Grandmas

When my then boyfriend (now my husband of more than thirty-six years) first met my grandmother she was carrying slingback heels looped over one finger, dressed to the nines (as she liked to say) and swaying a bit. She'd just come back from a convention where, she told me, the drinks started looking back at her. Instead of a highball, she thought she was drinking an "eyeball".

And I'm named after her.

Actually, I'm named after both grandmas--who had more in common with each other than most in-laws do. They were both smokers--they both gambled but in very different games; one played mah-jongg and the other was a poker player with a face so good no one saw her taking their money until she had it jingling in her muumuu, spread out between her knees.
My husband's friends thought she was just the sweetest old lady--until she won $17 in nickels from them.

I miss both grandmothers and my dad, especially now at Christmas.

Both grandmothers died of lung cancer as did my father who was only forty-four when he died. Now I find that I have the opportunity to help other families keep their grandmas and dads (and mothers, brothers,sisters, cousins and aunties and uncles) alive a little longer if they are diagnosed with cancer.

I hope that somewhere, someone's Grandma will live a little longer, with less pain and family around her cancer-free. I hope that someone's Grandma will live to celebrate Christmas with her grandchildren and their parents.

For more information on the State of Hawai'i's Comprehensive Cancer Plan go here.

Winter in Hawaii

The weather persons in Hawai'i are reporting "epic" waves.

They're saying that the waves are the biggest they have ever been in the last forty years.

I guess it's all about the measurements now.

When our grandparents were alive and still living in the house at Ka'a'awa--a place built to weather the rough Hawai'i winters--we had no way of knowing how big the waves were going to be or whether the high tide would bring dangerous surf our way.

The house at Ka'a'awa was just across the highway--all two lanes of it--from the beach. During the calmer summer months, the waves lapped at the rocks that faced the ocean and supported the retaining wall for the highway. The rocks seemed huge when we were kids, but later, as an adult, they looked pretty manini--about six to seven feet--and battered.

But during the winters, weather could be pretty severe.

Not snow.

Nor sleet, nor cold nor anything having to do with frozen water. Hawai'i winters have wild water--big storms that sweep down from the Northern Pacific and smack into the Hawaiian islands bringing the huge surf that draws crowds of surfers and onlookers around the world.

Most akamai folks stand on the hills and outlooks over Waimea and Sunset Beach, well away from the ocean.

At Ka'a'awa in the late 1960s, the ocean was up close and personal. Waves broke over the gravel and the highway, putting salt water and limu in the front yard of the Ka'a'awa house. Wind blew rain in from the ocean--slamming it against the house and the mountain that was almost in the back yard.

There was no escaping the weather at Ka'a'wa during the winter. The house stood strong and sturdy through it all. Just like the three of us, I guess. Despite the storms and the wild weather in our lives, we've managed to get through it all--with our families--more or less intact.

When the wild waves wash over the highways of your life and into the front yard--and bring the 'opala from the ocean with them; when the wind slams rain and breaks the branches of the trees in your yard; when the roof rattles and your hale is caught between the mountain and the rough seas of life--let's remember our strengths and our families and stand tough.

The Gamblers and the Games Children Play

We didn't realize, when the three of us went to grade school, that our family was a little different from other families.

Granted, we were more like the other kids' families than we were different. Like most families we knew we had a mother and a father who both lived at home, unlike my youngest son who knew what "joint custody" meant by the time he was in first grade because most of his classmates spent weekends shuttling between their parents.

We went to a Catholic school so our classmates were segregated by gender on the playground, usually by preference and later by the administration. Boys got to run around and play football with an empty taped, milk carton.

Sometimes boys and girls played "chase master" a pretty fast game of tag at which I was dismal. We jumped rope. We played a much simpler dodgeball with beanbags made out of bits of cloth that contained false koa seeds that were boiled then dried. The bag made a sharp smacking sound when it hit you if you weren't fast enough to get out of the way, that is. I don't think I'd be able to play the variations that are around today.

Some beanbags were made of uncooked rice, but that was considered a waste of food in those days.

When it rained, our classmates would choose quieter games played on the school's concrete lanai that lined the fifth and sixth grade classrooms along the smaller playground.

