Read at Your Own Risk

Dear Bite Me Fish Market and Restaurant,

I would just like to take this opportunity to thank you for the meal my wife and son and I had in your establishment the other day. It was truly a memorable meal. My son had a fish sandwich that I am sure he did not enjoy as much as I enjoyed my Crab Benedict. The Crab Benedict was a meal that I continued to enjoy for many days after.

The continued enjoyment began that night in our hotel room at Uncle Billy’s Kona Beach Hotel. I woke up in the middle of the night to a violent bowel movement that really made me feel special. From 12 midnight until 3:00 a.m. I painted the toilet bowl every 20 minutes. And then to really put a crowning finish on the night, I began to projectile vomit with a taste like licking the bottom of a crab pot. Nice!

It was a really memorable moment for my son, who had never had the pleasure of seeing his father naked. Boy, did he get a show as he saw a naked, 58-year-old man spewing from both ends, wonderfully backlit by the bathroom light. Hawaiian memories to last a lifetime.

By 8:00 in the morning the tide was stemmed enough to make the 2 hour drive back across the island to the comfort of my own toilet. Regretfully I had to forgo a 36-hole day of golf paid for by my son because the golf carts were not equipped with their own toilets. But because the golf had to be delayed, don’t think the excitement ended. The drive over the Saddle Road, a winding thrill ride, was fantastic. After a stop at a sandwich shop to cleanse my colon one more time, and to very smartly pilfer copious amounts of toilet paper, we headed over the mountain. As we passed through the military training area I felt an all too familiar rumbling in my loins and had to have my dear bride pull over the vehicle so that I could give a convoy of our nations finest a full view of me peeing out my butt. What a special family time as my wife and son got to watch me in all my glory defecate in the full presence of our military. I call it the Bite Me Salute.

We did eventually make it home where I had the grand finale with peeing out my butt and projectile vomiting AT THE SAME TIME. What fun! And all the while tasting stale crab...like fine dining off the bottom of a bait tank.

To show you my appreciation I was going to send you a turd in a box, but since I haven’t been able to make a turd for 4 days I can’t do that. Since I may be the only person around to be able to crap through a screen door, I will have to wait until my next visit to express my gratitude.

Just a helpful suggestion... have the cook pay attention to the miserable shite he puts on the plate instead of trying to hit on the waitress.

Until my next visit... Bon Apetit!.

Yo Ho, Yo Ho, a Gypsy's Life For Me

Or maybe that's pirate's. Whatever it is, it's coming to a conclusion. Of sorts. Today our meager belongings in our 5 x 10 x 10 storage unit are being reboxed, rewrapped, insured, and prepared for their ocean voyage to the port of Hilo, Hawaii. The game plan at this point (and bits of my life have been all about the best laid plans going astray), is for our things to arrive within the same time frame as we do, which is January 15th. We have booked our 1-way tickets, and that was a bit strange, and we have booked our car a spot on the Jean Anne leaving San Diego January 11th, scheduled to arrive in Hilo on January 18th.

Our final pit stop in this gypsy journey has been Nevada City. It's really a nice little town. The folks are friendly, the trees in their fall plumage are beautiful, and the place we are in is lovely. Too bad we bought the line in the flyer about being walking distance to town. That has stuck in our craws, but que sera, sera. It's only for 6 more weeks. And it is a bit cold (my feet are not happy). Then off we go to Mountain View, just south of Hilo, a place I can leave cans in the cupboards, bandaids in the bathroom, shoes in the closet, and where my feet can finally get warm. We are hoping that Mountain View will be a place we can settle in and call home. As settled as we can get before heading back to chilly Dornoch in April. I am keeping that bit of news from my feet at the moment.

Tales from the Golden State and Rants From the Land of the Perpetually Annoyed Driver

We are now cloistered in our abode for the next 3 months. It is quite pleasant, a one bedroom flat on 2 acres surrounded by Ponderosa Pines and Valley Live Oaks. We have a nice covered patio that now is serving as our primary living space, but I am sure that will change with the weather. Speaking of weather, the forecast since we arrived was for sun and more sun. The 7-day outlook has not shown a cloud in the sky. Daytime temperatures are in the mid to high 70’s with the lows dropping into the 50’s. In a word, it is perfect.

