What's in a Name?

I have dabbled in genealogy off an on for several years now. Thanks to the Internet and sites like Ancestry.com, there is a wealth of family history available from the comfort of your own office chair and computer.

Now that my daughter is digging into our ancestors even deeper, I find it interesting to watch the procession of names that run throughout our history; the Philips, Michaels, Nicholas, Susans, and Annes. But there comes some names that are far more unique than the others. One such name is Temperance. I looked it up. It's a virtue name from 17th century Puritans; a stick-up-your-butt puritanical name. Yep, that's the impression I get with that name. I envision a stark woman, hair pulled severely back from her face, unsmiling and sitting ram-rod straight, looking into the camera with a holier than thou judgmental expression. How she would tisk-tisk at our society today. Yet, her name means moderation. Could moderation extend to tolerance? Maybe a moderate point of view from the strict Puritan to allow others their own point of view and faith? There is nothing wrong with being temperate, but I just can't shake the image I see with the name.

I looked up other virtue names and there's a whole bunch of them from every language. Of the English, there are Amity (friendship), Charity, Chastity, Comfort, Constance, Fate, Felicity, Fidelity, Glory, Honesty, Hope, Innocence, Joy, Love, Prudence, Mercy, Patience, Purity, Serenity, Unity; all girl names. There are as many boy names too. All describe a character our society deems good in human nature. So why do I look at these names and consider them stiff and formal? Maybe because they sound preachy and I know I couldn't live up to those names. Besides, does naming your daughter Serenity make her a calm child? Maybe those names are a parent's hope for their baby.

It would be interesting to delve in the minds of parents' motives when naming a child, particularly an unusual name, one that hasn't been passed down from other members of the family. When I named my son Jason, I was looking for a name that wasn't as common as William or Nicholas. As I eventually found out, my effort was a total failure when I took him into Kaiser for his first check-up and as I stood in line to register, at least three other mothers ahead of me with their sons were named Jason. Little did I know there was going to be a run on the name Jason that year.

So is the meaning of a name you give a child important? I believe to most parents it is. Even though I named my daughter after my sister, I liked the meaning of the name; one is a common name for Ireland tied into our ancestry and the other in Greek for peace. It is a name, I think to be proud of. Jason is a Greek name for healer or physician. It would denote compassion and intelligence. My name denotes being steadfast and persistent. Maybe it better denotes my tendency for stubbornness. I think it's important to give a child a name they will like and feel good about as they grow into their adulthood. What was in your mind when you named your children? What makes you like one name over another? It's meaning, the way it sounds, the image it brings to mind? Would you not consider a name that would encourage teasing? Would it grant your child to have his own uniqueness? Would you chose a name that flows elegantly off the tongue when you say the entire name? What are your priorities in a good name?

Satisfaction

It's mid summer and my small garden is starting to produce food for my table. It isn't nearly as impressive as other gardens I've seen; I'm still learning, trying to remember what my dad said about pruning tomatoes, how to compost, recognize problems and what to do about them. I've forgotten a lot. Thank God for the Internet!

But often what I find on the Internet about pruning tomato plants, for instance, is as varied as the varieties of the plant. One had you prune off most foliage except for the ones producing fruit, others say no, leave some leaves on to protect the fruit from the sun, others say only trim off 1/3 of the leaves. So I guess it's up to the grower to experiment and see what works best.

I tried growing some plants from seeds this year. That was much more difficult than I had imagined. Only 4 of my bush beans out of the package survived. They don't look as healthy as I would like to see, but they are producing just enough for my husband and I. The one zucchini and crookneck squash are giving us ample amounts and the strawberries in one picking is just enough for desert for two. That's after sharing some with the Guinea Hens from a neighbor's house who have discovered them for a treat after lunching on whatever else they find. I get just enough food not to overwhelm me and there is satisfaction in that from the effort. When I'm ready to preserve, then maybe I'll want to get more yield. But for now, this is wonderful.

