Thanksgiving Thanks From Around the World…

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benjamin-franklinWell, it’s #Thanksgiving in America, where both the turkey and the people around the table get stuffed. We aren’t the only country to celebrate this Holiday. It’s also observed in Canada, a few Caribbean islands, and Liberia (Where the heck is Liberia and how did they get in on the action?). Canada gets the jump on us by celebrating in October. That’s why starting November 1, you see so many turkeys migrating north. Still, we manage to capture and eat 46 million of the birds in one day! Not bad for a fowl once proposed by Benjamin Franklin as the “national bird.” If he had been successful we might be eating eagles on this day…NOT!

The holiday originated with the Pilgrims, I’m told, who were giving thanks for making it safely across the ocean to the new world and not starving to death…mainly because the Indians (now called Native Americans by everyone except the tribes themselves) welcomed them and shared their food. We repaid them by taking over their county…bet they regret that original instinct to help.

Thanksgiving in the USA is also associated with hours of American asleep TVfootball on the telly while the family sits around facing the screen…sound asleep. Oddly enough football is played with a pigskin…I wonder if they ever thought of substituting a turkey skin or having Americans eat BBQ pulled pork on this day.

 

As we all give thanks today for the positive things in our life, I wanted to share with you an amazing stack of letters I discovered where folks around the world shared what they are thankful for on this day, November 23, 2017. Here are some of my favorites:

  • Washington DC Interns wrote they are thankful Bill is not back in the White House.
  • The Pope wrote he was grateful they finally made the communion wafers sugar free.
  • Putin wrote he was happy his official Kremlin portrait showed him shirtless.
  • Kim Jong-il is happy Amazon finally shipped him the four-inch shoe lifts he order on Prime.
  • The media is thrilled they are no longer required to confirm sources or stories or report both sides of an issue and can say whatever they damn well please without repercussion.
  • Roy Moore is thankful for his favorite song, “Thank Heavens for Little Girls.”
  • Los Angeles is grateful for all the parade permit money they get from protest marches.
  • Anthony Wiener is grateful for the Internet.
  • Hollywood is not pleased to be named the sexual harassment capitol of the world but in an effort to recognize the problem plan to put clothes on the Oscar, Golden Globes and SAG awards statues.
  • Congress is grateful to still have a job despite not showing up for work in more than ten years.
  • Mark Elliot Zuckerberg is very pleased with the millions of rubles he received from overseas advertising during the 2016 election campaign.
  • Charlie Rose is thankful for see thru shower sliding doors.

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Richard Allan Jones is an author, actor and musician living in Los Angeles…

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Novel – DRAFTED – Chapter 37

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Our six-man squad was issued a map, compass, flashlight, and a canteen of water then dropped off in the middle of nowhere. We had to travel ten klicks, undetected, through woods, swamp, and river, all crawling with the enemy. If caught, we’d be sent to a P.O.W. camp, where we would be questioned and tortured. The torture part, I hoped, was added to scare us, but we couldn’t be too sure since our Vietnamese buddies helped construct an authentic NVA prison and would be undergoing all the questioning.

We huddled in the dark around the map, I had laid out flat on the ground. I risked turning on the flashlight so we could plot our course. The woods were too wide to go around, but we might be able to skirt the swamp. Crossing the single bridge over the river at the finish line was where we stood the greatest chance of getting nabbed–if we managed to make it that far.

I checked the compass, turned off the flashlight, folded the map, and stuffed it inside my shirt. Without the moon, we strained to see as we moved single file through the forest with Sam on point. We tried to be quiet, but a twig cracked or leaves rustled, with practically every step. The night air smelled musty and mysterious.

I whispered up the line. “Keep alert for anything that moves.”

Every shadow contained a potential ambush. We strained to hear anything that might give us a few seconds warning. Forty meters to our right, bright lights mounted in the trees came on, turning night into day. Simultaneously, lots of shouting and AK-47s being fired broke out all around us. We froze–then dropped to the ground, hoping we hadn’t been seen.

Several of the training cadre dressed as Viet Cong had their weapons pointed at two other six-man squads. They yelled, “Put your hands behind your head and drop to the ground.” When one of our guys moved too slowly, he got hit with the butt of a rifle in the middle of his back. The man cried out in pain. Shit, I thought, these guys aren’t messing around.