Jacks was popular among many girls. You could stuff a golf ball that had a good bounce to it and as many jacks as you needed into your uniform pocket. The jacks were metal and hurt if you stepped on one when you were barefoot.

But the most popular games among both boys and girls involved a deck of cards.

A deck of cards is pretty rare these days outside of a Vegas Blackjack or Poker table (or among some younger gents in our family).

However, in the days before we were old enough to be left home alone (probably when I was in third grade), our grandparents and our cousin looked after us. They taught us the card games they knew.

Our grandparents, according to my cousin and my limited memories of that time, held weekend poker playing parties that lasted from Friday night (pau hana-the night after pay day) to Sunday afternoon (so that everyone could go home and recover before going to work on Monday morning).

To give us something to do, because watching tv wasn't always an option, they taught us to play draw poker.

We learned suits. We learned what a pair was, what made up a flush, what made that different from a Royal Flush; that three of a kind beat a pair, that four of a kind beat both three of a kind and a pair; that a full house beat almost anything except a higher full house.

They seemed to draw the line at teaching us to bet at such a tender age. We were, after all, only in kindergarten and first grade. And our mother frowned on gambling of any sort.

When my classmates produced a deck of cards and asked if I could play, of course I assumed that every five year old had been taught five card draw, nothing wild, aces high.

They wanted to play Donkey. Donkey? What was that?

Then they asked if I knew how to play Old Maid or Go Fish.

We knew how to play paiute.

Our classmates didn't know any of the games we did. And we didn't know what to do with a deck of cards that didn't involve some kind of poker.

Later, because we didn't even know how to play Trumps we had to ask our older cousin for lessons.

Now what brought this on? I was cleaning out some drawers, never a good thing my husband says, and I found a deck of cards. When, I thought, was the last time I played solitaire with a deck of cards.

Just holding the deck in my hands made me want to shuffle them, so I did. And the memories came.

Now, I've got to ask all you grandparents out there, do your grandchildren know how to play Donkey or Old Maid or Go Fish with a deck of cards?

The next time there's a power failure here on O'ahu--and it's not a case of IF but rather WHEN, I can pull out my deck of cards--put on the old battery powered lantern and we can play cards. My own grandson is still at the stage where he's more likely to play 52 pickup than Old Maid.

I know it will be fun and before we know it, the lights will be back and we can return to playing solitaire on a computer.

(I want to thank John McLeod who maintains a nifty site that has the rules to card games from around the world plus all the card games you used to play as a kid.)

Family Sites Updated or Removed

Aloha 'auinala!

At least it's afternoon where I am. Anyway, just wanted to let you all know that the Tribalpages website has been updated, finally.

The Geocities website is, auwe, no more. Geocities, like the Hawaiiantel Ohana net is closing. However, I will try to put most of the pictures on this site.

For now, I'm still working on more stories.

Until next time, a hui hou.

The Natatorium

We have shared memories of summer houses and summer vactions at Kawela Bay and Ka'a'awa Beach. But I was reminded recently by a cousin that this blog and the Tribalpages website I've created are for MY family. This is true. My brother, sister and I have memories of beaches in Hawai'i that we've spent hours and days on that were not shared with our cousins.

We went to those beaches with my father's family-Aunty Tete, Uncle Herk, our cousin Puna and the only grandparents we knew well, Robert Napunako Boyd II and Gladys Kalaola Cockett.

I think I've been a little distracted by the upcoming Kauakahi 'Ohana Reunion and other family issues that I've forgotten to acknowledge these beach memories that we shared with our Boyd 'Ohana.

One of the sites that I do have good memories of is on an endangered historic sites list...one of the eleven most endangered, according to The National Trust for Historic Preservation, in the United States. It's not Kailua Beach, where we went on weekends with our parents. Kailua Beach seems relatively secure from being dismantled or destroyed or lost within the next few generations, thanks to it becoming the get-away of a currently famous (or infamous, depending on your viewpoint, I guess)Punahou alum.

It's the beach, now called Kaimana but once known as Sans Souci and the adjoining Waikiki Natatorium War Memorial.

Like all of us, it has seen better days. Its current situation is being reviewed by a task force convened by Mayor Mufi Hanneman to determine what will be done with it and how much this will cost. There is a loud and vociferous group that wants the Natatorium razed so that only the beach will remain.

