Their interpretations of my packing list are always interesting. Brooke, the oldest twin by seven minutes, likes fashion. Choosing clothes that match (almost), she exhibits a unique style and lately has decided skirts or dresses with pants underneath are “in.” Stuffed animals fill her bag, crowding out the clothes, and convincing her to scale back to one is worrisome to her. She worries they will miss each other, and she couldn’t possibly leave any behind, and what will they do without her. In a separate bag she stuffs a blanket, her journal, a book, her Nintendo DS, and her pillow.

Kendra, the youngest twin, is a minimalist. She may take all the clothes on the list, but will wear the same outfit for several days, usually a tie-dye shirt with pink, purple, and yellow swirls she made at a friend’s birthday party, black pants, brown winter boots with no socks, unless I remind her to wear them. She only needs her Nintendo DS to survive as she will most likely take, beg, or borrow everyone else’s things along the way: a pillow, a jacket, a video game.

During our spring break trip from our home in Boise, Idaho to Salt Lake City, Utah at the end of March, with snow hovering heavy in the air, Kendra chose to leave her winter coat home, relying on a sweatshirt to keep her warm. Brooke chose a Sunday dress; sleeveless, see-through, no slip, and an oddly matched shirt to wear underneath. Kendra kept trying to steal people’s coats during the trip, and Brooke was consigned to wear Great Grandma Hutchens’ pinned up slip and her sister’s white tee-shirt under her dress. By the end of the trip Brooke managed to go through all of her clothes and need extras, while Kendra still had plenty of socks, shirts, and pants left to choose from.

I am always the last pack. For three days I clean, prepare food, set our earthly affairs in order, and actively encourage my five children and husband to get their things together and out to the car. In the end they will all be sitting in the car agitated and annoyed that I am still upstairs packing. I over pack in anticipation of weather, accidents, and unforeseen events, like unexpectedly being invited to a ball, or at the very least hiking shoes in case I get the desire to climb a mountain. By the time I get my things to the car the only place left is under my feet, because the back is already full with stuffed animals and blankets. The children have been drinking their water bottles for the last twenty minutes so we should be just out of town when they need to use a restroom, which is fine because unfortunately at my age that is about when I will need to use the restroom as well, and I would much rather it be their fault we have to stop than mine.

The problem with stopping the trip for a gas or restroom break is the time involved, usually twenty per break. My parent’s home in Helena, Montana is potentially a seven hours trip, if there is no construction, no gas breaks, and only a slight increase of speed over the speed limit (maybe seventy-eight mph). A gas break adds ten to fifteen minutes, construction at least an extra half hour, and each potty break upwards of twenty minutes. Now we are looking at an eight and a half hour trip. A trip to Montana for me and the kids is at least a half hour faster than if I take my husband. I drive slightly faster than my husband, but I also am a potty Nazi. “You can wait.” “Just a little longer.” “There’s no place to stop (which there isn’t on a trip from Boise to Helena), you’ll have to wait.” When my husband drives he is a piddler. Stopping for gas he kicks all the tires, washes the windows, and checks out the car for defects. At the mere mention of a possible restroom break, he is ready to stop, and if there is a scenic byway with something to read, we may as well pull out a picnic lunch, water the dog, and take a hike. He has always been much better about enjoying the journey, while I am all about getting to the other end. We somehow balance each other out, and hopefully give our kids the best of both worlds.

In November of 2010 I traveled to Nauvoo, Illinois, the starting point for saints migration west, to attend the wedding of my cousin Jason in the temple. The rolling hills of Illinois were covered in dead brown grass and whipping our hair in our faces and our skirts around our knees, the wind batted and cried at us. The leafless trees, dormant for the winter, reached their long fingered branches to the grey, cloud strewn sky, reminiscent of what it may have looked like as the saints were forced to flee their homes, giving an added impression of despair.

This history of Nauvoo in relation to the Mormons is relatively short. The town of Commerce was renamed Nauvoo, derived from a Hebrew word meaning beautiful. The city, founded around 1839 by Mormon pioneers, grew rapidly until at its most populated state it rivaled Chicago in size. Filled with industrious, faithful, dedicated men and women looking for a place to live their faith, the town was a beehive of activity, but by 1846 it was abandoned. Due to increasing mob violence, the death of the prophet Joseph Smith, and the unwillingness of government officials to intervene on their behalf the people were forced to flee beginning as early as February.