The trainers put a thick stick through each prisoner’s arms, tied their hands with rope and threw them in the back of a truck. Two of the armed VC jumped in as guards. As soon as the truck drove out of sight, the remaining Viet Cong cadre turned off the bright lights and once again plunged us into darkness.

We remained perfectly still until I figured it was safe, luckily missing the first capture point. I low crawled over to Sam. “Let’s go.”

Twenty minutes later, I halted the team to check the map again. “It looks like they are herding us into established ambushes that have been set up along the easiest route to safety. That’s why those guys following the road got nailed back there.”

“Yeah,” said Sam. “They hit that guy hard.”

I replied, “Exactly. So, unless we want the same treatment, we need to go where they least expect it …which means through the swamp and swimming the river.”

Sam looked at me askance. “You want to go through a swamp at night with no lights?”

“You want to be caught?” Nobody did.

I led the team away from the path that circled the swamp to the west. Just as we reached the edge of the large quagmire, more bright lights, shooting and shouting happened right where we would have been, had we not changed direction. “Good call, Eli,” said Sam.

Looking at the creepy morass ahead of us, I didn’t exactly relish going into the goop, but couldn’t think of a safe alternative. “Anybody know if there are alligators in this part of Georgia?”

One team member said, “Oh yeah, and lots of poisonous snakes too.”

I shook my head. “There has to be a better way. Spread out and find another trail.”

Sam returned in a few minutes. “Come over here. I think I found something.” He pushed aside a pile of sticks and brush covering a flat bottom skiff, complete with oars. When a teammate started to climb in, I grabbed him by the arm. “Wait. Check for booby traps.”

We found and disconnected two trip wires attached to the boat oars. One wire had been hooked to a power switch and a series of four lights mounted in a nearby cypress tree. The second wire disappeared into the dirt. We carefully dug up a buried satchel charge and took it along in case we needed it later.

The swamp, thick with vegetation, contained a myriad of twists, turns, and dead ends. Animal cries in the dark didn’t sound very friendly and the many swirls in the water next to the boat likely hid unwanted slimy creatures making their way through the water just below the plant life on the surface. We would never have made it through on foot. Finally, after a lot of rowing, and use of our faithful compass, the cypress trees started to thin. Up ahead I could make out the bridge from the several bright lights mounted on the structure. A dirt road lay between the edge of the swamp and a six-foot high levee that ran parallel to the river. Three enemy soldiers were posted on the bridge making it impossible to cross from the swamp to the river without being spotted.

We sat in the safety of the swamp shadows and pondered our fate. “What are we going to do Eli?” asked Sam. The others looked my way as well. “I don’t know. Anybody have any ideas, besides suicide or surrender? We could try a diversion, but that means one of us would have to be sacrificed.”

The image of the gun-butted officer candidate remained fresh in my mind. If capture got that rough, what would prison camp be like? Nobody spoke for several minutes. I sighed. “You talked me into it. Give me the explosives and a ten-minute head start. When you hear a big bang, pick up the boat, scale the levee, and into the river as fast as you can, then row like hell.”

“Are you sure, Eli?” asked Sam.

“No, but before I chicken out…hand me the satchel charge. Wait for my signal before you scale the levee.”

I worked my way along the dark edge of the swamp. My plan was to blow the explosive, distract the lookouts, give my team a chance to escape, and by some miracle run across the bridge to safety. It could work.

The soldiers never took their eyes off the path or the road. So, I grabbed a good-sized rock and gave it a heave into some heavy brush near the swamp path. The distraction gave me enough time to scurry unseen across the road and under the bridge. I held my breath.

No reaction, so I hooked up the satchel charge wires to a detonator, stood as far away as I could and pushed down the plunger–BOOM! A soldier yelled and there was the clatter of boots running overhead. I wondered which side the enemy would pick to come after me. When the first soldier rounded the bridge support to the west, I ran the opposite way. When I got to the top, one of the soldiers had remained. But, he was leaning over the rail, looking at the action below and didn’t hear me coming. I shoved him off the bridge, waiting until he safely splashed into the river below and then started running toward the far side at top speed. It looked like I was going to make it when three new soldiers appeared on the bridge in front of me. The trainers I had eluded previously had already recovered and were now standing behind me. I was trapped.

