Tsunami Warning

Last September, Don and I visited Hawaii when an earthquake occurred on American Samoa. The whole experience was quite interesting. The red light blinked on the telephone of our hotel-like condominium. Don picked up the message, which announced that the national tsunami center had issued a tsunami warning (not an alert like yesterday) because of the earthquake near American Samoa. The message informed us that we should be prepared to move to higher ground at a moment’s notice. My first question was, “What substitutes higher ground?” I could picture a wall of water moving on shore in the complex where we have our condominium, and wiping everything away just as Hurricane Iniki had done in 1992. Back then, it literally turned Point Poipu into a rebar skeleton.

I think this crazy idea about a wall of water first came from some friends of ours who sailed on the QEII across the Atlantic Ocean. A ninety-foot storm wave slammed into the side of the ship, and almost tipped it on its side. They said that it hit the deck with such force that it lowered the top deck by nearly two feet! Then, there is the scene described in James Michener’s “Hawaii,” where a tsunami comes ashore and carries a village of people out to sea. I’ve had nightmares about that chapter. Yesterday, the tsunami center informed everyone that it was not a wall of water, but a gradual rise of water that would come ashore similar to a river.

Don and I planned to drive around the day of the tsunami warning, which seemed like a good idea to get us away from the shore. There was no evacuation or anything like that. Like yesterday, though, they had a strong sense of when the supposed tsunami would hit. We kept our ears tuned to the radio the entire time we were out, and soon found ourselves right on the beach of one of our favorite little spots having lunch at “Duke’s.” We gazed at each other and at our proximity to the water, and didn’t seem to give it a second thought, and neither did anyone else. I guess we thought we’d eat before it got there!

After lunch, I shopped in one of my favorite stores, the real reason we had come to that side of the island, when we discovered that the tsunami center had canceled the tsunami warning. We traveled back to our home complex, jumped into our swimsuits, and made our way down to the beach. We both love to swim in the ocean. I especially love Point Poipu because of all the wave action. “Never turn you back on the ocean” is good advice when it comes to Point Poipu. The undertow can be quite fierce until one swims out to the deeper water. Much to our chagrin, the complex had closed the beach and blocked it off due to a “tsunami surge.” We settled into lounge chairs on the grass right next to the beach, and gazed at the ocean longingly. No lifeguard was on duty. The complex visitors appeared to respect the warnings of the complex while the locals enjoyed the time of their lives riding out the tsunami surge at Brennecke Beach. That didn’t seem fair!  

I shook my head with abandonment, stood up, crossed the caution line, and headed for the beach with Don on my heels. He hates it when he can no longer see my head in the water, so I left my cowboy hat on for more height! I quickly ran into the deeper water and swam out to the big waves. It was spectacular! The surge added two to three feet of water to the already daunting waves for a truly spirited ride. It lasted about an hour, and then the tide returned to normal. Don took pictures so that I would remember the moment.

Yesterday, we sat in the living room for a half hour, watched television, and waited for the tsunami to hit Hawaii. We had apprehension about our property there, with its close proximity to the ocean. We waited and listened attentively. Cameras showed us the hoards of people congregated on cliffs overlooking the ocean and waiting for the wave. Once, twice, three times the expert from the tsunami center explained that there would most likely not be a wave of water but a gradual rising of the depth of the water. The television stations played up the threat and the people on the cliffs multiplied in number. The third time the expert from the tsunami center calmly explained that there would most likely not be a wave, I glanced at Don with a “Please, release me from the living room” look.

He turned to me and said what I have never heard before in such perfect context, “I have better things to do than watch water rise.” That made me smile.

Hula Hoop

Television displayed young people laughing up a storm with a Hula Hoop. Hula Hoops appeared in the dime store window, at Sears, and even at the grocery store. The Hula Hoop seemed like it would be so much fun, that we begged our parents to buy us one. I don’t know if they were expensive and that’s why we only had one, but each family we knew only had one, too. Our parents probably figured that one was all we needed!

Our parents filmed our first attempts at making the Hula Hoop move. I had hips, but the illusive Hula Hoop fell right off of them the first couple of times that I tried it, until I figured out that if I stopped rotating my hips, it stopped rotating, too. Eventually, I could Hula Hoop endlessly, and then my waist emerged! The hipless boys had much less success with the delusory Hula Hoop, and soon abandoned their efforts to engage in more manly antics.

