The day I survived a downpour grinding gears in a Formula car
Laguna Seca Raceway, Salinas, 1996
My brush with the world of motorsports was a mere blip on life’s radar. I hadn’t pursued the lessons one learns during a three-hour Formula car racing school. It just happened, for me and a colleague, John Hermosillo, in 1996. We worked at the Salinas Californian newspaper and our boss, executive editor Mike Chihak, selected us as employees of the month. Our prize? A Russell Racing Test Drive at Laguna Seca Raceway’s Russell Racing School.
I accepted the award with some hesitation, worrying not so much whether I could actually drive the car, but rather could I squeeze my full-figured self into the cockpit. But it sounded fun, and I knew I would never be able to live with myself if I turned down a shot to drive around the famed racetrack. So I chose to put my foot firmly on the gas, go with it and just have fun.
Class day arrived: It was April 1. And it was wet. The forecast for rain was spotty — it was hard to pinpoint exactly when showers — or even hard rain — would come along. Would this go well, I wondered? There couldn’t possibly be any cruel jokes awaiting me on this day, could there?
Our instructor started the day with a lesson on the cars and the racetrack. Drivers were handed zip-up fireproof coveralls to wear over our clothing. It was early afternoon, as I recall, by the time we went to the track, where two rows of Formula race cars were lined up. I faintly remember swapping an expression of doubt with John as each Test Drive student climbed into their assigned vehicles. I also recall a lack of concern about the weather on the part of anyone running the school. Us drivers essentially were told to take it slow and easy.
It was a tight fit but I managed to wedge myself into my Formula car. The lack of legroom made it hard for me to push the pedals, but I figured I’d be able to do it. We were given helmets with a clear slide-down plastic window to cover the open rectangular “eyehole” on the front. I was wearing my regular prescription eyeglasses that I use for nearsightedness, so they were pretty much essential for focused driving.
“Start engine” time had arrived. A few minutes later, so would the rain.
A Russell Racing School teacher delivers instructions to the class before the Test Drive. (Photos by Christy Hoffknecht)
Each driver would make about five trips around the track. Early on things were fine — driving the straightaways were easy at low speeds like 35-40 mph. I followed the other drivers just fine through the gentler turns as well as famed Turn 11, also known as the Corkscrew. The biggest challenge on Lap 1 was trying not to grind the gears.
As Lap 2 rolled around, the speeds on the track began to increase. I pressed on the gas pedal more firmly as well, wanting to feel the thrill of driving a fast car on a legendary racetrack. But the excitement was short lived: I began to feel uneasy, gripping the wheel as the darkening skies posed a quickly mounting threat. Mist was fogging up my eyeglasses. I reached through the window on the helmet to wipe the fog off my eyeglass lenses, trying to keep pace with the pack as my visibility — and anxiety — began to worsen. Making it safely through the initial straightaway, I entered the more curvy parts of the track, squinting through my wet eyeglasses as I tried to keep one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the gear shift. I strained more and more to see what was in front of me, to get a good view of where the lines on the track were, and to stay aware of the other cars around me. So far I was keeping it together fairly well as my nerves were being tested more than my driving skills. Perhaps, I thought, the rain would let up a little over the next few minutes so I could finish another couple of laps without a rising flood of danger to my health, and without being a risk to other drivers rounding the track with me.
But my hopes for a calm cruise to the finish while controlling this open-cockpit death trap were soon dashed as Lap 3 arrived. It didn’t get easier. It got worse. The rain picked up, now coming at an angle straight into my eyes. I got through the straightaway but began to think I needed to take some kind of safety measure, such as pulling over, as I really could not see for shit. But it was too late, for the curves on the track made it too difficult to pull over to the right and get out of the way. I slowed way down, possibly spoiling the fun for the drivers who seemed to be circling the track with ease. By this point I was in survival mode, not caring as much about the welfare of others. I think it was this lap where I began screaming into the damp, dank void, begging God to let me live through this and not send my car into a tailspin or into another driver.
You might be wondering why I simply didn’t slide down the window on my helmet … well, I tried that. It fogged up, too, making the obscured vision twice as bad as the single whammy of having my eyeglasses get all wet. So, no solution there. It was wet eyeglasses or nothing. Going without the glasses altogether was another option, but that meant having my eyeballs pelted with rain. And the rain seemingly was growing worse at the most inopportune time.
Formula cars are lined up by staff at Laguna Seca Raceway, April 1, 1996. (Photos by Christy Hoffknecht)
As we started Lap 4 I recall not having anywhere to retreat from the pack, continuing through the straightaway. The lap was a repeat of Lap 3, but with more terror and more screaming into the void. I simply could not see in front of me. This time I didn’t beg for God to save me, I just accepted the possibility that there was a good chance I would be dying that day. “I’m gonna die,” I screamed. I felt like there was no way out. I was getting soaked in the misery of an experience that should have been so much fun. Hit the brakes, downshift, hit the brakes, look for tail lights to follow … and just hope to live to see another day.