Nevada City, California, is located in the Sierra foothills about an hour northeast of Sacramento. Nevada City is a small town straight out of the 1850’s with a major detour through 1969. The town, nestled into a steep hillside, is made up of wooden clapboard buildings with broad sidewalks and streets better suited to walking than driving. It does not take much imagination to see gold miners, gun slingers and dance hall girls walking the streets. But then you are jolted back to another time with the aromas of patchouli oil, sandalwood incense and marijuana filling the air. The shops, which once housed dry goods merchants, general stores and assay offices, are now filled with holistic healing salons, aromatherapy, coffee bars and wine tasting salons. The miners’ dusty Levis have been replaced by hippies in dusty Levis and tie dye shirts which advertise the latest cause like “Angry Lesbians for Unisex Urinals” or “I Don’t Eat Anything with a Face.” Restaurants which advertised “Good Grub Cheap” now hang their hats on “Heirloom Tomatoes with Arugula, Goat Cheese and a Splash of Balsamic” or “Vegan Burritos”. Not that there is anything wrong with that. There are plenty of saloons, bars and dance halls remaining, which on a Saturday night, soon, I hope to do some recon work. The Mine Shaft looked promising with its old swinging saloon doors, but I was jolted back to the here and now with the advertising for cheap beer during football games. Signs of the times. Oh well. I had always wanted to be a good hippie, I guess just an old hippie will have to do.


I was driving one morning in the OC. Sorry, that is my ADHD kicking in. I am finished with the previous topic for now and on to something else. I may or may not return to the previous topic when I am finished ranting on the next thought that passes through my skull. Well, I was driving early one morning in the OC. I was actually leaving my father’s house in the retirement village of Laguna Woods. It was early, with very few cars on the road. I had just backed out of the covered parking stall when a car rolls up behind me and proceeds to tailgate me to the next stop sign and then was right on my tail for the 500 yards to the next traffic signal, which was the exit from Del Boca Vista Retirement Estate Phase 5. The driver behind me then throws up his arms and makes a Jackie Stewart type move into the next lane to be one car in front at the signal. The light turned green and he jumps on it only to be stopped by another traffic signal a mile down the road, still one car in front of me. I am so sorry that I happened to want to use the road at the same time as this poor old chap. If I knew he was going to wake up in such a state of annoyance I would have stayed at home and not dared to have crossed his path. I certainly meant no harm by being on the same road as him at the same time, but I was and had to suffer the waving arms and nasty glares of the Perpetually Annoyed. You know what....Honey Badger don’t give a shit. Funny thing, Mr. Annoyed got stuck behind some trucks on the Interstate and I gave him the peace sign as I cruised past. That made Honey Badger smile.

I have been golfing twice since returning from the Highlands. I finally got my new clubs and was anxious to try them. I found a special deal at a local course and went down to try some American golf. As I drove up, the bag boy loaded my clubs onto the buggy, no walking here, sir. He directed me to the golf shop where I received my leather bag of range balls, not complimentary, and met Bob and Dave, my playing companions. Now, Bob and Dave were nice guys, but the golf was so different than what I have come to know and love. The round was just shy of 5 hours, including a stop at 9 so Bob and Dave could get a hot dog, and probably some more balls. This riding business, and that is what it is, business, is for the birds. It should not be called golf, maybe cart ball is a better term. At least the cart gives you a place to store your hot dog. The second round was up in the mountains at a course where a friend of mine is the Director of Golf, so the price was right. Again, buggy golf. Are there no walking courses? Again, just short of 5 hours. At Dornoch we would have played 18 and been on our third round in the bar.

Brig O'Doon

We are leaving soon. My breath catches every time I think of it. Partly because I really don't like flying, but more because I don't want to leave. Dornoch for me is more than a place, it's a state of mind. The folks here are like folks anywhere, they've got lives and problems and worries, joy and sadness, love and heartbreak. But for me, it's like that sappy movie from the 50s, a place that magically appears and gathers me in, feeds my soul, warms my heart (though not my feet, the poor wee ice blocks). Heaven knows I don't like the cold, and I'd not last a winter here in the dark and the cold and the snow. But it's my own Brig O'Doon, an enchanted place that I return to, a constant in a world of change. With luck I will take a bit of the magic of Dornoch with me and keep the serenity that comes with it until we come back.

Cue the sappy movie music.

Adventures in Cultery

While we make many efforts to blend in here in Dornoch, there are a plethora of things that mark us as not being local folks. Partly just our appearance, we are tall, wear tennies a lot, our clothes are a bit different, and once we open our mouths there's no question. But even if we dressed the part and never spoke, our use of cutlery would give us away at the first bite.

