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Written by Maku Cuizon

User Rating: 5 / 5

Small keed time, my brother Lippy (Philip) and I had a common enemy, our stepfather, so we developed a close bond of a mutual admiration for one another. Most of the time we would pal around, arms on the shoulder and then the times when we disagreed and would fight with the same gusto. The last time we fought, I think I was 12 and he 10 yrs. old and we were really punching away, going for the kill. Our mother was so tired of those fights and since this took place in the kitchen, she picked up 2 knives, offered them to us and said, "I'm so sick and tired of your fighting! Here! Kill each other!!" It was such a shock to the two of us and I don't recall us ever fighting or even arguing again.

This was during the tail end of WWII and we had just moved back to Ka'u from the town of Papaikou where we had relocated after a family fallout with our grandfather. Papaikou, to the two of us, was heavenly because it had the constant flow of the river and a stream that were close by. The dry river beds and streams in Ka'u flowed only when there was rainfall in the uplands. At the Hilo and Hamakua coasts the mountains kept steady waterflows to the river and small streams, some of the streams were created by the overflow of water that was used in flumes that transported bundles of sugarcane  from the fields to the mill. Since the river was off-limits for Lippy and me, the stream (gouch as we called it) became our favorite stomping ground. Water in its natural state! How much better can it get for 2 boys, 8 and 10 years old?

We had a daily ritual after school, which was to hurry home and change into our play clothes, grab our slingshots and head for the gouch. Across the street was a long house for the single men that worked the cane fields and below that was our gouch. Yes, OUR gouch! We would stop at the gravel driveway and fill our pocket with pieces of gravel for our slingshots. All the plantation homes were built on stilts and since that particular house was above the gouch, the back end was higher and under that section there was always a banana bunch dangling on a rafter. The occupants liked us and we were allowed to help ourselves to the luscious and welcomed snack; we usually ate one and stuck an extra one in our pockets before heading for our journey.

Someone had built a dam at the bottom of the grade and the pool of water harbored fish, river opae, tadpoles - a magical place full of surprises. There, a huge mango tree dropped fruit that we ate along with an occasional solo papaya plucked off one of the trees. While munching on guavas, we held our loaded slingshots, wading in the knee-deep water for about a mile to the road mauka to a paved road. The gouch was lined with large guava bushes and any bird sitting on a branch was fair game to us. The birds were safe, not a single one got hit and it wasn't because we were lousy shots because we could hit tin cans and bottles.

At the road was a large Indonesian plum tree with pika fruit (for us meaning bitter or sour) it had several forked branches that were perfect for being in a pretend fighter pilot's seat. Since it was the war years, there were military aircrafts soaring - a Mustang, a Wildcat, a Black Widow and we shot at them with our make believe .50 calibre machine gun.

One day, while walking aimlessly, I heard a bird, a mijiro as we knew it, singing at the top of a tree and without a thought I picked up a piece of gravel and without aiming I shot it in the direction of the mijiro. I was surprised as I watched the wounded bird plummet to the ground where it fluttered and chirped in pain. With it in the palm of my hand I could see its intestines in the open wound and my astonishment turned into compassion and sorrow when it looked at me as if to say, "Why did you do this?" before it gave its last chirp and died.

I dug a hasty shallow grave and buried it, pulled the slingshot out of my pocket and flung it as far as it would go. Never to have another one again! I never told any of my friends about this but the memory haunted me for a long, long time. I never even told Lippy this story.

Lippy and I are now kupuna.. He on the Big Island and me in Kaliponi. He sends me Big Island coffee and sometimes I send him a pair of cowboy boots; he's a drugstore paniolo who retired after working at the Ka'u ranch and dairy. We talk on the phone and end with, "I love you bruddah." The answer,"Oh yeah, me too!" Nuf talk story, A hui hou.

 About Author

"I was born in the village of Hilea (where Mary Pukui was from) mauka from Punalu'u black sand beach. I Lived mostly in Na'alehu, spent most of the war years in Papaikou and back to Ka'u. I wen join the army after pau high school. Lived in Northridge CA, owned an Ad Agency, PR and Marketing but today, I kanikapila when I can. Mostly I practice and teach Tai Chi and Chi Gong (you can see me on youtube: Tai Chi Maku).The oldtimers still call me Boy but I'm Uncle Maku to most locals and Maku to others. A hui hou!"

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Written by Ismael Tabalno

User Rating: 5 / 5

  It was a month before school started in September. I had one more year and I would be done with 8th grade in Koloa Elementary School. I was very ready for high school. "Eh, you guys think going be hard in high school?" "Yeah, my brother was telling me mo homework." Trudeau smiled. "Ah sh*t, as all I need." I grudgingly commented, "Mo of the proper English stuff again." "If Mrs. Anderson no flunks you first and you no graduate," Trudeau laughed. "Yeah, she going pass me, I make too much problem in her classes, I no think she like keep me around for another year." I said confidently. "As true, nobody can do anything with you in her English class" said Freddie, my other friend and classmate. Trudeau and Freddie were my closest friends and all three of us lived in Spanish Camp.

Trudeau's family lived across the dirt road from my house and Freddie folks lived on the right, next to Trudeau. We grew up together in Spanish Camp and also attended Koloa School. Trudeau was smarter in academics then Freddie and I. Both his parents drove cars and aside from their native tongue of Filipino, both were fluent in English. Freddie's mom and dad drove cars too and spoke English well. His father was a mechanic and was always seen under the hood of a car or under the car fixing something. Freddie was the mechanical and artistic guy who was aspiring to be like his mechanic dad. As for me, I was considered the humbug one, in other words a trouble maker. Always getting in mischievous happenings or causing trouble, they say. I thought it was ridiculous that both of their parents thought hanging around me would get their sons into trouble. I was the one that suggested the most fun and adventurous things to do around the camp. However, if anything went wrong or haywire with three of us, the entire blame would be pointed towards me.

After a while though I stopped hanging out with Trudeau and Freddie. I felt just as content hanging around with just my three year old dog, Willy. Willy was a homeless mutt when dad brought him home. He was an average build with an all brown coat and a few black spots. At that time of my life though, he was a large dog. Willy became my added security and we were inseparable friends; almost like the movie Lassie. Everywhere I went, he followed. If I walked to school he would walk with me and hang around the bushes away from the school campus until school was over, then he walked me home. Willy and I went swimming at the Wydagee River or Waita reservoir. He was an excellent swimmer. I would hold on to his tail and he would pull me as we swam. Willy was my first dog best friend. Willy waited at home when I started attending high school because I caught a bus to my high school in Lihue. Our time together became less and less. However, when I came home he became hyper active and so excited, always barking and jumping around me wanting to play chase. My mom was amused by his silly antics upon my arrival. We played tag, wrestled and fetch the ball or any other objects I tossed.