April 1, 1996: John Hermosillo, left, and Christy Hoffknecht stand near Formula cars on the track at Laguna Seca Raceway in Salinas.
As Lap 4 was completed, I realized I was still alive, and wondered how many more laps I’d have to endure before this joyride-turned-nightmare would be over. I seem to remember entering the opening straightaway for a fifth lap, one that went very much like Laps 3 and 4. It was a final lap of hanging on for dear life amid the poor visibility, seeing the finish line in my mind’s eye and picturing myself climbing out of the noisy little race car with all my limbs intact and my sanity in check. I would, in fact, make it to the end, where we were directed to pull into a finish lane to disembark. I had never felt so grateful to be alive up to that point in my life.
I didn’t get a chance that day to check with John, my co-worker, as to how smooth a ride he had driven. He left the track before I could talk to him. For me it was still another work day: I went home, decompressed a bit, and went to work about 5 p.m. for the remainder of my swing shift on the Californian’s copy desk. I didn’t say anything about my experience to my co-workers — I thought it would sound like I was complaining and whining. So it ended up being just another night at work.
Yet I couldn’t shake the feeling that on this April Fool’s Day, the joke had been on me. Mother Nature … yeah, she can be a hoot all right.
I graduated from the Russell Test Drive with my life intact. (Photo by Christy Hoffknecht)
According to extremeweatherwatch.com, Monterey’s rainfall that day was .47 inches. A quick look at the rest of the month of April 1996 shows that April 1 was by far the rainiest day that month. Of course it would be.
Fifteen years ago today my sister, Helen Beegle, passed away — Aug. 8, 2006. She will always be a gift from God. She affects me every day.
She was No. 5 of eight children born between 1950 and 1965 — it was the Baby Boom on steroids. She was the second of four girls. She was the only sibling who was left-handed. And she was the only one who didn’t go to kindergarten! I can’t remember why, but she didn’t go — poor kid.
She was not an exception to the norm in our house that everyone was somewhat goofy with a weird, almost twisted sense of humor that often only our immediate family would understand. The funny bone that we kids inherited clearly came from Mom’s genes, and she would say she gained her sharp wit from her dad, my Grandpa Jose Garay. What a wisecracker he was!
Helen rides Lady bareback and barefoot.
She is captured here in a moment of singing … or something.
Helen’s personality stood out in ways that she became the butt of innocent jokes, targeted for her purported naivete, easy humiliation/persuasian, prissiness, her refusal to use foul language, occasional forgetfulness, ability to lose things, being left-handed, and just being silly like the rest of us. We would blame it on the fact she didn’t go to kindergarten! She could never live down the kindergarten thing. But, in actuality, Helen’s entire being was all about grace and elegance; we all knew it, appreciated it, and adored her for it. And she was hardly dim: she was a serious, accomplished student in all her academic endeavors. A hard worker, always; laziness, never. Sloth was not in her vocabulary.
Helen roams the front yard with a Super 8 camera.
Above, normal behavior on a birthday. Below: clockwise from upper left: Breakfast with Mom and Dad; Ro, Mom and Helen take little Angela, Ed’s daughter, for an outing; Helen’s graduation from College of Notre Dame; Helen chats with relatives at a Hoffknecht family reunion in Merced.
That look you get when Santa Claus doesn’t bring you a new tennis racket!
In junior high (she attended Our Lady of Mercy School in Merced) she took part in 4-H, raising a sheep or two as her projects. She liked horses, and she seemed like a natural to ride them with her gentle, caring nature. She helped take care of Lady, a Quarter horse we had on the farm, when she was a preteen.
Helen played a key role in the siblings’ production of a stop-motion silent movie, made with Mom’s Super 8 camera which she used to take dozens of movies of the kids over the years. The movie, which included starring roles from Fred and Billy, was called “The Funny Farm.” The Three Stooges could only wish to have gotten a crack at this small-screen clown show.
School, sports, arts
Helen graduated from Merced High School in 1975. She attended Merced College, then College of Notre Dame, earning a bachelor’s in English. One summer before she went to CND, she studied German at the Monterey Institute of Foreign Languages. Her strong Catholic faith would play a part in taking her to CND in Belmont. She played on the tennis teams at all three schools. Back at home, Helen and I share an engraved bench at Stadium ’76, the football stadium at Merced College, after Dad purchased two personalized benches — one with Helen and my names on it, the other reading William Hoffknecht Family.
Later in life she studied at Chabot College in Hayward, earning a certificate in medical records technology.
Stadium ’76 benches, Merced College. Last name misspelled.
During her high school years, Helen and other students were sent home early during a stretch of racial rioting at Merced High, probably 1974. The outbreak of violence was happening all over the country. I was pretty young, but I do recall her being a bit shaken over the whole thing — the weapons and hard-core clashes on campus — it was nasty and scary.
