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Written by George K. Cabral

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There used to be a quarry a couple streets from us that was abandoned for many years. It was just up the back of the old blue B & K store which by the way, is still there today. I am not sure what it is called today. I don't remember who owned the quarry but as a small kid of maybe 10 or 12 it always intrigued me.

During one summer vacation I' wen go out with the guys at the weighing station at the front of the quarry. It was just an old one-room building painted a light yellow with white trimmed windows.The floor was concrete. It had two or three desk in it. At the front looking outside, there was this wide window where you could see the trucks on the way out sitting on this huge wooden platform long enough to fit a dump truck. Inside the building had these big scales that the men would use to weigh these trucks heading out with dirt. It was always dusty in there but as a kid I didn't really care about getting dirty from that dust. I just had to make sure I dusted myself off before going home.

They used to let me sit in the office and watch the trucks get weighed in as they rolled on to those huge scales. As a little kid those trucks were awesome to see that near. You know da kine Peterbilt or Mack trucks and some of them had trailers on it that made it even bigger then it already was. If it did have a trailer then they'd weigh the truck then have them move it forward and have the trailer weighed after that. And the guys that drove them were some of the heroes for me. You know I was just little kid and those were some big "Blalas".

Sometimes those guys would let me up in those trucks and sit on the passenger side way up in there. They would have to pick me up and put me in it, being I was too small to climb up in there. Of course once in awhile I would get lucky and I could ride in with one of the empty trucks to go get filled with dirt. That didn't happen but one time. Boy, if my parents ever found out where I was and what I was doing then, I would have had dirty lickin's probably.

Usually by lunchtime I was outta there heading home or go play somewhere else. Back then there was no lunch so I didn't want to hang out at the office with no lunch and watch them eat and look like I was begging for some of it. I am sure I would have got some of it but that was not me to do something like that.

There were not many other kids in the neighborhood then, well boys that is, to play with. There was only older kids that were my Brother's age and they didn't really want one "small keed" around. You know how they would say, "Eh brah, why you no go home wash rice or somethin'" or another would say "yeah, I can hea your madda callin" so after a few times of being put down you just don't hang out with them (of course you can always hang back and follow for a little while).

The Japanese family (the Shimamoto's) that owned the two story home near Farrington Highway had moved on to Maili Point across from "Dangs store" near the 76 gas station so there went a couple of my playing buddies.

Well anyway, years later the quarry was closed and abandoned for years to come but as kids we would go into that quarry to either explore, fly kites, play hide an go seek or play army. It was a lot of area to run around in. If you walked from the South to the north end of the quarry it would put you on Hakimo Road up a trail into a corner. It had a lot of flat dirt that was open and a lot of coral kine dirt and one big high cliff from all that diggin' that was done in the past years.

The middle area had plenny rocks (we talkin' boulder's brah, da kine you can hide behind). Sometimes we would make da kine secret hideout in between da boulders from da girls but they would always find em' out. It was also a good place to hide whenever the cops would come to look around. Once in awhile the police would come and cruise around in there to check things out an make sure us keeds was not in there.

The West side had a lot of rocks but not so big like da boulder's in da North side and had plenty red dirt on the ground. Would get your feet all dirty and wasn't much there to check out. Had a lot of coral rocks that was rough on da feet, so actually we didn't roam that side too much.

The Southside had the old office with the scales, the huge open entrance and exit which was blocked by big coral boulders. Back behind the office there was about four houses all over grown with bushes and trees. On the left a little ways back was some huge machinery about 12 ft. tall. Further up was a garage with equipment inside and behind that a huge tar container (where we got our tar for the canoes).

The East side had all the good stuff where the huge buildings with dirt in it and all the old machinery and conveyer belts. It was just down from da Uleawa riva where all da talapia stay inside (and a lot of other stuff thrown in it from old tires to glass bottles). Anyway this side had all those dirt mounds with these little trees all around em' that grew to about 4 ft. high. It was good for hiding and sneaking around. Was good for hiding inside when we played hide n' seek or army. That is where we would go to play army with our homemade kine wooden guns.

Back then we just couldn't afford to buy those plastic guns from da store. So we'd get together some scrap wood we'd find and build our own stuff. Amazing the different types you can build with a little imagination, some wood, an old saw, hammer and some rusty nails. It kept our imagination going to build these things. Was funny now that I think of it and how our guns would sound. You know, you gotta make your own kine sounds for your gun.

