On our way to Hawaii, we were able to visit a friend we have not seen since we left Kaslo nearly five years ago. She now lives in Astoria, Oregon and we were flying from Seattle, so it wasn’t too much of a stretch – as well as a lovely drive – to see her before we left.
“I have so much to show you,” she had written. On a spectacular headland, when I saw three ladies taking pictures of each twosome in front of The Haystack, waves crashing onto it, I offered to take one of all three together. They were so grateful! As I hobbled away, using my walking stick, I heard: “Wasn’t that sweet?”
So many people do this for others, but my walking stick had done what my hiking poles never do: turned me into a “sweet little old lady!”
While walking through the Seattle Airport with our friends we discussed the idea of hijacking a stationary buggy used to transport the disabled.
“We’ll just tell them you’re our parents!” said our white-haired friend, six years younger than John. In the group of four of us, some can hear, some can see, some have no trouble walking, some are weaker in the upper body; we all have at least one ache or medical problem. If it weren’t so funny, we’d be a sorry bunch.
After the flight from Seattle to Kona, on Hawaii’s largest island, I was pretty gimpy and sore. No walkways come to meet the plane there – you walk out into the warm breeze immediately, down the steps from the plane, across the tarmac, and into the covered but open airport.
“Do you want a wheelchair?” I was asked before I even started down the steps. “I’m fine,” I assured the stewardess, and slowly descended. I’d barely hit bottom when I was asked again; once more I declined with thanks. Wot a way to start a holiday!
“How are you?” had a whole new meaning as we greeted each other every morning after a muggy night. Any flies, or small green geckos, on the wall must have been amused by those early conversations.
“How’s your hip?” “Fine!” “Fibber!” “How’s your shoulder?” “Fine.” “Fibber!” Ah, it was a fun way to start each sunny day.
We bossed each other around constantly: “Take the elevator, Kay,” I’m instructed, but I ignore this and gimp up three flights of stairs, knowing by the top one that I should have listened.
But I never did because, “I’ve still got to be me.” “Got your stick, Kay?” “Can you get from here to there, John?” “Let me open that…” “I’ll slice the cheese and cut the skin off the pineapple.” Don’t even ask about the trials of getting in and out of our small rented car.
Fortunately it had a reverse gear so we could swing back to check names that look so similar as we explored everywhere. You see, Hawaiian words use five vowels like us, but only seven consonants: h, k, l, m, n, p, and w – which is supposed to be pronounced Vee. Community, beach, street, and park names are made up of these few letters. Many contain four vowels in a row and repeated syllables. When said properly, the language is a musical one, but our tongues twisted as we tried to figure words out. Apostrophes abound, indicating a separate syllable as in Hawai’i. At least we aren’t too old to keep learning! It’s a good life when friends, aged and ailing, help each other every step of the way.