In 1981 she arranged to take Mom and us younger ones to the Shakespeare Festival in Ashland, Ore., which she had attended several times as part of a group from Merced College. Our older sister, Carmen, also has a special place in her heart for Ashland, herself having made a number of similar trips prior to Helen’s voyages.
Our 1981 trip to Ashland, Ore. Helen took the photos.
Music she liked? Well, Elton John was a big favorite in our house when we were kids, and Helen would sing songs like “Daniel” in a weird, silly high pitch, just to be goofy and annoy, or actually, entertain us. Billy and Fred especially would get a big kick out of her. She also dug soft rock like Barry Manilow, Gordon Lightfoot and Abba. I remember going to two concerts with her: Jackson Browne and Orleans at Santa Clara University, and Abba at the Concord Pavilion. Helen also listened to classical music, later in life attending the Carmel Bach Festival a number of times. She played clarinet in high school and trombone in the Merced College Jazz Band.
Notable TV shows she liked? “Dark Shadows,” “Lost In Space,” “The Waltons,” “The Big Valley” and “Here Come the Brides” are some of the key ones I remember. And a few daytime soaps I could name, but won’t! By the way, she loved the Olympics, both Summer and Winter Games. I remember she especially loved watching figure skating.
Under the hood of a 1967 Chevy Malibu, her longtime ride that was a hand-me-down from Ed. Carmen drove it before Helen. It was a two-door coupe with vinyl top, and a swapped-in 327 engine.
This is some high-quality foolishness from Helen that I bet Carmen would know something about.
Making a racket
Helen played tennis right-handed. When playing softball, she would bat left-handed. When she kicked a ball, she would kick with her right foot. When writing, she’d write with her left hand.
In the early 1970s she learned tennis in Merced under the tutelage of Fred Ferguson, a longtime local tennis instructor. At some point, Helen thought I would like to learn to play, so we arranged for Ferguson to take me on as a student as well. I was 9 years old! I didn’t realize until years later how fortunate I was to have had private individual lessons on Saturday mornings with Ferguson, an older gentleman who was already well into his senior years, perhaps his 80s. But, as he would stand across the net on one of the far-end courts at Merced College, his back and knees slightly bent from age and likely decades of playing tennis, Ferguson would feed me forehand after forehand, backhand after backhand, volley after volley. With every stroke, he’d pound footwork into your head. His instruction would leave a lifetime impression on me. It was truly a gift from Helen.
A ferocious fighter. On the court … and off
A few years later we would have our own one-on-one battles on the courts at Merced College. We could get some ferocious rallies going between us. But Helen always kicked my portly butt, even though I was a decent player by the time I was about 15. (Don’t ask me about not making the tennis team at Merced High – I could explode with rage as this, and my freshman-year experience playing JV basketball as a plumpster, are the type of vile, stank memories that make for a lifetime of scars and deep wounds … )
Trips to Houston, Seattle
Helen lived with her husband Bruce outside of Houston for a number of years. She was playing tennis for a local club near Katy, where they lived. I visited them in fall of 1987 for a week, during which I experienced almost nonstop rain and nasty humidity. She bought me an hourlong tennis clinic session with a pro at her club. The pro, named Peter, had an Australian accent; he asked me what part of my game I wanted to work on, and I said my serve (It’s My Serve, my blog name, remember?) He immediately figured out what I was doing wrong and we did drills to try to correct the problems. Helen and Bruce took me to downtown Houston, where we had great BBQ food; we also hit the Galleria shopping center and the Houston Zoo. We went to a Rockets-Sonics game at the Summit – yes, a different era indeed — Hakeem Olajuwon was playing; World B. Free, Ralph Sampson, also in the house. Later that week Helen and Bruce drove me down to Galveston, which was very cool to walk around downtown. The sea walls there were quite a thing to see as the strong Gulf winds were whipping the coast, which I guess is pretty much the norm, actually.
Clockwise from top left: Strolling in Galveston with Bruce, and posing with me at the sea wall; near a fountain in Houston; visiting the Houston Zoo; and hitting the Summit for a Rockets-Sonics game.
Visiting Taos and Albuquerque in 1990.
In 1990 Helen arranged a trip to New Mexico: Mom and I would meet her there, and we would spend about a week in Albuquerque, Santa Fe and Taos; we’d also go to Chimayo, and take a trip to the Sandia Peak Tramway. She was about three months pregnant with Lilly. It was a lovely trip, and Mom really had fun.
Holding her daughter Lilly, 1991
Helen and Bruce moved to Enumclaw, a town about an hour southeast of Seattle, a couple of years later. I went with Mom to visit them in November 1993; Lilly was not even 3 years old. We went lots of places, including taking a ferry ride to Whidbey Island; the Pike Place Market, Monorail and Space Needle. We also went inside the cavernous Kingdome for a holiday arts and crafts fair — this was less than a year before a few large ceiling tiles famously fell inside the place (whew, dodged a bullet), which eventually was demolished in 2000. Helen took me to a Sonics-Bulls game at the Seattle Coliseum, where we had standing-room-only tickets on Horace Grant Goggles Night. I’m pretty sure the Sonics’ Sasquatch mascot was there, jumping on trampolines and stuff. Oh yeah, Michael Jordan had suddenly retired about a month earlier. Wouldn’t be seeing him; damn!