The town itself is laid out in neat, square plots, a testament to the saint’s desire for order as they tried to create a Zion society. Now restored to preserve the history of the town and its founders, many homes are available for tours.

Edwin Rushton, my great, great, great grandfather, arrived in Nauvoo April 13, 1842. His journey to Nauvoo began months before in the city of Leek, Staffordshire, England. In 1840 his father Richard Rushton, a silk manufacturer, heard of a new sect being preached in the town and sent his youngest son Edwin to determine its truth. Edwin’s reply was, “ . . . why not send one of the older boys,” to which his father said, “I want you to go because I can depend on your judgment.” The family joined the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and bent their efforts to joining the saints in Nauvoo. First by train to Liverpool where they booked passage for ten pounds apiece, second class accommodations, and a charge for luggage over a hundred pounds aboard the shop “Hope o Duxbury,” the trip is recorded in Edwin’s father’s journal as “uneventful.” Reaching the Florida stream, they were taken in tow up the Mississippi river by the steamboat ‘Star.’ Richard Rushton records in his journal, “We came in sight of a most beautiful country diversified with plantations, farm houses, sugar manufacturers, beautiful cottages, and wooded on each side of the river.” The entire trip took him just under three months. After just three years in Nauvoo they would have to move again, this time by foot thousands of miles west.

Working non-stop preparing to leave by spring and summer, the saints built wagons, gathered provisions, sold, or tried to sell, their properties, and finished the temple; it was not enough time. Mob violence escalated, many saints fled across the Mississippi to makeshift camps, few had anything but what they had grabbed as they ran from the town. Intense cold, so long-lasting the Mississippi river froze solid enough for wagons to drive across, left many sick or dying, the benefits of proper clothing, shoes, food, or shelter unavailable in the poor camps by the river. Ragged shapes huddled together, heads bowed low against the wind, humbly pleading with their God to save them. Edwin stayed behind and was one of the last to leave in an effort to help finish the temple and get the sick and poor across the river. He left Nauvoo with a feather bed tied to his back, his wife Mary Anne carrying some of their personal belongings tied up in an apron.

Just before we leave on a trip I am a grouchy growling grizzly bear. “Is your stuff packed yet?” “Are your things in the car?” “You can’t take that much stuff!” “Have you gone to the bathroom?” “Why aren’t your shoes on?” The tirade will really drag on until we are finally all in the car and on the road. I wonder if it’s only me or if pioneer women could be heard verbalizing the same types of questions: “Where is your brother? Are your boots in the wagon? Have you hitched up the oxen? Have you gone to the bathroom?” Edwin was just eighteen when he left his home in England, never to return, first by train, then by ship, then by steamboat to a new home he would only inhabit for a few years before he walked for months to a destination that was unsure, untried, undeveloped, and far different from anything he had ever know. It takes courage to turn your face toward the unknown, step onto an unfamiliar path, leave the majority of your earthly belongings all in pursuit of your faith.

Is that how we all felt in our premortal life? Leaving our family, friends, and home to be shoved into a tight little body with no recollection of what we were about for an undisclosed amount of time to try and figure out who we are supposed to be under an infinite number of different circumstances. Impossible! What was I like then, trying to figure out what to expect on Earth, preparing spiritually because nothing else would matter. I couldn’t pack anything. I wouldn’t remember anything. Was I so different than I am now? Wouldn’t I have done everything I could to prepare in heaven to be ready for Earth life? What more was there to prepare for then a life devoted to following the Father’s plan? Planning for a road trip, I usually anticipate troubles I might have. During winter I take extra blankets, boots, gloves, and food. A first aid kit is tucked under the seat along with a flashlight and jumper cables. The oil is changed before we leave, and the tires are full (including the spare). Did I anticipate the troubles I would encounter here? You can’t plan for everything.

One camping trip, pulling our newly acquired pop-up tent trailer packed to the brim with stuff: sleeping bags, food, blankets, pot and pans, Dutch ovens, shampoo, dish soap, camp chairs, and more, we got a flat. Our first flat on the trailer and despite trying to anticipate everything that could go wrong, I had not expected our tire iron to not fit the trailer’s lug nuts. Stranded on the side of the highway, we prayed to calm our nervous children, and it wasn’t long before a police officer pulled up behind us with an appropriately sized tire iron. We changed the tire and continued our journey.

