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Written by Clinton Lee

It all began back at St. Patrick School on 6th and Harding Avenues  starting with kindergarten all the way through the eighth grade. At the time, the Sisters of the Sacred Hearts Society were in charge and operated the establishment as well as few selected dedicated lay teachers. Back then, requirements for teacher's credentials were a high school diploma and a willingness to teach. Discipline was the basic rule and corporal punishment was the common practice. I fondly remembered we use to have nicknames for some of our beloved tutors in those early days of matriculation. I can still see and hear our first grade teacher, Sister Mary Beatrice, whom we reverently referred to as "the Wild Beast". She had a high pitch screech and a distinct sternness in her voice to make any kid pray and look forward to recess time. She carried a heavy thick ruler solely dedicated for those who didn't pay attention or talked out of line. I can still hear the "whack, whack, ow-wee, ow-wee" from my poor old classmates crying out for heavenly mercy.

Quite possibly, many of them now have kids or grandkids experiencing the very same kinds of discipline we had back in those days at ole' SPS. Maybe not as physical as we had experienced, but hopefully, with more modern psychological approaches and behavioral disciplines of today's education system. Many would disagree with yesterday's practices saying that corporal punishment was cruel child abuse, but somehow when I look back, I couldn't see anything wrong with it. In many ways, I consider Sister Mary Beatrice one of my formidable mentors who influenced and instilled many of the disciplines I carry with me today due to that type of "holy fear".

There was also Miss Silva, my second, third, and fourth grade teacher. I guess she had an attachment for our class as much as we had for her that she voluntarily moved up with us for those consecutive three years. All in our class loved her as much as she loved us and treated us just like her own children. To this day, I don't ever think she married or was ever attached. Ah, Miss Silva, she was such a religious person who carried herself with grace and charm.

The cafeteria gang headed by Mrs. Hoke and all of the other friendly lady helpers were like our extended family. I can still remember and taste Mrs. Hoke's shortbread butter cookies that she sold after school for 5 cents a slice on a cookie sheet and the various flavored "ice cakes" for the same price. Root beer, strawberry, lime, grape, and orange all frozen in a small wax-papered cup. She also had Dairyman's strawberry, chocolate, and vanilla ice cream cups for 6 cents as well as double Popsicle sticks. During recess time, we dumb kids used to go and pick up the discarded Popsicle sticks and weave them into a triangular wedge to be thrown as a flying Frisbees disintegrating on impact. Now that I think about it, what an unsanitary thing to do! Oh, what the heck, we were just hanabuddah kids having fun.

Back in the fifties, it was common to have three to five kids in a family unit and all attending the same school. A few of my childhood friends attended public school where there were no dress codes like we had at St. Patrick's. We students were mandated to wear the long sleeved khaki shirt and pants with a long green SPS tie. The girls too had to wear dark green dresses and white blouses with the SPS shamrock emblem. The rules were strict, but if you wanted to a student there, you had to conform. Discipline and conformance was the theme.

We also had the so-called "gangs" not like what society calls them now but were quite tame by today's comparison. The "gangs" were social cliques of young boys and even girls going around trying to act tough. They had names like the "Belgians" and the "Tomcats". Occasionally, fights would occur when two bulls would meet behind the back of the kindergarten building and slug it out until someone would cry or give up. That was the extent of a "tangle" as we called it back then. The way one dressed would tell everyone how tough one actually was. The tough guys would comb their hair in the infamous pomade-greased "chicken ass" hairdos all while wearing the wide bellbottom pants or "drapes" as it was known then, to portray their so-called gangster appearance. The rowdy girls would wear several wide hooped-skirts or slips (the wider the rowdier) to be in current fashion. That sure seemed a far cry from today's version of being in a "gang".

On the festive side, I can remember one of the better and fonder memories while attending St. Patrick's and it was their annual carnival. Parents as well as students participated directly or indirectly in making the carnival a success. Product donations as well as physical services were welcomed. Oh, how I remember the teriyaki BBQ meat sticks for one script (10 cents) and the Ferris wheel and caterpillar rides for two scripts. The aromas of cotton candy and saimin broth still make me salivate as I think about it. It was a time when everyone pulled together and donated their time and effort all in for the betterment of the school and student scholarships.