Top left: Helen videotapes Lilly on Whidbey Island; pretending to use a payphone outside the Mariners’ new ballpark in 1999; going to the Seattle Kingdome in 1993 for a holiday arts and crafts fair — it was HUGE.
I visited Helen in Seattle again, in 1999, on a somber occasion: she was recovering from surgery after a cancer diagnosis. I spent a week helping her with housework, cooking and shopping, driving around her bright green Honda Civic hatchback.* And she still managed to take me a few places, as she felt obligated to for some reason. We went to the complex of locks in Seattle’s Salmon Bay, and she took me to see the outside of the Mariners’ new baseball stadium (now T-Mobile Park) which had just opened that summer.
(*That car, which I called the Little Green Hornet, was catlike as it seemed to have nine lives: it was stolen, and recovered, three (3) times in Seattle, the last time being when Lilly owned it after Helen’s death. Another time it was struck by a hit-and-run driver at Mom’s condominium parking lot in Menlo Park, but the jerk was caught because a resident of the complex saw the whole thing out their window. That’s not all: the Green Hornet had survived another earlier theft attempt, this time at Eric’s house in Newark. But it was Coco, the family’s Australian Shepherd mix dog, who barked like crazy, sounding the alarm to the entire cul-de-sac. Good girl, Coco!)
A medical profile Helen wrote for the hospital she worked at in Bellevue, Wash.
Her battle, her sacrifice
It would be just a few years later – about 2002 – when Helen had an expensive blood test (like, $6K) to conclude what we had long suspected: that a breast cancer mutation runs in mom’s side of the family. (Mom passed away in 1997, after her second bout with breast cancer.) The test would become cheaper for other family members, once the suspect mutation has been pinpointed. So in 2004 I was urged by a doctor to have the test done, and I also was positive for having the BRCA1 mutation. It meant I was at much higher risk for breast and ovarian cancer. In Helen’s case, it already was ovarian, and her odds were not good. But, my God, did she put up a fight. An unbelievable fight. She was not expected to live beyond perhaps two or three years, but she survived about seven after her diagnosis. It was a stunning effort in strength, hope, faith and love to keep herself going for her entire family. That extends to her cousins, who also were able to test more easily for the BRCA1 mutation, since the specific mutation had been identified. It was groundbreaking, important, and critical for us all. My brothers were tested, which in some cases led to testing of their children. Helen sacrificed for us, set the stage for us. What a beautiful gift.
Helen and Lilly join Father Chuck Palluck for a photo at St. Barbara Catholic Church in Black Diamond, Wash. I had the opportunity to meet Father Chuck in 1993. He retired from the parish in 2009.
In my case, it was truly more than a beautiful gift – it was a lifesaver. Armed with the knowledge that I was a BRCA1-positive mutant, I could now make decisions to prolong my own life. In May 2004 I underwent a complete hysterectomy, which supposedly would reduce my own risk of getting breast cancer by 50 percent. The surgery showed that I had early-stage endometriosis. So all the better that I had the surgery to remove the ovarian cancer risks. However, thing is I wound up getting breast cancer anyway, in November 2009. Being a BRCA1 mutant is not for the fainthearted. But I was lucky: my cancer was caught very early, and I was able to go through a clinical trial at Stanford that included chemo, double mastectomy, radiation and follow-up plastic surgery. The latter part has not gone well for me, with radiation’s effects mostly to blame, and, well, I still endure the horrible cosmetic fallout of all this 10 years on. BUT … I am cancer-free. I’m alive.
There were a few other memorable places I went with Helen: Yosemite Valley, late 80s, in January: we hiked the trail to Vernal Falls with snow on the ground. It was a great time. We didn’t go all the way, just to the bridge. Much later, about 2004 when she was battling cancer, we took Lilly on a snowboarding trip up near Strawberry past Pinecrest Lake. We also took Lilly to Yosemite, perhaps that year, and stayed in Housekeeping Camp, where we rafted lazily in the slow-moving Merced River.
Visiting Yosemite, late 1980s.
Helen floats her boat in the Merced River, 2004
Lilly takes a break from rowing.
Lilly explores the grounds of the Ahwahnee Hotel, where a wedding was being set up.
