A Very Rough Draft of Jim Harstad’s Memoir, ON HE RODE — Chapter Fifty

ON HE RODE — Chapter Fifty Lucky for us, there is a rear exit leading directly to the parking lot. “You drive,” I tell Mary. “This is your kuleana, your territory.” “What? Me and losers and crazy people? If you want my advice as an almost-certified professional, just stay away from all of it. You’ll…

A Quick Trip Home

My dad used to have them outside his den.  I remember sneaking down there in the dead of night to try to see them.  Or maybe I was dreaming, perhaps sleepwalking my way to his collection.  Whether awake or asleep, I know I wanted to be impressed, to marvel at the pieces, whether for their…

A Very Rough Draft of Jim Harstad’s Memoir, ON HE RODE — Chapter Forty-Nine

It’s kind of amazing how fast I start feeling normal by starting my day in a neighborhood among normal people who prepare to go normal places and do normal things. And how good and normal “normal” can feel. Do Kerouac and Kesey feel normal? Would they feel normal tooling around Boston behind the wheel of…

Life’s Run

Milton stumbles shakily around Mānoa Valley amid traffic. Petrarch perambulates Punchbowl Cemetery perusing stark headstones of veterans. Shakespeare window-shops for Hawaiian souvenirs at Ala Moana Center. Whitman whistles while he waits for a bus at the corner of Ward and Kapi‘olani. Dickinson rents a Biki bike at University and rides down Beretania to Alakea Street….

A Very Rough Draft of Jim Harstad’s Memoir, ON HE RODE — Chapter Forty-Eight

ON HE RODE — Chapter Forty-Eight In the meantime I’ll take advantage of what must be the most comfortable seating accommodation anywhere, the first five miles of riding any Greyhound or Trailways cross-country hauler. It never fails, ever. The first thing I sit down I can’t believe how anatomically perfect this wonderful combination of lounge…

Family Tree

I’m sleeping, I think; this has the vivid feeling of a dream. Before my house was rebuilt, a huge mango tree stood in the front yard. Somehow sitting on those long gone steps leading up to the former lānai and front door, I hear a voice call out my name, a small, high one, barely…

Sugar or Salt?

We sat opposite each other, each stirring coffee in thick white cups, trying to cool it off. “Cream,” I said. “Cream would help.” Andrea shook her head. “I think the fat stores the heat, makes it take longer to cool off.” I’d never actually thought about this. It made sense. She was good at making…

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