Prior to the carnival, all of the students had to sell a minimum amount of carnival script during the Spring season of every year. The competition for selling script was hot and furious. Personal prizes were also awarded to whomever sold the most. The class or classes that sold the highest amount of script had the privilege to go on a school-sponsored field trip or picnic on the school buses with all of their classmates and teachers. The most common venue was either Ala Moana Beach Park or the beachfront facility of St. Stephen's in Hauula. Wherever it was, we didn't care. We were all so young, enjoying life, and whether we liked it or not, proud vanguard members of the new baby boomer generation. Ah, yes... to re-live the days of hanabuddah youth...all gone but not forgotten.

Clinton Lee lived in the Kaimuki area on Oahu andattended St. Patrick School in the 50's and St. Louis High School and Chaminade College inthe 60's. He now lives in Torrence, California.

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Written by Sharon Kuuipo Paulo

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One day while my cousins and I were sitting around, thinking about a friend of ours whom we had just lost, we started talking about growing up in Hawaii and how for some of us, life was real hard.

My cousins lived in Papakolea in a house with pukas in the floor and ceiling, a refrigerator that was really an ICEbox. A 'safe' for the buddah, shugah, and whatevahs.  The legs of the 'safe' were in sardine cans filled with water to keep the ants out kerosene stoves that smelled so nice in the early morning.

Tea  grew wild in the yard and looked like weeds.   Every morning a batch was picked, the dirt shaken off the roots, the kukus picked off and boiled in hot water.  If you ran out of tea, all you had to do was add more water throughout the day.  The next day, you did the same thing.

Eating hot rice with sugar, cream and butter... putting sugar and butter on a slice of bread or saloon pilot cracker and eating it whenever you wanted a snack ... having tables and benches instead of dining room furniture... eating palao keko (monkey bread) when food was scarce instead of boxed cereal.

Eating flat pancakes made of only flour and sugar and fried crispy eating fried eggs with shoyu mixed into hot rice ... eating  papa'a rice and pork and beans after a day of swimming  at Kapena... taking steam baths with the whole family under what seemed like a ton of blankets with everyone around a pakini filled with boiling water; the pakini being lined with Vicks vaporub or young lemon shoots from the tree in the front yard.

Being afraid to tell your parents that you were sick because you never knew what they were going to feed you from the yard like the uhualoa root, leaves from the popolo plant that have been smashed into a pulp (the berries were 'ono though but kind of small), chewing the young shoots of the guava tree, the sap from the kukui nut, and more (all of which of course made you feel better); and don't ever tell them that you had kukai pa'a or out came the castor oil bottle along with a slice of lemon to kill the taste!!

Cooking starch and then starching the clothes and hanging them on the clothesline until they were so stiff they could walk of the line by themselves; and then when dried, sprinkling them with water and putting them in the refrigerator until you were ready to iron them.  Especially the jeans. Can't Bust 'Em jeans with the side pockets for your comb.

Washing clothes with a wash board in large pakini's filled with "bluing" and later being able to afford a washer and den get your hand caught in the wringer.

Putting your pack of cigarettes in the sleeve of your t-shirt all rolled up.  Buying margarine by the block because you never had enough money to buy the whole box of four.  Buying Loves bread and by the time you got home, the bread was all smashed... or half eaten.

Eating saloon pilot crackers covered with butter and breaking it up into a bowl of hot chocolate and all of the butter floating to the top. Eating hot tea in a bowl with rice. Getting scoldings because you nevah kahi the poi bowl after eating.  Using the wax from a candle or the leaf from a banana tree when ironing to keep the iron from sticking. Eating the yellow kiawe beans instead of feeding them to the pigs. Those sticky stuckah beans that we used to rub on the carnation cream cans and walk all over the place with them stuck to our feet.