Next year, use my compost. Amend the soil more and utilize the two extra tiers we have left and learn how to grow a more compact garden.

Walking Though a Tunnel of Grief

In one of my writing classes at Chabot, the teacher said that if you experienced something tragic, wait at least seven years before even attempting to write about it. I tried writing about my son's death anyway and I came up with gibberish. He was right. I still had things to work out. In 2000, I tried again and wrote a feature article not so much about Jason, but grief. This is an edited and updated version of that article that was published in the Cal State East Bay paper that year.

Caution was a word often ignored by my son, Jason, and I failed to successfully teach him cautious behavior. If I said, "Careful, you'll hurt yourself," that was his cue to prove me wrong. Or he would patiently pat me on the head and say, "I'm careful, Mom." The problem was, he continued his risky behavior, daring death until February 1995 when his dare was answered.

That day, I paced in our home, not knowing what to do next. The sheriff had just left from telling me that what is a parent's biggest nightmare, particularly mine, was now my reality. Jason, my 21-year-old son was dead.

I never felt more alone. My husband was making his way through traffic on 880 from San Jose, knowing only there was trouble. The sheriff hadn't arrived when I called him and I didn't know if Jason was in trouble or if the worst had happened. I just missed my 17-year-old daughter when I called the school to tell her to get home. She was already on her way to Scotts Valley, an hour away, for skating practice. All I could to was leave a message for her at the rink to turn around and come back. My mother-in-law couldn't come to be with me because her husband was in the last stages of Alzheimer's and she couldn't leave him, and they couldn't locate my sister at her work. I was going to be home alone for a while... with my thoughts and pain that anesthetized normal brain function. My existence was placed in a sort of surreal, fuzzy ozone.

I tried to make sense of the events that led up to Jason's death. His friend, Brent was moving to Utah, the sheriff said. Jason, being the friend he was, spent the night with him to help him pack his apartment the following morning. Jason shot himself, the sheriff said and after talking to me and searching the cottage where he lived, suicide was ruled out. It was an accident -- just like that -- no second chances.

Even though I never allowed guns in our house nor did I buy toy guns for Jason when he was growing up, he still had a fascination with all kinds of weapons, especially guns. When he moved out, he began collecting antique guns. But the one that killed him was a brand new Magnum. He had apparently saved up for it for months and it was his pride and joy. But the question kept going through my head, why the hell didn't he have that thing locked up? Why was it loaded and why wasn't the safety on? He was apparently playing with it and became the victim of his own stupid carelessness, but I didn't want my thoughts to go there. I didn't want to accept that he was still responsible for the finality of his fate. I wanted to turn back the clock, rescue him and get my son back. I just wanted to understand why this had to happen.

Our family had been spared tragedy up until now. I guess people react differently when faced with it. I didn't scream or become hysterical. The sheriff was probably grateful for that. How many times did he have to make these sorts of visits? I think I went into total shutdown. I remember thinking how odd it was that even the surface of my skin seemed numb. Mentally, the facts didn't sink in; did not compute.

Oh, there were tears. They came in rhythmic waves that rolled over me without warning, crushing my heart and lungs. It was so hard to breath at times. But when it ebbed, I fooled myself into thinking the worst was over -- I could handle it -- I had myself under control. Then the next wave hit.

I had friends in the past who lost loved ones. I always found it awkward, wanting to give comfort, yet I felt helpless and afraid to say something wrong. So I usually mumbled some platitude and backed off until a better time. So when some of my friends did the same thing, I understood.

I've always believed that adversity brings lessons. Now that I have walked through that long, dark tunnel of grief, I've learned a thing or two about it and I'm not afraid to talk about death and the process of grief.

First, I came to realize just how much emotions and logic run on two separate tracks. That's why platitudes are so empty; without meaning. I certainly chanted a whole mantra of them to myself. But few words or even my own faith could ease my pain, especially in the first few months.