Anyway, we use to go there and play when the waves were flat at the beach or da bugga was too big fo' us small keeds. So we would figure out who goin' be in charge of da two side's eh. Den we pick da guys takin' turns fo' da two sides. Whoeva wen win da "junk and po" would get to pick where they would start (the winner usually favored the defense). We would then agree on who would set up as the defense and who the offense (of course we didn't call it that then). The defense would almost always set up in the east while the other side would gather west before spreading out to go after them. The eastern half had all the great places to see from and shoot them from. There were so many places you could crawl or sneak around in out there. It would get down to usually the last two guys while all us dead soldiers would sit on the highest hill and watch the end result.

We never cheated either. If you were shot you were shot and that was all to it. Of course when you shoot somebody you have to tell him or her where he or she stay. For instance we'd say "Bang, you dead Clarence behind da wooden stairs". Took like half a day to get finished with da war in dat quarry. At least that way we kept out of getting' in trouble anywhere else.

When it was all over we'd more than likely head to the beach anyway. They wen build one homestead housing area up that way (I wen check em' out wen we wuz back deah in 2007). My sister lives up dat way now along wit the nephew and his keeds. It was nani to get back in there an still see the mountains and dream of what it was like back then.

George K. Cabral was born in Wahiawa and raised in Nanakuli, Oahu, two blocks from B & K store. He graduated from Nanakuli High in 1973. He joined the Army thereafter and shipped over to Germany where he spent almost 22 years of service. He retired in 1996 and is now working as a Government employee for the Army in Grafenwoehr, Germany with the 7th Army Joint Multinational Training Command. He and his wife, Jutta have two daughters and three grandsons, have settled down and made a home in Bamberg, Germany. They get back to Hawaii every three years or so to visit ohana and maybe git togeddah wit da ole neighbahood.

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Written by Mona Sands

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My grandparents immigrated from Japan when they were barely fifteen years old. They ended up working the pineapple fields on Oahu. Years later they moved to Hana, Maui, and lived in the plantation housing. I was living in Kaneohe, Oahu, my parents would send me to Hana every summer to stay with obachan and ojichan. It was the mid-fifties.

My grandparents couldn't speak a lick of English and I couldn't speak Japanese. I had to study expressions, hand gestures and tones of their voices to figure out what they wanted me to do. It's funny, I quickly learned what 'bakatare' meant. They were awfully hard working and poor.

Ojichan would take me fishing while obachan would stay and work in the garden, do laundry by hand or cook dinner. There was always something to do. My fishing pole was made from the bamboo branch that ojichan had cut down from the back yard. They also used the bamboo pole to hoist up the clothes line because the twine was so long and low to keep the clothes from touching the grass.

I remember the bathroom. The floor of the shower area was made of a wooden crate. The scent came from a huge brown square soap. Then there was that small tobacco bag that ojichan would re-use to wrap around the faucet to keep the sediments from flowing out of the pipes.

The bedrooms were so little. Each had a futon on the floor, a light bulb with a string hanging from the center of the ceiling. The pillow was made of covered soda caps sewn together.

Whenever it rained, the sound of the drops on the tin roof was so loud. Dinner always consisted of cha-cha & rice, fish and vegetables from their garden. I remember the aroma of bitter melon and squash stewing.

Next door lived my mother's brother and his family. I can still hear their hi-fi playing "LaBamba", "Blueberry Hill" or "Star Dust".

There was a theatre that was opened once a week - my uncle ran the movie reels so I got in free. Ojichan would give me 15 cents, sometimes 20 cents so I could buy a soda pop and chips.

I miss them a lot and every two years or so, my husband and I visit Hana. The theatre is still there, its turned into a general store. The fragrance of flowers and breeze from Hana Bay just brings back so many wonderful memories.

The plantation homes have been replaced with the Hana Hotel and Bungalows that overlook the ocean. Just beautiful! My husband, born and raised in Iowa, has made Hawaii his second home. My mother still lives in Kaneohe.

I was born in Honolulu and raised in Kaneohe. 1969 graduate of Castle High School. I now live in San Diego, going on 34 years and try to go home to Kaneohe every 2 years to visit my ohana. I'm married to a haole (great man!) and have 2 daughters - one in Chicago and the other in Arizona.

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Written by Terry Feliz

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We grew up knowing him as Uncle Robin. I guess his "real" name was Lorenzo, but it  was something I learned after I was an adult. I remember seeing him once when I was 4 or 5 years old. He made a trip to O'ahu from Moloka'i for medical treatment. We had to talk to him through a fence. Years later, the whole family made a trip to Moloka'i once to visit him in his upcountry house. That was really when we spent time with him. We drove around in his station-wagon and he waved to everybody. Everybody!

I said, "Uncle, you know everybody on Moloka'i?"