After my first year in high school, Willy mysteriously passed away at 5 years old. He didn't show any signs of injury or suffering. I was devastated. Sadly, I was the one that found him under our house curled up with his nose tucked under his stomach. We aren't sure how he died but I hope he died in his sleep peacefully. I told my mom about Willy and she felt so sad. She knew how much I loved him. She asked if I needed any help burying him and I said no, that I would prefer doing the ordeal by myself. I cried and carried him half wrapped in a old towel rag and brought him closer to the creek behind the camp. I picked a nice spot where there would be sun most of the day but there would still be shade from the bamboo trees. It took me nearly an exhausting hour to dig a hole deep and wide enough to bury him. Every few minutes I would stop digging and look at him thinking he was just asleep. I kept waiting for him to wake up but he never did. Even now my heart breaks. Oh, how I wished he was just sleeping. I carefully shifted him closer to the hole and gently placed him down into his grave. His hair was soft and I curled his tail on top his hind leg. "Willy, you are my best dog and friend. I will miss you so much. Why didn't you say goodbye?" I didn't know how to pray for him. Tears started to blur my vision. I didn't want to cover him. My mom told me earlier that he was in Heaven playing with other dogs. I tried to imagine him in a heaven field happy and running with his dog friends. After each shovel of dirt, spots of Willy's brown hair disappeared until only loose dark soil marked the spot where Willy laid. I stood there and tears flowed freely down my cheeks. For a long time I never felt lonely; I could always count on Willy being there with me. But now, I was alone. I squatted down, buried my face in my hands and cried quietly. A strange thing happened that evening when I went to bed early. I didn't sleep on a bed in my room; instead I slept on a mattress on the bedroom floor. I couldn't help but think of how Willy used to sleep under a bookcase next to my mattress whenever I snuck him in the house.

For those of you that don't believe in ghosts you won't find this believable but I am going to mention what happened anyway. I was in deep sleep and I thought I was dreaming when I heard Willy's breathing. When I opened my eyes I saw my dog, Willy, under the bookcase looking at me exactly where he used to lie. The bedroom wasn't completely dark because some light leaked in from the living room around and under the door. I smiled at him. I could hear his panting with his mouth slightly open and eyes half closed as if he was relaxed and ready to fall asleep. With a grin on my face I continued staring at him for about a minute. I whispered, "Hi Willy, are you okay?" I reached out a hand, gently touching and rubbing the top of his nose like I always did. He slowly closed his eyes breathing slower now as I continued patting the top of his head. I whispered to him and asked him again if he was okay and told him that I really missed him. My tear welts blurred my vision. I did not hear any audible voice, but I sensed Willy saying, "I'm sorry for leaving you so suddenly and came to say goodbye." "What happened to you Willy? Why did you leave me?" My mom must have heard me and cracked opened the bedroom door to see if someone was in the room with me. "Mael, you talking in your sleep?" she whispered. I turned my head, "No Ma, it's Willy, I am talking to Willy." And turned my head towards Willy again...but he was already gone. My mom knelt down next to me. "Go to sleep Mael, it was just a dream", as she moved my soft black hair off my forehead. "Mama, Willy was here, mama." "Okay son, go to sleep now, everything will be fine." (She spoke to me only in our native tongue, Filipino) I understood and slowly drifted off in deep sleep again but with a smile and a new peace in my heart.

In 1964, I finally graduated from Koloa Elementary School and moved up to Kauai High School in Lihue. It was a colorful time for me. It's true what they say; high school is the start of everything wild and spine-tingling! And I must say that more adventure awaited me. "Trudeau, wait up!" Freddie and I ran up to him at the bus stop. All three of us rode the Chang Fook bus from Koloa each morning and back again in the afternoon after school. "Who is the Haole guy I saw you talking to at auto shop today?" asked Trudeau. "The Haole guy?" I tried to act uninterested, "Oh that was Mando, his father is a minister. They just moved from Argentina. He has a class with Freddie and me in auto mechanics. Nice guy, but a lot of guys no like him already. I don't know why." "Because he is Haole, that's why," said Freddie "especially the portgee guys don't like him." "So what?" I said. "He neva do nothing to them. Some people don't care for Haoles anyway." I had wanted to avoid this conversation about my new friend. Mando is short for Armando, the name of a high school classmate who helped me make things happen. He was the son of Lutheran minister in Kauai's oldest Lutheran church. I think that it was destined for Mando's father to be assigned there for five years after being rotated to various ministries.

Our meeting was part of our awesome destiny. Mando didn't look like everybody else. Well, he was a 'Haole' as what Hawaiians or local people would call the white people. Being a Caucasian, he had pale skin, an over-sized pointed nose, and the height of a little giant at 6 feet 2. Mando had a brother who was 2 years younger than he was and weighed lighter as well. He also had those signature blue eyes and brown blonde hair. He definitely stood out among the crowds of high school students where there were few Haole classmates. Mando's life too was changed as he started interacting with me and the locals. "Mando, what you talking about, no make sense," chuckled Randy. "Speak in Pidgin so we can understand," ragged Wilson. "Eh, you guys leave him alone, he can talk n e way he like," I tried covering for him. Mando just hung his head trying to act neutral. He was soft-spoken and spoke proper English but as time went on however, he couldn't help but get influenced talking in Pidgin English. Of course his dad wasn't too thrilled about it so he continually reminded him on the proper use of English grammar, words or sentences. I thought that this could be one reason why they did not seem to like the idea of their son hanging out with me.

His parents were quite civil to me and had even invited me to dinner a couple of times. They did their best to make me feel comfortable but still, I felt otherwise. They often asked if my parents knew where I was and if they worry that I'm not at home most of the time. To me, it was like a subtle way of saying, you should go home now and never come back. As kindly as I could, I would affirm that my parents knew my whereabouts and didn't really mind if I stayed out late. Fortunately for me and unfortunately for Mando's parents, I wasn't the type who would back down. In fact, the rebellious, non-conforming, outgoing and outspoken side of me would often come out victorious. I sustained a maverick reputation and with Mando things became more adventurous and challenging. Mando and I became partners in a variety of mischievous and interesting adventures.

Our friendship was built on our surprising similarities and passions. I love knowing about people, culture and other places; he had traveled a lot and had so much information to share. "S-mile," he called me by my Pidgin name, "you remember my dad's Triumph 650cc motorcycle I showed you in our garage?" "Yeah, so what?" I curiously asked. "Well my dad just gave the bike to me." Mando's eyes lit up as if he just won a prize of the century. In those days owning a bike like a 650cc triumph was the cool thing to do, it was an icon of the 1960's. This wasn't a Honda 90 or nifty thrifty Honda 50 Moped either. It was a full fledge macho, girl magnet machine. In that 1960's era when owning a motorcycle meant exuding an aura of independence and self-control "My dad said as soon as I get my motorcycle license I can ride it anytime I want. So Monday, I am getting my permit from the police station in Lihue. I already know how to ride the bike but my dad said I can practice a little more, and then in a week I will get my license." "Cool!" I said and we gave each other high five slaps. We already could imagine ourselves cruising the beach, to school, the town, as cool as cucumbers.

Once he got his license we rode with the wind and I reveled at the feeling of freedom and the rush of intoxicating thrill. ."Hey, Mando, how can we pick up chicks if we ride together all the time?" I yelled at him from the back seat of his bike cruising along 50 mph on the highway next to the ocean shore. "Yeah, no sh*t, maybe you should buy your own bike S-mile." He was serious. I realized that I really wanted one for myself too. So what is a guy like S-smile to do? I earned and saved money! And on that fated day in Honolulu, I bought my very own 650cc Triumph motorcycle and had it shipped to our island. Indeed, it was the highlight of my life that year. At a challenged height of five feet I didn't care my feet didn't reach the ground when I sat on the bike. Fear wasn't in my vocabulary. I stopped by curbs or was able to kick the stand down quickly. I kicked started the engine and brrrroooom! My Triumph zoomed onto the road in a heart beat. The fascinating thing is the kickstand doubled as a gig to offset the fact I couldn't reach the ground with both feet. I perfected the technique of keeping the kickstand down long enough to grind on the road and cause a spectacular shower of sparks fishtailing behind the bike. This trick was even more thrilling when I did it at night, instant fireworks display. Occasionally too, I switched the ignition on and off to trigger backfires that added excitement to the attraction. Of course we made sure the coast was clear of any police squad cars otherwise we could be cited for 'exhibition of speed', a traffic citation and definitely a ticket.