Second, I learned that the only way to get through that dark tunnel of pain is to go through it. There are no shortcuts. It's personal for each individual as is the time it takes to come out the other end whole. When someone would call me after Jason's funeral and ask, "How are you doing?" I would answer honestly and say, "I don't know." Emotions can't be predicted. I could be fine and even want to go out and do something, but I never knew when that wave of despair would roll over me again and I couldn't face anyone. I could only say how I was doing at that particular moment.

From the beginning of that terrible time, I came to appreciate those little moments when the pain ebbed away for a little while and my mind was on other things. It was like a little mini vacation and, with time, those moments stayed a little longer and the waves of pain gradually lost intensity.

Third, I discovered that I wasn't alone. I was amazed at the number of people who seemed to come out of the woodwork, acquaintances who would share of their loss of a child. One man had lost his wife and children in a horrible car accident leaving him with no one. I recognized that I wasn't the only one suffering. I found that the best way to find comfort and healing was to reach out to others who are hurting too -- I didn't have as much time to wallow inside of myself. It's a powerful medicine.

Finally, I became greedy for stories. I still cherish the memories others have shared of my son and the things they used to do. The most poignant one was told by one of his best friends, Tommy.

Tommy said that one warm summer evening, he and Jason didn't have anything particular going on, so Jason asked him if he wanted to go to "Charlie's house." Tommy said sure.

Jason drove him to the Lone Tree Cemetery and parked across the street. Tommy had no idea who this "Charlie" was and was surprised when Jason jogged across the street and proceeded to climb the cemetery fence.

"What are you doing, man, you're going to get us in trouble," Tommy said.

"Don't worry, it's cool," said Jason and jumped down on the other side. Tommy shrugged and followed. Jason led him down the hill to the far back of the cemetery. In a clearing among a grove of eucalyptus trees was a circle of old graves, most of them sepulchers. In the center was the stump of an old tree big enough for two guys to lay back and look at the stars.

Tommy didn't tell me what they talked about, but he said they must have laid there for hours watching the stars and just talking about life.

Several months after Jason's funeral, my husband and I decided to find "Charlie's house" after visiting Jason's grave. Just down the hill and to the left from where Jason lay, we found it, just as Tommy described it. "Charlie" was Charles Ward, a historical Hayward resident. His sepulcher looked like a miniature mansion...Charlie's house. I looked up through the circle of trees and imagined that night when Tommy, Jason and "Charlie" talked about life.

The years have passed. I've been through the tunnel and survived what I didn't think at times was survivable. I've come to finally accept that there is no answer to why. One can't make sense out of a senseless death. So if anyone asks me now how I'm doing, I can honestly say, "Just fine." I think of Jason daily with fond and humorous memories. I mention him frequently in conversation. And those little packages of grief? They come to me on rare occasions, but
no longer intense and I can deal with them.

How Connie Got Her Groove Back and How Belly Dancing Made it Into a Church

After 5 years of marriage, we had our first baby. 1973 was an exciting time; experiencing changes in my body, anxious to reach all the milestones in my pregnancy and the day came when we left the hospital with a perfect, tiny little boy in my arms.

Then motherhood really hit. There was the lack of sleep, the learning curve, trying to breastfeed having only a La Lache Handbook for advise. The weight gain wasn't coming off completely and I was appalled that I was likely never to get back into my wardrobe because my pelvic bones spread, the arches in my feet fell and none of my shoes fit. Worse, I couldn't even do a single sit-up and my once flat, hard tummy was flabby. I was too scared to diet because I needed to make milk and I wasn't getting any exercise because I couldn't leave the baby for very long. My husband was working long hours and away on weekends and I felt like a single mom most of the time. I was exhausted and I really, really needed some "me time."

The grocery store I shopped at in Castro Valley was called the Co Op, a concept that the store is owned by it's shopping members to save on food cost. Being a Berkeley organization, it also offered community classes for special interests like Chinese cooking, gardening, backpacking, quilting or belly dancing. My sister, who actually read the Co Op newsletters that had the new class announcements was the first to sign up for the belly dancing class and once I got my husband to commit to being home on dance night, I joined her. My dormant inner dancer was awakened and set free.