No matter what I do, the infinite number of possibilities and scenarios makes it impossible to be ready for everything. I like my house in order when I’m gone, I let my children pack their own stuff and live with the consequences, I often pack something someone else will need, and just as often forget something important. Summer is coming up. Our next trip is to Washing DC, followed by camping, and family reunions. Each trip requires a different packing list that takes into account people, places, events, and circumstances. Each trip is rife with unlimited possibilities that no amount of planning can anticipate. But, comfortingly, in the end our journeys finish where they started - back home.

Island Time

Looking down through the darkness from twenty-thousand feet, the lights shine bright orange seeming almost like a Light Bright flower design, maybe even a plumeria. It’s difficult to sleep on a plane, the constant hum of the engine, jostling of the seat from behind as a tall, too-big-for-his-seat man tries to find a more comfortable position, coughs, cries, mummers, barks of laughter, and a seat that reclines approximately two inches. For me anticipation is also keeping me awake, twenty-five years, a quarter of a century, a lifetime, and finally returning to one of the best times of my life.

My last flight to Hawaii I was eight years old, moving with my family from Frederick, Maryland. We flew in a 747 jet, ate full meals, and met the captain. The stewardess gave my brothers, sister and I all wings to pin on our shirts, and crayons and an airplane coloring book to keep us busy, which it did for approximately five minutes out of the seven hour flight. The patterned blue seats on the big jet were big enough I could curl my legs up, and I’m sure the constant lifting and lowering of the tray table significantly annoyed the gentleman seated to the front of me. The oldest of five, it was left to me to be an example, but how could I sit still with buttons to push, aisles to walk, and window shades to open and close? It had taken us weeks to get to this part of our trip, the part where we flew over the ocean, away from all our family, and moved to an island. From the time Dad received word we would be transferring with the Army to Hawaii, we prepared and looked forward to that moment.

Large moving trucks came, packers wrapped and boxed our belongings and car, and shipped them to Hawaii. We flew to Grandma and Grandpa Hutchen’s house in Idaho, and then to Grandpa and Grandma Burnside’s farm in Utah. Then on to San Francisco for a night where we nearly froze because our jackets were all packed. We were going to Hawaii, what did we need jackets for?

Now returning as a tourist not a resident, an adult not a child, I studied the best local places to eat (the Rainbow drive-in on Kanaina Avenue in Honolulu), where to stay, what beaches to visit (Kailua and Bellows beaches), and hikes. Pearl Harbor, snorkeling among the thousands of colorful fish in Hanauma Bay, experiencing the passion of the Polynesian Cultural Center, and basking in the sun on the sand, memories I wanted to now share with my husband Scott, and friends Ben and Trittica Nielson. I didn’t realize how the emotion of the place would at times overwhelm me as we toured places in my memory that were so changed, and at times completely gone

Not much to see in the darkness of our first night, but the humidity, sweet and spicy smell of the tropical air, and the sound of the waves beating the shore made me long for the sun to reveal the island. A gentle rain bathed the landscape throughout the night, but by morning tapered off. I rose early, eager for the day and put on my tennis shoes. Preparing for Hawaii, trying to lose a few pounds, I ran regularly, and one song on my MP3 player made me long for Hawaii like no other, “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” by a native Hawaiian, Israel Kamakawiwo'ole. Crazy as it may seem, some days my heart would ache with the emotion of the words and music, tears glistening in my eyes, sweat running down my face, my emotions tied up in the song.

Walking up hill away from our condo and away from the beach, I wanted to get to higher ground to really see the lay of the land. The jagged mountains rose up sharply in front of me, with green covered ridges angled and deep. Warm air and humidity felt like a blanket embracing me, making me feel welcome and at home, remembering the touch of the island. Birds chirped happy songs echoing my pleasure, and as I turned away from the mountains, I let my eyes sweep out to sea, reaching to the horizon. Only one thing more needed to complete my experience.

Close by, gnarled and twisted branches of a short tree brought back memories of my friend Michelle McGonagall and I running around Schofield Barracks, no shoes on, carrying a large brown paper grocery sack and looking for plumeria trees. My grandparents were coming and mom wanted to string leis. Plumeria trees brimming with flowers dotted the base. Climbing the trees and plucking the flowers, our fingers became sticky with nectar, the sweet smell of the flowers heady all around us. Now picking up a small perfect flower, five white petals with a burst of yellow in the middle, lifting it to my nose, breathing in the sweet scent I could believe I was back. In Hawaii the plumeria flower represents a bond between all that is good, perfection, and new life, and was precisely the gift to welcome me home.