He said kinda slowly, "Y-y-yeah" Like, don't you know everybody on Kaua'i?

My dad passed away in 1990, and Uncle passed away not long after. I moved to the mainland having to be content to enjoy Hawaii through my siblings who'd been wise enough to have stayed.

One day my sister Kelli called me. I was living in—oh, I don't know—New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Massachusetts one of those cold places.

My sister is this great nurse. She was working at St. Francis Hospital and decided to go with a friend to Moloka'i for a few days. Her friend knew another nurse who worked in Kalaupapa. They decided to ride the mules down one day, spend the night with this friend, and return by mule the next day.

I know that ride has to be unbelievable. I can still see the lookout leaning on the railing with Uncle explaining the history of the place and his history at the place. I was tracing the cut-backs on the trail as far as I could, hearing Uncle's story about having to abandon an injured horse on the trail. We didn't have time then, but I wished we did, to ride down.

So when my sister told me she was going to do it, I could hardly wait to hear about it.

Do you know she barely told me about the ride? I expected to hear how beautiful the cliffs were, how steep the trail was, how sore her okole was—and maybe she did—but this story is what I remember.

When they got down to the peninsula, they met up with their hosts. They had food and talked story for a while. My sister mentioned that Uncle lived there in the village. "His name was Lorenzo," she said.

The host had an immediate look of recognition—"Lorenzo? This was his house."

You can imagine the I-don't-believe-its and no-kiddings.

The hostess said, "You know, when we moved here, Lorenzo had already passed away. We brought a dog with us, and we used to tie him up in the backyard like we used to at our old house."

"We spent the first night in the house and in the morning, when I went to the back yard, the dog was running around loose, wagging his tail, happy as anything."

"That night I tied that knot even tighter. But sure enough, in the morning, there was our dog, wagging his tail, running all over the place, loose."

My sister's hostess went on to describe the different things they tried to keep the dog tied up. They bought special run-lines, special collars and special leashes. And every morning they would wake up, and there would be their dog, happy to be loose.

One morning, her neighbor was out as she was puzzling over some solution. "I don't know how he keeps getting loose!" she complained. "We have tried everything."

Her neighbor was a Kalaupapa old-timer. "Es not you or yoah dog," was the slow reply. "Es Lorenzo. When he when live heah, he had one dog dat he when tie up. One night, da wile boahs when come out from da fores' and when attack da dog. An' Lorenzo no could save 'em, yeah? So from den, he said he no like see da dogs tie like dat. If dey loose, dey can run away from da boahs. If he saw one dog tie up like dat, he would untie 'em."

"So you're saying that Lorenzo unties the dog at night?"

The old neighbor smiled slowly.

Somehow, with the beautiful landscape, the steep trail, the sore okoles—that's the story that got retold. And I don't mind a bit.

There are certain things Kauai kids know a lot about. Like how far dried dead toads fly when you fling them like Frisbees; when you're on a hike and find a lilikoi vine with choke planny ripe ones, it's good to eat only a couple and take the rest home for the rest of the family; it's best to circumvent patches of lantana bushes rather than try to push through them. Those are important kinds of things. I'm not sure what kind of giggle God gets out of having uprooted this local girl and replanting her in the northeast mainland for twelve years. Then He dropped her in the middle of metro Miami. It's a good life with three teenagers, a spoiled black cat, and a retired husband that doesn't mind making sure dinner's on the table when we all get home from school. I'm sure He gets a bigger giggle out of watching one of His best pidgin English enthusiasts teaching standard English all day to high-school students who'd rather be at the mall. It's really all still there -- that red Kaua'i dirt, clinging to the roots no matter where they're replanted. It's where the nutrients come from to empower this incredibly busy life. It's the source of balance, a foundation to keep this Kaua'i girl planted while the rest of the plant is flexible. If there is any sweetness to the fruit of this exotic transplant, it comes directly from that soil.

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Written by Nicole Doi

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I've got lots and lots of fond memories growing up in Hawaii . Now living on the mainland, looking back it seemed like endless summer days. This was always good because the weather can be pretty brutal during the winters. I remember eating shaved ice at Matsumoto's in Haleiwa with the ono ice cream in the bottom, having picnics with my family at Magic Island with my grandma's musubis and my Mom making barbeque meat, having Sunday dinners with my grandparents in Kaimuki. But, the memories of having New Year's at my fraternal grandparent's home on the Big Island is always ones that I love to share with my husband and my kids.

I remember when I was little going with my Mom, Dad and little sister to the Big Island to spend about a week there. We were always excited to go! It was always a big party with us spending lots of time with our cousins, aunties and uncles. Plus, we just loved spending time with our grandparents.

