The Legendary Night Marchers of Hawai'i ~ Jacquolyn McMurray

 

Photo by Altinay Dinc on Unsplash

For many of us, October conjures up visions of all-things-scary. In Hawai’i, we have our own unique spooky stories, many that feature the ghostly night marchers—phantom warriors who travel at night with the most high-ranking chiefs.

As terrifying as the night marchers can be, in ancient times their job was to protect the sacred chiefs so no mortal would catch a glimpse of them. 

Because the night marchers’ main function was protecting high ranking chiefs, they tend to frequent places of significant cultural importance, but have reportedly been spotted in many other locations.

Photo by Peter Nicola on Unsplash

Folks report hearing the night marchers before they see them. First, they hear the pounding of drums in the distance, followed by an eerie voice chanting. Then the hair-raising sounds of someone blowing a conch shell at the same time the smell of death invades their senses. And finally, a string of torch lights announce they are near.  

In ancient times, if a mortal looked at a sacred chief, they would be put to death. It is said that the kindest chiefs travelled at night so mortals would not see them. This practice reduced the number of mortals who looked upon the faces of the sacred chiefs, thus reducing the number of deaths. Legend tells us that the ancient practice of the night marchers escorting the chiefs carried into the afterlife. 

If you dare, it is said that you can summon the night marchers by whistling at night. Once summoned, there is no stopping them unless they encounter ti leaves. If you live in Hawai'i, you might want to plant ti around the perimeter of your house, just to be sure!

If you happen to stumble upon a night marcher procession, strip naked and lie on the ground in the prone position and play dead or beg the chiefs to pardon you. If that doesn't work, your only hope of not being speared to death is that one of the ghostly figures will recognize you as a descendant.

One descendant tells the story of encountering the night marchers while in a cemetery on O'ahu. He didn't realize he was standing on one of the known night marcher paths. All of a sudden, he felt very cold and a mist formed around him. He heard someone cry na'u, mine, and realized one of the long dead marchers must have been a distant relative.  The night marchers walked around him, and no harm came to him.

He is considered by many believers to be one of the lucky who was spared. 

Photo by Steve Halama on Unsplash

Next time you are on the Hawaiian Islands, if you hear drums pounding in the distance, smell the stench of death, and see a torch procession in the distance, heed the warnings and run. 

Just in case. 

Writing vs. Dust Bunnies

 

Photo by Green Chameleon on Unsplash   

I’m finally on a roll with my writing. I’m drafting an average of 2,000 usable words a week, keeping up with my critique group, plotting a three-book series, and taking online classes to improve my craft. The result? My house is in dire need of cleaning.  I keep waiting for the industrious elves, or Hawaiian menehune, to surprise me with a deep clean while I sleep. So far, no go.

At some point, I figure the dust bunnies will claim title to the house. “Just hand it over," they'll say. "We have squatter’s rights.”

And they’ll be right.

It could be worse.   Dust bunnies might be the easiest house pets around. They don’t carry fleas, need fed, watered, or taken to the vet. They’re quiet and don’t demand attention or wake you up at night. They’re quite happy to be left alone under the couches, beds, and corners of closets.

I did not spring clean this year and was perfectly content thinking I could delay spring cleaning for sometime closer to Christmas—you know, after I have the great American novel drafted—when I read that accumulated dust harbors mites. Mites? 

I know about bird mites, but dust mites? In the springtime, I deal with mites in the chicken coop. As soon as I start noticing itchy skin and crawly things on my face, I do the ultimate test to confirm their presence. A wet paper towel run across my cheeks will collect the little buggers and confirm the bird mites are back. 

Photo by Emiel Maters on Unsplash

So down to the coop I go, with long sleeves, rubber boots, and gloves to clean out all the nesting boxes, scrub the concrete floor with Pine Sol, sprinkle the boxes with mite deterrent, and provide fresh, clean, grass for the chickens who choose to lay eggs in the intended place. 

Satisfied our birds will be bug-free, I wander back to the house. Wait. What am I thinking? The chicken coop gets a thorough cleaning and I’m not doing that for we humans? Both places harbor biting mites. 

I start cleaning from the top down—light fixtures, wainscoting rails, and shelves.  I pick up the throw rugs, toss them into the washing machine, and send my robot vacuum to collect small sized debris while I return to my desk to do my writer thing. 

Photo by Kwon Vn on Unsplash

And all the while, the dust bunnies hunker down under the furniture where the robot can’t fit. I’m sure I can hear their guffaws as the vacuum retreats at the edge of the couch. It’s a game of “You can’t get me.”

Totally distracted at this point by the beeps and flashing colors of the vacuum, I leave my writing to move the couch out so the vacuum can reach all the dirt. 

And there they are. The dust bunnies are huddling. They look like a football team making their plan, and then I realize they’re shaking.  I turn off the suction machine, push the couch back, and let the critters live for a while longer under my couch.

 I’ll think about removing them when I do my next deep clean, sometime next spring. Maybe.