I rode my bike through high school and looked forward to the weekends when Mando and I cruised around the island. Actually, both of us maintained part-time jobs. In my case, I had two – one at Hertz-Rent-a-Car and another at Kauai Surf Hotel as a busboy. "Mando, I met this new guy this morning, his name is Randy. He just moved here from Honolulu and is living with his uncle. He is in my agriculture class. He is meeting me in a few minutes. Can you wait and meet him?" The ending of school bell rang 10 minutes earlier and had the parking lot full of students waiting or boarding buses. Our bikes were parked in a small reserved space next to the bus stops. "No, definitely not, but it's cool. S-mile, I have to get home early this afternoon, but you both come over to the house. I have to help my dad at the church for about an hour, so come over." "Okay, sure, oh by the way, tomorrow is Friday, you want to go camping this weekend?" I kicked my bike to start; the bike roared and instantly drew a lot of attention at the school parking lot. "What you say?" Mando shouted while mounting his bike. "Mando, I'll talk to you later." I let my bike idle. He stood up on his kick start lever with his right foot and dropped his whole weight sharply downward and the bike jumped to life. Within a few seconds he was roaring away down the hill as students watched him until he disappeared a quarter of a mile around the bend.

I spotted Randy as he waved at me and I waved him over. "Howzit going, Randy? Mando already went home , jump on back and go over to his place." "Okay cool". Randy climbed onto the back seat. I depressed the clutch lever with my left hand and downshifted with my left foot to first gear. The bike was still on the kick stand. "You ready?" Randy reached both is arms around my waist. "What the f**k? Hey, you freaking homo lean on the sissy bars and hold on to the sides of the seat. Don't hold onto my body, only chicks do that.", I shouted smiling. "What da f**K?" Randy is laughing...almost an uncontrollable laugh I turned around laughing too and looked at him, "You never rode on a bike before?" "Hell no, never did!" "Oh sh*t, just hold on," and I let off on the clutch slowly and we propelled forward onto the road and disappeared rounding the corner down the hill from the high school. It didn't take long for all three of us to become good friends.

Mando had a serious look moreover it made him an easy target for Randy's silly and crazy antics. Randy on the other hand was an easy, happy-go-lucky kind of guy who agreed on almost anything we suggested whether it was normal or completely off the wall ideas we had in mind. I, on the other hand, was frequently amused watching Mando and Randy fart around with each other. So when we were not working on the weekends, we were camping and fishing. We would do it at night with friends (of course tourist chicks too). The 1960's was blessed and we would regularly catch ample amounts of fish and lobsters to barbecue to our hearts desire. We were quite lucky to have experienced a time of abundance which is quite the opposite of these days. There were time and again when we got so lucky to have caught so much that we would have extra to bring home, to sell, or to give to neighbors and friends. I was only happy to share because our refrigerator at that time was a small 2 feet by 2 feet and couldn't handle much. Another friend, Wilson, joined us at the campout and night spear fishing that Mando, Randy, and I had planned two days ago. Wilson was a couple year's younger than us and a sophomore in high school. He was Trudeau's younger brother. He enjoyed hanging out with us mostly because the company of Randy and Mando. Randy came running out of the water to the beach fire laughing his head off, "Hey Wilson, S-mile, look at..."Randy was laughing so hard and bending over from his almost crying laughter. "Look, look at Mando!" He and Mando were in the water swimming around checking out the place before we all went in later. Mando was coming out of the water walking backwards on the sand with his fins, mask and snorkels still on. Mando spat out his snorkel mouth piece. He turned around and looked at us wondering why Randy was laughing his ass off. "Look at the thing! The, da thing!" Randy could hardly get his words out while laughing hysterically.

All at once we observed what Randy's laughter was all about. Wilson and I first looked at each other, and then we burst out in laughter too. Mando stood there with his swim fins still on and his face mask press firmly on his face. His unusual large nose was smashed against the inside of his mask half full of snot. Mando's distorted large nose looked like a small fish stuck inside his face mask! By then, Randy, Wilson and I were rolling on the sand laughing hysterically holding our stomachs. "There's a fish in your mask, Mando!" Randy yelled out laughing even louder and still rolling on the sand holding his stomach. "Mando, there is a fish in your Mask!" "F**k you guys' man," Mando dove back into the water, rinsing his mask out and blowing his nose full of snot. At first Mando was embarrassed and frustrated about Randy's commenting about his nose, which he now nicknamed, 'The Thing'. Nevertheless, ever since that moment, Randy would often harass Mando about his, 'The Thing' and that became an inside joke that stuck with all four of us.

Whenever one of us mentions the two words 'The Thing' we would all crack up laughing. The laughter increased especially when we had a few drinks and smokes of weed. Over a few days though, Mando became immune to Randy's repeated dings about 'The Thing' that Mando finally laughed about it too. We all had a great time together.

About Author

Pineapple Sam originated as a fictional character from the mind of Ismael Tabalno from Hawaii. He is a Kauai local individual of Asian descent who decided to write as a hobby when he retired. Pineapple Sam loved to "talk story" as they say in the islands, now many of his friends and family can still listen or read about his adventures.

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Details

Written by Kamaka Brown

User Rating: 5 / 5

My fuddah wen get one job in the city and he sed no ways he wuz going drive from North Shore to townside so we stay go move to Punchbowl.  Hoo dat means had foah change school la dat. Junk cuz I had all my frendz from kinny garden in Waialua Elementary.

Had Frank Nacapuy, Rudy Rainier, Miles Migita, Lenord Cazinha dem guyz was my boyz. We hang out by Kishiname store aftah school waiting for da school bus. Lunch time we trade sammich.  We all was in love wit Karen Kato. Her fuddah own Kato store. Frank used to tell us dat wen he get married to Karen dey going live insai da store so dey no need go shopping, everything be right dea. An wen da store open he no need stand in line. If people say "eh wot you doin' cut in front everybody?"  Frank sed he would say: "Shaddup, I live hea."   Miles Migita go say: "stooped, if you no need go shopping, why you cutting in
line?"  Frank look at him and say: "fo'get da green stamps, you stooped hed!"

So we move to Green Street up Punchbowl side. We stay insai one apartment foah da first time. Wen us wuz country side, you could throw one rock as far as you could and still no going hit your neighbor's house. Das country eh? Now we was in one two story apartment on the bottom floor. Only had street parking so my fuddah was always complaining about no mo' parking nea by da apartment, especially on weekends when da neighbors had party la' dat.

Can hea the neighbors through the walls. Fuddah would say save electricity and just lissen to their TV through the wall. My muddah was getting used to apartment living too.  The washing machine was just outsai the back kitchen door. Plus the clothesline was right dea too.  She would leave the box of washing soap by the washing machine and comment that she no remember using that much soap cuz the new box almost empty the next time she go outside and wash clothes.  Bumbye we figgah out dat the neighbor kids from couple doors down was using our washing soap on da sly.  Night time dey no turn the light on wen they run da washing machine, they walk ova and use my muddah's laundry soap.  Fuddah sed he would fix their "wagon".  He wen get one empty box laundry soap and fill'em with sand.  "And bring your soap box inside momma, no leave'em outsai eeny moah."

Couple nights later we hear one commotion going on in the back.  We hear first one kid getting lickens. "oweee.   Oweee."  And one female voice saying: "who wen put sand insai da machine? Heh? Heh?  I like know. How dis sand got insai da machine?" Turns out da neighbor kids was taking our soap and da parents neva know.  Da parents go send da two kids ova to apologize to my parents.