Next, I conquered the Hula Hoop by rotating it on my neck, and after that, around my knees. I don’t know where we thought that we were going with this skill. Was there a national Hula Hoop contest back then? It seemed like a wonderful aerobic activity to help moms reduce the baby fat around their waists. Did Jack LaLanne engage the Hula Hoop in his daily workout with the women of America?

After I had mastered all the various hooping areas on my body, it was time to try more than one hoop at a time. To make that happen, we invited our friends and neighbors to an afternoon Hula Hoop party in our front yard.

The first round of competition included hooping successively for two minutes around the waist, the neck, the knees, one arm, and one leg. Those who could hoop successfully in those categories moved into the next phase of the competition, multiple hoops.

Multiple hoops turned out to be a bit trickier, since not all the hoops were the same size. I couldn’t wait to try my skill in this event, the first time any of us had used multiple hoops. To this day, I can still remember the pinching sensation around my waist and the red marks around my neck. I managed multiple hoops on my knees, and then fell out of the competition when it came to more than two hoops around a single arm or a single leg.

The competition was a riot! Our parents whooped with laughter from the picnic table as they dispensed Koolaid and oatmeal and raisin cookies to the Hula Hoop ragglings. We all laughed uproariously and either cheered a contestant on, or jeered a contestant until he or she fell apart and collapsed in a pile of giggles on the ground! The film from that afternoon still makes me laugh because our enjoyment was so contagious.

After the first competition, I felt that we would surely have another contest, and so I practiced incessantly for at least a week. Soon, I had to hand over the time for Hula Hoop practice to more serious endeavors as the county fair approached. My brother and I trained our cows to lead properly, constructed rope halters, and completed and filed 4-H reports with the county agents.

We ended the summer by showing our prize-winning cattle at the state fair. The day after the state fair ended, school began. After school the first day, I organized and made room for my books and study materials in my bedroom. I glanced at the Hula Hoop, carried it into the kitchen, and asked my mother, “Where can I put this thing?”

What stories do you remember from your childhood?

Day Tornado

It was the middle of the afternoon. We had eaten lunch and had an hour off to read or do what we wanted, since the weather threatened rain, and father worked on one of our other farms that day. My fourteen-year-old brother, Peter, and I (thirteen-years old) enjoyed our time off in separate bedrooms. I played music on the spinet in my room, and Peter busily braided rope halters for the county fair.

The reverie split in two when mother shrieked in the shrillest and most hysterical voice she possessed, “The cows are out! The cows are out!” The heightened emotion of her announcement didn’t seem to match the degree of seriousness of the message, but we didn’t question her. Peter and I tore outside in a heated blast of energy. We spied the cows running towards the north perimeter of our property, and jetted after them. We peered around as pieces of corrugated metal flew through the air past us, sections of the roof from the machine shed. We gazed, mesmerized, as thousands of bales of straw and hay took flight from the back of the barn. The bales simply lifted and swirled around us, as if they weighed nothing at all. A piece of metal hit my left shoulder blade, and slashed the skin open. My adrenalin pumped so hard that I barely felt the gash. Peter and I glimpsed at each other in alarm and screamed, “I think it’s a tornado!”

We dashed into the pole barn and hurriedly climbed under the axle of the silage wagon. Peter didn’t feel safe there, in case the entire pole barn collapsed down upon us, and so he sprinted outside, lied down in a ditch, and held for dear life onto the long grass growing there.

The noise was so ear splitting that we couldn’t hear each other. The tornado transformed grass, straw, and metal into missiles. Pieces of straw and hay penetrated telephone poles. The undulating winds ripped birds from the sky and sliced them in two. Tractor tires ripped through the air, as if driven at high speed, spinning and vibrating towards their target. An old bathtub rotated on a platter of wood, and fell unexpectedly with force into the horse pasture. The piercing high-speed winds leveled the barbed-wire fences and drove the cattle and horses out into the open acreage where they galloped with terror for miles.

Through the last leg of the onslaught, I laid in the muck under the axle of the silage wagon and waited expectantly for the winds to calm down. The screeching turned to a whistle and I dared to climb out from under the silage wagon, and Peter arose out of the ditch. We peered around at the devastation. My body shook so violently that I couldn’t utter a word. Peter’s eyes reflected blank-stared saucers.