I braced myself for a beating, as the tallest enemy soldier walked up to me. “Are you the one who set off the explosion?” I cautiously lowered my arms protecting my head and nodded. “That was really cool, man. You scared the shit out of those guys. They must have jumped a foot. Where’s the rest of your squad?”

“Safe and sound, I hope. They were crossing the river while you were chasing me.”

“No shit! You guys found the boat and disarmed the trip wires? So, that’s where you got the explosives. You’re the first squad to ever make it this far.”

“You mean nobody wins?”

“The course is designed to catch the candidates and send them to the prison camp. And I’m afraid that’s where I have to take your squad, even if you did successfully complete the assignment. But, I’m going to make sure you receive top marks, maybe even a weekend pass.”

They escorted me to a waiting truck. I climbed in the back with the training staff. They told me the other five candidate squads had already been caught, so they were shutting things down on the course. They found my squad hiding in the bushes a hundred yards from the bridge. “Did we make it?” Sam asked hopefully.

I answered. “The good news is we made it further than any other candidate team and might earn a weekend pass.”

“What’s the bad news?”

“We are still going to be tortured.”

#

We rode in silence for twenty minutes over bumpy roads, until we reached the compound, a twenty-foot, wooden stockade wall with sharpened points, intertwined with barbed wire. The place was ablaze with lights with mounted guns in each corner guard tower. The tall VC soldier warned us before got out of the truck. “We all have to play our part here, so just along with it, okay?”

Our captor banged on the gate. “Open up, we’ve got more prisoners.” As soon as we were inside, more training cadre guards in VC costumes started shoving us around, while cursing, “Swine Americans,” and “dirty imperialists.”

The Vietnamese officer candidates added a certain realism to the exercise, but our buddies at the moment did not look too friendly. Le Huu Duc, a quiet, introspective candidate, now wearing an NVA (North Vietnamese Army) uniform, turned loud and mean. “Why are these prisoners not bound?” He demanded.

The capturing officer explained. “They were the last ones caught, sir, and we did not want to delay longer than necessary getting them to you for questioning.” Officer Duc, seemed to accept this answer. “Put them in the holding pen.”

We were shoved into a fenced area with several other candidates, including my buddy, Steve, who apparently had been assigned to pick blades of grass while on his hands and knees. “Steve,” I called out and promptly received a rifle butt from one of the guards. “No talking.” I restrained from taking a swing at the guy.

Facing away from the guards, I whispered, “Why in the hell are you picking grass?” Steve, without looking up, answered, “It’s part of the punishment. Whatever you do don’t tell them anything when they interrogate you.” I leaned down. “Thanks for the tip.” The same nasty VC threatened me again with his rifle butt. “Get away from the other prisoner, he is being punished.” I backed off.

Sam covered his mouth as if coughing. “Can you believe this shit?”

Before long a new guard approached. “Follow me.” As we walked, I noted the compound was divided into four main areas of activity with screams coming from everywhere except the holding pen. Armed guards roamed everywhere. Escape looked impossible.

We reached the command tent located in the center of the prison. The guard shoved me inside. With only a small lamp as a light source, it took a second for my eyes to adjust. Commander Le Huu Duc sat behind a table appearing very authentic dressed in an NVA cream-colored officer’s uniform, complete with medals pinned over the right breast pocket and gold braids on both shoulders. Guard on both sides, each held a rifle and stared straight ahead.

My cadre companion pushed down on my shoulder and told me to kneel in front of the supreme commander. When I resisted, he hit me with his rifle behind the knees, catching me off guard, and down I went. “Watch it, asshole.” For my remark, he slapped the back of my head hard enough to knock me on my face.

Duc said, “Enough! We’re not barbarians. Answer questions, then we give you a hot meal and sleep.” I realized how late it had become and how tired I felt, so what Le Huu proposed sounded tempting. “We know you are a spy and we can shoot you anytime. Understood?”

I was in no mood to dick around. “Whatever, pal.”

“What is your unit and where are you based?”

“Mickey Mouse and Disneyland…in that order.”

“How many men are in your company and types of weapons?”

“Well, me, Goofy, Donald, and Minnie, oh wait, she’s a girl…you only wanted men. Weapons-wise, I think Goofy has a slingshot, but I’m not sure.”

“Think you funny, spy? Maybe need convincing?”

“Hit me with your best shot, doorman, and then call me a cab, so I can get the hell out of this place.” I got rewarded with another smack to the back of the head.