I dove into learning the dance and playing the finger cymbals. It was like patting your head and rubbing your tummy exercise at first. Step dip for the first two beats, hip swing on the second. We learned the cabaret style dance and some tribal dances; the ones where the rhythms got a little bazaar for a western ear, but made it all the more exotic. I quickly got through the beginning classes and went with the advanced class (at the instructor's invitation) to take a class with Roman Balentine in Berkeley, a well known male dancer and teacher at the time. Eventually I started to perform a little: one time in front of the Co Op as a practice run, once for a senior center and the very scary one at an actual night club for "student night."

Then there was going to be a big recital. My instructor and I purchased twin drums called dumbeks. These were American made and the special thing about them was that there were leather loops on the sides so that a shoulder strap could be attached. The best drums came from Iran. But at that time, Iran was closed down to the US for trade. The Shaw had been overthrown and Islamic radicals were rattling their swords at the infidel United States. Things haven't really changed much. Resources for belly dancers at that time were scarce to study customs of dance, costuming or music. We pretty much had to rely on our own impressions and what my instructor already knew. We were going to choreograph a routine playing the drum rather than the cymbals. We took some drum lessons and it was the head/tummy time again. This routine would be more tribal.

But the winds were shifting in my life. I got pregnant again and I started attending a bible study.

Once I began to seep into the "inner circle" of my fellow belly dancers, I observed that these women who had been belly dancing for years were very holistic in their spirituality; more into the psychic energy influences in life, reincarnation, auras and sometimes tarot. But although I like a good "woo-woo" story and explore what-ifs of the unknown, I just wasn't feeling very comfortable with the level of what they felt was the true nature of God and life. Though I entertained it for awhile, it felt shallow, incomplete; it didn't feed my soul.

I suffered a miscarriage and in my time of recovery, decided that the belly dancing was going to go away, or rather I was going to go away.... Enter the Fellowship.

This little bible study was a small group of young, mostly single adults. Actually, I was one of the older ones at the ripe old age of 26. The study wasn't attached to any church and for those who weren't attached to a church either, they got together at a park or wherever for Sunday worship. At some point, they decided to become an actual church and used the Masonic Lodge to meet. I think they aligned with Four Square Church, but that was always a little vague to me. There was lots of singing and music. The only instruments were guitars and I think one flute and piano. I asked the pastor if he would like me to add the cymbals where appropriate. He was uncertain, saying that anything rhythmic had to be really on. Though he didn't flat out say no, he didn't seem to encourage it either. A few weeks later, I finally got up the courage to join in. I took his concerns to heart and only emphasized with a single clear tone in the cymbals rather than a rhythm and saw a grin come across the pastor's face. I was in.

Eventually, the church being evangelical in nature, wanted to add dancing, pointing out that during the golden age of King David, there was always music and dancing during worship. So, slowly, a "dance troupe" developed with me involved. I did not belly dance for anyone, but I taught the other women how to play cymbals and drum and we danced. So, that's how I got my grove back and how my experience in belly dancing made it's influence in a church.

Making Memories

Making memories has been the theme going on in my head lately. I didn't think about it much while I was raising my children, but I've been finding it interesting listening to what my daughter remembers from her early childhood, what I remember and contrast it to what my mother remembered. If I were thinking more about what my children would remember as adults, would I have made different decisions? How do those memories affect how they raise their children and relationships with their spouses? Maybe I would have been more conscientious of what I did and how I handled major moments while they grew up.

A comment my mother made often was "I never knew my mother loved me until I had a baby." She said that when my sister was born, she cried because the tender love she felt for the little one she held was so overwhelming and knew then what her mother felt when she had her. Now that I'm thinking about early childhood memories, it's hit me what it must have been like as a child not knowing love.