For my part and the memories we have of swimming at Sans Souci, adventuring in the Natatorium (but not swimming in the pool--we weren't allowed to do that), climbing the old bleachers and scaring ourselves with spooky stories about the old changing and shower rooms--a Waikiki without the Natatorium would somehow look incomplete...as if it were like me, missing some teeth...even though the teeth were old and not pretty, they were mine.

Well...I want them to resolve this issue without touching my memories of the place too much, but that might not happen. As with the houses we've lived in that are now gone, perhaps what we will have will only be the place we remembered and not the one that is.

Avoidance

Yes--I have been avoiding this blog for some time now. It's a reaction, I know, to receiving unwelcome news about one of my sibs...one of the twins.

It's shocking to me.

When we were growing up I thought them physically strong, mentally alert, capable and energetic..all the things I was not. In fact, on many occasions, some which I remember and some that I don't, the twins were my caregivers. My sister believes that not remembering some of those occasions is a good thing.

I can see how that could be true considering what I do remember...the bus accident that shoved in my nose and top front teeth--with the twins trying to stop the bleeding before Mom and Dad got home. I think they put me to bed because I was dizzy or something.

They both remember when I fell out of the mango tree and blacked out. I have absolutely no memory of that incident but they said I woke up and they got me in the house.

Yes, in those days, latch-key kids were home alone...a lot. That's what we were. My lovely sister-in-law said it best "You three were raised to be survivors."

I didn't really appreciate the sentiment at the time but I do now and I hope my sister, who was the recipient of the unwelcome news, remembers it, too...the three of us have always had each other through some really tough times. We've managed to survive those times together. That's the operative word...together.

My sister and my brother know that we are together, whatever happens. Someday we'll be able to make a funny story out of this experience, as we have so many others. Someday we'll find some humor in what will come. Not right now. As with so many other experiences that we have had, living through the experience comes first. Remembering it together is something to look forward to.

God bless you, sis.

Permission Granted!

I will have stories to write in this blog--I have the permission of ONE twin. The other seems to be missing in cyberspace--or myspace--or facebook--whereever.

Speaking of Facebook--I have found so many relatives and classmates and former colleagues that it's like one huge noisy party--which you can opt out of when you want. Actually--since there are four or five or six parties going on at the same time you can drift in and out of each party depending on your mood and whether or not you want to socialize or just watch.

That's where I learned to listen to Rammstein (German head-banger music) and Tunak Tun Tun (Indian-not Native American-rap)thanks to my classmate(s).

But I'm digressing--all the kids of my cousins that I don't normally get to see-except for a quick peck on the cheek before they scamper away from their parents are on FACEBOOK...and they friended me--even my own son hasn't done that.

It's great--what a way to connect. And now I can post this blog to Facebook so they can see some of their family history--without it being boring. Heh

Looking for Twins in All the Wrong Places

Since I've not gotten any stories from either my wonderful brother or my lovely sister (otherwise known as the twins). I will start updating some stories that we all know and love (and some that have been included in award-winning feature films-ahem).

You know the stories--sneaking in the window after working a full shift at the cannery, senior prom night at the Sheraton? Hilton? Ilikai? with Uncle Bob and friends, falling out the window---

I could even start some new ones--like the snowball fight at Rob's wedding at Lake Tahoe and how it started--my side of course.

Well, twins--toenails--Bobby and Jeanie--where are you?

Grandpa's Songs

(A portion of this story was previously published in HMSA's Islandscene in 2006.)

My youngest clamped his hands over his ears. "Mom!" he cried. "Make it stop."

Funny kid. I think he gets his sense of humor from his grandpa.

I was singing what I remembered of "Abba Dabba Honeymoon." My youngest didn't realize it wasn’t actually me singing. It was a memory of music and warmth reaching back through the years, the sound of his grandpa’s voice in the night echoing in my own squeaky alto.

I was eight. My brother and sister were nearly six. We were going to spend a week in a beach house at Kawela Bay. We couldn’t wait. We had been anticipating this one-week vacation at Kawela Bay all summer it seemed and now it was finally here.

The ride to the house at Kawela Bay seemed to take all day. It probably seemed even longer to my parents who had to put up with hearing "Are we there yet? Are we there yet?" every five minutes.