Now upstairs right above us was one hapa family wit two girls who was mo' old den me. One was airline stewardess.  I tink she work Aloha Airlines.  Da uddah Leslie, was stay high school and she was cheer leader. I knew because weekends she stay run down stairs wen da boyfriend go beep da horn and she stay in da cheer leader uniform. Hoo...she had nice...um...hair.  Me I was original stalker looking through da venetian blinds out back when Leslie go hang clothes on da line right next to ours cuz had their washing machine next to our too.  Da muddah work Love's bakery cuz she go work in white uniform and hairnet la dat. Sometimes da muddah go give my muddah some day old bread and wen my muddah bake her mango bread she go make me go upstairs and give dem.

For me da ting dat I wen like mose about living foah da first time in da city was TV.  Us neva have TV in da country. No can catch in da valley.  My unco he
dakine TV fix man and he wen give my fuddah one TV dat he wen fix but da custamah neva did come back and claim.

Was one black and white Zenith TV.  My fuddah had invented remote control waaaay befoah any body wen tink about. He sit in his chair and say: "Boy change da channel." I would walk ova and change da channel. Da antenna part was on top da TV. Da kine rabbit ears. I guess cuz we was down stairs in da apartment house da TV reception no was too good.  My fuddah put tin foil on da tips of da rabbit ear antenna. Plus if get snow or lines la dat...my fuddah go make me move da antenna.  "Boy move 'em to da leff....no your uddah leff. OK right dea." Mos times da picture came moah clear.  Sometime not. "Boy make da antenna one side down da uddah side up. No make da uddah side up and the uddah side down."   Sum times I gettum jus' right and my fuddah go: "boy, perfect."  Den I let go and fuddah say: "Eh what you wen do? Get all snow now."   I sed: "I wen let go."  Fuddah say: "Den no let go, boy.'

Hooo..I stay standing dea until the program pau.  Junk.

Us had foah da first time our own telephone line too. Befoah time in da country we had party line. We pick up da phone and get somebody talking on da phone. So we gotta wait until dey hang up so us can make one call. Hoo...junk.  But now in da city we get da telephone line all to our selfs. Sweet.

You know da nowa days get voice mail and answering machines. We had dat too.  Yeah..we had answering machine. Da phone ring my fuddah go: "Son answer da phone." See answering machine!

Den he say: Who is dat?  And when I tell him he say: "Take a message" see? Voice mail.  Us guys was waaay ahead of all da technology get today.

I did miss the hikes along the mountain trails in the Waimea Valley and skipping smooth stones over the still water of the river.  I did miss the sound of the neighbor's chickens welcoming in the morning.  I did miss the sing song voices of the Filipino neighbors from up the road walking by the house with their burlap bags filled with fish and their throw nets over their shoulders.

I was now learning all kinds of new stuffs and taking tips from the sharp looking guys on American Bandstand with Dick Clark.  Learning this new dance called the Twist and keeping an eye on the cheerleader up stairs all the while making sure my hand was on the rabbit ears.

About Author

Kamaka Brown is on staff at AW. Originally from North Shore of Oahu, he now is a tropical transplant living on the West Coast. He is a stand-up comic performing in clubs, concerts and other venues in Honolulu, Las Vegas, Pacific Northwest and Los Angeles. In the summer of 2009 Kamaka toured Southern California and Pacific Northwest with his "If Can. Can. If No Can. No Can." Hawaiian Pidgin English stories with slack key guitars. He can be heard daily on The Sandwich Islands Network internet

Radio www.V93FM.com streaming contemporary island music 24/7

www.kamakabrown.com

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Written by Ismael Tabalno

User Rating: 5 / 5

I attended Koloa Elementary School for eight years. I enjoyed walking the streets and trails of Koloa during the long trek to and from school. Instead of looking at it as a chore, I went on many exciting escapades during these walks. I explored man-sized storm drainage ditches that led to lava tunnels under the main road, scaled the oldest sugar plantation ruins in Hawaii, threw rocks at bull frogs in the creeks, swam in shallow mountain spring water and other fun adventures. My mother used to ask me how in the world my clothes got so dirty just by attending school. Of course I didn't volunteer the information, but I think she already knew how I got dirty.

My route to school was walking or riding my bike on the single lane road to downtown Koloa and from there I travelled on a sidewalk all the way to school. The total distance would be about 1.25 miles. That meant 15 minutes walking, 10 minutes by bike, or a 5 minute car ride. There were short cuts that cut the trip by half a mile. If you went through the sugar cane fields and sugar truck roads the trip was cut by almost half, but that would be feasible only if it wasn't raining. On my last year at Koloa elementary school, I started on another small business venture that spiced up my days. "Hey, Smile, I heard Larry's folks are moving from Koloa to Lawai," Trudeau ran and caught up with me after the school bell rang. Trudeau was my chubby friend and was panting as he spoke. "Nah, really, why?" "I don't know, but I heard his father is building a house that will have a big pasture for horses, so they moving in couple of months." Trudeau sounded excited, but was still panting from running after me. "Do you know he wants to find somebody to take over his paper route, so Larry asked me?" "What? Are your kidding, you need a bike and you think your parents will let you do that?" I was excited for my friend, but a little envious too. "Yeah, that's the thing, I don't think my parents would want me to do that and besides, I don't really want to do it either." Trudeau was more of a thinker than a doer kind of guy, thus his chubby figure. "Then I could do it!" I exclaimed. "Larry is selling his paper route bike too. He wants $15.00 for the bike." "What? The bike is all beat up." I wanted it, but not for fifteen dollars. Besides that, the paper route only paid $5.00 per month.

I wrestled with the idea and knew I needed the bike too. "I will talk to Larry this weekend and maybe we can meet up with him," Trudeau suggested. First thing I had to do was buy a bicycle on installment. Imagine a 13 year old negotiating and buying something on installments or making payments? Well, I did, and it was for a good reason – a bicycle to deliver newspapers and earn money. The asking price was $15.00 and that included all the attachments for newspaper delivery. Larry was a classmate who was moving away so he couldn't continue delivering newspapers in the area. I would ask to borrow the first $5 from my dad and later pay him back. I would ask to then pay $5 a month in two more installments.

Saturday afternoon I walked over to Trudeau's house. He was outside in their yard with his younger twin sisters playing jump rope. "Trudeau, did you talk to Larry?" I asked. "Yeah, I did, and he wants us to come over to his house tomorrow afternoon at 3 O'clock. I was going to come over to your place and tell you." "Okay, Trudeau, I will talk to my parents and then I will come over tomorrow so we can walk together to Larry's. Thanks! See your tomorrow." I ran back home all excited about the business venture. "Ma, Ma, I can get a job!" I ran into the kitchen. "What kind of job, Mael?" My mother had just finished washing dishes and dried her hands on her apron. "My classmate, Larry, is going to let me take over his newspaper delivery!" "Oh, son that is good." "But I have one problem ma. I need to borrow $5 for the down payment of the bicycle. Than I can work and earn the rest." I was so excited. "I can talk to your dad about it and I don't see a problem." The deal was made between Larry and his parents. I purchase the delivery bike for a total of $12.50 with $5.00 down and the rest $7.50 in two months. For a week I accompanied Larry to the newspaper pick up point and I walked along side him as we delivered the papers. After the seven days of orientation I was on my own. "Hey, Larry, how do you deal with those stupid dogs?" "You know what, let's bring my water pistol next time and let's shoot them when we get up close." "Yeah that would be cool." I smiled mischievously. The next time we did carry a water pistol but the idea backfired on us when the pistol leaked in the paper bag and drenched some of the paper. So we abandoned the water pistol idea. Each day I carefully sorted and folded the papers into my bike saddle bag. I hung the bag on my bike's handle bars and delivered each paper on my way home. On the weekends I had an additional 5 newspapers for the Sunday paper subscribers only.