I asked her one time why she made that statement. She said the only thing she remembered about her mother was getting spanked. I had a hard time with that one. I was incredulous, "Don't you remember being at least hugged?" She said, "No, I might remember feeling a hand on my head as I was going to sleep, but no I don't remember any affection from her." She was orphaned when she was 5 years old. Her mother had died before her father, so she was very young and didn't have all that much time with cognitive memory of her mother. That, and the verbal abuse she suffered from her aunt, how did she grow up to be such an awesome mom and wife? Perhaps because she was a much stronger character than me had I been in her situation and maybe that one revelation when my sister was born was so profound that she decided that her children would know just how much they were loved. Fortunate for me and my sister.

I remember her telling a story that shortly after she and her brother were taken in by her grandmother that she got spanked when she spilled a sack of potatoes. She refused to cry and refused to pick up the potatoes as her grandmother ordered. So Grandma spanked her again and she still refused to cry or pick up the potatoes. Finally, Grandma grabbed Mom's hand and started making her pick up the potatoes and failing to get this stubborn child to see the errors of her way and in frustration sat down and started to cry. It was seeing her grandma upset that she said finally made her cry and said, "Don't cry grandma, I'll pick them up....I'll pick them up." That was the time she and her grandma came to an understanding and said her grandma never spanked her again; it was one punishment that my mom wouldn't stand for.

Now did I ever get spanked as a kid? Yes, but only by her and it was rare but she threatened plenty of times. But spanking in those days was the standard parenting technique for discipline. My mother used it, but it was sparingly, not heavy handed and for major infractions.

The reason I talk about spanking and memories is that I always carried a memory of getting into trouble for wanting to climb the backyard fence because I wanted to talk to the little boy on the other side. I remember being told not to climb the fence, but I wanted to talk to my friend. I remember a man nicely calling me that he had something for me and when I went to him, he had taken the strap off my roller skates and beat me with it. For some reason, for many years I thought the man was my Dad. Other than that memory, I never remember my dad ever touching me. I never told my parents as a kid because for some reason, I thought I'd get spanked again.

Years later, after having my own children, I told my mom about it and asked her if it was Dad. We figured out that there was a couple who baby sat me one time and it was that man. I saw the mama bear come out of Mom even then when I told her the story, when she realized who had done it and would have hunted him down and scratched his eyes out had I told her afterwords. But isn't it strange how that incident affected my early memory and placing my dad in place of a strange man? She said she remembered that when they were going to ask them again to sit me that I raised a ruckus not wanting them and she wondered why. She never asked them again.

That's one of my bigger negative memories, but I'm happy to have so many great ones and can't imagine children who don't have them. Therefore, I think, maybe it would be good for parents to think a little more about building as many happy memories in their children with affection, love and security as they can even in the midst of difficult times so they have them to balance things for the better and pattern their behaviors and to build good memories with the next generation yet to be born. It doesn't take that much to do; you don't have to be rich, have lavish birthday parties or give lots of toys. The thing a kid will remember most is seeing their parents love each other, lots of hugs from them, being a family unit that will form their little characters to grow up to be awesome mothers, fathers and spouses.

There are way too many people scarred from abuses, parents who constantly fight, hit, get lost in their own misery and forget about what their children are absorbing. The cycle continues generation after generation. So I say to the young ones who are now parents: you don't have to repeat our failures. Keep in mind what your memories are. Repeat the good ones and reject the bad. Build good memories for your kids and yourself. I refuse to believe it's too late for anyone. As long as there is breath in you, make sure your kids know how much you love them. And when it's time to let them go, they will always take that piece of love with them for the rest of their lives.

Seymore and Serne Van Cicle

Here is one of my dad's stories. He was raised in an old house that sat at the edge of the Morris Canal in Hacketstown, New Jersey at the turn of the century. The road going into town was "paved" with coal or cinders. Most of the kids who lived along the cannal took the tow path, a dirt path or road the mules used to pull the cannal boats along on their journey to and from Newark. Dad described himself at being a "loner," but according to other people in his very large family of 10 brothers and sisters, he was well liked and respected in the town. Being poor and my dad always having a considerable appetite, he was pretty creative in finding ways to earn money. One of the things he did well was trap. This was a pretty common thing people did in those days and in that area of New Jersey. He sold the pelts and his family ate the meat from the game he caught. As with any skill, there was always the first time and there was someone who taught him how. Here's his story, in his own words...with a few spelling and grammatical corrections.