We shook ourselves out of the immediate state of shock, and hurriedly jumped on a tractor to round up the cows and horses. I grabbed my bridle and felt to see if I still had a ready supply of carrots in my back pocket, and I did. I eyed my magnificent American Saddlebred horse, King, a half mile away. Peter dropped me off as he sped after the cows on the tractor. I hiked out to King, who felt nervous and hysterical with fear. After a few sweet carrots, his outlook calmed, and I could bridle him. I assured him that the distraction of working would ease his tension. I threw myself up onto the giant horse bareback, and galloped my gallant steed to the far side of the field where the majority of the cattle dwelt. King and I jumped the ditch, circled the cows around towards the one standing fence, and then slowed our pace as we guided them back to the confines of our farm. We blocked the hole in the fence with the tractor and wagon, and focused desperately on reestablishing our routines with the animals.

After we had milked the cows, and fed all the animals, father returned home to survey the unexpected destruction. He asked pointedly, “Why were you out in the tornado?” It was then that we realized that mother must have seen the approaching tornado out the window, and became frozen and mesmerized by its power. She could only speak when she witnessed it careening through the fences and chasing the cows. That is when she yelled at us about the cows, and that’s why she sounded so unnatural.

All of us learned to fear tornadoes that day, and undertook the gathering of information about clouds, atmospheric conditions, and safety measures. We needed peace of mind that we would be able to handle the extreme chaos in the future for we felt that history would most certainly repeat itself, and it did.

Bull Snakes - Childhood Memories

The first time I spied the seven-foot long bull snake, it emerged out of a hole under the foundation of the pole barn, which housed our yearlings. It frightened me so badly that I jumped up on the side of the gate. I eyed it as it made its way through the long grass in search of food. It didn’t seem to threaten me in any way, and so I returned to my chores.

That evening I felt thankful that it didn’t live in our cozy yard where the children played, but instead out at the far reaches of the property. After the first sighting, I scrutinized the area for it when I was saddling my horse, since I usually did so right next to the pole barn. My magnificent American Saddlebred horse was already high strung. The presence of a bull snake had the potential to unnerve him completely.

Several days later, I entertained my younger brother and sisters in the backyard. I ran around with them barefoot and played tag, dug with them in the sandbox, and pushed them on the swings. It was then that I felt the tickle underneath the arch of my foot in the grass. I caught my breath in alarm as a tiny snake slid right underneath my foot. The play period in the yard ended with shrill squeals of displeasure as we all ran into the house.

We reported the incident to our father, who assigned the task of rounding up the snakes to my brothers and cousins. (Our cousins lived with us during the summer and worked on the farm.) I had no idea what they did with the mother snake, and I didn’t want to know. My little brother and sisters, and I felt happy that the boys removed the unpleasant creatures from the yard, even though bull snakes were advantageous to the farm in that they ate unwanted pests.

A few hours after the corralling of the bull snakes, the doorbell rang. I opened the main inside door, and before I had a chance to open the screen door, all the baby bull snakes deposited between the two doors quickly squiggled off into the house in search of cover! We never knew if we had captured all the snakes or whether an errant snake would show up under the covers of our bed at night while we were sleeping!

Looking back, I feel more empathy for the poor, uprooted little snakes, which didn’t know how to survive in the interior of a house. A stench under a bed was more than a cleaning dilemma, but a decaying baby snake, which couldn’t find any appropriate food inside the house.

The escapade kept us on our toes for the remainder of the summer. Imagine a baby bull snake, which managed to stay alive on dog food or scraps from the table. It grew to several feet in length, and then one day felt bold enough to make a break for the front door out of a pile of dirty clothes in the closet! The fright of them living outside was not nearly as great as the fright from them living inside! It didn’t take long to develop a proper perspective about the usefulness of bull snakes. Open the door, the snake deserves its freedom!

What do you remember from your childhood?

First Kiss - Childhood Memories

He was two years older than I was, and, in my eyes, he appeared quite handsome. He worked very briefly on our farm. I could feel his eyes watching me when I did my chores and when I rode my horse. One day, I glimpsed up from the piano and spied him outside of the picture window of our house as he listened to the aria that I played and sang.

He owned a very cool 1956 baby blue Ford convertible with a black interior, which he had restored himself. I had a love for old cars back then, and I still do. He offered to give me a ride in it, which, of course, my father forbid.

Father allowed us to go roller-skating once every three weeks, and we reveled in it! The uplifting music and mixer were fun for everyone there. We grew to know the regulars who attended, as did the moms and dads watching from the sidelines. One night, my best friend’s mom dropped us off at the roller rink and planned to pick us up later.