Guilty Pleasures ~ Jacquolyn McMurray

Photo by Christian Wiediger on Unsplash

Last week, one of my longtime friends and I got on the topic of favorite YouTube videos. We giggled when we admitted to one another the music videos of little kids with big voices was at the top of our go-to lists--you know the ones that make Simon Cowell swipe at tears while trying to maintain the persona of the gruff judge. 

We agreed we also love those flash mob videos, and I even confessed my obsession with the wedding dance performances. And how about the flash mob for the marriage proposal? 

So that conversation got me thinking about other guilty pleasures that make me feel like I'm taking time to treat myself. Maybe you enjoy some of the same treats.

How about Half & Half instead of skim milk in your morning coffee, dark chocolate covered macadamia nuts tucked in your lunchbox, or the Crunchy Cheetos that stain your fingers orange?

Photo by Oksana on Unsplash

Lots of my guilty pleasures revolve around food--like when I go to a fancy restaurant at lunchtime and order only dessert and coffee. 

Photo by David Hurley on Unsplash

Or when I go to the movies and ruin my next meal by eating popcorn with Milk Duds mixed in and drinking a jumbo Coke. 

I wish I could say that's the end, but there are other guilty pleasures that feel like treats, like scheduling my part-time hours at work so I get a three- or four-day weekend, binge watching reruns of Friends or King of Queens, and scheduling a whole day to do as I please with no expectations, lists, or guilt.

Photo by JESHOOTS.COM on Unsplash

Maybe I've stumbled on a New Year's Resolution. Schedule time for myself free of guilt and treats that don't count as calories. Until next month, gotta' go. I just heard YouTube has a new Simon Cowell video.

Promises, Promises ~ Jacquolyn McMurray

Here’s the deal. I’ve been teaching in the public school system for over twenty years and although I’m retired and only work part-time now, when summer break comes my body expects ice cream.

Photo by Brendan Church on Unsplash

I’m not talking about a little niggling in my brain that ice cream would taste good. No. I’m talking about a daily hammering that I deserve that rich creamy dessert because I work hard, and I’m convinced after years of spending time with my siblings that I’m hard-wired to crave the delectable treat.

The niggling has been in my brain for most of my life, but the hammering started around the end of the 2016-17 school year. That summer, I allowed myself one bowl of vanilla ice cream a day with chocolate syrup and almonds for protein.

I promised myself I’d eat more protein to balance the sugar, because when you have a sweet tooth you believe anything that makes you feel okay about eating so many sweets. If you have protein, the sugar doesn’t count. Right?

Photo by Allie Smith on Unsplash

At the end of the 2017-18 school year, I craved root beer floats. Determined to control my sweet tooth a bit better than the previous summer, I used a highball glass rather than a water glass to hold my treat.  The trouble was, I convinced myself I could have a second float in the late afternoon because I’d walked a few steps or completed a load of laundry or written some miniscule number of words.

I promised myself I’d exercise more--take walks, do more activities, burn those calories, invest in a standing desk, because then I could have as many root beer floats as my little heart desired.

Photo by Alexander Mils on Unsplash

At the end of last school year, I wanted it all—root beer floats, chocolate sundaes, and mixed berry milk shakes. So, I spent June and July enjoying as much ice cream as I wanted with the promise to myself that I would quit when school started back up.

Well, school started July 30 and the bucket of ice cream is almost gone. I’ve joined a gym and promised myself I’ll get those aerobic walks in this month. 

And when I can comfortably button my pants again, I’ll reward myself with a hot fudge sundae.

Photo by Jennifer Pallian on Unsplash

What foods do you crave?

Comfort Items ~ by Jacquolyn McMurray

Photo by Eva Darron on Unsplash

Because I live across the ocean from most of my family and many of my friends, plane tickets are a big part of our family budget. 





In the past twelve months, I've boarded flights from Kailua-Kona to the continental U.S. five times. Most of my flights are to Seattle, Washington. Inflight time is about five and a half hours and the return flight is longer due to headwinds--not extremely long, but long enough to warrant some thoughtful selections for my carry-on. One of my friends refers to these as comfort items. 


At the top of my list is my Kindle.  It's always loaded with several unread books, a few games, and a couple of downloaded movies. As long as I have my charger, I'm good to go. One of my favorite things is the number of writing craft books I have at my fingertips at all times.













I've tried a variety of pillows and have settled on these two: a self inflating lumbar pillow and a neck pillow that typically ends up cushioning my elbow.








I always take a hoodie with a zipper. I like that I can pull up the hood if cold air is creeping down my neck.  

A variety of products to keep hands clean and eyes and lips moist are nestled in a ziplock.  



 



And I always have some gluten-free snacks. 

What do you consider comfort items when you travel?

Take Time to Notice ~ Jacquolyn McMurray

I try to take a walk every day and often follow the same paths in my neighborhood.  I'm fortunate to live in a rural area of Hawai'i that allows me the option of walking in our orchards, on the road, or through the state forestry land upland from our farm. 