Seymore and Serne were dyed-in-the-wool bachelors. Serne was a beanpole; tall, and just plain skinny. Every movement he made was very slow and deliberate, even when he moved his lips to talk. To see him walking down the canal path or along the road you would think he was out for a casual stroll, even through only urgent business would cause him to stray very far from home. Far? I don’t believe he ever traveled more than twenty-five miles from home during his entire lifetime. Three or four times a year, he may have made the two-mile trip into town – two miles. I would listen to him discuss each of these trips in great detail; new houses or new paint jobs, the condition of the livestock he saw, the quality of cinders on the road, and a multitude of minute details most people would never notice. Oh yes – I should not forget that Serne was constantly complaining of chronic stomach problems.

Seymore was a stocky sort of guy. He was quite talkative, but very seldom expressed a personal opinion on any subject. I never heard of him entering into any argument. He was alert, generous and helpful to anyone who didn’t take advantage of his good nature. When this did happen, Seymore would refuse to talk about it or to use their name in any conversation. This was the only clue you would have that Seymore felt he had been put upon.

Seymore and Serne earned a living through odd jobs (the going rate was $1.00 a day from sunrise to sunset plus dinner), sometimes lasting a month or so, and by trapping. They also had a very large garden and raised a good portion of their food. They were survivors, backcountry woodsmen, more than willing, I now believe, to teach an eight-year-old boy everything they knew.

My interest in trapping started shortly after we moved into the old house at Snake Mountain. My oldest brother, Francis, had gotten a trap from some place and set it in a hole some animal had dug not more than a hundred feet from our front porch. The next morning he was yelling for all of us to come and see what he had caught. None of us knew what it was – or what to do about it. I was sent to ask one of those old guys who lived in that house down along the towpath. That’s when I met Seymore and Serne, and that’s when I was introduced to the fundamentals of trapping. .

Seymore came with me to see what we had in that trap. All my brothers and sisters were hiding behind trees. I was curious and wanted to get a better look and took my place behind the closest tree to the trap. The creature had beady eyes and was prancing around in the trap. As soon as it turned around, I poked my head around from behind the tree to get a better look. I quickly found out that this is the firing end of a skunk and I got a face full of it. Seymore looked down at me and said, “Ya shouldna’ done that, boy.”

First lesson – beware of skunks when they have their tails raised in the air, and never stick your head out from behind a tree when you are too close.

Second lesson– their pelts are valuable. At that time a good Number one pelt could be sold for as much as $5.00. That was a lot of money in those days. Men were working from sunup until sunset on the neighboring farms for $1.00 and dinner. My father was then working as a tacker in the local tannery. In good times, he would be able to earn as much as $20.00 to $25.00 a week on piecework.

My favorite books at the time were a series called “The Mountain Man” by Steward Edward White. Seymore and Serne were the closest mountain men I knew and I followed them everywhere. They began my education of trapping and woodsmanship. Before long, I had my own trap line and was very successful at it. I often was the one who kept meat on the family table during the hard times.

A Love Boat

Ha vah'i--how do you spell the enunciation, anyway? I've always wanted to visit the islands since I was a young teenager. A school friend, Portuguese by heritage, Hawaiian by culture let me tag along with her and her parents for their weekly band/dance rehearsal. Her papa played the uke, with a troupe of musicians and dancers who put on luaus for the local Hayward wahinis. The young dancers were so graceful and I wanted to learn to move like they did. I also realized that to look the part, I needed to let my hair grow down my back. But I couldn't do a thing to hide my pale skin that refused to receive a golden glow from the sun. My friend and I placed ourselves at the back of the room behind the dancers and tried to follow along. She had picked up a lot on her own, having been to many rehearsals. I had been going over to her house after school to take lessons from her. Though I could hula reasonably well, I never quite got the hip action for the Tahitian gyrations.