He appeared out of nowhere. I had never seen him at the roller rink before that night. He asked me if I’d like to go for a ride in his car. I hesitated as I heard the voice of my father in my head, and then I thought about how everyone teased me for being so quiet and obedient. Certainly, that was a good characteristic, but that night I decided I’d like to find out what it felt like to break out of the mold. I accepted a ride from him even under the cautioning of my best friend.

The car made me feel like a starlet in an old movie as we drove around town with the top down. We were gone from the roller rink very briefly, and then I urged him to take me back. He did so with no argument, and parked the beautiful car in front of the roller rink for all to see.

He took my face gently in both his hands, and kissed the end of my nose, each eyelid, the base of my throat and my lips. I had never felt the softness of another person’s lips, and it delighted and surprised me. After the kiss, I excused myself to go back inside the roller rink. It was then that I noticed my best friend’s mom sitting in the car next to us. She was waiting to pick us up. I flushed red with embarrassment. Even though my best friend’s parents allowed her to date, my parents forbid me to date yet. I knew that her mom understood how innocent I still was. Her mom never told my dad, for which I am ever thankful. If she happens to read this blog, she’ll laugh and say, “I remember that.”

Many years later, when I was out of high school, he asked me out on a date. No longer did I find him attractive, and couldn’t imagine myself in any kind of an embrace with him, and so I declined.

Now, as I write this piece in my maturity, the post high school invitation doesn’t matter because nothing will ever detract from the precious sweetness and sincerity of that first kiss. I am thankful for the brevity and simplicity of it. It was a treasured feeling that I held close to my heart for two more years, until my father allowed me to date. It was a standard by which I measured future kisses for honest and heartfelt meaning, and it caused me to hold my love close to the vest, a good response in one so young.

Even though I was disobedient, God looked after me, and buried the true intent of genuine caring in my heart. I wish that everyone’s first kiss could be a winsome and gentle encounter, a brief taste only, which promises passion and inspired love in the future for those who allow love and commitment to grow together.

What are your precious childhood memories?

Night Tornado

The far off dusky sky grew black and green, and crackled with sparks of light as the impending storm approached. The eerie silence of the night even sent the fireflies under cover. All of nature understood the warning of the hushed quiet. The frogs stopped croaking and the crickets discontinued chirping.

We had milked the cows and turned them outside for the night. The horses had their own pasture in which to mill around. We turned them outside because the animals were safer outside than inside during a storm that might produce a tornado. At least they could run rather than remain chained inside a barn that had all the potential of becoming a graveyard.

We set up our makeshift beds in the southwest corner of the basement, and settled the children to sleep with bedtime stories and ice cream. The busy day caught up with them, and they closed their eyes to sleep. We gave the older children orders to make certain that no one left the room and headed for upstairs. The bathroom breaks were completed, and so there was no need to retreat to the first floor.

The toxic storms always approached from the southwest. Because of that anomaly, the storm would hit the southwest corner of the house first, and possibly blow the house away from the sunken corner where we laid. A tornado could blow a car from the driveway and drop it easily into a room nearby, but it wasn’t as likely to happen in the southwest corner of the house. Even if the entire house exploded and lifted, that corner promised a greater chance for survival.

After we settled the children into their beds, my brother and I stole upstairs to keep an eye on the approaching storm. We judged how close the storm crept by the proximity of the lightning and the audibility of thunder and winds. We listened with prickly attention for the sound of a freight train, the sound we had heard on two previous occasions when tornadoes had hit our farm.

My brother and I cracked all the windows of the house on both the approaching and receding sides of the storm, so that the house wouldn’t explode upon impact. The storm arrived with screaming winds, heavy rain, and hail. We retreated to the basement to be with the other children. The electricity failed, and then we operated with flashlights. The onslaught subsided and the rain discontinued.

The hair on the backs of our necks stood up in the dead silence as we listened acutely to the night air. We could hear the shrieking engines of the night tornado, in the distance, as it drew near. We feared for the lives of the horses, cows, and yearlings outside. We held the smaller children in case we would have to move quickly, for some reason. We hovered as close to the southwest wall as we could get despite the spiders there. For a moment, it felt as if my heart had stopped, but then I experienced the supercharged energy of a teenager able to react at a second’s prompting.

The screeching train didn’t seem to draw closer even though we could hear it clearly. We heard the night tornado impact with something. It screamed, shattered, and sounded like the flattening of a toothpick building, and then nothing. The sound disappeared and jumped further west away from our farm, just as an unpredictable funnel will do. The truth is that we probably would have been safe upstairs, but we camped downstairs for a couple more hours simply to be certain.

