enacting a metaphor (a Wish - part 4)

Are we ready? Well, yes. But facing the prospect of actually managing the hike, I admit to being a little intimidated. So we started small.

Steam vents, said the sign, and oh, maybe we could picnic there? said the mama. Well, no. The steam was oh-oooo-eep! hot, and the wind was happily sending the stuff around unexpected corners. It was rather like playing peekaboo with the volcano, and we ditched lunch long enough to tromp around from vent to vent.


When they ran out of steam to squeal at, or vents to nearly-but-not-quite fall into, the boys invented their own.


That's my boys, kicking a little ash, the Man muttered, recovering from a fateful of the stuff. Grinned. And informed me that the above should be the caption for the relevant photo.

Suddenly, it seemed, momentum gathered. Lunch in the parking lot, loin girding, map checking - and with a speed and dispatch unusual for Imperfects, we were off. A brisk tromp from the Kilauea Iki overlook towards the Thurston Lava tube. Which, with great restraint (and a lack of flashlight) we passed by. Instead, we headed for the caldera floor.


Nature's blacktop, the Man joked. But a distant blacktop - it was way far down. I peeked over the edge. Whoa.

Look what you did, I told the Eldest. You got us here - and now we're going to go there. He grinned. I tried to look plaintive. Yes, we are, he told me. And bounded off down the path.


A switchback trail leads down to the caldera, overflowing with opportunistic greenery, loving the volcano's warmth at this cool, misty height. Alongside the trail were even more holes in the ground for the boys to admire. Ooooo, we said, and peered at stubborn bits of green growing out of the sides of the gaps, as far down as light would reach. Cracks in the ground do not exactly inspire confidence in the trail, but small boys bounding around close to the edge of oh, many things, doesn't bring much zen, either.

The kids took endless enthusiastic photos, determined to get the best angles and views while the Man tried not to start shrieking. Too far, too fast, too oh dear - gahrgh - you are about to fall in/over/throughohcripesohhelloh oh oh who left the bungie cords at home? We counted to parental ten (today's ten clocked in at 63, hooray!) and tried again.

Let's buddy up, kids, said the mama, and the Toddles jumped at me. Um, being a buddy means not knocking the other person off the trail, hey? Helping each other, instead? Sticking together?

The Toddles thought it over. Okay, buddy, he said, cheerily. Let's run! No? Oh, buddy, said the Toddles sadly, and patted my arm. Shall we walk briskly, then?

We shall, indeed. And we did, to the Toddles' cheery exhortations (and occasional, breathtaking bounce), all the way down. Whew, said the Man, but we were all too busy staring to respond. The Toddles pushed back his hood and considered.



The caldera floor is an oddly alien landscape. Crisp horizons of pahoehoe (pronounced poh-way-way) stretched before us, dusty and clean of plant life. Here and there, a pile of stones, or amu, marked the path. In some places, a parallel set of amu defined it rather precisely, and with cause. Walking, we passed places where the pahoehoe crusts had collapsed, a silent admonishment to keep to the path. Do not, said the guide, build your own amu. I helped the Toddles jump a foot-wide collapse, and jumped myself. Not a place to go awry, this.


Unnerving as it was to see, these collapses allowed plant life to enter the landscape. Twisty little trees - the kind that is adored by the honeycreeper - grew in the gaps, promising a gentle, vegetative revolution. But there were no birds, nor insects. Clearly, they were waiting, patiently, for the trees and ferns to do their work. This made for a quiet space, nearly barren, in which our voices were the only noise, and the little trees provided a slight break from the lava's grey-back.


The caldera floor glimmered with heat, but the boys clung to their sweatshirts, maybe anticipating their return to the chilly, misty crater's rim. Or maybe, appreciating the deep pockets in their sweatshirts, which they filled with rocks.

Here, said the Eldest, oh, Mum, look here! You can see how the lava cooled.

Spiky rocks, rippled rocks, crushed rock dust all told stories as we tromped along. The boys loved every fragment, and filled pockets with beloved specimens. By the end of the hike, most of these would have crumbled into a rather coarse - but beloved - sand.

And onwards we went.

Almost suddenly, it seemed, the pahoehoe was replaced by a spikier spatter (not a'a) and rocks from the caldera wall's collapse, and we were climbing - just as the Toddles began weaving on his feet. We slowed, sacrificing momentum for a mellow, subtly careful walk. I'm not tired, the Toddles told me thoughtfully. But bits of me are very near to exhausted. Over his head, the Eldest shot me a meaningful look. I nodded.

Step by step by step by step, that's how we make the mountain small, we chanted. I slipped my arm under the Toddles' armpit, and we began to climb. The stairs were steep, and some had long since crumbled, making narrow perches for our feet. Step by step by step by step, said the Toddles, cheerfully. That's how we make ourselfs so tall!