Commander Duc, red in the face, leaped to his feet and shouted. “Take this filthy pig to the triangle!” The “triangle” didn’t sound too bad; maybe they wanted me in their orchestra?

The cadre guard grabbed my collar and dragged me backward to an odd device consisting of two poles, a rope between them, as well as a triangular metal bar connected to a handle, so it could be rotated. I was ordered to roll up my pant legs and kneel on the bar while holding onto the overhead rope. But the rope had been mounted so high that you had to practically do a chin-up if you didn’t want your body weight resting on the bar. Starting on the flat side, the guard rotated the instrument to a point right against my shins where the bone is closest to the skin’s surface. I held my weight as long as I could, while the guard spit on me, threw dirt in my face and said nasty things about my mother.

Finally, with my arms aching, I had to relax. Most of my weight now rested on the point of the triangle. What started out as extremely painful got worse when they rotated the handle. The triangular bar alternated between point and flat working its way down my shin from the knee to the ankle. My eyes were tearing, but I refused to cry out. When he reached the ankle, the guard began rolling the triangle back toward the knee. I tried to pull myself up again, but no strength remained in my arms. After the guard reversed his direction for the third time, I’d had it and told him so. He helped me down. Both my legs were bleeding. I hobbled into the command tent and faced Commander Duc. He gave me a creepy smile. “You ready to cooperate?”

“I’ve always thought of myself as cooperative.” I wanted to keep him talking to allow the pain in my shins to subside.

“Good. Now, name of unit, how many men and where is located? No one will think less of you for giving me such unimportant information.”

“No problem, doc. My unit is Loony Toons, with Elmer Fudd, Tasmanian Devil, Roadrunner, Wiley E. Coyote, and a few others. We all hang out at Warner Brothers in L.A.”

“What is this nonsense? Think you can mess with me? Guards, take him to apache pole and then the pit.”

“Couldn’t I just go pick grass? I’ll make you a nice green salad. Remember pal, this is just training.”

Once again they dragged me out after another smack in the head. The guard took a second swing at me, but I ducked and laughed, and then paid for my insolence with a rifle butt to the ribs. I was becoming really pissed off.

He ordered me to hug the Apache pole “backward,” while lashing my wrists and ankles with braided ropes until I resembled a human sail. I don’t normally bend that way, which strained my sore muscles even further. The guard smiled as he walked behind me and suddenly shoved down on my shoulders. I let out an involuntary cry and swore my back crack.

“Now do you have something to say?”

I bit down on my lip. “Yeah, check if my cab is here yet. I’m ready to leave.” He punched me in the gut. “You wouldn’t try that if my hands were untied.”

“Oh yeah,” said the big guy, freeing me. I struggled to my feet. He got right in my face, “So, what are you going to do about it, punk?”

This “training” exercise had gone too far and I didn’t want to play anymore. I brought my knee up into the man’s groin. When he doubled over in pain, I grabbed his hair and slammed his head into my other upcoming knee, hearing the satisfying crunch of his nose breaking. As he bounced off my knee, I doubled both fists and with all my remaining strength hit him with a huge uppercut. He landed with a thud on his back in the dirt–out cold. I ran toward the gate and had it half opened when four more guards grabbed me and dragged back inside.

They carried me kicking and cursing to the pit, which turned out to be full-length wall locker buried three feet in the ground. They threw me in unceremoniously on my back, which still smarted from the apache pole. I cried out in pain, but they slammed the metal door shut and locked it with a loud click.

My narrow container didn’t allow me to turn over, even if I wanted to. The only light came from three slits in the door near my face. Squinting through the opening, I could just make out the angry guards standing around the hole, staring down at me. Commander Duc gave an order in Vietnamese. Had I done something to offend him back at 62nd Company?

Next I heard a scraping sound, and then a soft thud on the locker door. The sound repeated itself, followed by another. Dirt trickled through the slits and landed on my face. I’m not normally claustrophobic but started to sweat. I yelled. “Hey guys, we’re on the same team here.”

Before long total darkness enveloped me and I found it difficult to breathe. Pressed up against the cold, hard metal, my back started to throb. My last conscious thought before passing out, “I’ve been buried alive.”