Driving around Oahu, I wanted to show Scott and the Nielsons the Hawaii I loved and remembered, however, thirty years of tropical weather: pounding waves, high winds, driving rain, and sunshine, takes its toll on places. Trees become old in thirty years, old houses get older and are destroyed and replaced, landmarks seem different as an adult then they did as a child. Children don’t notice one place in relation to another, don’t drive and have no need of maps and roads and directions, get in the car, play with their siblings, complain to their parents about the length of time it takes to get to the desired destination, paying no attention to lefts, rights, or wheres. I would see landmarks as an adult that were completely mismatched with my child’s minds view.

On our drive to Pearl Harbor, I recognized a dried up swimming pool. I knew had participated in a swim meet there when I was nine. Sitting on the hill above the pool, I had waited for my race. Eventually, I stood behind the starting blocks, and then climbed on top, toes curled over the edge of the block, hands pushed back behind me, palms up, ready for the signal to go, the horn sounded and I would throw my hands forward, head tucked down, and dive into the water. A short glide, then kicking and pulling as fast as I could to the other side and back. Drained and empty now, the pool neglected, it seemed another testament to my faulty memory. When had they moved it this close to Pearl Harbor?

Visiting Schofield Barracks, my home during the ages of eight to ten, again messed with my reality. Getting on base without a military ID wasn’t too difficult, but once on base I had no idea which way to go. We began driving slowly, me looking intently out the window for any familiar sign. I recognized the Base Exchange and knew I walked there as a child, but still wasn’t sure which direction. Pure instinct with some luck brought us to 737 Grimes Street, or at least where our home had stood.

The house, raised two feet off the ground on stilts to weather floods from tropical storms, was a former general’s home. Old and due for a fix-up when my family arrived in Hawaii, a builder’s strike prevented renovation and we ultimately just moved in. Raised on stilts it made it nearly impossible to fumigate, and we never quite got used to the scurrying cockroaches and geckos that were in almost every cupboard and crawls space. My mother, had an extremely close run-in with a gecko in the shower, and I still remember her dripping wet, wrapped in a towel, shouting at my brothers to get it out. My experience included a four inch-long, rust colored cockroach with wings flying out of the cupboard to nestle in my hair.

Resembling a very large bungalow in the shape of a “U”, the left wing of the house contained the lanai, kitchen, laundry room, and two rooms for servants. The center section had a formal living and dining room. The living room was separated from the lanai by French double doors, which at some point during our stay lost a pane as my sister Amy’s arm went through it during a game of chase in the house. The right section of the house had a master bedroom, two large bedrooms, and a bathroom.

No furnace and no air conditioning, but we did have a fireplace that was lit on special occasions, and window fans enabled air flow when natural breezes lay stagnate. Windows were our thermostat. If you were hot you opened the windows, and if you were cold, you closed them. It was simple but effective. A paved courtyard between the wings served as a play area and, when the breezes allowed, we attempted to play badminton, missing the birdy more often than we connected.

Shaded by bread fruit trees, the alley behind the house at times piled with a mess of rotting fruit, permitting my dad to teach us about yard work. Flower beds on the sides of the house contained Impatiens, hibiscus, elephant ears, and a banana tree toward the front of the house.

A coconut tree grew to the left of our house, and one day the neighbor invited us to watch their friend scale the tree. With deep, tanned skin and a bright smile, and we watch in amazement as he kicked off his shoes, wrapped his bare feet around the tree trunk, and within moments clung to the top. He carried a machete and, anchoring his legs in place, he whacked a couple of coconuts down and several palm fronds. Nimbly walking his feet down the tree he took the machete, sharpened the end of a stick, deftly pounded the blunt end of the stick into the ground, and lining up the end of the coconut smashed the fruit onto the sharpened spear prying off the husk. Making a small hole in the nut with a knife, we all took turns tasting the juice. It was unlike anything I had before, and I did not appreciate the flavor. The juice gone, he cut the nut open to get at the white meat. I refused to eat any. Taking the palm fronds, he wove beautiful green baskets for Mom to use for laundry.