Playing sky inning and home run in the streets stopping only when a car came by. Your first driving lesson given to you by your best friend because your parents did not think that you should be driving.   We all learned to drive stick-shift because the 'hydromatics" were not out yet. The lickings you got for driving without a license....  and the cop knew your parents and thought that he was doing you a favor by telling them!!

Christmas bags you got from school every year and church that had an apple, an orange, hard candies, raisins still on  a branch and nuts. The old manapua man walking around with two buckets hanging from a stick over his shoulders shouting "manapua, pepeiau"

The mosquito trucks spraying DDT into the evening air and us like lolos chasing the truck and running through the smoke. School lunch was only a quarter for years even when our own kids started school Surfing during tidal wave warnings.....  and being a JPO in school. Playing jacks with small stones and an old tennis ball, agates with my brothers and the hapupus they used to make so that they could steal my bumbuchas.

Oh!... the good old days with so much to look forward to.   Who would have thought that we would give up all of this to come to the mainland to live. Gone are the days of our youth.  Gone are those times shared with family.

Everything today is so hi-tech that children are not learning to create as we did because we had so little.  We could not afford a television so grew up without one.  What would children do today without their computers and television?  I can only imagine.

We had so little and yet so much and never saw it until we grew up and looked back and now can see the beauty of being a Hawaiian kid growing up in Hawaii.  And you know what, we didn't even know that we were poor because everyone in our neighborhood grew up the same way. Here's to those hanabuddah days, may the memory of those times always bring us joy.

Sharon Kuuipo Paulo is originally from Nanakuli, Oahu. She moved to the mainland in 1970  She's a single parent of six grown children and a grandmother of 16 mo'opuna.  She now lives and works in Los Angeles area.   "I am very active in the Hawaiian community and belong to numerous community organizations throughout southern California.  I am a community activist."   Kuuipo loves reading  good mystery novel and writing.

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Written by Marguerite Heng

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My mother was born and raised in Hilo.   Her parents were both Portuguese and her father came from the old country.  Her mother was born in Kohala. I didn't come to the islands until I was 4.  It was during World War II, and the only way Mother and I were getting back to Hawaii was on a Navy Hospital Ship.  My father, who was already there, and my grandfather worked for six months trying to get us passage.  Unfortunately, my grandfather died four months before we arrived.

In 1944, I began my life in Hawaii. I grew up loving all the time that I have spent there.   Growing up in the Navy I never had a home to call my own, but I always felt Hilo was my home. We spent many good days at my grandmother's house on Mohouli Street.   Across the street was guava bushes, and we use to go in there and pick as many as we wanted.  They are long gone, but the memories are still there.

I remember walking down Kilauea Avenue to the Hilo Drug where my cousin and I would sit at the counter and drink Cherry Cokes.  These were the days when they made the cokes from scratch.  Then we would walk back home and stop by the Sushi shop and buy cone sushi and fish cakes.  We would eat them on the way home.

My grandmother had a huge front yard.  I think a lot of people in Hawaii back in those days had big front yards.  We would take turns mowing the grass with the push lawn mower.  Her house was also high up off the ground and underneath was dirt.  It was a great place to play on those rainy days. My grandfather became a taxi driver after his father died, and made a good living raising 16 children.

My favorite story of my Mother's days is how she met my father.   The Circus came to town and she went with her girlfriend Lucille.   My father was on Shore Patrol.  He saw her there, but he couldn't talk to her that night. So the next day he went back.  As it were, so did Mother and Lucille.   He started talking to Lucille and she introduced mother to my Father.  Daddy asked her out but she told him he would have to go ask her father.  She thought he wouldn't take the time. He did and my grandfather liked him.  He called my Mother and told her she could go out with him.  Their dates in those days were on the front porch.

For the next two years whenever the ship was in Hilo, my Father came over. Promptly at 10:00 my grandmother would knock on the wall and say time to go home.  Daddy would start walking back and half way down the block my grandfather would stop, pick him up and take him back to the ship.   They were married 59 years.  My Daddy has been gone for 5 years, but Mother is still going strong at 85.

