This Is Who We Are

"We've got to have rules and obey them. After all, we're not savages."

—Jack Merridew, Lord of the Flies

***

Yesterday Americans decided that a rapist/felon/domestic terrorist should be President of the United States.

Today, like a band of feral boys, MAGA voters are gleefully dancing around the idol of a man and a political party that nakedly embodies their worst, most debased impulses.

In 2016 there were false assurances from dark corners that Donald Trump would somehow become "presidential", despite a lifetime of proving otherwise. Eight exhausting years later we know those hopes are dead on arrival—the hellbeast "American" voters have summoned (again) is exactly what he's always been—a proudly ignorant racist, fascist, misogynist obscenity of a human being.

Because elections have real-world consequences, the incoming administration (if by "administration" you mean "hate-jacked howler monkeys") has promised the violent deportation of millions of immigrants; to end the Affordable Care Act, depriving millions of Americans of health insurance; and to implement 20%-60% tariffs on imported goods, which economists say will cost American families thousands of dollars a year.

As a bonus, we should also prepare for the acceleration of climate change, the end of NATO, the fall of Ukraine to Trump's pal Putin, and the deaths of the last Palestinians in Gaza.

The news isn't all bad, though, right? After all, multiple states just enshrined the right to abortion and reproductive healthcare into their constitutions. It's unfortunate, then, that all of those (very popular) ballot propositions will undoubtedly be swept away with the scrawl of a red crayon proclaiming, "National Abortion Ban". We know this because the only group Trump's GOP despises more than black/brown people is women.

The Fuck Around And Find Out movement has voted to set the world ablaze to see if fire is hot. 

Now we all get to burn with them.

***

“The mask was a thing on its own, behind which Jack hid, liberated from shame and self-conciousness.”

Celebration On Wheels, Destination Unknown

Quintas (left)
Vivienne (right)
Mauna Kea (everywhere else)

Philippa Georgiou: "That infernal paper says I'm dead—but I'm still very much alive."

Guardian of Forever: "Well, that's because this is tomorrow's paper. You're 'still very much alive' today. But by all means, continue wasting time."

(Temporal insights from the writers of "Star Trek Discovery")

***

It's good to learn new things.

Especially things you never imagined you'd do, ever—because why would you?

Random example: I never imagined becoming a runner. Why would I? Did I even like running? I DID NOT. 

I did enjoy lunchtime basketball and weights, though, a routine that served very well for a long time. 

Until I tore an ACL, which required surgery and a year of recovery.

That year gave me lots of time to ponder the need for more basketball in my life. Very few of those deliberations ended with, "Yes, more hoops for Peter Pan, please!"

So, after 25 years, I quit—and learned to love running [insert a couple years of ambivalence here].

In time, infatuation turned to passion turned to compulsion. Solo 5k runs became 10k group runs, half marathons, whole entire marathons, and eventually ultra marathons.

It was even fun sometimes!

Then came a pandemic, and a move to an island, and a shredded meniscus. More months of recovery. 

In the interim, horses entered our lives. I mean, they didn't just wander into our yard—we went out and got them. Intentionally.

A couple of them we bought to train alongside and ride—the rest are rescues from kill pens on the mainland, because humans are awful.

Every one came to us with a mystery bag full of trials and trauma—learning how to speak horse and listen to their stories has become a worthy and lifelong archeological project.

Equally important are the complementary skills I never imagined I'd need, but are now mandatory. Among the many:

Get busy living,
get busy driving.

* How to dress for doing chores in a hurricane

* How to load an agitated horse into a trailer at a bustling airport

* How to calmly drive a truck pulling a horse trailer with horses inside

Full disclosure: that last thing still makes me anxious, every time. These creatures found their way from a kill pen to a sanctuary to an airport on the mainland to an airport on an island in the middle of an ocean—and somehow they end up with me as their Uber driver? The gods have an odd sense of humor sometimes.

I'd like to say years of getting comfortable being uncomfortable prepared me for such challenges...but I'm not sure I can. 

Either way, I'm learning—because it's a requirement for doing things we never imagined, while we're still able.

Do I need more marathons in my life? I'm no longer certain. The universe has a way of sending us in directions we never considered—maybe our job is simply to be ready for that when it happens.

And, whenever possible, not to squander the time in between.

***

Loving Wife: "Quintas has his vet check Monday. If all goes well, Michael will own his first horse at the ripe age of 62."