The house faced a palm tree lined parade field, rarely used for military exercises, but constantly used by the neighborhood children to play baseball games and tag. With several other large families in the area, playmates were never an issue.

Now, a black asphalt parking lot and a couple of white portable buildings sit where my home used to stand. The parade ground is much the same, the trees standing as an anchor to my past.

Hale Kula, my elementary school, meaning “house school,” sat several streets over. Flip flops were the shoe of choice when we wore shoes at all, and the class room’s sliding glass doors remained open most of the time to the weather. Trips to the Dole pineapple factory where we could eat our fill of the super sweet and juicy fruit, sweeter than candy, science trips to discover creatures inhabiting tidal pools: sea urchins, star fish, octopus, and black creeping crabs reminding me of extra-large spiders, fueled a curiosity about the world.

In fourth grade we studied Hawaii, culminating with a trip to the big island for a week. We stayed at Kilauea Military Camp across the street from the Kilauea caldera and close to Hawaii Volcanoes National Park. Filled with studies of Hawaii’s legends and Pele’s wrath, a wet and cold walk across Kilauea caldera, and time spent at black sands beach, my field trip experiences to this point had revolved around bus trips to the pumpkin patch and back, and did not compare.

The school looks much the same, three one story rows of classrooms, painted blue, with a flat top. Looking at it now it’s hard to feel the magic I felt then, but whispers come to me as I hear the children laughing on the playground, hanging upside down from the monkey bars, doing penny-drops to the ground, and running barefoot through the grass.

Leaving the base that day I reoriented myself and my memories. Hanging out at the Base Exchange, swimming at the pool, riding my bike around, setting up a Kool-aide stand on a square folding table at the end of the parade field, and playing in the rain as huge drops splattered across our up turned faces; memories running like a film strip through my mind, slightly dated and faded compared to the reality of the current scene.

Our tour of the island included amazing beaches. Face down on the surface of the water, breathing fresh air through a snorkel, salt lining the inside of my mouth, mask firmly in place, eyes darting from one amazing sight to another. Brightly colored fish darting, always out of hands reach, sting rays gliding through the water their wings rippling through unseen currents, sea turtles coming into sight from the murky blue ocean only to disappear a moment later like a slowly moving apparition; I could spend all my time this way, peaceful lulling, rocking, swaying of the ocean, even, regular breathing, weightless, and quiet.

Some of the best maintained beaches on the island are military beaches. Staying for a week at a time in a bungalow close to the water, my family rode boogie boards, gliding on the blue green foamy water then tumbling over to be buffeted by the sand, built intricate sand castles demolished by surf or feet to make room for new castles, and played imaginary games in the sea grass. We didn’t lie watching the clouds; we chased our dreams across the sand. Evening brought spectacular sunsets of red and orange and purple. Sprawled on our bunks at night under military issued sheets and scratchy wool blankets, we listened to the constant pound of the surf, trying to avoid the rough blanket against our burned and dried out skin. I am happy now to sit on the beach watching the children run, build, and play.

Visitors came often during our short years on Oahu, family taking advantage of a free place to stay and a built in tour guide. Great Grandma Ruston, who we ironically called Big Grandma even though she was less than five feet tall, came with her grey blue hair and sweet smile. Great Grandpa and Grandma Millar visited. Grandpa with his cane and Grandma with her lovely white hair piled on top of her head. I didn’t realize until I saw the top part of her hair sitting on the dresser that she wore a hair piece every day. Other Grandparents, aunts and uncles, and cousins visited and usually, Mom would show them around. It seemed like most of our visitors came when I was still in school, and touring the island seemed a strange idea to me, but visiting now, I miss my mother as a tour guide, and wish I could take her with me to see Hawaii through her young adult eyes and tell her of my Hawaii through my child eyes.

Other places changed: the new church house we helped paint, now showed twenty-five years of wear, still well maintained, but slightly faded, the Lds temple had been rededicated when I first in Hawaii, and now was being renovated again for another dedication, new resorts had over taken beaches, and hotels I stayed in then look a little shabbier now. Did I look like that? I am always a bit shocked when I see my nieces and nephews after an extended period of time how much they have changed. One niece, just a baby the last time I saw her, talks to me on the phone and I cannot reconcile the baby and the voice. When I look closely in the mirror I am surprised to find new lines of wear, signs of age stamped at an ever increasing rate.