****

Want to read more? #amazon reviews welcome

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50 States/50 Countries – World’s Best Museums

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I love art. We have been fortunate to visit some of the greatest museums in the world…Smithsonian Institution, Washington, D.C. Le Louvre, and Musée D’Orsay, Paris, France. The Acropolis Museum, Athens, Greece. State Hermitage Museum and Palace, St. Petersburg,  The British Museum, London, England. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York City.Farmer (2)The Vatican Museums, Vatican City, and The Uffizi Gallery, Italy. The Art Institute of Chicago and many more. Here are but a few of the original masterpieces we have spent hours admiring…

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Identity Check – Excerpt

New exciting mystery-thriller now available on amazon.com on Kindle or paperback. Here’s a scene with Scott and Jessie trying to find his true father…

Jessie parked the BMW in front of 4417 Westbrook Road. Scott stared up at the two-story, shotgun-style home that shared a covered porch with its paint-peeling twin next door. A few feet of calf-high grass separated the duplex from the other deteriorating homes on the block. A single FHA tree provided shade for the uneven broken sidewalk, and a brightly painted ceramic gnome family occupied a corner of the tiny front lawn.

“Are you going to sit there all day, or go knock on the door?” Jessie asked.

“Look at the time. We should come back tomorrow.”

“My watch says five o’clock.”

“They might be eating supper.”

“Or be in the living room half-naked, playing strip dominoes,” she said.

He shrugged. “Possible.”

Jessie got out of the car, grabbed Scott by the hand, and dragged him up the three steps leading to the porch. “Close your fingers into a fist, and bang it against the screen door frame–exactly three times.”

“What am I going to say–hi, I’m the bastard grandson you never met?”

“For an ice breaker I’d suggest, hello, I’m Scott Harold, Jr.”

“No wonder mom always liked you best.” He took a deep breath and rapped loudly on the door. No response. “Nobody’s home, let’s go.”

Scott turned to leave, but Jessie rotated him back. “Knock louder. I hear a TV.”

A few seconds later, the inside door swung open. A pleasant-looking elderly man, wearing leather slippers, smiled at them from behind a torn screen door. He wore a white t-shirt tucked into dress slacks held up by suspenders. The Cincinnati Enquirer sports section rested in his right hand. “May I help you?” he said, looking over his reading glasses.

Scott stood there with his mouth open, but no words came out. Jessie came to his rescue.

“We are looking for a Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Harold. Is this where they live?”

The man said. “You got the right address, but they don’t live here anymore. Are you family?”

“Could be,” said Scott.

The man said, “Either you are or you’re not.”

“If we could speak to them, I could give you a better answer.”

The man frowned. “That makes no sense.”

“Can you tell us where they moved?” Jessie interrupted.

“Sure.”

A couple minutes of silence went by. Scott finally asked, “Well?”

“Sorry, it won’t help.”

Scott said, “Why not?”

“Are you two selling insurance?”

“No,” said Jessie, “we need to ask them something very important.”

“I’d like to help, but you still can’t speak to them.”

“Please?” Jessie said.

“They’re dead.”

“Jesus, is everybody dead?” Scott said, throwing his hands up in desperation.

“I’m feeling okay,” the man offered.

“You don’t understand,” said Jessie, “We’re trying to find out if their son is Scott’s father.”

The man said, “Why don’t you ask him?”

“Who?” Jessie asked.

“Arthur’s son.”

“We can’t,” said Scott, “He died in Vietnam.”

The man shook his head. “Not him, the other one, Billy. He’s the one who sold us this house.”

Jessie said, “Scott Sr. had a brother?”

“The Harold family have been friends for years. Billy took it bad when he lost his kid brother.”

Scott said, “Any chance you have Billy’s address?”

The man nodded. “Sure, he lives in the other half of this duplex.”

*********************************************

Check it out on amazon.com. Honest reviews welcomed!

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50 States/50 Countries – Today’s Photo

Sorry, I’ve been away for awhile. My computer crashed and I almost lost all my photos. Fortunately, the geeks at Best Buy were able to download my hard drive and I am back in business.