Planning for her care
It was this time period when I was in a position to buy the Del Rey Oaks condo I was renting. The owner wanted to sell, and my two-year lease would be up in September 2004. A similar scenario had just happened to me at the previous condo I rented on Dela Vina Avenue in Monterey, where I made the mistake of signing a one-year lease (2001 to 2002; I moved into the place about two weeks before 9/11). Sure enough, 13 months later (2002) I had to move again because that owner was selling: in fact, I had to show the place to potential buyers. If I had had a crystal ball, I would have bought that condo instead of the pricier Del Rey Oaks place. But living in DRO would be fate, and it turned out better all around as I decided to buy the place with a lot of help from Carmen. Our top priority and concern: Helen needed a place to live in the end. She was long divorced, and essentially on her own. She knew she was dying, and wanted desperately to be with Lilly, who was in junior high at the time. In 2003 Helen rented an apartment in Merced for about a year and a half, and Lilly attended McSwain Elementary School. It became clear that Lilly was happier in Seattle, and her return there would be inevitable, as she could live there with her father. Also, Helen was seeing doctors in the Bay Area, and was driving there regularly from Merced. It was really too much for her.
Helen and Lilly, through the years
In early 2005, after I had purchased my condo in fall 2004, and Lilly had completed her fall semester, Helen moved in with me and my boyfriend, Daryl, in Del Rey Oaks. Lilly moved back to Seattle to live with Bruce, and was enrolled in Montessori School. Helen also was able to start seeing my hematologist/oncologist in Monterey, as she needed a new doc to eliminate trips to the Bay Area. I think she was still having chemo treatments during this time. So it was a much better situation for her, having everything nearby and all. But her condition would slowly deteriorate over the next 18 months. And she would miss her daughter terribly, but the truth was that she couldn’t care for Lilly on her own anymore. My condo was a 2 bd/2 ba, so Helen had her own bedroom and bathroom. The year 2005 was fairly normal: she was still able to get around on her own and get outside. Daryl and I took her to Point Lobos. Carmen visited, and we took her to Big Sur – I think we went to Nepenthe. Later that year we all had Christmas together.
But it was not a happy time. In fall 2005, the family was stunned to learn that our brother Eric, 53, had been diagnosed with pulmonary fibrosis, a disease that, just a few years later, would claim two more brothers, Billy and Fred. Pulmonary fibrosis would later turn up, though not as severe, in eldest brother Ed, who in 2016 died at age 66 from a number of health conditions.
Eric loved to fire up the grill.
Eric’s case was severe, sudden and, as we eventually learned, untreatable and terminal. During the holidays I was unable to see him at a Bay Area hospital because he was susceptible to infection, and we couldn’t be around him. This was unbelievably heartbreaking. Eric would eventually be taken to the ICU at Stanford, and it was determined that we would “pull the plug” on his life. The time and place for ending his life was set, and his siblings and other family members, including my boyfriend Daryl, stood around him in a circle in the ICU and watched him pass. This was in February 2006. Helen wasn’t there, but she did make it to Eric’s funeral in the Bay Area. The loss of our No. 2 brother was sudden and shocking. We still ache for him.
Her last few months
During 2006 we cared for Helen as she grew thinner and weaker. Daryl cooked, did laundry and other chores for her while I went to work at nights at the Monterey Herald. He and Helen would watch classic movies and sports together. I was happy he was there to provide support, love and companionship.
Visiting with Tennessee cousin LaDonna Evins
Helen, Carmen and Ro
Helen takes care of business at my condo in Del Rey Oaks.
By summer it was clear her time was running out, and she would not survive but a few months. She had visits from extended family members, and she was so very happy to see them all. I had a professional dilemma on the horizon: I was selected to attend a highly regarded Knight Foundation copy editing institute, set for July at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. My boss at the Herald had me apply for this fellowship, and I was among four copy editors from California (others were from the SF Chronicle, Stockton Record and Fresno Bee) chosen to attend the weeklong conference. My issue: Should I not go? What if Helen’s condition deteriorates quickly while I’m there? Helen would assure me that I should go, she’d be OK, she said. I was expected to attend, so I went, and everything went well: I checked in with Daryl every day on how Helen was doing as I sweated it out in North Carolina’s July humidity for a week.
We moved her to hospice care in early August, taking her to the lovely Westland House care facility in Monterey. Her doctors determined it was time. Carmen spent as much time with Helen there as she could. The morning of Aug. 8, 2006, Carmen woke me to let me know Helen had just passed away a few hours earlier. She was 48 years old.
Her funeral and graveside burial were held Aug. 11 in Merced. It was officiated by the revered Monsignor E. James Petersen of the Fresno Catholic Diocese.
Helen was the one who kept friends of the family informed about important things by writing letters and sending cards, and perhaps making phone calls or personal visits. She kept records of everyone’s birthday, anniversaries, kids’ birthdays, addresses, etc. Very well organized and neat. She used a label maker to make labels for her own personal files. I was quite impressed with her systems of organization.
She took pictures of my own college graduation from Fresno State in 1984 – the Polaroids she snapped are very special to me. Carmen also did some great photography that day – boy, what cool sisters I have!