I think growing up in Hawaii and always coming back will remain in my memories until the end of time.   It was a place of joy and a way of life that no one can know who didn't experience it.   I have taken my son there twice, and he fell in love with the beauty and charm the first time. Whenever we want a little bit of the islands, we go to Island Boys here in San Diego and enjoy the food of the island.  We have found all the places that sell the good food from Hawaii -- the mochi, manjus, sweetbread, laulaus and Portuguese sausage, and the pilot crackers.    Mother and Steve love the KimChi and I like the Akaume Zuke.   The mainland sushi is not like the island cone sushi, but we eat it anyway.  We also make our own.

I love the stories that my Mother tells me of the islands.   I have my own memories as well.  The one that will always stand out best in my mind is the one day at the end of WWII.  I was standing with my Mother in our yard. We were living in Honlulu in the Kaimuki area on Sunset Cliffs.  Out on the bay were ships, hundreds of ships that were returning from distant places in the Pacific.  It was the most beautiful sight in the world.

Whenever my cousins get together we talk of our times in Hawaii.  Most of all my cousins have moved to California.  I still have cousins left on the Big Island and Oahu, but not many.  We talk of the good times and most of all the food.  I was told once that it sounded like all we ever did was eat.    I remember when I took my son to Hawaii the first time.  My ex-husband was with us.  We had gone up to the Volcano and were touring back when my cousin and I both said stop.  He couldn't understand why we wanted to stop in the middle of no where there was nothing to see.  Ah, but there was something to see.  Guavas and Vives growing all over the place. We picked all we could and ate as much as we could.    Tourist don't know what they miss.

San Diego is where I live, but nothing can compare to living in Hawaii. There was a peaceful air about the place.  A special type of tranquility that you can find no where else.  People were carefree and proud of their heritage no matter where they came from.  They all blended together to make Hawaii a good place to live.   My grandfather and grandmother brought up their children with good morals and good values.  I am proud to be Portuguese and I am proud to have a Mother that grew up in such a wonderful place where life was good.

Hawaii will always be a part of my heart, the music a part of my soul and the memories a part of my mind... when I put it all together... I simply call it the ... 'Hawaiian Spirit'.

Marguerite Heng  now lives with her mother in La Mesa, CA, a short distance from San Diego.

I work as a Claims Assistant for the Professional Risk Management Department of UCSD. I went to high school in Eudora, Arkansas. attended the University of Arkansas and San Jose City College. From the teachings of my mother, I have the values and the love of Hawaii.  From my father, I have the history and roots from the South.  I have always said I come from the best of two worlds.

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Written by Deanne Learn

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Who ever came up with the idea that you had to count to 100 after you pau eating and before you go swim? I remember small kid time all our cousins being at grandma's house and as soon as we swallowed the last bite we would start counting. Couldn't count to fast bumbye grandma make us start all over. From about 1 to 50 we just cleaning up and cruising but when we getting closer, we start taking off the t-shirts and walking down to the pool. At around 80 we're all counting together and getting louder and louder. At 90 we're all getting in our "spot" to jump, dive, or bomb in. Then FINALLY we all jump and yell 100 in the air before landing in the pool.

The best was jumping off the roof into the pool. The only catch was you gotta make sure grandpa wasn't home so you could do it.. He would get so mad at us when we were bombing in the pool! "You guys wasting water!" he would yell at us. Worse yet was when he came home after we did it and there were all the  splash marks on the wall. BUSTED! I remember the sweet smell of the pakalana, ginger and plumeria that grew around the pool. Then when we were hungry again someone would go pick mountain apple, mango or lychee and throw them into the pool so everyone could snack. Hmm I wonder why it was okay to eat snack while we were swimming but we had to wait after a meal? When I think of my "hanabuddah days" it always has something to do with grandma's house and the pool.

Deanne Learn (maiden name Lavatai) was born and raised in Makiki. She graduated from Roosevelt in 1987. She and husband Cory have two kids and one due in January 2000. She now lives in Montana and loves the mountains there. But never as much as the beach! She has the best career in the world. She is wife and mother to a wonderful husband and really good kids. She is still looking for that kid Kalani, you remember those commercials...come be my neighbor...call now for sure! He's probably out fishing or hunting. She still gets homesick sometimes but always has home in her heart.