Our final splurge of cash paid for a helicopter ride around the island. The rotation of the blades whipping through the air and the whine of the engine faded as I placed the head set over my ears. The pilot played Hawaiian music through the head phones and as we reached the peak of the mountains, the view included a river of water plunging into the valley below, a cascading ribbon of water, and in the distance the blue green expanse of ocean stretched out forever. To cement this image in my heart and mind, “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” played, its melancholy tune touching my heart.

We left Hawaii as we had come, in the dark. It was easier to leave it this way, allowing me to remember it the way I wanted. Scott, Ben, Trittica, and I made new memories, memories I will cherish with new reasons to return to Hawaii, but the magic of childhood memories diminished slightly under the harsher observations of adulthood.

Pools of Human Experience

The Swimming Suit

Swimming suits say a lot about a person, and are as varied as the reasons people go swimming. A bikini might say you are confident with your body, or you like to be in style, or you are out to attract a boy, or you don’t know any better. One-piece suits may hide more flaws, cover up, and keep the sun from burning that much more of your skin. Board shorts are fun, jammers are tight and sleek for racing, and Speedos, while used by serious swimmers, can also be found on any beach, at any pool worn by the skinniest man with no butt to fill out the back, or the biggest man whose large sagging belly droops so low you can barely make it out. Bright colors like a peacock draw your gaze, black minimizes your bulges, tee-shirts hide most everything when dry, and not so much when they are wet. Low-cut suits are a bother to mothers continually pulling them up as their children are pulling them down. Tankinies offer the look of a one piece, but the convenience of a two piece, which is significant if you are trying to pull up a wet swim suit after using the restroom. In the end you should wear a suit in which you are confident and fits the occasion, whether swimming laps, sunbathing, playing, or attracting attention.

Motivation

Jostling, teasing, weaving, punching, bleary-eyed and shivering the youth file in, swim bags dragging, towels thrown over their shoulders. Six in the morning, summer time, inky darkness, and most of their piers will be in bed for another four hours. The hush around the deck, previously broken only by the gentle lapping of the water against the tiled pool wall, is now permeated with groans and moans as swimmers stretch their tight muscles. Murmurs flow around the group like the soft clucks of chickens rising in the morning, as one by one they drop into the chilly pool. It is here they will prove themselves. Arms driving forward, head focused down, occasionally glancing ahead to spot the swimmer pulling ahead of them, pushing harder to catch up. Kira just made the junior Olympic swim team, she snaps her goggles into place, is the first in the water, her ears turned to Coach Frank’s instructions, and leaps forward for her first set, and 400 yard freestyle warm-up. Alex is pulling girls swim suit straps leaving small welts across their backs, knocking into his friends, ignoring the coaches until at last he is shoved into the pool. He puts in enough effort to keep up with the pack. Few have the dedication to excel. They are all excellent swimmers, though they will never be the best, they find satisfaction in individual performance and achievement, gaining self-esteem and confidence. Most just come to swim.

Moving

Monday, Wednesday and Friday at 5:15 am Don shuffles out on to the pool deck slightly dragging his slipper covered feet. His once black hair is diluted by white and gray, covered by a charcoal colored swim cap pulled tightly over his head resting just above his bushy gray eyebrows. His mustache, thick and black, perches on his upper lip like a fuzzy caterpillar. He smiles a friendly smile, blue eyes clear and intelligent, and waves a right-handed salute as he totters by, white towel draped over his forearm swinging with each step. The same every time, a comforting routine noticed by staff and missed when he’s gone. He hangs his towel over the pool railing, heaves one leg over the bottom of the dried up water slide, pulls the other leg in, then repeats the process until he is safely on the other side, he doesn’t like to make the walk to the other side of the pool where he could easily access his lane line of choice – the one closest to the shallow end. Don slips off his sandals and stiffly lowers himself to the pools edge. It is always cold, usually about eighty-one degrees, but today it is colder, and the seventy-nine degrees has him dangling his feet on the side longer than usual. His lips press tightly together, but they cannot hold back his gasp as he slips into the pool, the water just under his armpits. Throwing his arms back and forward in an attempt to warm up, he checks and rechecks his goggles for fit and comfort and eases down, submerging into the muted blue world beneath the surface. Legs kick a slow rhythm, so slow they drag through the water at a forty-five degree angle. Arms, barely clearing the water, reach forward and fall heavily, plodding, beating a sluggish cadence. New lifeguards often worry he is drowning. Touch the wall, pause, and turn, he will rest when he reaches the opposite side, bowed over hands gripping the wall, taking deep breathes, fortifying himself for his next lap. There are swimmers in the pool who out lap him four to one. He comes, he moves, he breathes, he struggles, his effort noticed only by the lifeguard.