Branching into the universe
In the years since I have lost my parents and six of my siblings, I have come to think of them – separately – as elements of nature. This conversion-in-my-head of my family members began with Helen, because it occurred to me that she holds the characteristics of a tree: she reaches out in all directions, with a strong base and foundation that supports her muscular branches and a full, beautiful green head of gently swaying, delicate leaves … kind of like a weeping willow. Her roots spread far and wide; she is sturdy, hardy, lovely and evergreen. She is always a joy to be around.
Eric, in this nature scene in my head, is the wind and breeze. Why? He’s strong but with a quiet, adventurous spirit and a love-filled heart. Eric, who was an architect for the County of Alameda, spent many weekends sailing with friends on San Francisco Bay. It was a sport and hobby he loved. I think of how the wind must have carried him on his many sailing outings. He just rides with it, accepting the wind’s changing directions. His athleticism is nothing new, as he played basketball and football in high school, and football at Merced College as well. Easygoing, cool, mellow Eric, how I miss you, my sweet bro.
Ed, the eldest sibling, is the mountains. He stands tall over everyone, strong shoulders, weathering many storms. Peaks, valleys … he oversees it all. Wow, just wow. He could be a towering, fatherly figure to us little ones. He can easily roar like a lion and scream like a kitten … well, he purrs a little, too. I can always feel his hands pushing on my shoulders, asking me if I am OK …
Billy, 57, who died in February 2013, is the rocks and soil, the earth, the dirt under your fingernails when you work in the rice fields. So good, so honest, so absolutely pure. A tough hombre, and a textbook definition of a gentle giant. His cremains were scattered as he wished: in the irrigation canals that led to the fields he so often worked on.
Fred, 54, who died in May 2013, is the clouds: always over our heads (hah!), lighthearted or angry, colorful and hilariously entertaining, always shape-shifting. If only I could hug the clouds. Talk about life giving you a gut punch. What I’d give for another year with you.
Rosemarie, 47, who died of breast cancer in September 2012, is the sea: she roils with waves of passion, faith, humor, intelligence and strength. When she’s calm, she’s sweetly calm and gentle. But when she’s flexing her muscles, watch out. The Kid, the baby of the family, was truly a force of nature. I was so impressed with her, loved her and admired her with all my heart.
That brings me to Mom and Dad. They take center stage in this scene.
Mom is the moon and stars. I sense this partly because she would talk about her affinity for constellations after learning about them in school in Guatemala. She is in a different stratosphere, or universe, but always twinkling within our view from below. Her star never fades, but rather, burns more brightly with time.
Dad burns the brightest of all: He is the sun, giving us his warmth and light without question or at a cost. He is selfless, strong, loving and hardworking; a solar beacon who lifts us with his brightness. Everything rotates around Dad, the center of our universes.
Our universe, down on the farm. The Funny Farm.
Helen clearly acting silly — possibly singing — knowing Billy just might be ignoring her.
Unfortunately, this wretched bit of writing is not fiction
Witnessing and recording a silly cat-and-mouse encounter gave me an even sillier idea: describe it in one long, annoying sentence. This pointless exercise in time wasting reminded me of the Bulwer Lytton Fiction Contest: its home page includes the mantra “where ‘www’ means ‘wretched writers welcome’.” Its contestants write an atrocious opening sentence to a hypothetical bad novel.
And with that I give you a sentence — I think it’s a sentence — that is not fiction. It’s true — and truly wretched. Here it is . . . enjoy — or, rather, forgive me. Feel free to whip out your red editing pens and make it sing instead of sob.
The cat violently drags the mouse into the house, triggering my sharp command to remove the nasty rodent, and kitty obliges, cornering and carrying it to the backyard, but it escapes and hides under some old beat-up wood decking, then tempts fate by peeking out and getting ensnared in kitty’s sharp clutches, only to be carried off and released once more, teasingly hiding amid the sad-looking potted plants, prolonging with sick glee the both oddly funny and potentially fatal game that goes on and on and would actually end with the likely wounded rat bastard still able to flee into the evening, having fully earned its satisfaction on the battleground vs. the spent kitty, while I am happy simply to have a house free of vermin.
Mew Mew, master mouser, hunts a little rat in this comedy short. Squeaks included.
Kauai’s natural beauty — and island vulnerabilities — meet travelers eager to get out in the world
Kumu Camp, a rustic beachfront campground on the northeast coast of Kauai, has few visitors in early May. The constant pounding of waves breaking on the shore and shimmering blue waters provide a dreamy backdrop to this place that lulls and excites with its natural charm and beauty.
The lack of people is balanced by robust bird life — roosters grab center stage by warming up their vocal chords as morning’s light peeks through dark, silvery clouds over Anahola Bay. Hens lead their chicks on a food-finding mission, scampering and pecking through bushes and other varieties of shrub that border the beach. And the occasional red-crested cardinal enters the mix, bringing a splash of color and a quick chirp to greet the day.