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Written by Linda "Lika" Relacion Oosahwe

I grew up in Ewa, 140 Fernandez Village to be exact. My community was what I thought the whole world was like. Like I thought the only religions had in dis world was Buddist, Catholic, and Protestant. I thought you had to be Oriental to be Buddist and there weren't any Oriental Catholics. Even though, Father Toms last name was Miyashiro; I didn't see him as Japanese, his nationality was Priest. The other priest was Father Pirate! I think his real name was Father Peterson and I think he was haole. But he wore a patch over one eye, so az why all da kids called him Father Pirate. Had any kind story about why he had to wear a patch; like he was born wit one eye, he lost his eye in da war, wen he was small he saw someting he no pose to so he lost the site of one eye la dat. Father Pirate had one deep mean kine voice, he would scold people in confession and they would come out crying.

All the Catholic kids went to mass Sunday mornings. Wedda your parents went or not, da kids were there to represent, I guess. Back in da day, females could not (or was not allowed to) go to mass with out a hat or veil. All us girls had a little round lace veil. If you went to mass wit no veil or hat, somebodys mom or grandma would put a kleenex tissue on your head. Den afta mass all da kids would tease, "You kleenexhead, kleenexhead!"

In Ewa you can tell its a Filipino house because of da calamonguy tree and da chickens. In the back of our house we had double decker chicken coup, "Da Chicken Condos !" Part of it was right up against the back fence. To get on top the chicken coup all you had to do was climb the fence. Us kids use to like stand on the chicken coup roof and check out the scenery, yell at anybody we see and small kids stuff la dat. Wen I was about 7 years old, one time we wen climb on top da chicken coup roof. I stepped right where the tin overlaps. The edge sliced a 5 inch gash on the bottom of my small luau feet. I screamed, seeing blood. My bruhdah and his friends jumped down from da roof real quick. I climbed slowly down, leaving a trail of blood. My Mahdah came out of the house after hearing me scream and all the big noise us kids was making. My Mahda pulled me down off the fence. My bruhdah dem was telling her what happen. One slippa went flying across my okole a couple of times. She was saying, "Wea yo slippas on yo feet, so I no have to putem on your okole??!!"

She carried me into the house and started to fix my feet. All the kids were watching and looking at the gash. I rememba my Mahdah coming at me with alcohol and cotton balls telling me if I no watch out I going get lockjaw. I was crying really ugly kine. I had no idea what lockjaw was. My bruhdah and his friends started saying, "Yeah, you can get lockjaw; yo jaw going lock and you no can talk any moe." All pau fix my ow-wee, my mahdah said, "Go head climb the chicken coup some moe." And da next day I did, but I had my slippas on !!

If I did anything wrong in school and my Fahdah found out; I would get it even moe worst. Dis one time I got 2 slaps with da ruler from my teacher. I no rememba why. My Fahdah found out and I got dirty lickings. As the belt was wizzing across my okole he lectured, "You stupid or what, you know you not stupid, stupid!" (I remember thinking, No, yes, not) The famous words: "You no listen as why" was the reasoning for my dirty lickings. It's not that I neva listen; it's that I did things different or kapakai while talking. Kids use to be classified like, Smart, Regular, or Retarded. There wasn't room for different. I think between Regular and Retarded was Stupid (or acting Stupid/def ea no listen). I think these days its labeled Attention Deficit Disorder.

I often thought my parents were strange. What kid doesn't? Like my parents named my oldest sista Betty, a good American name. But my Fahdah could never pronounce it. He always said, B T. So for 5 years my sister hears her name as BT. She starts school; the teacher does roll call, "Betty !". My sister doesnt answer. Process by elimination the teacher says to her, "You must be Betty." My sista says, "Na-uh, my name is BT." My sista goes home and tells my Fahdah what happened. My Fahdah gives her dirty scolding, he tells her, "Whateva da teacha tell you is right. If dat how she sayem den as how. You listen, neva mind answa back."