Right around that time, my mother, stressed out from family events and ill with a bleeding stomach ulcer, boarded the ship Matsonia in San Francisco bound for Hawaii. She was to stay six weeks with a friend whose Navy husband was out to sea, but stationed there ... Doctor's orders. Oh how I wanted to go with her! I wanted to see Don Ho in person, visit those amazing waterfalls, buy a real grass skirt. But this vacation was hers alone -- to decompress, heal and come home to us whole.

I often looked through her album of pictures she took and thought that maybe some day I would get to go, dance with the natives, try eating poi and buy that grass skirt.

Skip many years later. We were empty nesters and had a lot of miles of life under our belt. My husband and I decided to take the 7 day cruise of the islands. I no longer danced and buying a grass skirt wasn't my top priority for wanting to go. We decided as an introduction to Hawaii, why not go in a traveling hotel and see several islands. We were on the "Latitudes" list with Norwegian Cruise Lines from an Alaskan cruise we traveled years ago. It turned out that all it seemed to get us was an additional cocktail party with the Captain. But we got a special pin to wear indicating that we were "seasoned" passengers with the cruise line.

Our flight arrived in Honolulu early and we were one of the first passengers to board. The ship was quiet and as soon as we dropped off our luggage in our stateroom, we lit out to explore the ship. The experience of exploring a ship and not meeting another person was surreal. We made our way around the different decks, not quite knowing where we were and never knowing what we would find around the next corner. I felt like we were in some sort of mystery adventure video game; getting our bearings and looking for clues. The idle hum of the ship's engines went great with the, mysterious background music from Myst playing over and over again in my head.

We finally made it up on the main deck where the crew were preparing a barbecue of hamburgers, chicken and hot dogs. Just about all of the ship's passengers had arrived, but we managed to get a table along the rail and sipped our tropical drinks. With buckets of streamers, hired hula dancers and a Hawaiian band on the dock, we got a send-off with everyone on board and on the dock shouting, "A LO HA!!" with emphasis on the HA! Though there weren't the crowds of people on the dock to see the ship off like I saw in the old movies, it was a nice gesture of the famous Hawaiian hospitality.

Norwegian had changed from our first cruise of Alaska with formal dinners and fixed seating for meals. They now had "Freestyle" sailing for those who really prefer to remain less formal, laid back, and free to dine in shorts and flip flops. We could choose any dining room we liked and whether we wanted to sit alone or with someone else. We always chose to sit with someone and visit with a different couple every meal.

We watched the Honolulu port slowly disappear along with the sun. We cruised around to the other side of the island for our next stop in the morning. That evening, as we settled in our room and turned out the lights, the ship rocked with creaks and groans here and there. My husband rolled over and with his mouth near my ear said in a low, raspy voice, "Arr, arr, arr... ship ahoy, me matey." As I closed my eyes and with the gentle movement of the ship, I thought all I needed was someone to sing a beautiful, lullaby. Instead, I heard a rhythmic thump that seemed to come from the wall to the right.... it was a familiar sound of rhythm... and then it dawned on me that it must be the couple next door having a send-off launch of their own. But the thumping wasn't short lived and I thought, "My, what a randy couple!" Things quieted a bit and then the thumping started up again. I giggled to myself.

At breakfast the next morning we went to one of the main dining rooms at the rear of the ship ... I mean the "stern." Our table was at the very back next to a massive window where we could see the ship making its wake in the water, and as we sat drinking our coffee, that familiar thumb started in again. This time, we felt it coming up through the floor and the ship gave a slight jerk as it pushed forward. Our "randy couple" was indeed a damaged propeller and we learned later that day that the itinerary that would take us off to the remote country island called Fanning, had to be nixed because the ship couldn't sail fast enough to stay on schedule.