The camp is a perfect spot to escape for many looking to decompress from life’s stresses — that is, if you don’t mind yurts and bungalows without bathrooms. The timing, the camp’s location, this island … it all works for me in this first week of May, despite some delays at an understaffed airport in Lihue that causes a stumble out of the gate.
Lava rocks dot the shoreline at Anini Beach on the North Shore of Kauai
Travel glitches are understandably plentiful on a remote island struggling to cope — and re-emerge — as the marathon Covid pandemic slowly eases its grip on tourism. A car-rental shortage is developing on Kauai — and on this day, May 2, the island seemingly is hit with an onslaught of travelers seeking paradise. In my case, reserving a small SUV well in advance makes a huge difference in the cost and availability of vehicles. After a long wait in line, I happily take the key of a Kia Sorento and consider myself lucky, while other vacationers are less fortunate, many driving away with pricey, gas-guzzling behemoths as their last option.
My campsite yurt, Sunrise Hale, is equipped with a mini fridge, electricity and a floor lamp. And windows. A strong, steady breeze rolls into the camp, keeping the humidity inside the yurt pretty bearable. The unit sits on raised decking, offering a nice beachfront view of Anahola Bay.
A 360-degree view of Anahola Beach, where the mouth of Anahola Stream meets the ocean.
This beach allows vehicles to drive on the sand — all speeds, any time of day or night — and motorbikes as well, and they can be loud. Four-wheel-drive trucks with young people in the truck bed are a common sight on the beach. Fishermen with their families in tow park their vehicles and cast their lines into the surf, sometimes overnight. The freedom to move about is part of the attraction here for families seeking a laid-back outing at the water’s edge.
A couple of drawbacks about Kumu Camp: there are few reliable Wi-Fi signals in the area, and the camp’s showers run mostly cold.
This is my first time back to Hawaii in 20 years, so I am hoping to get around as much of Kauai as possible. But road closures on the North Shore — caused by a landslide at Hanalei — create enough traffic backups to keep me from using precious time trying to reach the “end of the road” on the northwest part of the island. Instead I focus on hitting popular snorkeling spots on three sides of the island. First I am happy to find good snorkeling at Lydgate Beach Park to the east. I find calm swimming conditions but murky water at beautiful Anini Beach on the north side, and Salt Pond Beach Park on the south side.
No boat tours for me this vacation. I am tempted to take a snorkeling trip to Niihau island but am actually scared off by the 6 a.m. departure time in Port Allen — and the $239 price tag — so I decide against booking one of the seven-hour tours. On this trip, I am happy to spend more time beachcombing next to my camp and relaxing on my deck, with its great view of Anahola Bay and lively surfing scene.
A chirpy red-crested cardinal
Roosters, hens and their chicks are part of the charm at Kumu Camp.
A hen and chicks hydrate at Anahola Beach.
Poipu Beach Park, South Shore
Cool artwork takes a prime parking spot in Hanapepe
Lava boulders at ‘Aliomanu Beach, north of Anahola Beach
Waterfall at Waimea Canyon
Kalihiwai Beach, North Shore
A boat sits on the sand at Kalihiwai Beach
A Hawaiian monk seal sleeps at Poipu Beach
Opaeka’a Falls
A sliver of moon glows over Anahola
Calm, shallow water at Anini Beach
The Hanapepe Swinging Bridge, crossing Hanapepe River
Bad timing: A monthly tsunami warning test at ‘Aliomanu Beach
Princeville restaurant delivers lively surf setting, great food and warm vibes
I must own up to this right off the bat: I’m a longtime fan of Todd Rundgren. So my trip to Tiki Iniki is certainly spurred by this bias. I couldn’t possibly visit Kauai and not go to this little North Shore bar and restaurant owned and operated by the musician and his wife Michele, right?
Well, of course I go. I manage to be the first customer in the door for lunch at 11 a.m. Friday, May 7. I choose an outdoor patio table with a view of all angles. A steady parade of customers follows me in.
Caesar salad
Fish and chips
Spam can with bill
Hanalei Sling
On this morning, party liquor is a must
It is still the morning but I am in Hawaii, so I have no hesitation ordering the Hanalei Sling, which is beautiful, delightful and exotically tastier than your run-of-the-mill Singapore Sling (I want another one but, damn … I am here solo and I’m driving).
One disclosure: My server Teddy lets me know immediately that no chicken items on the menu are available. It’s a bit surprising but understandable, considering the pandemic, the sudden influx of tourists, the road conditions on the North Shore — possibly many obstacles in play (the irony of having chickens and roosters running around doesn’t escape me). So it is not a disappointment, and I opt for fish and chips, along with a caesar salad. Excellent choices — both are extremely delish.
Tiki Iniki’s colorful menus feature plenty of aloha.
From the outdoor deck of Tiki Iniki — complete with crowing rooster at the end.