Growing up in Hawaii in the 60s was a special time indeed. Our parents had one major rule; "break da rules or ack disrepectful to anybody and you going get dirty lickings." It spawned the "Dirty Lickings Generation." Us is da kids (adults now) who knew the consequences of breaking rules or being disrespectful was dirty lickings. In the words of my Sista Ku; We everytime got dirty lickings BUT eh....we turned out OK, no ??!

Linda "Lika" Relacion Oosahwe was born at Queens Hospital raised in Fernandez Village/Ewa and Waipahu. She currently lives in Arizona.  She has three children; Quannee Mokihana, Star Leinaala, and Keokuk Hokule'a a.k.a Quan, STA & BoBOY! A palm reader once told her she would have three husbands. She's way behind, she still working on her first one and it's been 26 years!! When she grows up she wants to be "financially independent" currently she is "financially embarrassed"!

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Written by Ann Scholl

I grew up in Waimanalo back in the 60s & 70s with my 4 younger sisters, 1 younger brother, Mom,Dad, & Grandma. We lived in a small brick house with only 3 bedrooms so I never had myown room until I was grown and married (even then I had to share it with my husband!!).But we lived quite happily in that little house and made lots of loving memories.

My Dad worked a lot and didn*t feel like he was spending enough quality time with us kids so he would often think up different ways to stayconnected. One way was to have a traditional big Sunday breakfast. Since there were somany mouths to feed, Mom and Dad would buy those big flats of eggs from the egg farm thatwas out in the back roads near the foot of the Ko*olaus. We were going to have eggs, overeasy, lots of bacon, lots of fried potatoes with onions, and lots of toast to sop up therunny egg yolks (mmmm, ono-licious!).

Well, Sunday morning arrived. Dad was up bright andearly. He was to be the head chef  and all of us kids would be his assistants. Onekid was in charge of loading the 2-slice toaster, another got the buttering job.  Oneset the table, another helped cut up potatoes. But the most important job fell to HeadChef Dad...he would cook the eggs to perfection. Or so he thought. After making sure thatthe skillet was heated just right and the  butter had melted but not burned, Iwatched him reach his hand out for the  first egg.

I was filled with anticipation and made sure I hadthe best viewing spot. The egg was in his hand...he cracked it against the side of theskillet...he held the cracked egg over the skillet and gently pried it apart...nothingcame out!

Dad looked so surprised. He turned the two halvesover & looked astonished when he discovered that it was hard boiled! He picked upanother egg, cracked it against the edge of the skillet, pried it open, andagain...nothing! Another hard boiled egg! This continued for at least 5 more eggs, eachone hard boiled, and each time Dad got angrier and angrier! All of us kids were reallyworried. The next thing I knew, he grabbed up the eggs, his car keys, and with Mom rightbehind him, drove those eggs back to the egg farm !!

When the lady at the egg farm saw that all thoseeggs were hard boiled, she apologized profusely and gave my Dad TWO flats of eggs...FORFREE! When they got home, he finished making breakfast, and as usual it was terrific! Ifound out later that week, at school, that the egg farm lady gave her kids dirty lickingsfor boiling all those eggs.

I was 24 years old before I got up the nerve totell my Mom that I was the one that boiled them! I never did get the nerve to tell my Dad.He passed away this past August. (looking up to heaven...) Sorry Dad just kidding!

Ann Schollwas brought up in Waimanalo, living just "three blocks from Mel*s Market." She*sthe oldest of 6 kids and attended Kailua High School. She is an alumni of the Kailua HighSchool Madrigal Singers (1972). She now lives in Northern Virginia with her husband, aretired Army master sergeant. They have 3 sons. She is an administrative assistant withthe Newspaper Association of America. Her hobbies include Civil War reenacting, complete  with hoop skirt and the southern belle "ya*all" dialect, singing anddancing  (Hawaiian and country western). When able, she visits her mom, who currently  lives in Haleiwa, Oahu.