This was my first real job. I felt good having my own money and contributing to our family's tight budget. The deliveries for each house for the most part were routine. I rode my bike as close to the house's front porch and tossed the paper without stopping. There were some of the deliveries that were a bit more difficult. Some houses had long driveways and the subscriber wanted the paper either on the front door or at the side door. Well that required me to use more maneuvering and took more time. There were also more challenging deliveries; three houses had dogs that were very intimidating. Every day I dreaded going to those houses. It wasn't the German Shepherd, which was the largest dog, which was the most frightening; it was a Dachshund (Sausage Dog) and a Bulldog that I was more afraid of. The Shepherd just stared at me from the porch screen whenever I rode up. He usually didn't bark or anything, except when Willy was with me. If he was with me then the Shepherd would go nuts; barking and growling revealing white glistening rows of teeth. Willy would walk along side me and ignore the dog and it seemed to drive the dog even crazier. I sometimes think Willy was making faces at the Shepherd or something. Now, the Dachshund was entirely different. That long red body with stubby legs and long ears would come chasing after me; bolting out of the side porch dog door. If Willy wasn't with me, I had no problem; I just peddled faster than the short legs could carry the long, round sausage body. Now if Willy was with me, Willy would just trot along side of me and fight back if the hot dog tried to nip at him. Willy wouldn't go after the hot dog. He would just stay alongside of me and make sure the dog didn't bite me or him. Willy was a loyal and brave dog and to avoid the barking and unnecessary chasing I would sometimes order Willy to wait for me by the road and he would obey.

The other challenging part of my paper route delivery was collecting the monthly subscription money. My newspaper subscribers were employees of the sugar plantation, in fact there were mostly supervisors or held management positions in the company. To me, it would seem that they all would have the money ready; some did, some didn't. Half of them had so many excuses why they couldn't pay on the due dates. So I had to pester them for days until I collected all the monies. I couldn't get my pay until I collected and turned in all the monies to the newspaper company then I was given a monthly check. That was the most frustrating part of a newspaper boy. Annoying dogs came in second. Guess how much I earned each month? A whooping $5.00 and that was enough to make a little 13 year old boy and his family happy. With the five dollars we bought a 100 pound bag of rice each month. That was a huge contribution to the family budget and I was proud to have the means to contribute.

Pineapple Sam originated as a fictional character from the mind of Ismael Tabalno from Hawaii. He is a Kauai local individual of Asian descent who decided to write as a hobby when he retired. Pineapple Sam loved to "talk story" as they say in the islands, now many of his friends and family can still listen or read about his adventures.

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Written by Ed Morton

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I was a young man when my Uncle BoBo,  came into my life.  He was lovable, caring, and outgoing.   My first impression of him was, "Eh! Auntie where you wen find this crazy Puerto-Rican?"  He looked like one of the guys from the "Rat-Pack".

You know the guy with curly hair and "duck tail" hair-do?  But you no can judge somebody, from their looks.

My Uncle was an ex-marine, the bugga was built, short and stocky. His attitude was, yeah you know, "What you looking at? You like beef?" He rode a Harley with a "suicide stick", yep you got it, and he walked the walk and talked the talk.  Uncle BoBo was a great ukulele designer and builder. He could play with the best.  Uncle worked at the steel mill nea Campbell.

One day my Auntie and I went to visit him in the hospital. He had injured his foot, a piece of molted metal had spilled on his safety boot and burned through to his foot.  The doctors had to graft skin from his okole to his foot. Ever since then wen he would like to take a break he would say, "eh! my foot like sit down."

Wen eva we had a party or luau, Uncle BoBo was always the life of the party. Sometimes he would drink too much and then go moe moe.  One nite my Auntie and momma decided to get even with him for all the jokes he had pulled on them.  Uncle was sound asleep, his snores were loud and his nice handle bar mustache was fluttering.  Auntie and momma wen put shaving cream on one side of his mustache and shaved it off. Then they dolled him up with lip stick. Wen he wen wake up, oh! boy he went looking for my Auntie and momma.  More worse they wen take his picha. Afta that wen eva he saw the picha, it would remind him not to fall asleep at a party.

Whenever I would go home, my family and I would always visit with my uncle BoBo and Auntie. Uncle was his old self, always a smile and laughs.  My Uncle and Auntie could not have any children. Uncle had one son from his first marriage, cousin Sonny, then they adopted my cousin Tanya.  My Uncle and Auntie loved their children and grandchildren.  Uncle and Auntie lived in Wailua. They became Kapunas along with my Auntie Nona and my Grandmother. They all enjoyed working with the kids from the local school district.

I remember a visit one time with my Uncle and family. There were tennis shoes all lined up on several shelves; some of these shoes were very expensive.  I asked him what was going on. Uncle tells me that when the school kids come down to learn about Hawaiian culture they learn how poi was made.  After their class the kids would always want to play in the "puna-wai" so they would take off their shoes. Then the bus would show up. You know Hawaiian keiki they rather go bare feet, so they pick up all the shoes and wait till the kids come back or their parents show up with them to pick up their shoes.

My Uncle BoBo was a man who always looked ahead. He was a giving, love-able, father, grandfather, and uncle.  I will always remember with fond memories of his life how he touched so many with his musical talents, his craftsmanship and easy going life style.  I can only imagine what he passed on to the kids that came to their classes, and what they took away with them (besides their tennis shoes).

These are the times that really make me sad, being so far away when a dear love one passes, yes I could have got on a plane, but sometimes you can't, my only way to say Aloha is by writing my memories of a great "Uncle".  I have been blessed with such a great ohana and the memories each one has passed on. Akua ho'omaika'i 'oe, Anakala, A hui hou kakou, Aloha Nui Loa.

Whenever we hear a melody, smell the salty air, see a far off island, or taste something from Hawaii, we will be transported back "Home", no matter who you are. If you were born in Hawaii and lived there for any length of time, we have a UA MAU KE EA O KA 'AINA!

I am from Wahiawa, I went to Leilehua High School and my family still lives on Oahu.  At times I will recall stories of my growing up and love to share them. I currently live in Missouri with my family and love to tell them stories
of living in Hawaii.

ekmorton1947@yahoo.com

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Written by Ismael Tabalno

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In the Gardens of Sugar and Pineapples, Part Two : The Tomato Salesman

Author  Ismael Tabalno
I carefully inspected the baseball-sized blemish free tomatoes before placing them into shoe boxes. Each tomato I picked should have the smallest spot on the bottom of each tomato. My brother-in-law once showed me how to choose the best tomatoes by selecting only the tomatoes that had the smallest spot on the bottom opposite the stem side. The smaller the spot on the bottom of the tomato meant a better grade tomato. The cultivated garden of fresh, juicy, red tomatoes belonged to my sister and her farmer husband. Their house was surrounded by tomato gardens on the left side of the driveway. It didn't take long before I had four shoe boxes full of varying ripeness of juicy tomatoes. My sister asked me on several occasions to help her sell tomatoes and other vegetables around the neighborhood. Today was one of those days.

"Menal, you come with me today and help me deliver some vegetables." It was a question and a statement rolled into one. "Okay, I can help you." "But you better change you shirt because that one you wearing looks really dirty," she pointed at the white t-shirt that was nearly brown from playing around with my dog, Willy. I wore a pair of rubber slippers similar to shower shoes although I often preferred going barefooted. A pair of shorts and t-shirt was the common attire for an adolescent like me in Hawaii. I scraped some of the garden mud from my slippers before jumping into the front seat of my sisters four door Chevy sedan. The rear seat and trunk was loaded with various types of fresh vegetables. "Okay brother, when I stop, you go to the door and ask the people what fresh vegetables they want to buy today. Say 'Tata' (if man), 'Nana' (if lady). For example, say, Tata, my sista and me had picked fresh vegetables this morning and bring to you. Then you ask them what they like buy. If they ask if we have certain kind, you say, we get and come back and tell me. Okay, say this way, okay?" "Okay manang, I try."

