Freedom

We are here.  Minnesotans in Hawaii.  O'ahu.  We are rockin' the beach pale and under inked.  Folks here are heavily tattooed.  Bill and I decided you have to be native Hawaiian or ex-military to truly pull that off. One such example has "FREEDOM" in fancy script letters across his back. He looks like he earned it. He looks like a Hawaiian Navy Seal.

Freedom is what we are experiencing.  This morning the jet lag is subsiding and we slept through the 7:00 a.m. ocean fish feeding. Yawn. C'est dommage. That is what you call a high-class problem.

Yesterday I did work on the Deerwood Plant sale. Picking the plants and setting the prices while Bill looked over my shoulder and scoffed as I asked him to analyze the year-over-year pricing on the geraniums. This may sound like work, but I set my computer on the balcony table and had to sit so the sun was blocked by a palm tree. It will be good to have it ready to go when I get home.  Dreaming of flowers is happy work.

Last night it took me an hour to comb out Mary's hair.  Dread locks.  I had tightly braided it, but the force of the wind and ocean water and sun was too much.  I hid my panic and started at the bottom of the long wad of hair.  Scissors averted.

Yesterday I walked six miles.  Up and down the beach and up and down the beach.

Calvin has been congested.  I guess that is a given.  He's a trooper.

The four-o'clock pina colada club has had it's annual meeting. The meeting is called to order. No new business. No old business. I move we adjourn to the social program. All in favor. . .

The kids have the very difficult decision of picking their shave ice flavors each afternoon.  So many flavors and you can only pick three.  Freedom has a price. . .

I told Bill I wanted to blog but I didn't really have anything to say.  I guess that too is a form of freedom.

So, nothing here for you but a journal entry.  We are missing sister Susan and brother-in-law Paul this year.  The enduring quote of Mary's from our first trip when she was only three and she ran down the sand diving head first into the ocean, "Daddy, why don't we live here?"

We can only visit. It is only a small taste of island freedom. The only music is the soundtrack of the waves crashing again and again on the shore. Rhythm. The rhythm of the days and the waves and life and work and rest.