When we weren’t asking "Are we there yet?" we’d be squabbling over territory in the back seat of a 1959 cat-eyed Chevrolet. There were two windows and three kids, me and the twins. I was usually stuck between the two of them to keep them from fighting. They used me as a demilitarized zone instead and fought across me.

.

"Move over. You’re sitting on MY side of the seat."

"You’re BREATHING on me. Stop it.

"Stop leaning over."

"Mom, look at Jeanie."

"You’re on my side again." (Which meant that one of them had squished me onto the other twin's territory.)

"You’re hogging up the window."

"Don’t look at MY window. Look out YOUR window."

My parents were part of a generation that didn’t believe in negotiating with kids or providing them with reasons to behave. It was behave--or else.

When the volume from the back seat reached "NERVE WRACKING" my mother would turn around and tell us to be quiet. And we were...we quietly shoved and poked and nudged each other over invasions of "my space" until someone (usually me) squealed.

"Hey, stop pinching me. MOOOOM!! Make them stop."

At this point my mother would begin singing "Way down in the Congo Land lived a happy chimpanzee.." We obediently sang along. It was better than "or else".

We spent two summers in two different beach houses at Kawela Bay. The days were long and filled with swimming, sunshine and adventures with various cousins that were never found out, I think. By the time we left at the end of a week we were exhausted. I can only imagine how tired my parents were after a week with us AND our cousins.

The drive back to Honolulu after the week was very different. We were tired. It was late afternoon before the house was cleaned and we could leave. We shared the back seat with stacks of soft, familiar-smelling pillows and blankets, for once not wiggly or squabbling. It was a long drive from Kawela Bay The route home to Alewa Heights wound around Kaneohe Bay and through sleepy Kaneohe town to Likelike Highway and the Wilson Tunnels.

Kahekili Highway didn't exist yet.

My father sang softly into the moving darkness that was the inside of the car as he drove us home. "The bells are ringing for me and my gal

the birds are singin’ for me and my gal.

The twins were asleep by the time the car rolled quietly through Hauula. My mother, whose housekeeping and management skills kept three kids and their cousins fed, healthy and (mostly) out of trouble finally got a chance to rest. She was asleep by the time we passed Kahana Bay after valiantly trying to stay awake so she could keep Dad from falling asleep.

I’d hear him say, "Go to sleep, Putty-cat, I’ll be okay." But of course, I was quietly awake in the backseat, listening because I knew that my father would start singing to himself soon.

I didn’t quite understand all the words but the melodies were catchy and in the rich baritone timbre of my father’s voice, soothing and reassuringeven if some of those songs sounded weird to a eight year old just on the verge of sleep in the back seat of a 1959 Chevy After a bit it all seemed to blend together, the smooth movement of the big car, my brother and sister snoring next to me, the reassuring sight of my parents’ heads over the top of the front seat, the soothing music of our father’s voice.

My Dad has been gone a long time now. My brother and sister and I are older than he was when he left us so long ago. Yet the three of us still remember all the words to Abba Dabba Honeymoon and when we sing, sometimes I can imagine his voice, blending with ours

Altogether now--Way down in the Congo Land lived a happy chimpanzee

Thanks for the music, Dad.

Kupuna

Yes, I know we've all had our issues with our parents--but they are a storehouse of family memories that we don't have. I've encouraged our mother, one of the last of her family left to us, to write down what she remembers. Whether it's accurate or not--whether it is fair or not, it's HER memory that is important. More importantly, it may be all the memory we will have of people who are gone.

She starts with a memory of her beloved brother, Joseph. (Since I've had to move this blog, the memory will have to be moved, too.) She even gives directions on how to read it. The memory is written on a typewriter. She won't ever computerize her documents so I'm doing it for her, one smidgen, one morsel of information at a time. (See my other blog for further adventures in getting softcopy for the computer resistant at http://pbr-itslaterthanyouthink.blogspot.com/.)

We have children and grandchildren who should hear these terrifying stories of courage, audacity and hope from the generation that fought and survived World War II and the Great Depression.

The Family Blog has moved here

Due to the recession, no doubt, and other economic factors Hawaiian Telcom can no longer host the family blog. All past articles will be moved to this location