I don't know how many of you grew up on the Big Island . But, my grandpa and grandma ran a small family owned store/gas station It's since been knocked down and my grandfather has been gone for about 7 years now, but I remember so much about spending summers there and New Years.

What was so special about these New Year's? Well, I distinctly remembering that on New Year's Eve waking up early to watch my grandpa and my uncles haul in a huge pig for the imu. It was always fascinating as a young child, seeing them bring this pig on a forklift and wrap it up in chicken wire with lava rocks, then put in the ground for cooking.

I would always make funny faces when they would uncover it when it was time to shred it to make kalua pig. It stank! But, it was always amazing to see all the steam coming up from this huge mound of dirt and then wow! Ono kalua pig. Of course there was plenty of food to eat. Potato salad, chicken long rice, lomi salmon, laulau, sashimi. Then talking story with all my cousins and other relatives.

But, the best times was going to Kawaihae harbor and going fishing with my cousin, little sister and grandpa. Either from the pier, or in a little boat. With our bamboo fishing poles, and frozen shrimp for bait, or finding baby fish to scoop up with our scoop net. I remember catching all kinds of fish, some we could eat, or we'd take the small ones and just watch them swimming in circles in the bucket. I even remembered one time, I was standing too close to my cousin when he cast out, and the stupid hook got stuck in my eye lid! I thought I was going to be blind cause of my stupid cousin!

I laugh now at the stuff that my grandpa and grandma would let us do. Like he let us sneak in the store and take Icee from the machine after the store was closed. Or have ice cold soda from the coolers, or sneak candy after we brushed out teeth. My grandma used to make teri-burgers for the truck drivers that would stop by, or anyone else....those were so good. I thought they were the best teri-burgers ever. They also had a small gas station across the street from the store. My sister and I would take turns running out to help my grandpa pump the gas. We thought we were so grown up! I also remember "driving the forklift" with my grandpa! Looking at pictures now, I remember thinking I was the coolest kid on the island.

I also remember them having crown flower plants in the back yard. And my sister and I would pick off the monarch caterpillars from them put them in jars with holes in the top, and wait till they turned into wonderful butterflies. We were always amazed at how much they ate, and how quickly they changed into butterflies!

It was always so much fun playing firecrackers with my other cousins. Going swimming at the beach....and just having fun. Now it seems like a lifetime ago. Especially since my grandpa has passed. Plus, I don't get to visit home as much as I'd like. Now, that I've got a family of my own it would be nice to show them where I come from. So they can get a bit of why I love rice so much. Or why I do and say the things I do.

Sometimes living on the mainland I feel like I've lost a bit of my "Hawaiian" heart. The hustle and bustle of living here is sometimes so different. Maybe it's just my misconception of people here, but every one doesn't understand the meaning of aloha. Being nice to someone because you want to. Something as simple as letting someone on in front of you on the freeway and seeing them wave "thanks." They just don't do that here. I have friends who live on the mainland that complain about the same attitude but in a different state. It makes me sad, but also proud of where I am from. It's nice to be able to call someone Auntie or Uncle just because they are your friend, someone you consider your ohana.

I grew up on Oahu with my younger sister and parents. Currently living in MN with a wonderful husband, a stepson, and my own son.

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Written by Stacey Keanaaina

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Whoowee, check this out. I was plucked out of the jungles in Vietnam by helicopter late one evening. We didn't have a landing zone so they dropped down a cable with a shoulder strap to hoist me up outta the jungles into a chopper.

We got word about 30 minutes out that a chopper was arriving to pick me up and take me to a landing zone (LZ) somewhere. No one knew what was going on except that I needed to get my okole on this chopper because the big kahuna (Division Commander) said I had to. You just gotta do what they tell you. So I gathered up all my ukana and was hoisted up into the chopper.

I was taken to an undisclosed location in the night where I was told that a fix wing air plane was to transfer me to Nha Trang, Viet Nam. Still not knowing what was going on, I tried to get answers where I was going but know one had any clue. I was a good soldier, I just followed orders and waited to see what would happen.

As the plane landed on the run way at Nha Trang, the plane taxied to about 200 meters from the main terminal. To pick me up they sent an old Army Jeep (M151) you know da kine old army jeep we used in the coffee fields back in Kona to hall the coffee bags to the mill?