Awareness

Florescent lights reflect back from dark shadeless windows, it is too early for the sun when Mr. Stevens comes to the pool for therapy, the only time his caregivers have available to help him dress, undress, shower, do his exercises, and help with the rudimentary aspects of life that once were mechanical and now almost impossible. Simple fluid movements: lifting one foot in front of the other, rising from a chair, speaking your name - are childlike and clumsy; a constant struggle to connect his brain’s wants with his body’s responses. Like a crumbling empty building haunted by ghosts and voices of past lives, his memories echo through empty halls. The body housing his spirit shows few signs of its former glory: a gold chain with a pendant, an expensive ring, and an occasional random coherent comment rising from somewhere deep, an awareness battling to the surface from a fog that clouds what’s left of his once fertile mind. A tumor, black and hungry sends tendrils through his brain to wrap around his thoughts and cripple his body, reduced him to a life dependent on others - others he has to pay to take care of him. His bitterness shows in slaps of frustration in the water, mumbling, mixed up, angry words, and refusal to do his exercise. He spent years building his career, focusing on climbing the corporate ladder to become a chief executive of a prestigious computer company. While other fathers were playing catch with their sons, he was staying late, getting ahead, providing the “finer” things in life for himself and his family. They took the only thing he had to give them (his money), and left, first his wife, and then his children, gone to California, too far away to help or even visit. Occasionally a colleague greets him at the pool and heartily encourages him to pick up his feet; for a brief instant he feels himself, intact, a man again, released from the mental prison that is more binding than solid iron bars.

Aging

Spry at eighty-three, Beverly’s hair is still dark with only traces of gray, a genetic trait envied by most women, a sip from the fountain of youth. To some she seems standoffish, her quiet voice and shy ways making it difficult for people to get to know her. A devoted mother, grandmother, and now great grandmother she leaves for weeks at a time visiting her increasing posterity, but staying fit enough to offset her increasing age is a priority. She makes time to exercise. It’s not about living forever, but about the quality of life. Usually, the shallow end of the pool is her personal track. Her simple routine consists of trudging through the water, legs pushing away the weight of the water while hands and arms pull down and back. Eventually, she moves on to riding a water noodle around in a large circuit, first she rides it like a bike, pumping her knees up and down, her feet moving in smooth circular motions, then reaching out as far forward as she can and pulling back against the water. Around and around for twenty-five minutes until her routine is finished. It is not a lot of time to spend for the rewards that she reaps. Many at her age are content to sit and watch their “programs,” rising from their recliner chairs only to ease an aching muscle or to answer the phone, some are already in a nursing home dependent on others for their care, but she wants to continue to contributing and participating in life. Life has been complete and rewarding, full of challenges, trials, joys, and sorrows, but like a painter finishing a picture, the already bright and beautiful image becomes richer when highlights and texture are added to create a finished product that will be treasured throughout the ages. Who are we to say when the painting is finished?

Breathing

Wendy tentatively begins; pushing off from the wall she focuses her eyes down, and after a brief glide in a stiff streamlined position, takes her first stroke. Catch the water, pull down, slide the hand past the hip, turn the head, and breathe . . . She stops after only a few strokes, pushes her hands down, plants her feet on the pool bottom, shoves her wet hair out of her face, and fists clenched says, “I just can’t breathe!”

A mother is taught breathing to help her cope with labor so when her body is shuddering, sweat rolling down the side of her face, distended belly taught with the body’s natural birthing rhythm, and her only thought is “I can’t do this,” the calm assurance of hee-hee-hoooo, hee-hee-hoooo carries her through the pain. The newborn infant fresh from its mother’s womb, is hung upside down in the arms of the doctor, wet, gray, covered in mucus, and awakened to the world with a sharp slap on the bottom and a single command, “breathe.”

A yoga instructor coaches her students on relaxation techniques, “breathe innnnnnn, and breathe outtttt, breathe innnnnn and breathe outtttt,” to enable them to bend a little farther, hold the pose a little longer, and help them to focus and synergize.