IMG_4617 (4)The American bison or buffalo is a magnificent creature and I have been fortunate to get close to these animals in the wild (my wife says too close because they can be very dangerous)… and capture some images that to me represent the wild west and the natural beauty of this country.IMG_4942 (3)These photos were shot in both Yellowstone National Park, Wyoming and Teddy Roosevelt National Park in North Dakota.IMG_4601 (3)DSC01759 (2)

 

Menehune Twins – “Day at the Beach”

 

I’ve never done this before, my friends (no, not that), but I need your help/opinion. I have drafted a children’s story to be read by parents to kids age 6 and under as a fun, exotic adventure to amuse the little ankle bitters and maybe share interesting facts and stories about a mix between an ancient Hawaiian legend and a Road Runner cartoon. I would compare this story to the popular children’s book, “But, No Elephants” (although I have been delusional before). I have no one to illustrate the story yet, so fill in with your imagination.

What I need from you is an honest opinion (You are my writers’ feedback group):

  1. Is it an interesting story kids would enjoy hearing?
  2. Does it in any way insult, denigrate, or appear offensive to the Hawaiian people or their culture?

Okay, enough setup here’s the story…

The Menehune Twins

“Day at the Beach”

by Rich Allan

Jake Menehune woke early, leaned over from his top bunk, and yelled at his six-year-old twin sister, Jessie. “Wake up sleepy head. It’s Saturday morning.”

“I’m already awake, goofball,” she said, standing on her bed, pushing up with both hands, launching her brother’s tiny body in a high arc where he bounced off the ceiling, landed on the overhead fan, swung around until he got dizzy, laughing like crazy, shouting “Whee-e-e!” before falling to the floor.

He stood up, shook his head and checked over his body. “Head okay, arms okay, fingers okay, chest okay, legs okay, feet okay, toes okay…” He looked over his shoulder and said, “Uh-Oh, no-o-o-o butt.”

Jessie Menehune giggled as she watched Jake hold his nose, stick his thumb in his mouth, and blow hard enough until his flattened butt popped out to its normal bubble shape.

The twins, shoulder to shoulder, rushed the three-foot round opening to their room, barely squeezing through at the same time. They then raced out to the water-filled Kikiaola ditch in front of their home and in perfect sync, leaped into the air and splashed down in matching cannonballs. Dunking their head and body in the cool water, they rinsed off, climbed out and shook off the excess water like a dog who has just finished a bath.

Mother Kiana called from the kitchen, “Breakfast!”

Arriving at the table, Father Kane sat in front of a stalk of apple bananas. “Dig in, kids!” he said. Jake and Jessie climbed up into their chairs and started stuffing the bananas into their mouths…skin and all! Mother Kiana smiled, sat down and joined in the feast.

Some important information about the Menehune…who are a bit different than you and me. They are little people, only three feet tall when fully grown, living in the Hawaiian Islands, mainly on the island of Kauai. They are busy, happy people, building dams, ditches, fish ponds and stone temples.

Not only are Menehune small and magical, they are good at hiding, living in out of the way places and rarely seen by full-sized folks. They love to dance, sing, cliff-dive and shoot their little bows and arrows. Some say one arrow can change an angry man’s heart to love.

Oh, they are full of mischief, especially with the other islanders, like moving things around when people aren’t looking and trading lava rocks for necessities.

The Menehune wear only a loin cloth, although some of the older folks have flip-flops. On special occasions, the women put on colorful feathered Hawaiian headbands and the men may grow mustaches or beards. They cover up when they sleep with their thick, black, waist-long, curly hair or when the trade winds turn chilly.

Nobody knows how long the Menehune live, but the twins’ grandfather, Kamaka, recently celebrated his 200th birthday. As the Menehune grow older they tend to grow a pot belly, their hair turns gray and is reduced to a strip on the crown of their heads and fringe over each ear.

Now back to our story…

After they finished off all the bananas, Mother Kiana said, “Today, we are going to the beach.”

“Right,” said Father Kane, “…and we are stopping by the fish pond on the way back to gather more food before the winter monsoons.”

“Can we go cliff diving, father?” asked Jake Menehune.

“And swim in the ocean?” said Jessie Menehune.

“Yes,” said Mother Kiana, “but only if the waves aren’t too big or the cliff too high.”

“YAY!!” The twins shouted.

(Remember,  Jake and Jessie are only 18 inches tall, so what seems like a small ocean ripple is a giant wave to them and jumping off a five-foot pile of rocks would be so scary!)

The Kane and Kiana Menehune family live on Kauai with twelve other extended Menehune families deep in the forest near Nawiliwili Harbor and the Alekoko fish pond. Because they are so small, today’s trip to the beach will take them a long time, even though it isn’t that far.