And then we were at the top. Tired, triumphant and with the odd muscle jumping from weariness, we circled the last two miles of the crater's rim. We'd hiked a challenging 4-5 miles, and oh, we felt it.

Look what you did, I told the kid. He grinned.


Look what we did, I whispered to the Man. He glowed.

And kindly drove us the long way home, following the curving, lush edges of a (flatter) coastline.

Arrival (a Wish - part 2)

Another airplane - but then it landed, fussed in the usual airplane fashion before opening a door. Humid air swept in, oddly character-rich with humus, maybe? and salt. We had arrived at Kona.

Kona's airport is an outdoors affair, with little roofed walkways. We meandered towards the baggage claim, where a lovely lady with an armful of flora - and a clipboard - met us.



Oh, said the Eldest as he bent his head for the lei she offered. The more cautious Toddles fingered his, declining to wear it.. It is soft, he informed me. And lovely, I agreed. Flowers draped around our necks, we took lungfuls of air, scented with sea and green. We waited, sitting on small puddles of green grasslike matted stuff, while birds swooped around us, competing for seeds, perhaps? They were utterly different from any in Boston, and therefore, wonderful.

We gathered up bags, a rental car and headed off. Around us, Hawai'i unfolded, a stark landscape of lava in patchworked stretches of black, brown and even rusty red. A few twisting, low trees grew on the lava, alongside tufts of African fountain grass, a plant whose presence speaks much to Hawai'ian ecological challenges, as we'd learn. In places, the lava looked like thick crusts, cracked and sometimes fallen, revealing surprisingly deep holes. Elsewhere, it was jumbled and lumpy, but always a tribute to the volcano's implacable presence. Even the graffiti by the highway seemed to be a metaphor of the landscape, words spelled out in white coral on the dark lava rock. This is an island of the volcano, I thought, brutal and strong.



When we arrived at our rented condo, the kids ran outside as quickly as they'd run in - laughing, they rolled on the grass outside, gathering armfuls of fallen, scent-rich white flowers, and waxy long, green leaves. A golf course unrolled outside of our back door, crisply manicured and lovely, but with tufts of the inevitable fountain grass insinuating itself throughout the landscaping. Drying it up, almost, with poufs in a flammable shade of straw - and inevitably echoing the starkness that lies a mere birdie away. At night and in the early morning, we'd hear the sprinklers going, reminding me of the Negev. If they turn the water off, what will happen?





Unpacking my armfuls of avocadoes, pineapples, mangoes and greenery, I sniffed at human hubris. Bah - insisting on making so thinly veneered a paradise where none is meant to be. Bunch'a idjits wasting water, and who's buying it, anyway? Not us, that's for sure. The Man and the Eldest talked geology, volcanoes, and fingered bits of porous rock. The Toddles lined up his rocks, murmuring about colors and the size of the air bubbles. Stark and brutal, we reminded ourselves.

But then, we had not yet met the overlapping, teeming life at the volcano's
rim.

a chariot - and a glow - await (a Wish - part 1)

There comes a moment when any experienced belly-acher recognizes that it is time to shut the hell up. Mine came at 4.20 am, after 47 hours of packing, staring at the itinerary, repacking, checking the various elevations of our activities, weather reports and oh yes, repacking. Pausing, then flinging
my hands up, tossing things at bags. Tetrising food into the cooler, too tired by then to remember that crucial note I had meant to write down, but, oh never mind because -

Is it time? Do we leave now? Are they here? a burble of boys tumbled in to our room, alarmingly bright-eyed. Bouncing, even.

Almost, I told them, and woke up their father.

It was full dark outside when we closed the door behind us. The street was quiet, the lamps glowing, and there was a long white limousine. The door was held open by a smiling gentleman, who also insisted on carrying our bags. Inside, a bar curved along one side, holding crystal glassware - and spring water. Are you ready? he asked, and as he started the engine, tiny lights began to twinkle from the ceiling.

Were we ready? Sitting in that improbable car, I felt adrift from reality. Anything could happen now, it seemed, and perhaps that was the point.

Driving through a silent, sleeping city, the Eldest looked out the windows, at the shining lights of the ceiling, and leaned towards me.

Mum, he whispered, oh Mum, my Wish is coming true.

I looked at his face, and threw away any squirms or wriggles I might have. Dug out the gigantic blue pins. Attached them to the boys' bags. We were a Wish family, the buttons announced. Something special was happening here, said the buttons, and we wore that specialness on our faces, and on our bags in a language that anyone could read.

The boys bounced through the airport, wrapped in a fog of their pleasure. People looked quickly, almost wincingly at their buttons, I thought, but some smiled and met our eyes. Wrapped in their glow, the boys didn't notice. When the plane took off, the Eldest's eyes were alight. It is happening, he breathed. My Wish!

