Good morning, Kalihi Uka, I think as I begin my day on the front porch.  It’s very much an early-to-bed, early-to-rise neighborhood, our house and the Toothbrusher’s house the first to stir (although he doesn’t actually put in an appearance until at least an hour later).  There are often weekend afternoon gatherings, especially at the Samoan house, but evening events are very rare.

One of my favorite morning sights is a small white van from up the street.  Its sides are neatly lettered with a sign giving the name of the gardening service and includes, in quotes, “we enjoy caring gardens”.  Well, who wouldn’t enjoy a caring garden.  In my experience gardens have demanded far more caring than they ever gave.

At our house the Landlady makes her final lockdown inspection at about nine in the evening, isn’t keen on anyone opening a door afterwards.  So I’m careful to have my last smoke of the day well in advance of her rounds.  Sister and the boys have settled into their nest in the front room by then, anyway, and I wouldn’t want to disturb them.  Doesn’t bother me.  I’ve always heard that the older you get, the less sleep you need.  I’ve long thought I must be an exception but seem to have finally reached that stage.  I’m almost always in bed by ten but often wake a couple of hours later and spend some time with my farmer, repeat that cycle until dawn.

The Old Lady evidently thought she was dying at about three this morning, complained loudly about not being able to breathe, then shouted the Lord’s Prayer.  The Lord must have said we don’t need that up here, you just stay where you are because she subsided and went back to demanding food.  This morning it was bologna, egg and tomato on a roll.  As usual, she got very annoyed when no one got out of bed to fill her order.

Nothing at all is known about her past and I pass on anything of interest I hear from her conversations with her endless parade of invisible visitors.  Remarks about her evidently no-good husband are often amusing, my favorite being “get the fuck out of here and get a job!”  I’m pretty sure she’s originally from the South because, although she doesn’t have a strong accent she does use certain phrases and says some words in ways that definitely suggest a Southern origin (like “hongry” for “hungry”, one of her most-used words).

She almost always remains in her bed except for when being taken in a wheelchair for her thrice-weekly treatments.  But now and then she does get up and wander around.  It was wonderfully funny one afternoon when she walked into the front room.  The boys went instantly silent and looked totally amazed.  One recent afternoon she strolled into my room, sat on the bed beside me, reached back and touched my leg and said “get out of my bed”.  Well really, Madame.  The Landlady came running and escorted her back to her room but I understood what she’d meant when I first arrived there and she said that if anyone bothered me, I should lock the door.  If the Old Lady made a habit of such visits I would do just that.

Her shenanigans this morning got Blackie all stirred up so we did indeed get the day off to a raucous start.  Blackie is such a sweet, funny dog.  When I deliver her beloved treats in the late afternoon, she gobbles them down and then spends a long time diligently searching to make sure she hadn’t missed any.  The odds of that happening are in the order of those for an asteroid hitting Honolulu, I’d guess.

We often have extended conversations although I confess I haven’t the slightest idea what we are saying.  She seems to delight in my attempts to copy her huge repertoire of sounds and if I don’t reproduce it with sufficient accuracy she repeats it exactly.  Who would have thought I’d end up at this age with a canine voice coach?