When they reached the shore, Jake and Jessie were tired but excited. The waves appeared mild, so with Mother’s approval, Jessie threw off her loin cloth, ran across the sand, and plunged into the ocean, with brother Jake close behind.

Mother and Father watched as the twins body surfed and paddled about in the blue water inside the protected reef.

When Jake first spotted ‘Opelu Mama or what most Hawaiians call The Great Barracuda, he shouted “Kaku” to his sister. They immediately started swimming as fast as they could toward the shore with the silver submarine-shaped fish with two rows of razor sharp teeth close behind.

“Swim, kids, swim!” yelled Father.

“Snap,” the barracuda bit down. “Snap” the barracuda stuck a second time.

The twins flew out of the surf, big grins on their faces, landing with a thud on the sand. They looked at each other, shook off the sea water, and in unison said, “Let’s do it again!” followed by “Head okay, arms okay, fingers okay, chest okay, legs okay, feet okay, toes okay…” Looking behind, they smiled…”Uh-Oh, no-o-o-o butt.”

Jake and Jessie giggled as they held their nose, put their thumb in their mouth, and blew hard enough until magically their bit off butt resumed its normal shape.

Kane and Kiana Menehune chuckled and Mother said, “Well that’s enough fun at the beach for one day, let’s go to the fish pond.”

Arriving, Father Kane said with some pride, “Legend has it our ancestors overnight built the Alekoko fish pond over 1000 years ago by passing stones hand-by-hand from the village of Makaweli, 25 miles away, and damming up the Hulei’a Stream with a 900-foot long by five-feet high lava rock wall, so the Menehune people would never go hungry.”

Father then pulled a lasso from his pocket and looking deep into the clear water spied a thirty-inch Ono just below the surface. Carefully dropping the loop down, he slipped it over the fish’s head until the strong fiber caught on the top dorsal fin, and then Kane jumped on the back of the Ono and pulled the loop tight.

“Ride ’em, Daddy,” said Jake, as the startled fish took off at full speed. The Kane Menehune family cheered him on as he tightened the loop to keep the Ono from doing a deep dive. The fight between Father and fish went on for so long, the twins got bored and asked if they could do at least one jump while they waited and Mother agreed.

Jake and Jessie climbed the nearby giant pile of rocks and stared down at the pond far below. Father was still racing back and forth across the five-acre pond, but the Ono appeared to be tiring.

“Ready?” Jake asked his sister.

“Ready,” said Jessie.

The twins joined hands and leaped off the rocks aiming for the pond. Unfortunately, they lost their grip with Jake reaching the water, but Jessie falling short, bouncing across the stone rocks until she finally skidded to a halt.

Jake watched as Jessie got up, shook herself off and announced, “Head okay, arms okay, fingers okay, chest okay, legs okay, feet okay, toes okay…but, Uh-Oh, no-o-o-o butt.” She grinned, held her nose, blew hard on her thumb and returned to her normal self.

Meanwhile, Kane Menehune was making one final run across the fish pond aiming for the stone wall, waiting until the very last moment to pull up hard on the lasso, causing the fish to clear the edge and flop onto the bank.

The family joined together to lift the large fish onto a skateboard, a useful tool the Menehune village had acquired for this very purpose from nearby Lihue by trading lava rocks for it (at night and unseen, of course).

Once loaded, the family rolled their Father’s catch all the way back home, safely arriving as the sun set with enough food to last them through the winter.

The twins, Jake and Jessie, exhausted, fell asleep in their daddy’s arms, as Father Kane Menehune carried them to their room and tucked them into bed, the day’s adventure complete.

–The End–

Looking forward to your slings and arrows….Rich Allan

50 States/50 Countries – Cuba

 

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Everyone got excited when Americans were cleared to go to Cuba in 2016, but there was a window in 1973 when Russian cruise ships were allowed to sail to Cuba from New Orleans. We went…

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This was our voyage aboard the M/S Kazakhstan…

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Interesting to experience the Russian traditions to included costumes, food, language and even a friendly US vs USRR basketball competition…

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And then there was Cuba…communist country, many years under Castro, since the fifties, cars looking the same, famous Tropicana nightclub, 100% employment (including standing on the corner), former US mansions & hotels turned into museums…

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Check out the cars…

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Tropicana…

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Another exciting adventure in the Caribbean…Rich