I wasn't as convincing as her but I did it because I knew she was there watching every move I made and could follow up with any other sales presentation and transaction. My farmer sister out of all the other three siblings had the most aggressive personality of all my sisters. She had the street smarts and knew exactly what she was doing. "Salina, your baby brother said you had some squash but I need only half that size you have," the customer asked pointing at the football size squash. "No problem," said my sister holding the squash in one hand. "I normally sell the whole thing for forty cents but if I cut it in half, you pay only 30 cents." "But, the price is more that half!" The man was a bit skeptical. "I know manong (brother in Filipino), but if I no sell the other half and it become rotten, then I loose money. If I loose money I no can sell fresh vegetables to my customers. Then my customers like you have to go to the store where you pay almost double the price." My sister spoke calmly and fast. She was very witty and had answers to all the customers' questions or concerns. "Okay, I pay..." my sister was already cutting the squash in half."I pay only 25 cents." "Oh, manong, I cut already, sigh, okay give me 27cents," she hands the gentleman his half squash on a newspaper wrapping. Deals like these were a typical bantering dialogue. She alternated the beginning and the ending of her sales route.

At the ending when most of the vegetables were almost gone she reminded the customers of the regular price and offered discount prices for the remaining produce. It worked every time and we returned home happy with empty boxes. I learned fast and my sister did not have to step out of the truck often except to collect the money. I learned my sales pitch and the negotiating quickly by hanging around my sister. I was the one that went to the doors to tell people what we had for sale and asked for their order. The majority of their garden produce was tomatoes. It was easy. So, I sold a variety of pre bundled string beans, lettuce, cabbage, corn, and the best seller, tomatoes. The downside of my sister's operation is that I never got paid cash. Well, I kind of got paid, but it was with vegetables to take home. The thing I learn was her selling techniques and price structure then it hit me; I could sell the produce myself and keep the money. I had planned on making some side money by selling tomatoes to our neighbors in Spanish camp and some other neighbors just outside of Spanish camp. The customers I targeted were single men that worked in the plantations and were regular customers of my sister. I just wanted to make maybe couple dollars. I figured if I sold four boxes of tomatoes at fifty cents a box that would earn two dollars.

The typical trips my sister and I made were between 7-10 days intervals. Not all the customers bought during those intervals so that meant some required replenishing sooner or much later. This is where I came into the sales planning. Each time I visited a customer's house, I noted the people that didn't buy and asked them when they would be ready and made myself a mental note to visit those customers on my own. My strategy worked like a charm. I loaded my boxes of tomatoes in my newspaper saddle bags and rode out to the waiting customers. I re-visited the customers the day they said they would be ready for more tomatoes and sold all four boxes with no problem. I kept all the money to myself. I was so happy! Willy my dog ran along side of me as I pedaled home as fast I could. I continued helping my sister and made my own runs again selling tomatoes. I did it three times until one day a customer mentioned to my sister that he wanted the same type of tomatoes I was selling all the time, only the best! My sister was shocked by the added information about my solo sales and went straight to my mother. "Menal, you wait until I tell Mama what you been doing with our tomatoes." Well, I am glad she went to my mother instead of my father.

Mamma of course assured my sister she would handle the problem and she did. Mom pulled me aside one evening and chided me for what I did. "Mael, why did you go and sell tomatoes from your sister's garden?" "Mama, because Sista neva give me any money. All the time I go with her she neva give me anything. She make plenty money." "But she gives us a lot of vegetables for us to eat." "Yes, I know Ma, but sometimes it's only the left over's, the ones she neva sell to customers." "Yes, but we don't have those vegetable in our own garden." "Ma, look at all the vegetables we have in the kitchen, we need other stuff like meat too." I explained to my mom that I felt my sister could have paid me something for all the time and all the labor I was helping her with. "Mael next time, you think about something like this, come and talk to me first." My mom's voice was firm. "Okay, Ma, I will." I was only hoping she or my sister wouldn't mention to my dad. Dad was a harsher disciplinary, but that's another story. Mom asked me to apologize to my sister and volunteer to do additional work around their gardens to make up for the choice tomatoes I sold. She then smiled and reminded me that she still loved me.

I eventually went to my sister and apologized. Ever since then, my sister gave us more vegetables and tomatoes. She told my mom that I could sell the extras she gave us but stay away from the gardens. I agreed and I told her I still love her.

Pineapple Sam originated as a fictional character from the mind of Ismael Tabalno from Hawaii. He is a Kauai local individual of Asian descent who decided to write as a hobby when he retired. Pineapple Sam loved to "talk story" as they say in the islands, now many of his friends and family can still listen or read about his adventures.

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Written by Ismael Tabalno

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A new school week started and I sat gazing out the clear windows of my history class room towards the Nawilliwilli Harbor. The lush green and brown mountain range ran down to unexpected cliffs. The deep blue ocean waves roar and slam the jagged cliff walls with towering splashes of white spray. The small stretch of beach and safe harbor haven beckoned to me. During our lunch period I ran into Mando. “Hey Mando, you want to go swimming?” “Who’s going?” “Just you and me, I think Randy is stuck in his English class.” “Oh, the poor guy trying to learn predicates prepositions and shit.” “Yeah, we can preposition and catch up with him later.” I laughed. “Let’s take the bikes and roll down the hill so nobody hear us.” “Good idea, S-mile”

I had no interest to sit idly by in a classroom. I was on a quest for more adventures. For me, high school was very boring indeed! Therefore, with mischief flowing in my blood, I did everything to make it more exhilarating. I skipped classes and went to the beach often. Of course, Mando, my friend, was with me all the way. We started our bikes once we were passed the bend of the hill going down to the harbor. We parked under a large banyan tree for shade and hung out. “S-mile, let’s borrow one of the small boats over there. Just for fun let’s row out to the breakers over there.” Mando pointed at the mouth of the bay. “You’re crazy, that’s a long ways out towards the breakers. The owner no going like it too kindly if we are using his boat to fool around with.” I cautioned Mando. “Heck, I know, but he’s probably not going find out unless we break something or sink it, or somebody reports us.” After a few minutes of quiet pondering, we both undressed down to our swimming shorts which we had on under our school clothes. We both locked our school clothes and IDs in our motorcycle seat compartments. . We rowed the little 7 foot dingy into the calm bay and started enjoying the solace of the voyage. It looked safe at first but we noticed it too late that the little waves were becoming bigger for our miniscule ride. We could see the shore getting farther away and smaller to see as we bobbed up and down with the toying of the swells and waves. Later on, we saw a bunch of people on the shore by our motorcycles.