Hilarious friend Ruth: "62? A youngster! It’s never too late to find out if you have osteoporosis!"

Highlights From Hurricane Hone

Gracie, fearless.

The rain started Thursday, and hasn't stopped since.

It's Sunday afternoon.

We've never seen so much rain here on the farm (and we've seen some ridiculous storms in the last three years).

Nevertheless, here we are—with 15 inches of water in our buckets, and a steady downpour keeping us mindful that much more is likely.

The good news is, the power came back on within the last half-hour—and the first thing we did was make some coffee.

The bad news is, parts of the Big Island are getting hit much worse than we are. Flash flood warnings are in effect, which means people are scrambling to stay safe.

***

Yesterday morning we awoke to minor flooding in the barn and tack room. After getting all the creatures fed and situated, we loaded up the truck with buckets and shovels, and began moving yards of sand and gravel from their respective piles.

Three and a half hours later the water was redirected away from the building and down the hill. For all our "rain gear", Melissa and I still looked like we had just crawled out of the surf.

This is why we have contingency gear, see—so yesterday's stuff can dry while today's stuff gets wet. 

This afternoon, ALL of it is wet. So we struggle into the wet stuff that's been drying the longest and head back out. 

This is part of what we signed up for, after all. We get what we get, and we don't get upset.

***

The wind arrived last night, driving rain sideways and in directions of the compass from which it never comes. Under doors, through barely open windows, requiring us to throw down towels in places that are always reliably dry.

Let the record show that "always" and "reliably" are now relative terms meaning "almost always," and "not reliably." 

The latest updates tell us that Hone (ho-nay) continues churning west, now past Southpoint—the southernmost tip of the US. 

Yes, this image.

That image >over there> wants us to believe that the Big Island is no longer in the affected area—but our local conditions beg to differ. 

Here on the Hāmākua Coast, in fact, wind continues to be windy and rain continues to be wet. Our 3 p.m. daylight more closely resembles 6 p.m twilight—and I'm pretty sure our solar batteries are flat as pancakes.

***

This afternoon's chores were, once again, completed in a downpour. For all the good our rain gear did us, we may as well have been wearing large paper bags from Malama Market.

Most importantly, though, animals were fed and cleaned up after; dry shavings were spread, medication was given, kind words were spoken. Mission accomplished.

Melissa, covered in mud, grabbed the hose and sprayed herself down from neck to boots. I mean, why not? It's not like she was going to be any less soaked.

I waited, under cover, for Gracie Lou and her protégé Vivienne to finish their alfalfa cubes, then turned them out into the pasture. Aside from being continuously soaked for the past four days, all was right in their world.

***

It's now 8 p.m. at our house.

Lights are working, dinner is done, and everything is...quiet. No wind. No rain. Just the soothing sound of the coquí frogs.

I don't want to jinx anything here, but...it's possible this storm has passed.

First-World Problems and The Tim Solution

"Oh, boy."
"Oh, boy, what?"
"You're f*cked."

It's possible we didn't think it all the way through.

At the time, though, we had no reason to believe the simple, mundane act of BUYING A LAWNMOWER would come back to bite us.

But...here we are.

Here we are, that is, with an acre of fast-growing lawn AND a lawnmower with a bad wheel. A wheel that is apparently impossible to replace.

We bought the thing at Home Depot in Hilo, so of course that's the first place we tried. Guess what, though? You can't buy the part at Home Depot in Hilo! Nor can you buy it at Home Depot Online, because the part is "Unavailable in Hawai'i".

Okay, I'll try the manufacturer of said wheel. THEY DON'T SHIP TO HAWAI'I.

Okay, I'll try Amazon...where the part is unavailable and there's no timeline for when it WILL be available.

Okay, I'll try the manufacturer's dealer on the Big Island. THEY DON'T HAVE THE PART...but they're happy to order it! "It'll cost about $300 for shipping."

Okay, now I'm cranky.

I realize we live in a remote part of the US, but Hawai'i IS part of the US, last time I checked. We do have Post Offices and FedEx and Amazon lockers and an assortment of big box retailers. One of those retailers sells semi-expensive lawnmowers for which IT'S IMPOSSIBLE TO GET REPLACEMENT PARTS??

I don't know whether to laugh or shriek into a tropical storm.

***

First world problem, I know.

What makes it galling, though, is this:

"Oh, and don't forget to check the oil."