Dea insae the terminal was five Hawaiian entertainers, two lovely hula dancers Kilauea Marciel and Alicia Davis and along side them stood Joseph (Sonny) Nicholas, and uncle Don Kualii. Lo and behold! Right next to uncle Don stood my fuddah Bill Keanaaina! Woowee! I cannot explain the chicken skin I had all ova my body. I stay in shock and the same time da wata was rolling down my cheeks. I was speechless for the first time in my life. Than I heard my fuddah say to me "What brah! Can I get a hug" and because my legs were mau to the floa my dad approached me and we hugged for a long time. Then the rest of the group started hugging and of course the Hawaiian kiss on the cheek followed.

Now all da introductions was done and I got my composure back. Da first thing that came otta my mouth was "What are you guys doing here?" My fuddah told me how Mr. Bryan G. Moon, the vice president at Aloha Airlines, politically won approval to bring ALOHA (first time ever) to the soldiers in Vietnam.

Da group was dea for two weeks, until my fuddah met up with General Larsen (local boy) and complained to him that he was already two weeks in Vietnam and has yet to meet his son! And so he, being one of da big kahunas, made magic and this is the rest of my story.

That evening the group entertained the soldiers for an hour in the Officer's Club. The lovely Kilauea and Alicia in their real ti leaf skirts danced many numbers for the soldiers. The guys sang Hawaiian songs to bring Hawai'iana to that special evening. The reaction from the audience was overwhelming. The local boys in the audience hollered "hana hou" and then the entire audience caught on and kept chanting "hana hou, hana hou" and the group played on for an additional hour.

In a mess hall (dining area) in Saigon while the ladies were dancing it started raining and the wata was getting ankle deep up to their knees. Kilauea and Alicia kept on dancing to the musicians standing behind them propped up on a makeshift dinner table. They didn't skip a beat and the show went on.

At one night in Pleiku rain beat down so hard on the tin roof of the 71st Evac Hospital the musicians could hardly be heard but the show went on. The girls did their audacious audience participation with their kolohe movements along with the soldiers dancing to the "Hukilau" song. At times there wasn't enough room for the soldiers to go up there to dance so they danced out there in the audience. As I looked at the faces of the soldiers and at that particular moment I believe they all forgot that they were in a combat zone and so did the entertainers.

At Phu Cat (Air Force Base) while they entertained the troops a Korean artillery team fired their 105mm howitzers (BAMM!!!) on a suspected Viet Cong position in the mountain near the base, the musicians jumped along with the girls but the girls kept on dancing without skipping a beat. I found out later that there, in the mountains was an Army Long Range Reconnaissance Team sent out to keep the USO entertainers safe. They saw movements and called in artillery support. (Red leg one, Red leg one, enemy position at ___ fire for effect). That's army jargon for we need artillery support for enemy in movement. That there, gave the entertainers a taste of life in a combat zone.

Two pretty girls and three musicians from Hawaii were doing two shows a day. They were transported by helicopter to bases in cities and in the jungles. It didn't matter to them where they entertained because it was an experience they would never experience again. The hot, sticky, wet miserable conditions made it even more exciting to the group. Bringing a piece of Aloha was all that mattered.

This all started with the 25th Division, Aviation (helicopter) Detachment at Pleiku calling themselves "Aloha Airlines" and attaching island names to everything they had. It was this division that dreamed up this idea of bringing Hawaii to Vietnam. For the local boys there, they were excited and ecstatic with joy. We had group hugs and kisses, giving them the shaka sign. One brudda said "howzit" to me and when I looked at him, he looked haole, but he was from Nanakuli, the bruddas dea called him haole boy!

This story broked out on Friday July 28, 1967 in the Honolulu Star-Bulletin on page B-1. The topic was Hawaiian Troupe Boosts Morale of Troops in Vietnam. The second topic was; Entertainer Pays a Visit to his Son in Vietnam. Before the troupe departed to Vietnam they visited the local boys at Tripler Army Hospital only to be more determined to travel to South Vietnam to bring a piece of mind to all the brave soldiers there.

Stacey Keanaaina was born in Honolulu and raised in Kailua, Kona, Hawaii along with two other brothers and three sisters, he graduated from Konawaena High School in 1965. He joined the Army in February 1966. He married his German fraulein and had two children, Stacey II and Pricilla. Retired with 26 years of active service and he is working as a Department of the Army Civilian (16 years) recently working for the National Guard Readiness Center in Arlington VA. His plans are to return to Germany in the near future and retire for the second time. He enjoys traveling, playing racquetball, running, skiing and attending motorcycle rally's throughout Europe.

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Written by Sandra Samson Thomas

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This is a story about a bridge that separates old camp and new camp in Kunia. If you have lived in Kunia which is a little plantation camp between Schofield and Waipahu then you know about this bridge. It is a small bridge made of cement with bars on both side. Just walking over that bridge by yourself or even with friends can give you chicken skin. There are lots of stories about that old bridge that separates old camp and new camp in Kunia.