When you sit down in a restaurant, there are various utensils at your spot. Sometimes wrapped in paper napkins, sometimes laid out in a manner that would have my Grandmother Fisk clucking in approval. Once you order, there is a very efficient whisking away of utensils that will likely not be used with what you ordered, soon to be replaced with what you likely will use with your meal. Given that I don't know what to use with what, and my little mouth makes me not use soup spoons at all if I've a choice, this can be somewhat disconcerting. The only thing I remember learning about cutlery is knife and spoon on the right, fork on the left. The rest was a mystery (said Grandmother can be noted rolling in her grave, she tried so hard to teach me manners). There are wee spoons for tea, spoons that I call teaspoons for whatever, soup spoons, dessert spoons, several varieties of forks, and knives of many different shapes and sizes, all coming and going with great efficiency during the course of a meal. And who knew that the cutting edge of the knife is to face inward?

Then there is the fish knife. The fish knife looks very much like a large butter knife. Despite the fact that there was a butter knife on the butter plate (don't even get me started on the glasses and dishes), both Stan and I proceeded to butter our bread with this giant butter knife and poke at our fish with our forks to remove the bones. At least this took place in the home of a friend and we weren't in public.

But it's our actual use of forks and knives that is the giveaway. We tend to cut with our knife, set knife aside, switch hands with the fork, and use the fork to eat. Here they are far more efficient, and it's almost an Edward Scissorhands use of utensils. No changing of hands, the knife becomes something entirely different, almost a spoonfork combo, and the bothersome changing of hands never occurs. It's a blur of effiency, something I've watched 2 year olds perform with ease. I've tried it, but I end up shooting food in odd directions and putting clothing and tablecloths in great danger. None of the smooth, utensils as extensions of hands for me.

Tonight we've been invited for fondue. Oh dear . . .

OK, I admit it

I'm cold. I'm cold. I'm cold. My feet are always cold. Of course, my feet have always been cold pretty much wherever I have lived, but these are some very cold feet. I've never had that good core-warming summer that my inner time clock expects in July and August. Of course, I had it in December and January, so likely my internal thermostat is wigging out on me, as the rest of my innards tend to do from time to time. I think the crocuses that have just come up in the garden are feeling the same way, though. No sooner do they poke their heads up than they start to droop, never really fully bloom. It's cold. It's cold. It's cold.

I have the right clothes. And would probably stay warm if I would just wear them. But somehow putting on a silk thermal layer in August just seems so wrong. And silk-lined, 2-layer wool socks don't even bear thinking about in August. It's a mental problem rather than a temperature problem. Though I did not have any urge to put on wool socks in Hawaii in December, so there may be a glitch in my logic. Fancy that.

That said, the end of our time here is approaching and while I feel my thought processes shifting time zones, the rest of me is loathe to leave this sweet little corner of the world and re-enter reality, despite my cold feet. Our 180 days is almost up, time to start packing up for our next stop, though I'll be leaving the silk long johns here for future use next August. I'll figure it out eventually.

Whoosh

That is the sound of summer in the Highlands. It goes that fast. If you blink, you just might miss it. There have been flashes of brilliance, blue sky, puffy clouds, possibly even 70 degrees. A temperature that has the locals out in shorts, flip flops, and short sleeves and children swimming in the North Sea. Though I am usually still in long sleeves and my wool blend socks. And if you are lucky, you might get two days of that in a row. This, of course, will be followed by rain and/or wind. And partially to blame for the rapid return of wet weather will have been me having decided to hang laundry on the line. There is a big golf tournament here this week and I think I should do the whole bunch of them a favor and do no laundry this week at all. Works for me. :-)

But here it is only the first week in August, and one of the trees in the backyard is starting to turn. We walked home in near dark from a party night before last, and it was only 10:15!! The baby seagulls are almost done screeching outside my window. And our friendly blackbirds have moved on. The ferns are starting to turn orange as well. But the hardest thing to swallow about the summer drawing to an end is that the train tickets for our date of departure came available and arrived in the mail last week. It's a much better deal to buy them in advance, so I did, but I immediately stuck them in a drawer so I can ignore them for a bit longer, though the tree in the backyard is a bit harder to ignore.

No melancholy this time, though. We're set for next year, all things working out, will spend 3 months close to the kids, then on to Hawaii, and then back here. Home again, home again.