If Tim Walz were available, HE would jump on a plane with the wheel assembly in his carry-on. He would rent a car at the airport, drive to our house, jack the left-front wheel, replace it with the new wheel assembly, check the air pressure in the other tires, smile, and say, "Okay, champ, it's ready to go. You've got this."

Tim Walz, however, is busy helping save American Democracy.

Still, knowing he would help if he could makes me want to keep trying.

Thanks, Tim, and you're right:

I've got this.

Picture of Grief

Not the Saturday we wanted,
but the Saturday we needed.

We’re all grieving—and healing from—something. 

It’s constant and relatable across generations.

Eventually the current thing slides beneath the waves, temporarily out of sight—but never really out of mind. And soon we’re grieving some new thing, or maybe resurfacing the old thing, or maybe all the things all at once all the time.

Sometimes it’s like a light breeze barely moving a translucent curtain at the kitchen window.

Other times it’s a thousand firehoses in the chest that you drag yourself up from, a couple miles down the road.

It’s funny! You can’t stop laughing!

It’s not funny. You can’t complete a simple task you’ve done a million times, before the grief thing happened.

***
The dark humor is never far from the surface.

OFFICER (slightly bored): “Gentlemen, can I ask what you’re doing?”

BROTHER 1: “Of course—we’re spreading our mom’s ashes.”

OFFICER: …

BROTHER 2 (helpfully): “Human remains…”

OFFICER (no longer bored): “This is a kids’ baseball field!!”

BROTHER 1: “Exactly! See, our mom spent a lot of time watching us play baseball when we were growing up…”

BROTHER 2: “…so we thought this would be the perfect place. Right?”

(they nod and smile together)*

***
I delivered a eulogy of sorts recently, something I wasn’t sure I’d be able to do.

The rehearsals didn’t go the way I wanted, which is to say I couldn’t get through most of them without crying.

Public speaking is hard for me. Public crying, even more so.

Maybe it's because I’m of a certain age when boys were gently discouraged from such behavior.

ADULT ROLE MODEL: “Stuff that trauma way down, kid, and NEVER circle back to process it. Get it? Got it? Good. Boys, what do we have to say to little Mortimer, here?”

BOYS: “Crybaby! CRYbaby! CRYBABY! CRYBABY!”

(they turn their backs and walk away laughing—fade to black)

***
So, I may have had some latent anxiety about the eulogy.

Regardless, Saturday afternoon arrived, as afternoons indifferently do, and the time to speak was upon me.

Predictably, the microphone and the sound system and the “AV technician” conspired against me—I would be required to project my own voice across the room.

I teed up my speech, took a deeply shaky breath, and…nailed it.

An amusing anecdote early on got a laugh from the gathering—evidently all the encouragement I needed.

I gestured at people and props at appropriate times, emphasized the correct words in most of the sentences, and had just one wavering moment, right near the end.

I paused, took another breath, and pushed through.

People clapped. I closed the laptop, smiled a small, grateful smile, and looked at the tops of my shoes. Always the kid looking for approval.

***
My brother got up next and delivered a moving soliloquy—during which he cried.

My dad got up and delivered a few halting words of gratitude. He cried.

Others in the audience got up and spoke extemporaneously and beautifully. Most of them cried.

And yet nobody laughed or called them crybabies.

What the hell.

***
Text from daughter, on her way to the airport afterward: “I love you buddy!!!”

Me: (sobs)

***
Grieving and healing are little goblins that happen at their own chaotic, non-linear pace.

Learning and unlearning, apparently, are better angels…that happen when we’re ready for them to.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Move on.

***

Here's to you, ol' skinny Dennis

The only one I think I will miss

I can hear your basement singing
Sweet and low like a gift you're bringing
Play it for me one more time now
Got to give it all we can now
I believe every word you're saying
Just keep on, keep on playing

—Guy Clark, L.A. Freeway

***

(*fictional conversation that never happened, just to be clear)

There Be Poop Here

Your cart may vary.
Poop not included.

I hear there was some kind of debate yesterday?

Evidently, I missed it.

At the time it was going on, I was outside collecting eggs, mucking out a chicken coop, scraping botfly eggs off of three horses, and filling up our Gorilla Cart with horse poop.

Between those options and witnessing a sh*t show, I greatly preferred the ones I chose.