Hold your breath you can stop hiccups, breathe too rapidly and hyperventilate and pass. We don’t have to be reminded how or when to breathe, it is an innate function our body performs to keep us alive. Amazingly, it regulates itself, providing the oxygen necessary to sleep peacefully or to work aggressively, but there are still times when I just can’t breathe.

Breathing

Shuffling, swaying back and forth, moving toward the edge of the pool, Tammy’s weight is a burden. Finding brief relief buried in the cool waters of the pool, her yellow shirt with the huge black smiley face is a direct contradiction to her pain. She loops a small pouch around the pool railing within easy reach, it contains her “breath of life.” With a cross-country ski motion she progresses through the water, heart racing, lungs constricting, her breath forced in and out, in and out. Her question for the lifeguard is, “Where is the best place for me to be in case I pass out?” A fit of coughing might cause her lungs to constrict even more, stopping her airway, leading to unconsciousness. Resting on her back, a small island half submerged, gentle waves lapping at her side, her eyes closed, a little used smile rising from her lips, this is freedom, and she is willing to risk drowning for these moments.

Fear

Lisa had a near drowning experience when she was young. She stepped into water over her head and it was several long moments before someone pulled her out. She was done with swimming. She passed her fear on to her children, nervously hovering when they were near the water, pulling them out of the water if they inhaled a little water, coughing and sputtering, making sure their faces stayed dry. I don’t remember when or how I learned to swim, but for me swimming is natural, exhilarating, freeing, and fun. My children were a few months old when I introduced them to swimming, swishing them through the water, gliding them under the surface, gently blowing in their face to teach them to hold their breath, laughing, splashing, and playing. My friendship with Lisa gradually led to trust, and a desire to help reduce her choking fear of the water, a terror causing her to feel the water closing over her head, the oxygen seeping out of her lungs, and a desperate panic to protect herself and her children. Eventually, her children learned to relax, flip under the water like otters, stroke confidently to the other side of the pool, and Lisa found more security in facing her fear. Allowing her children to learn to swim brought more comfort then her ever constant vigilance.

Diligence

Heaving, pulling, crawling, kicking, trudging, head out of the water, struggling lap after lap all for a mile a day. A mile a day and a hundred pounds lighter. A mile a day, but still Teresa has another hundred pounds left to lose. Some days she has enough strength to pull herself up the ladder: tightly gripping the pool rails, pulling with her arms, pushing with her feet, painful, slow step after painful, slow step. Other days she collapses back into the pool, floundering for a moment, forced to find another way out. Crawling over twelve lane lines and across the shallow end of the pool she will have to navigate the stairs. Resting on each stair, legs shaking with the effort, she hauls herself out of the water. Weary from the exertion her downcast eyes lift in triumph as she passes a friend and says, “A mile a day.”

Faithful

Wayne used to bring Donna to the pool every Monday, Wednesday and Friday morning, first walking beside her bantering back and forth good naturedly, squirting the lifeguard with a small blue whale as they passed. Later, she needed his arm to steady her; he enjoyed her hand tucked in his giving him the chance to hold her in this small way. Eventually, a wheel chair carried her to the edge of the pool, she struggled into the handicap chair lift, and a turn of the lever gently swung her out over the water and down into the therapy pool. The days went on, marked by a pattern getting more difficult to follow. All too soon, Wayne came alone bringing Donna in his heart. He had surgery before she died, and the long, red, rough scar that runs the length of his chest is a visual reminder of his broken heart. It’s been almost a year; his wounds are beginning to heal and the scar beginning to fade.

Awareness 2

Observant, diligent, eyes sweeping side to side, always aware. Aware of the child slipping into the pool while his mother turns to tuck a small red toy truck taken into her oversized rainbow patterned swim bag. Aware of teenagers playing breath holding games, breathing in and out to expand their lungs, sinking to the pool bottom, anchoring their hands to the wall, trying to outlast each other, and ignorant of this games potential lethality. Aware of the excitement in the air for the first warm days of summer that are spent around this shimmering oasis: pristine water, inviting, beaconing, belying the inherent danger. I watch unnoticed, an invisible lifeguard, only materializing when a forced whistle blast and a quick command correct a patrons course of behavior. From my vantage point I gain deeper perspective and understanding as mini life dramas are played all about me.