My brother and I had already seen and experienced day tornadoes, and observed the path that they cut, but night tornadoes are another story. The unseen terror and unknown strike zone kept us on high alert. We knew that a night tornado was a black shrieking menace ready to shred the land of its order and disarm a man of his sanity.

What experiences do you remember from your childhood?

Childhhood Memories- Watermelon

My brothers and I finished the chores. We’ve feasted on pot roast with baby carrots and potatoes, and then our parents turned us loose in the backyard. My brother marched with our cold watermelon to the picnic table while I carried the giant carving knife. Whack! I slashed the monster in half, and then sliced off the end. I piled the watermelon slices high on the picnic table. Brothers and sisters, mom and dad, and hired hands grabbed the watermelon as if it were a delicacy heretofore never seen by any of us.

The next sound heard in the wind is, “Patooey! Patooey!” Out came the seeds in little missiles aimed at the closest brother or sister. “Munch, munch, munch, patooey! patooey!” Seeds flew through the air and landed on clothing, picnic tables, and the ground. “Patooey!” If we aimed accurately, a seed stuck right to the cheek of a sibling!

The sweet cold watermelon tasted so satisfying after a long day’s work. We ran around the yard with a fresh slice, and reveled in the taste of something almost as good as ice cream. We targeted anyone we hadn’t hit yet, “Patooey! Patooey!” Mom and dad let the rabble-rousers burn off their last steam for the day and retired inside.

Once our bellies were full, we dragged out the garden hose and sprayed each other off, and then sprayed off the picnic table so that it didn’t become a hotel for ants. The mosquitoes buzzed around our heads, which caused us to hasten our steps. One last spray, we shut off the water, and blasted for the front door of the house.

We jumped into our pajamas and thanked our lucky stars that we lived in the freedom of a farm, where we didn’t have to worry about the neighbors. Satisfied sighs filled the evening as the children settled down into their beds and dreamt of watermelon seeds in their heads. “Patooey!” an Excalibur watermelon warned as a new strategy for an army’s defeat was born.

What are your fondest childhood memories?

Memorable Stories from My Childhood

My two sisters and four brothers lived on a dairy farm, which was located five miles North of Farmington, Minnesota. We raised dairy, beef, hogs, and horses. We worked as an interdependent family with everyone doing their part on the farm. The younger brother and sisters helped with the garden and harvested vegetables. The older brothers and sister, Peggy, worked in the barns milking, and caring for the yearlings, cattle, and horses. We didn’t have time to invent mischief because we spent every waking moment of our days working, or doing homework.

Occasionally, one of those infamous Minnesota rainstorms, which a person could see approaching thirty miles away, would slow work to a halt. The storm would begin with rain and wind howling in expectation of hail and perhaps a tornado to come. The whole experience felt exhilarating and special at the same time as nature gave us an automatic reprieve from our schedule.

Our farm had a gravel circular drive for the ease of maneuvering trucks, semis, tractors, combines, hay wagons, and other large equipment around the property. The driveway had ruts created by all the large equipment during weather and thawing spring snows, which made the driveway even more interesting to us.

When a plain storm approached, the excitement built among us. We’d run in the house, shed our shoes, don a t-shirt and shorts, and run outside. The rain poured down and filled the puddles of the driveway. We ran with glee around the driveway in the cool rain and screamed with joy. I’d stop in a puddle and perform a tap dance with my toes stuck down in the soft mushy mud among the earthworms. If a brother or sister would dare to approach, I would stand my puddle ground and splash him or her mercilessly. Mud dripped from hair, from noses and cheeks, and eyes became the bright light in a dark face giggling with messy joy. The games continued as each person endeavored to claim a new mud puddle, which created impetuous competition. We yipped, hollered, and guffawed with laughter at the hilarity of it all. We felt childhood abandonment at its very best.

When the hail pitched down on us, we’d screech with alarm, but not really. The challenge of tolerating the hail was part of the fun. We’d stand it as long as we could, and then we’d run in the house and jump into the shower, leaving a soggy pile of sloppy dirty clothes in our wake. When the troops felt clean and refreshed, we’d sit down on the braided rug in the living room, and play monopoly and card games until the onslaught discontinued. The unexpected respite felt refreshing, and so we didn’t feel remorse at the fact that we had to return to our chores when it concluded. This is one of my most precious memories from childhood.

What are your memories from childhood? Please share them with us.