A proper presidential debate is an intelligent discussion of ideas and ideals that set a noble standard for Americans and the rest of the world. It is filled with soaring rhetoric that is long-remembered and oft-quoted in the annals of history. 

Debaters may differ on the details of their plan to reach such heights, but those differences are never so great that they can't be reconciled with a handshake—and later by, say, a Congress and a Judiciary working in good faith.

As a general, non-negotiable matter, a candidate's plan cannot be to violently overthrow our government after losing an election. Apparently this take is now controversial.

One of this year's candidates is old and tired, but he has done a creditable job cleaning up the feculent mess left by his predecessor.

The other "candidate" is old and severely disordered, in addition to being a felon, a sex offender, and an insurrectionist.

The two are not the same.

Between them, one is a rational, if mildly imperfect choice. 

The other is plainly and inevitably lethal to the hopes and dreams of billions of 
people at home and abroad—which one might argue is disqualifying.
***
Anyhoo, daybreak has once again come to the Hāmākua Coast. Chores are calling, and the Gorilla Cart isn't going to fill itself.

That's one thing I've learned from this little farm adventure we're on: if we get busy with other things (or just want to take a couple days off), all of a sudden the poop takes over.

At that point it takes a lot longer to clean up.

Grace In A Pasture

Gracie Lou Freebush,
rescue mare extraordinaire.

It's been a long road for Gracie Lou.

We know this for a variety of reasons—not the least of which is that she was dumped at a kill pen after nearly 20 years of faithful service on an Amish farm.

The Amish have a reputation for fashioning simple lives in an impossibly complicated world. And in fairness, there may be merit in that romantic idyllicism.

What's also true, though, is that too many Amish horses are worked until they're no longer useful—and then they're shipped off to slaughter.

Again, in the interest of fairness, kill pens in the U.S. are awash in horses from every background imaginable—from race tracks to family farms to commercial ranches, and more. We live in a society that teaches us it's perfectly fine to throw away things we don't need or want any more—including living creatures.

And while that reality is soul-numbing on multiple levels—in this one, extremely limited case, we're choosing to be grateful—because it brought us Gracie Lou.

Gracie is a majestic 17.1 hh Belgian mare who checks in at about 1,800 lb. By way of introduction, one of the first things she did the day we met was step on my foot. This may be perfectly good form in the hierarchy of the herd—it certainly made an immediate impression on me. 

The bad news: one of my pinky toes is still in recovery. The good news: I'm now a lot more aware of *her* feet and where they're going, hashtag valuable lesson, hashtag no permanent damage.

The moment she arrived here on the farm, Gracie began changing things for the better. Within minutes, it seemed, she established order among her pasture-mates—two impertinent youngsters who are still learning to be horses. In questions of manners, mien, and general mouthiness, they now (mostly) adhere to her unwavering example.

While she's teaching them, Gracie is also teaching us about her past. From day one her demeanor has been gentle and trusting—which suggests she wasn't mistreated up until the day she was discarded.

That said, scars on both sides of her chest bespeak years of pulling a carriage or a plow or a heavy farm wagon. She'll let me massage those spots for a minute or two, but then slowly shies away. Perhaps she's not used to the touch; maybe the pressure on the tissue is uncomfortable; or maybe the memory of being scarred, repeatedly, is the underlying issue.

We may never know, of course, but we're willing to spend the time to find out—or to leave it be, if that's what she tells us she needs.

As I sit here, imagining the journey from a life-long home to a kill pen, I wonder if horses feel betrayal. I don't know. But within the structure of the herd we do know they have long-term relationships, express affection and contentment, and demonstrate fear and loneliness.

We know they have complex social structures and communication, enabling them to bond with their herd and survive among predators.

We also know that as domesticated animals, they are completely reliant on humans for their wellbeing—a responsibility we fail at too easily and too often.

With the help of a devoted rescue network on the mainland, Gracie was pulled from a kill pen in March, 2024, and trailered to a sanctuary in Oklahoma. After 30 days of quarantine she was forwarded to another sanctuary in Arizona, where she spent another month. From there she was trailered to a sanctuary near Los Angeles, and then to LAX, where she boarded a flight for Hawai'i.

As a matter of logistics, that's about 3,700 miles. As a matter of heart, it feels a lot farther. 

With all that subtext in mind, it's now our job to earn a place in Gracie's herd, and to keep the implicit promise broken by her previous humans.

We can never make things right for her. 

But we can make sure that this time the promise is kept.