Meeting Mrs. R: An indication of my determination
I am hoping to meet Michele Rundgren during my visit. My best approach, I figure, is to relax, enjoy lunch and innocently ask my friendly server Teddy if Michele is in the house and is willing to meet me for a quick chat and some selfies. I’m pleasantly surprised when he answers that she is there, and that he’ll check into it. Teddy returns to say she will be out in a few minutes. Rock on!
Michele pops out to greet me — I nervously introduce myself as an old fan from California. We quickly chat — she is very lovely and gracious — and also says she is busy this day doing payroll. She notes that voting for the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame had just closed that week, and the following week we’d be learning if her husband would make it as a RRHOF inductee in 2021. I think I tell her I’ll keep my fingers crossed. Who knows? Perhaps it is good luck. Just days later it is announced that Todd Rundgren will be among the 2021 class of inductees.
We huddle for three quick photos with Teddy operating my iPhone. She has to get back to work, but later as I go back inside to head for the door she yells out, “Bye, Christy!”
Camp provides front-row seat to local surfing scene
Waves at Anahola Beach bring out surfers all day long.
Anahola Bay is a favorite destination for surfers of all skill levels who like to challenge the waves off Kauai’s beaches. In early May I had a panoramic view of the action from the deck of my beachfront yurt at Kumu Camp.
I pieced together surfing clips taken with my iPhone. The video itself isn’t really high-quality stuff — but the experience was. During my time there I felt as though I didn’t have a care in the world. It seemed the surfers and boogie boarders were feeling the same way.
There were plenty of dogs on the beach too. You can see two of them at the end of the video. They also didn’t seem to give a woof about much. Just carefree and enjoying the moment.
Daffodils bring a splash of springtime color to our house here on the Central Coast. These beauties make an annual appearance next to a tree in the front yard. Stunning hues, yes, though actually the overcast skies here don’t seem to do the blooms justice, nor does the lazy photographer!
Daffodils flaunt their color in our Seaside front yard.
The wait is over. Brighter times are ahead, and today is a day to celebrate the start of a new era in this country. That should be the focus looking forward. But the blood-splattered stains of 45’s horrific reign of American carnage stretch from sea to shining sea — they cannot be so easily cleansed as this shredded country moves on.
So off to Florida with this serial liar — good riddance, and may justice deal him and his mobster family the fate they deserve.
And welcome, President Joe Biden and VP Kamala Harris.
The “Fuck Trump” rock: I came upon this at Fort Ord Dunes State Park near Monterey in 2019 — I was walking to the beach through the sandy trailed entrance (top photo) and as I got closer to the water, I looked left and saw the spray-painted messages of the big rock and its little sidekick stone glaring at me. Whipped out my cell phone and documented — it surely has since been scrubbed clean.
There was another time, long ago, when many Americans were literally counting the days before a despicable tyrant would leave office — one way or another. I was 11 years old when the big event eventually happened: it was August 8, 1974, when Tricky Dick Nixon resigned.
The magnitude of the Nixon crisis was lost on me at that age, but not on my brother, Fred, who of course already knew Nixon was a nasty piece of work. Fred had a gargantuan wall calendar plastered with Nixon’s ugly mug, meant eventually to be covered with X’s as each day passed. I had always been amused by it, and wondered what it would look like when fully covered with X’s.
I do recall the feeling of relief when Nixon departed. I’m having flashbacks now with our current crisis. Old Tricky Dick didn’t make it to the end of his term as our current Satanic leader apparently will. But if he had, it probably wouldn’t have been even close to the total shitshow we’ve been forced to live in since 2016.
We have 12 days remaining with this menacing loser in office. Let’s hope we make it to the weekend.
Here’s an example of the Nixon Countdown Calendar showing the calendar’s squares X’d out.
Amid all the aches and pains that defined the year 2020, I came upon a critical outlet to help soothe my frazzled nerves: jigsaw puzzles. I know I’m not the only one who has turned to this childhood favorite and sentimental throwback mind-teaser to help pass some of the time at home while the pandemic rages all around us.
While others may dabble in this trend, for me it’s become an addiction. It started when I found an unopened puzzle I had given my mother-in-law as a Christmas gift two years earlier: It was a Dowdle puzzle, the brand that Costco loves to sell by the pallet-fulls. An SF Giants puzzle, 100 pieces! (Oops, guess I didn’t notice that it was a kiddie puzzle when I bought it) Well, I knocked it out in about an hour. By then the bug had pretty much infected me.
I bought another Dowdle puzzle, then another, and another. Then another. Holy shit, WTF else am I addicted to?
So since just July when this bout with jigsaw madness began, I’ve completed 18 puzzles. And spent a crapload of money on them too. However, I’m working on a Where’s Waldo puzzle now, which just may cure my addiction as the atrocious beast is driving me nuts rather than calming my nerves.
Finished 13 puzzles plus five from the National Parks box — still have Grand Teton and Bryce Canyon to go.
It's My Serve 