Sometimes, I walk with friends and we chat about this and that. Kristin, my writing partner, and I  take a walk part way through our day of writing and use the time to sort out our plots, discuss writing methods we've tried, or share our writing aspirations.

Sometimes, I listen to an audiobook, especially when I'm at a critical part in the story and can't tear myself away.

And sometimes, more often than not these days, I use the walk to appreciate the natural world.  I take my phone with me and watch for interesting shapes, colors, and textures to photograph.

Stopping to wonder slows me down, but that's okay. How did this paperbark tree end up with a branch that wraps around the trunk as if hugging it?

I marvel at the bee gathering nectar from a blossoming passion fruit flower.

Perhaps the bee came from the hive that's nestled inside this tree trunk.

Do you see what I see?  From this angle, this tree stump looks like a horse's head.

I'm much more relaxed when I spend time appreciating the natural beauty around me. And Mother Nature does not let me down. She supplies me with natural wonders every day as long as I take the time to notice.

Mom’s Christmas Candy ~ by Jacquolyn McMurray

The leftover Thanksgiving turkey and green bean casserole had barely chilled in the refrigerator when Mom started to orchestrate our Christmas activities. There were catalogs to peruse, boxes of decorations to be dug out of the bowels of the closet under the staircase, cards to be sent, and Christmas sweets to be made, including Mom’s Black Walnut Divinity.

Our preparations to make divinity started long before we donned our Halloween costumes. In central Iowa, black walnuts were abundant, and although we didn’t have a walnut tree in our yard, we were invited to gather the fallen fruit from the neighbor’s yard, late in September, after the solid green husks took on a yellowish hue. We sisters filled brown paper grocery bags to the brim and carried our bounty home where we removed the husks with a hammer out on the cold concrete sidewalk, the dark brown juice from the husks staining our hands.

Later, in the warmth of the kitchen, we older siblings sat with Mom at the kitchen table and cracked open the thick shells by pounding the nuts with a hammer, the sharp remnants flying in all directions and found long afterward under the refrigerator, on the counter top hidden behind the canister set, or in a shoe left by the back door.

Each cup of nuts probably took twenty hours from harvest to candy ready, but it was worth every minute to spend time in the kitchen with Mom. She taught my sisters and I how to coax the exotic black walnut meat from its secure position in the shell. We nibbled the earthy tasting nut meats as we worked and laughed when we flipped a chunk of walnut into the air. What remained of the morsels was packed away in the freezer in covered containers until the Christmas season grew near and the time was right to fold the tasty bits into the creamy confection. 

Figuring out the best time to make candy is a science Mom had mastered. She relied heavily on the accuracy of the TV weatherman’s report and his prediction of humidity levels. It didn’t matter if she was tired. When the humidity was low, we knew it was candy making time. The magic of Christmas had begun!

“We’ll make divinity first,” Mom announced, and we girls would get out her coveted 1932 Candy Cookbook from her alma mater, Des Moines East High School, and set all the needed ingredients on the kitchen table. 

We measured sugar, water and Karo syrup into a heavy bottomed saucepan and set it on the burner to cook. Mom showed us how to separate eggs into yolks and whites, and one of us would start the hand mixer to beat the egg whites, while another one of us was stationed at the stove to stir the liquid. The sweet-smelling syrup was cooked over medium heat “until it spun a thread” and the egg whites beaten “until stiff enough to stand in peaks.” 

 

The next step was the most magical. Mom would slowly pour the hot syrup into the egg whites while one of us operated the hand mixer; the tension in the air tangible as we held our breath that no moisture had snuck into our kitchen to thwart our efforts. The mixer was turned off the moment the two components were combined. Mom gently folded the black walnuts into the mixture, then spooned dollops of the confection onto waxed paper before we all stood back and admired our accomplishment. 

 

Black Walnut Divinity was not the only candy we made in Mom’s kitchen. There were two other flavors of divinity—peppermint was always tinted green and coconut always tinted pink—in addition to Peanut Butter Fudge, Penuche Brown Sugar Fudge, and Old-Fashioned Chocolate Fudge. We squirreled away covered containers into the freezer where the treats were stored until it was closer to Christmas. About two weeks before the holiday, plates of mixed candy were served as exceptional after-dinner treats.

Mom controlled the candy boxes. I’m pretty sure she knew if any pieces of candy were unaccounted for, and it was understood by the whole family that no one touched those candy containers without Mom’s permission.

As Christmas grew near, the homemade candy was packed into waxed paper lined greeting card boxes to give as gifts to the garbage hauler, the mailman, and the paperboy. Large trays of the multicolored candy were shared when we gathered with our relatives, and at the height of the winter break from school, it seemed the abundance would never end. 

Unfortunately, the candy supply was indeed limited, and by New Year’s Eve most of the delicacies had been consumed. 

We were left with our memories of candy making until the next fall when we would willingly stain our hands with the rich juices of black walnut husks and the promise of spending time in the kitchen with our mom.