The crowd was growing in number minute by minute. We were already a half a mile away. Puny as it was, our boat started taking in water. Each wave swell spilled water into the small dingy. We were not going to make it back to shore with the boat! “Mando, I don’t think we can row this freaking boat back to shore.” “I don’t think so either, S-mile. What are we going to do? S-mile, you’re the captain of the ship, so you can go down with the boat.” Mando said jokingly. “Definitely not, asshole. You can be captain of the ship. You’re bigger than I am and because of your fat Haole ass we are sinking.” Quickly, Mando and I prepared ourselves, jumped out of the boat laughing and began our long swim back to shore. There, the police, the boat owner and some fascinated spectators were waiting for us. “Hey guys, what the heck you think you are doing with Mr. Paka’s boat?” asked the officer as he met us at the edge of the water. “Officer, we were just borrowing it for a little while and were going to bring it back.” “Yes, but you guys didn’t have Mr. Paka’s permission to take his boat in the first place.” Mr. Paka was standing with his arms folded in front of his chest staring at us. They were definitely not happy about what just happened. “Mr. Paka, do you want to press charges on these guys for taking your boat?” “Eh, you guys know you not suppose to take anybody’s boat without asking permission. Just lucky nobody got hurt.” “Yeah, we know, sorry bra, not going to happen again.” I said with remorse. “Eh, I know you”, Mr. Paka pointing his finger at me. He paused and stared at me. “You got a sista name Bonnie with a husband name Nacio?” he asked inquisitively. “I bowed my head and said, “Yeah, as my sister and brother-in-law.”

I wasn’t sure if he knowing my sister Bonnie was good or bad. “Officer, Talapit, as okay, I no going press charges, just let them go.” “But Mr. Paka, how about your boat?” “As okay bra, my son is already out there with his fishing boat to tow it back in.” Just then we all looked out by the breakers and saw Mr. Paka’s son attaching a tow rope to the dingy and son’s huge fishing boat. Wow, it’s a good thing it happened in a small island with a population of 25,000. Most people knew somebody you know. We discussed the situation with police officer, Talapit, the owner, Mr. Paka, cousin of my sista’s husband Nacio and reached an amicable settlement. (Some good size fish for his family the next time my friends and I we went spear fishing.) We all were spared from all the questioning and paper work and above all we were saved from getting arrested.  

Pineapple Sam originated as a fictional character from the mind of Ismael Tabalno from Hawaii. He is a Kauai local individual of Asian descent who decided to write as a hobby when he retired. Pineapple Sam loved to “talk story” as they say in the islands, now many of his friends and family can still listen or read about his adventures.

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Written by Ismael Tabalno

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In the Beginning My life's journey has a humble, but adventurous beginning. It all started when my parents decided to leave the Philippines and immigrate to Hawaii in 1946. This migration odyssey marked the end of World War II between the United States and Japan. Leaving the Philippines was not an easy decision to make for my parents. I can only imagine how difficult it was. My oldest brother and sister were left to stay in the Philippines in custody of my grandparents. It would be twenty years later before they were able to join us in Hawaii. That's another story.

At that time, the United States government was seeking laborers for the highly lucrative and rapidly expanding sugar cane and pineapple industry in Hawaii. The war had left devastation throughout the Philippines leaving millions out of work. Hawaii was the place that my parents and thousands of other migrant workers chose to pursue as their golden opportunity. One of my brothers and three of my sisters accompanied my parents on that invigorating journey to Hawaii, a far away place in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.

In the years to follow, they didn't speak much about that trip. The one thing they did recall was that the ships were so full of people it was a marvel as to where they all came from. For almost thirty days, they stayed strong on rationed food and waited patiently until they stepped on the shores of Hawaii. I feel pleased to have been born after that voyage.

The days started early in Hawaii. My father left at 4:30 in the morning to catch the plantation trucks at the crossing. All my brothers and sisters left for school at seven in the morning. Mom kept busy during the day waiting out the last few weeks until I arrived. She spent her time doing her light chores at home. She was counting down the days until she felt it was the right time to leave for the hospital.

I have heard the story of my birth enough to recite it by heart. It was already 11:30 in the morning when mom made the decision to walk to the bus stop with her identifications and documents in her small wicker bag. At the bus stop my mother, Mrs. Patrico, took several deep breaths of the cool clean mountain air. People around smiled at her when they noticed her huge belly. A plantation worker offered her his seat, she thanked him as she slowly sat down with a sigh. She crossed her arms over her bulging belly. Her small wicker bag hung from her right arm. She closed her eyes and wiped the tears that tried to escape the corners. She smiled as her baby vigorously moved around in her belly. A squeal of air brakes startles her as she looked up and sees the bus has arrived. People started disembarking as soon as the bus door opened. "Let me help you, Nana," a smiling young, petite Filipino lady reaches for mom's hand and helps her stand up from the bench. "Oh thank you, my ading, you are so kind" my mom's weak voice thankful to her fellow passenger. "You are ready to have baby Nana, you look really big, no?" "Yes, ading, I am going to the hospital now, it is time." "Nobody going with you to the hospital, Nana?" "No, nobody, but it is okay because I left a note for my children and Tata. They will come to the hospital after school and work." "Oh, good then." The last person entering the bus was a farmer. He waited for mom to climb the steps and helped her to an open chair behind the driver. "Nana, give me your hand, let me help you," the same farmer gently grabbed mom's hand and guided her. "Oh, thank you, Barrock." This baby would be her 8th so she was a loving mom who was very experienced at giving birth. She continued her breathing exercise as she maintained her seating position. The labor pains bring tight grimaces until they finally ebb away. The bus ride took an agonizing 40 minutes before reaching her hospital destination. Mrs. Patrico had enough strength to get on the bus to the hospital and admit herself to deliver me, her last son. At the age of 42, she seriously believed that I would be the last. She was right. Once she checked in with admissions, the hospital nurse aides sat her in a wheelchair and wheeled her to her room. It has been an entire hour since her first contractions started that morning. "Good morning Mrs. Patrico, how are you today?" Dr. Kulman strolls in the room and greets mom with a smile. "Good morning Doctor." answered mom with smile and a weak voice. "I think this baby is big boy, doctor, yes?" "Yes, I think so Mrs. Patrico, but don't worry we can do this like the last time with your son, Hank, Okay?" "Yes, I hope so doctor, but this time I am little scared," as tears swell in her eyes. "It will be okay, Mrs. Patrico," The doctor patted my mom's hand to reassure her. "It hurts worse than last time doctor...please give me medicine," mom's voice is almost to a whisper. "Nasakit, Nasakit." (It hurts, it hurts in Filipino.) Dr. Kulman steps up to one of the nurses and gave her instructions. The nurse nods her head acknowledging his orders as they both leave the room. A few minutes later the nurse returns with a syringe for mom. "This is the pain medication the doctor ordered for you." Mom is much relieved, but the pain is so bad she can only acknowledge the nurse with a slight nod and weak smile.

The labor pains and the delivery were taking longer than usual and Doctor Kulman began to worry. It had been 12 hours since labor started and Mom was not dilating large enough for the baby's head to exit. The last 4 hours they already had her prepped in the operating room. "Your wife is trying very hard to deliver your child, but we may have to perform a C-Section, Mr. Patrico." It was Dr. Kulman's third pleading request to my dad. "No need..., we wait," my dad said sitting next to my mothers bed holding her hand with his left and waving off Dr. Kulman with his right. My brothers and sisters were waiting in the delivery waiting room for the good news. Finally, my closest cousin, Belinda, who was about the same age as my mom, had decided she must intervene. She asked to speak to Doctor Kulman and my dad. "Dr. Kulman, my name is Belinda; I will talk to my cousin, Mr. Patricio and try to get him to understand the situation. I understand you are trying your best under the circumstances." "Please talk to him and convince him that a C-Section at this point is necessary. Mrs. Patricio's and the child's life are in danger." Dr. Kulman could not perform a C-Section without the consent of the next of kin. The delivery room was alerted to stand by. One Registered and one License Nurse, Anesthesiologist, Dr. Kulman and an intern were in the operating room waiting.