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Written by Kamaka Brown

Hoo boy, I wanted one bike really bad. I mean, the neighbor kids all had bikes with the gooseneck and cool tassels coming out of the handle bars on each end...hoo boy, I wanted one bike jus' like dat !! And I wanted it bad....

But Daddy was giving me one of his lectures about "dem keeds no appreciate the stuffs they get for Christmas because they neva do nuttin' to deserve 'em...dey gettum' jus' becuz it's Christmas..." You see Daddy's logic was this: When you get something for nothing..you take it for granted...but if you work for it...you appreciate it much more.

And Daddy had done studies on this. He collected data on his thesis and would take me on the tour of the neighborhood to prove his point. We would cruise the neighborhood just after a big rain...he would slow down in front of a house with bikes strewn on the front lawn or driveway. The toys, bikes and assorted "implements of play" would be rusting in the rain. "You see dat, boy ?" he would say, "dem keeds no care...dey figgah dey going get new stuff at Christmas time...dey no appreciate what dey get..."

But hoo boy, I wanted one bike !! "Well,"'Daddy said, " you wanna a bike, eh..ok let's think about this..." Hoo boy...what now?? Daddy was scratching his chin...that was a sign he was formulating one scheme...

"You seen da bike you like?" he questioned me looking over the top of his reading glasses.

"Yeah, I seen 'em at Sears..down stairs by da automotive department.. by da escalatah... dey get all da bikes on racks and...and....." I was running all the words together....

"Ok ok ok...." Daddy said. "Now how much dey want for da bike?"

I told him. He was scratching his chin again.

"K'den..HERE'S WHAT WE GONNA DO, boy," he finally said..."when you rake the leaves by the mango tree after school you get two dollars..and when you take the rubbish out on rubbish day and make sure you put da brick on da cover so da neighbors damm dogs no get into da trash..you get two dollars...and when you...." Daddy listed all the chores I could do around the house and yard that would add up to exactly one half the price of the bike... "Now when you save up your half..Mommy and me going kick in da other half...and we go down get your bike." He stopped scratching his chin and gave me one hard look... "What you think, boy?"

My head was swimming with all the details of Daddy's deal...hmmmm...lesseee how long dis going take??? "Well, you jus' think 'bout it, boy...and let me know..." Daddy got up and gave me a pat on the head," you think 'bout it real good."

Man, the neighbor kids never have to go through this !! They just got stuff when Christmas time came. The more I thought about it...the more I was getting mad !! But then, it was either going be a kid that was "bike-with"

or

a kid that was "bike-LESS"...Hoo boy...

I had long learned about Santa Claus. I had learned the harsh realities when I was seven years old when I remembered seeing a bunch of different looking Santas downtown sitting in the shopping center taking pictures with kids, ringing the bell at the Salvation Army kettle for spare change, in the Christmas parade throwing candy to the kids....heeeey, I thought...dem guys all look different...and I wasn't going for da "Oh they are Santa's HELPERS !!" No way...something is wrong with dis picture...and den my friend Benny Nascimento broke it to me one day riding home on the school bus

"Stoopid," he said, "no such ting as Santa Claus...you nodono that?" "Huh?" I stared at him waiting for him to confirm my suspicion. "Ass only make-believe brah! Your muddah and fuddah da ones pretend it's Santa wen bring da toys..you sooo dense !!"

It was the confirmation I needed to put it all together...Of course, how could Santa make it all around my block, deliver all the toys, know what each kid wanted, and since we never have one chimney like in the books at school...he had to break into the house really quiet...I couldn't see Santa breaking and entering our house with our German Shepherd sleeping on the porch...ain't no way...he would get his okole chewed off before he even made it into the yard...

Soooo....it was Daddy who put the final nail in Santa..."Eh, you big boy now...Santa is for small keeds..." And now it was time to either cut fish or eat da bait...or something like that...I was going for it !!

It was Daddy's version of "Let's Make a Deal"....and I was going be the winner of one shiney new Schwinn bike !! I had leaves to rake, rubbish to take out..no forget the brick on da cover and weeds to pull on weekends.....