The story that most people know about is the one that they hear a baby crying when you walk over that bridge. This usually happens if you walk over that bridge at night. When I was a teenager, I used to play volleyball. We always held our volleyball practice in the gym in old camp and most of us in the team live in new camp. I always had to walk over that bridge by myself because I always had to wash the dinner dishes before I could leave for volleyball practice. By then it would be pretty dark or just getting dark and it was scary walking by yourself down that dark road leading toward that bridge.

So I used to plan my walk that when I reached the first street light leading to the bridge I would run non-stop and not think about nothing until I reached the other street light which is on top of a hill. So during the days of my volleyball practice if I didn't see any of the other girls of my volley ball team walking down that road (and they are : Beatrice, Regina, Carmen, Janet, Constance, Conchita, just to name a few) I knew that they had already gone through that bridge and I was by myself!

Sometimes, if I was lucky I would see my girlfriend Marsha, she was also like me, had to wash dishes before she could go to practice. We always walked down that road late. Sometimes we would tell each other to wait on top of the hill leading to the bridge so we could walk together. Those days would be okay because at least we would have a companion to walk down that dark road. Usually the thing to do when you walk down that road is to do the "sign of the cross!" an'den just run until you are on top the other hill past the bridge where there is another street light. That light was at the entrance to old camp and near to where the gym was where we had our volleyball practice.

Now after practice there was usually a lot of us walking down that hill to the bridge that led us back to new camp, so it was okay. But even with the whole bunch of us walking over that bridge there was always an eerie feeling and quietness when we crossed the bridge. It just hit you that there was something scary about the area.

You can see all those big trees and in the dark your imagination just takes over your body. Yes the bridge that separated old camp and new camp was a bridge every one who has lived in Kunia knew about. They all knew about hearing a baby cry under the bridge. I never heard the baby crying and I ran over that bridge a lot of time! But I knew people who said they heard the baby crying. They said at first they thought it was a cat crying, but when they listen they realized it was not a cat but a baby! I guess I didn't hear anything because I always ran over that bridge. I was too scared to walk over the bridge because I didn't want to hear anything! Remember I would do the sign of the cross first and then I would run and think of nothing else until I reached the other hill past the bridge.

I think a lot of the kids who lived in Kunia did the same thing. The bridge that separated old camp from new camp in Kunia is still there. It's still among a whole bunch of big trees. The chicken coops that were there before and after the bridge are all gone. But the creepy looks of that place will forever be there.

Sandra Samson Thomas, a 1971 graduate of Leilehua High School was born and raised in Kunia Camp on the island of Oahu. After high school she attended Canon's Business College and Honolulu Community College. Her goal was to work in the library and to become a librarian. Instead she became a Human Resource Specialist for the Federal government. She is married to Dwight Thomas of San Diego, they have 3 kids and 4 grandkids. They make Wahiawa their home after traveling the world while her husband was in the military for 20 years.

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Written by Mona Sands

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Just reading these great hannabuddah stories triggers my mind into remembering my own childhood in the good old days. It was growing up in the mid to late 50's in Kaneohe. I had Japanese grandparents and Hawaiian grandparents. This is about my Hawaiian grandma.

I have wonderful memories of my grandma who lived with us. She had her old Hawaiian ways. It was her way or the highway. She had beautiful long hair way past her okole, almost down to her knees. She would braid it and wrap it on her head in a bun with big mama-san hair pins.

She was a rather large, hard working woman who saved every penny and counted her change whenever my brother or I rode our bikes to the store to buy her poi. We always had to bring home the receipt and the change.

We were always afraid to get sick, feel sick, have a stomach ache, cut ourselves or whatever. She was the house doctor with the many cures, if it wasn't something she brought in from the yard, smashed it and mashed it -- then it was a concoction she brewed over the stove.

If we had a boil erupting on our body - she had 2 solutions. There was a special medicine plant in our yard. I think we called it the balloon plant. Grandma would pick a leaf, mash it with the end of a knife till it was wet and oozing with that green stuff. She would then throw a little Hawaiian salt on it, mash it again, put it on our boil and wrap it with an old cloth. The second solution was she made us shi-shi on a cloth and rubbed it into our skin where the boil was.

Upset stomachs were automatic enemas. Yup, throw those newspapers on the bathroom floor and lay on your side!! Once a month, my grandma would go to "tutu lady's" house. Tutu lady had a huge watercress farm. Dad would pick as much as he possibly could fit into our car. We'd go home and watch dad pound the watercress with the poi pounder. He would then wrap it in cheese cloth and squeeze all the watercress juice into a mayonnaise bottle. The whole family had to drink a glass of watercress juice every morning. Grandma said "that's our vitamins". It was the most awful thing to drink!