Twelve hours had already lapsed since the first contractions. Dad was skeptical about C-sections because he didn't understand them. The previous seven children had no complications, so why now? Dad heard about the stomach incisions doctors performed on other mothers and how bad the women suffered in recovery. Dad didn't want our mother to undergo a C-section. Twice in twelve hours he refused to allow a C-section to be performed on her. "Manong, please give Dr. Kulman permission to take out baby by C-Section so that Manang don't have to suffer anymore." "Okay, let's ask your Manang," he agrees and stands up facing mom. "Nasakit, Nasakit," mom whispers, her eyes half closed. Dad stared at mom as her tears roll off her right side of her face. She is afraid for Dad. She doesn't want to see Dad upset. She doesn't say anything, but is hurting and wants the ordeal to end. She cringes and grimaces as the contractions are stronger and closer. "Please Manong, Dr Kulman said she might die and baby going be in trouble too", Belinda begs, now with her own tears flowing down her cheeks. "If she dies and baby lives, how is that going to look? Please give them both chances to live together, please Manong!" Belinda collapses on the chair and buries her head in her hands sobbing. The nurses look at them with sympathy and pretend to be doing something with the trays of sterilized surgery implements and monitoring devices attached to mother's arm. Dad looks at mom's weakening state and slowly walks over to the small table with the C-Section permission documents and began signing. In the enchanting county of Kauai in a town called Lihue on April 25, I was born to the world. The early dawn hours of April 25 was the first moments of the first day of my life. Together with my brother, I was only one of two Hawaiian-born among the family. "Congratulations Mrs. Patrico, you did well and you have another baby boy. We will bring him to you as soon as you feel better okay?" the nurse patted her hand. Mom was exhausted. She was still under the lingering sedation three hours after her baby was delivered by C-section. I was baptized as a Roman Catholic; John was added as my middle name. I remember using it up until high school. My family was my source of inspiration.

Indeed, I am lucky to have grown up in an environment that was full of affection. Both my parents valued hard work. Father was a laborer in the sugar plantation. Mother was a full-time wife and caregiver to us, her children. She kept herself busy preparing sumptuous meals and daily house chores. So my parents worked 24/7 to keep the family together. I'm not sure if they even had time to rest. But, they loved us greatly. As we grew older we sought other opportunities thereby leaving our plantation labor home in the Spanish Camp. We were what most people would consider a poor family. We did not let this get us down but took it as a challenge. Being poor became the source of our inspiration to strive for better education, knowledge and diverse number of successful achievements. Making ends meet was a constant struggle. We met the struggle together with the confidence that we would succeed. We busied ourselves by taking on a variety of different jobs as well as part-time gigs. My brothers and I often solicited landscaping work, while my sisters took on the role of baby sitters or child care providers. Just like our parents, the idea of idleness was not in our vocabulary.

We were all hard working and we became accustomed to meeting challenges head on. "Mamma, I am going to the Bate's house to clean up the back yard on Saturday". Unlike our plantation houses, the Bate's residence was among the better built houses and was located outside of our camp. The houses outside the camp were nearly four times bigger than our own and had larger yards. All of the larger houses were reserved for Plantation supervisors. Periodically, the resident lady would ask kids like me to help trim and clear the fast growing grass and shrubbery. "I can make some rice balls and some boiled eggs for you to take for lunch." "Thanks, ma, I will go about ten tomorrow morning and stay only 4 hours. She said she is paying $1.00 to cut and clean the area she will be showing me." I knew that a couple of small rice balls and couple boiled eggs was more than enough considering I would be munching on delicious Lychees and juicy Hayden mangoes too. "Make sure you tell your dad which cutting tools you will be using. You know how he is when tools are missing." "I know ma," I searched through the tool shed. I set aside my choice of gardening tools: a regular hoe, a sharpened sickle and the all-purpose machete. At thirteen years old I was already a seasoned yard boy; this from having started at the ripe age of five helping dad and other siblings maintain our own garden behind our house. Even though I was going to work at a house much larger than ours, I couldn't help but be thankful for the beauty of our home.

The reservoirs and ocean shores were our fishing grounds and food source. We also had a small, yet very interesting garden at the back of the house. This was more than the average vegetable garden. It was abound with luscious fruit trees and a variety of vegetables that we also grew. Our home was a little paradise surrounded by papayas, avocados, bananas, mangoes and so much more. To complete the picture, we built a modest pond to raise and stock catfish. Most people don't realize that to raise catfish you need nothing more than an 8 foot by 10 foot pond that is at least 2 feet deep.

We lived in an area of Koloa town called the Spanish Camp. It was a plantation camp designed exclusively for employees and their families who worked for the sugar plantation or pineapple canneries. The previous or original tenants were of Spanish descent, thus the name Spanish Camp. The house we lived in was a testament to using what you had. It had 3 bedrooms, a living room, a kitchen and a front porch. To my estimate, the whole house living space was around 800 square feet. It was built 3-4 feet off the ground in order to prevent flood waters from coming into the house during the rainy season. All of the houses in the Spanish Camp were built with this architectural design. I could view the ground beneath the house from the spaces between our floor boards. Our roof was a corrugated tin roof and the walls were single pine wood.

The one thing I couldn't forget was that we did not have running hot water. Our bathhouse was situated outside about ten feet away from the main house. During my early ten years our family heated water for bathing. That everyday ritual was a chore that the man took care of; so just imagine those shivering-cold nights! Nevertheless, the Patricio's were not to settle for the condition of our home. My dad, who was a skilled carpenter, rounded up his friends and jump-started the additions to our humble abode. They built a detached garage on the right side and another one in the rear of the house. The bathroom wasn't much of a problem as the community shared one out-house. We needed the garage because my dad was great at driving. If my mother knew how to read, write and speak English, I believe she could have gotten a driver's license too.

As positive as my family tried to be I still remember how difficult it was being in this kind of situation. Discrimination was one of the challenges that were the hardest to overcome. While I was growing up in Kauai, I was surrounded by a small population of local folks: Filipinos, Japanese, Chinese, Portuguese, Hawaiians and the occasional few Caucasians. Among my peers, it was quite easy to be discriminated against when you're considered an outsider and therefore 'different'. Other ethnic groups who stayed in the tourist hotels were considered rich. They stayed at expensive hotels and obviously spent a lot of money. My mother was a hardworking and dedicated resourceful housewife. While laundering our family clothes, she also earned money by laundering clothes for the other plantation workers who were not married or fortunate enough to have a housewife. The monies she earned contributed to my father's meager salary. I remember quite a bit as a child. I am the youngest child in my family. I have always cherished the fact that I have siblings and I believe the bonds between siblings are the strongest amongst any other. I recalled being strapped by a cotton back harness onto my mother's back as she did her daily chores and work. I enjoyed the view from the back while she hummed through her daily routines. I was a living witness to her commitment and dedication to work and family. If my mother was able to give birth to me and take good care of me in her forties, there is no reason that I cannot face life with the same boldness and tenacity. She displayed the commitment to family and tenacity to complete all she could do. It has shaped me into the person that I am today. Mother taught me that I should try not to discriminate against others and look at them for who they really are as a person or people.

I think society today should be more tolerant and take this point of view. It was difficult growing up among a peer group where most were thinking that outsiders were completely different and therefore easier to discriminate against. But that's not the only priceless lesson learned from mother. She was for me the forerunner of antidiscrimination. She instructed that persons or people are not to be foolishly misjudged by their differences or appearance, but are to be valued for who they really are. This is not an easy principle to accept these days. But as much as I can, I persevere to uphold it like my spirited mother did. And I hope that others do also.

Pineapple Sam originated as a fictional character from the mind of Ismael Tabalno from Hawaii. He is a Kauai local individual of Asian descent who decided to write as a hobby when he retired. Pineapple Sam loved to "talk story" as they say in the islands, now many of his friends and family can still listen or read about his adventures.

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