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
stories of family and friends of the rugrats of Lei Road
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(A portion of this was previously published in the Honolulu Star Bulletin.) I used to live in a three bedroom, ground floor apartment with...
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Thursday, March 12, 2009
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?
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?
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
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.
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.
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.
Monday, March 2, 2009
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
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