Oh, and the Hawaiian beliefs we had to live by! If we had a fish bone stuck in our throats, she would put the fish that we were eating on top of our head and made us sit at the table that way for a while.

No clipping your finger or toe nails at night because the menehunes will come into the house and look for the clippings. No whistling at night because that was a calling to the kepolo. No entering the house after attending a funeral without Hawaiian salt water sprinkled on our heads. And I'm sure I've left out a lot more.

My brother and I slept in grandma's room with her. I slept with grandma on her bed and my brother slept on a cot . Every night, she never missed a beat, we can hear her say her prayers in Hawaiian. We'd ask her, "who are you talking to?" And when she's done, she would tell us that she prayed to grandpa and asked him to protect us and our house.

I loved to hear her speak in Hawaiian which she did a lot whenever her sisters would call her or come to visit. If we were being kolohe she would yell at us in Hawaiian.

Grandma would make our breakfast - oatmeal (which she called mush) or hot cakes made from flour and water. Sometimes she would make us cocoa so we could break all the saloon crackers into the cocoa, then just scrape some butter in.

For lunch she would put the lauhala mat on the parlor floor and carry out bowls of poi, lomi salmon, poke, limu and a saucer of chili pepper water. Sooo Ono.

On most weekends, dad would pack us kids up, with grandma. He would get his big burlap bag ready, his spear gun, goggles, his glass bottom box and his tabbies and we'd go to Kaaawa beach.

Dad would take turns taking my brother and I out into the ocean with him. We'd hang on to his back while he went spear fishing. If he came across wana he would pick it up with his homemade tongs and throw it in the burlap bag. Meanwhile, grandma is sitting on the sand with her mayonnaise bottle, spoon and waiting for the wana, her mouth watering.

Although she had a lot of love for us, she was a strict, strong lady. She raised 5 children by herself, my grandpa died when they were all little. She worked for the Hawaiian Tuna Packers for more than 30 years. She had big luau feet which meant more pain when she spanked us with her slippah. My brother and I thought our name was "Paakiki". She yelled a lot, too.

I remember it like it was yesterday; "no slam the doah", "wash your feet before you come in da house", "whose dirty cup in da sink?", "don't open da icebox door too long!" "who left da doah open?" , "ansah da phone" and my favorite: "who let the flies in da house?!"

That's it, nothing but memories .. cherished memories, that is. Whenever I get together with my brother, we laugh so much just talking about grandma and those hanabuddah days.

Born in Honolulu, raised in Kaneohe. Moved to San Diego in 1973. I've been married to a wonderful Haole guy. Have 2 beautiful daughters. Yuriko Kehaulani lives in Chicago and Kimiko Keala and our granddaughter Kehau live in Arizona. My husband and I try to make it home to Hawaii every 2 years. I'm still a Kaneohe girl at heart and always will be. I use to own land in Hawaii but gave it to my mother. It was a burial plot at Hawaiian Memorial Park (no laugh).

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Written by Kamaka Brown

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We walked along the beach at Waimea with our towels. The waves rolled in gentle swells and broke a few yards out from the shore. White water swelled at our ankles feeling cool and refreshing. Ahh .. summertime on the North Shore. A perfect cloudless day of my youth."Eh we go jump off da rock," Paka said pointing toward the big black rock that sat at the end of the beach. The "Rock" rose some twenty feet above the beach and provided a ledge from which everyone jumped off.

The "Rock" was a rite of passage for kids like us. We'd watch the "big guys" jump off, their bodies plunging deep into the blue green water below. You could hear their friends yelling and screaming as they fell.

"Nah..my muddah said fo' me no jump off da rock," I said shading my eyes and looking up at the huge pile of rocks. Tourists were climbing the rock too with their cameras. You could see their white legs and knee high socks as they made their way to the top. None of them would jump off. They only wanted to take pictures from their perch of the beach and of the kids jumping off.

"Wot? You chicken? eh? You chicken?" Paka said poking my chest with his finger. "Stay down hea den, I going up," he said dropping his towel on the beach and running into the water the surged around the rock, wading out to the base of the rock.

Dang! I will never live this down. Paka going tell everybody that I am "chicken" and I didn't jump with him. Dammit. I watch his skinny tanned form make its way up, hand hold by hand hold until he reached the top. When he reached the top he turned and waved at me. Gloating.

Arrghhhhh! Freakin' Paka! Gotta rub it in. I sat down on my towel and moped.