It was a glow hard to sustain over the next 15 hours, but a quiet word with an airline attendant, and we relit the kid.

We are beginning our final descent, said the captain, and told us the local time and other bits of useful information. And I know you will join me in wishing the best of luck to one of our passengers....seated in this row, the Eldest is on his way to Hawaii, thanks to the Make A Wish foundation. His Wish is to climb a volcano and save some endangered species, and we wish him the best of luck.

There was silence for a moment. Then, applause. The Eldest's face shifted from startled to thrilled, and he waved at the cheering people around him. And graciously accepted the invitation to the flight deck, where he and the Toddles asked enough questions about the workings of the wings and navigation system to give the captain pause. He recovered swiftly, and offered thoughtful, crisp answers - but the boys could barely hear him over their determination to push every button and knob within reach. Not, thankfully, including the parking brakes. The Man and I fielded eager hands, redirected eyes towards the answers being given, and used the butterfly net to collect and direct the boys towards thank-you and our next flight.

That's quite a pair you have there, the captain told me. Something special? Behind him, an airline attendant raised her eyebrows and looked sympathetic. He grinned. Must keep you busy, eh?

Oh, yes, I nodded. And zipped off, following the Eldest and his glow.

note to the abandoned (part three): coalescing Wishes

If I were you, reading this, I would now want to know two things: what did the kid Wish for, and why? And if you let me push the bounds of reader response theory that far, then I know some people who want to talk to you, but as for me? I'll just say, good questions, and thank you so much for politely playing along.

What did he Wish for? Well, for one thing, it wasn't Disney.

Disney is, I am told, the Wish most wished, although I do rather think that Erik Martin may inspire a new standard of Wish - and should. Still, Disney (ahem) somehow (insert innocently wide eyes - um, wider - okay, could we stop giggling? Flings up hands, stomps off) eluded the Eldest, who pursued a Wish that began years ago.

I'd like to go and swim at the Great Barrier Reef, he told us, and the adults stopped being polite to each other, and whipped heads around. Listened to the five-year old kid talking about reefs and fish and fragile ecosystems. It's beautiful. I want to go there before it's gone.

There was a long, painful pause. It's too far away, a volunteer told me, and couldn't quite meet the kid's eyes. We can't send you that far. We talked quietly a bit, and I realized that they really couldn't, even if the Man and I managed to get ourselves out to the Reef itself. Sighed. Turned back to the kid.

Do you have another Wish?

He floundered a bit, suggesting a bike? With two wheels?
Love, I'll find a nice used one for you, just down the block - is there something really special that you might like to see, or, do - something that Daddy and I might not be able to do for you? another Wish?
It turns out that it's hard to come up with a Wish. A wish? Sure, no problem - wish for Pokemon cards, a book, a break from your annoying little brother. But a Wish is bigger, and supposed to be out of reach, hovering on the edge of impossible. Thus Erik Martin, who surely knows that sometimes human effort and the delight of play is a thing to be loved, when reality just does not have what you truly want. He did not, after all, ask to have a cure for cancer - these kids are sufficiently wise. Even when a magic wand is on offer.

The Eldest thought. Can I have an apple?

The volunteers considered this. It's unusual to have a request for a computer for a child this age, they said, slowly.

Now? Because I'm hungry. And while the adults looked confused, then bemused, he fetched. Bit. And chewed.

I swear, that was not me giggling behind the ottoman.

Over the next few years, something began to coalesce, then evolve - and occasionally, subduct. My sons became enamored of rocks, partly as solid and splendidly dirty objects to shove into one's pockets, and partly as bearers of potential treasure. Diamonds, see? Look! And I think that's silver. Oh - and that one over there, do you see it? Look!

Rocks clunk around in my washing machine, line up on the windowsills and are given to me as small, medium and alarmingly large, inarguably precious gifts. It was inevitable, then, that the Man would jump into minerology and geology, inescapable that our Father's Day gift would be a book of elements. Complete with excellent photos of rocks.

I want to climb a mountain, he told us. The adults considered the six-year-old. Which mountain? they asked, and he shrugged.

The mountain is in Hawaii, he told me. I blinked at the seven-year-old. It is? Mountain? Oh, I said, remembering. That mountain. But the Foundation blinked harder. But why must the mountain be in Hawaii? they asked, reasonably. And I didn't know.

I want to climb a volcano and find some igneous rocks, the Eldest told us, gently touching a precious stone or two. And find some endangered species. Listening, memory struck me, and I nodded. Hawaii has some of those, I told him. The most in the world.

The Eldest threw his shoulders back, and lifted his chin. Then we must go there, and save some, he told me. I applauded, and wished the magic wand wielders the very, very best of luck.

Because this kid is unlikely to accept costumes.