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.