Then a couple days before Christmas came the time when Daddy and me lifted my bike out of the old Plymouth station wagon and into the garage...I flipped the kick stand down and let it stand by itself for a while.. I walked around it a couple of times, not believing my eyes...

It was sooooo coool !! Daddy was watching me smiling. "So boy," he said, "are you gonna take her out for a spin?" I was on it and down the drive way in a flash !! The wind in my face, the sound of the new tires whirrring away and the tassels fluttering in the breeze...Hoo man..life is good !!

That nite...I wiped down the tires and rims...took a towel and polished the chrome handle bars and frame...and rolled it into my bedroom. There was no way my "gift" was going to get left out in the rain or get dinged in the garage...not after all those months of raking leaves and stuff !! No way !

In the morning, next to the bike, were gifts wrapped in bright colors... a tool kit for the bike, one tire pump, one tire repair kit and a picture Daddy had taken of me from inside the house one afternoon as I was raking those damm leaves under the mango tree... on the back it said: "We are very proud of you, Son... Love, Daddy and Momma"

Daddy and me were "partners" in my first car, a '62 Volkswagen Bug. Although I couldn't drive it into my bedroom at nite...I treasured that "gift" too. Daddy's lesson in responsibility and appreciation was not lost on me. I learned the value of money and a work ethic that lasted into my adult life... And while sharing and giving was always a big part of our family life, it was Daddy's down to earth sound reasoning that kept me on track as I grew up.

My daughter wants a bike. It's Barbie Pink with white tires and a basket...we sat down in the parlor watching Poke Mon on TV and I scratched my chin..looked over the top of my glasses and said..."HERE'S WHAT WE GONNA DO, honey..." She rolled her eyes at me... and I contemplated showing her a faded picture of a kid raking leaves and taking her on a tour of the neighborhood after a rain.

Kamaka Brown was born and raised in Hawaii. Childhood years were spent in Waimea Valley on the North Shore of Oahu. Now a California resident he has not forgotten his Island roots. He writes and performs local style comedy at concerts and clubs around Southern California.

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Written by Chris M. Urmeneta

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Sometimes, I'm still amazed that after almost thirty six years, the memory of what happened in October, 1963, is still so clear to me. Sadly enough, not all memories of those "hannabuddah days" are pleasant ones. But when you're barely fourteen years old and a police officer comes to your house, asking questions and making accusations, it isn't something easily forgotten. Apparently, some Japanese tourists had stopped at the beach near our house and someone had stolen cash and jewelry from their car while they walked along the beach. He just wanted to ask me a few question, he said.

So, I had to go with him to the spot where the crime had been commited. There he tried to get me to confess to something I had not done. He said there were witnesses so I may as well confess. I can't remember ever being as scared as I felt back then. Petrified with fear, I didn't even know what "grand larceny" was, this crime that I was being accused of commiting and being asked to confess to. But even in tears and being threatened to be taken "downtown", I still refused to give in. So, there we went, this larger-than-life police detective and a little, barefooted, kid with "puka pants" and tears rolling down my face headed toward town. We stopped at the fire station in Pupukea by Niimi's grocery store, where he said he had to make a phone call. He went in and I sat in the car, too scared to do anything else. When he finally came out, he took a copy of my fingerprints, and took me back home, promising to come back and get me.

I remembered asking him earlier who it was that said they saw me taking those things out of that car. He wouldn't answer. I remember admitting to being on the beach in that area that day. But neither my fears or tears, nor his threats and accusations could make me take the blame when I knew I was innocent. I never saw him or heard anymore about how things turned out, but I will always remember that day in October, 1963, when being innocent was not enough.

Chris Urmeneta was raised on the North Shore of Oahu and went to Kahuku High School ('67).  He is married with two grown children in their 20's.

We are expecting our first grandchild in July !!" He and his family live in Tulsa, Oklahoma.  Chris is a purchasing agent for a hospital based durable medical equipment company in Tulsa.  To be able to say I was born and raised in Hawaii makes me proud.  I miss the Islands and think of my old friends and classmates often.  Kahuku, class of '67? E-mail me. I sure would like to hear from you!! (ex- Sunset big wave rider).

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