I looked up as a figure leaped off the "rock". His plunge was accompanied by yells, cheers and clapping. Kah-chunk! A splash of white as the figure dissapeared into the waves. Hooo boy. I can't stand it. This is torture. Paka will never let me live this down.

Of course there was those signs along the beach about the "Rock". I mean 'bodily injury or DEATH" was a huge deterrent for many...specially the "death" part. Plus ... my muddah said to "stay off the rock". period.

Charlene Carvalho from Pupukea and her sister Chantelle came walking up the beach in their shorts and t-shirt, holding their rubber slippers in their hand. Me and Charlene had 4th period together. "Howzit? You not going jump?" she asked plopping herself down next to me. Chantelle was chewing bubble gum making cracking sounds with her mouth, standing looking at me. "

"Naaah," I said flicking sand from my leg.

"What? Scaid?" Chantelle said, still standing and chewing like one cow.

"Shuddup!" Charlene said. "No lissen to her. She just mad cuz our muddah said we no can jump. If we do we going get dirty lickens."

"Yeah but we would show dem boys how fo' jump. I can make like cannonball kind jump make beeg splash" Chantelle boasted turning around to look at the "Rock" that now looked like a big pin cushion with all the heads of people standing on top of it.

"Uh huh", Charlene said, "she so fat she no need make cannonball. All she gotta do is jump and it's all ova."

We both laughed. Chantelle swore, kicked sand at Charlene and trudged off further down the beach. Her double X white t-shirt fit tightly over her generous butt.

"Hoo Chantelle lucky I never stand up," Charlene said. "I going pull her hair out, that fat monkey!" She brushed sand from her legs.

"No ack," I said, "if she sat on you she would kill you."

"Kill us both", Charlene said laughing and pushing me over into the sand. We both had a laughing fit for couple minutes.

Chantelle looked over at us from about 20 feet away. "I heard that!" she yelled

Me and Charlene had another laughing fit for another 10 minutes.

I head one tarzan yell coming from the top of the "Rock". Charlene and me squinted up toward the sound. We caught sight of Paka leaping into the air. He yelled again on the way down, rolling himself into a ball just before he hit the water. His jump timed perfectly with a swell that rolled lazily by the "Rock". One decent size splash of white water exploded as he hit. A few seconds later his head popped up and he swam to shore.

"Whoooooo!" he said as he loped up the beach toward me and fell face down on the beach beside me. He looked up at me, his face coated with sand. "You saw me?"he said breathing hard.

I shook my head. "Did you see him?" I asked Charlene. She shook her head too, taking my lead.

"WHAT? You never saw me??" he repeated exasperated.

"No, why you wen jump?" I asked seriously. Paka freaked.

"Eh, I made Tazan yell and everything." He said standing up dripping on me and walking back toward the water rinse off.

"I thot was some Samoans from Laie making noise so I nevah look," I said. Charlene laughed again and pushed me.

"You bool lie," Paka said walking back, squeezing the water from his shorts with his hands.

"You from Pupukea, eh?" Paka said eyeballing Charlene, "I seen you at the bus stop by Niimi Store."

"Yeah," Charlene said, "you same grade with Chantelle." Charlene pointed toward her sister who was looking the other way.

"Oh, das your sister?" Paka said lowering his voice and turning his back to Chantelle.

"Hiiii Paka," Chantelle said in a sing song voice, "how you?"

Paka's face turned couple shades of pink and red. He turned and half waved to her. "Howzit?"

"Oooh, nice jump." She said.

"Tanks eh." He said. "I going one mo' time."

Paka waded back in the water and did his crab climb back to the top of "the Rock" scampering to the edge.

"Wooo! Wooo!" Chantelle said yelling at Paka.

"Paka took my sister to the Winter Ball last year," Charlene said. "She no was so ..um..healthy den."

"Not!" I said giving Charlene a surprised look. "Paka and Chantelle?"

"Yeah" Charlene said, "you neva know?"

"Holy Moly, dat stinkah neva tell me." I hissed. "He said he no go dat kine stuffs."

"I get Polaroid picture," Charlene laughed. "Bumbye I show you."

"Yeah, I like see," I smiled as Paka did his Tarzan yell and leaped off "the Rock."

Paka was very quiet walking back to the house in the valley. We crossed the highway and opened the gate into the yard. Our families were close. Paka was two years older than me and he was the closest thing I had to a big brother. He often spent summer days at our house hanging out and going to the beach with me and my cousins.

His father was going to pick him up at the house when he was pau work. "So you know Chantelle's sister, eh?"

"Yeah, we get 4th period and she get pictures, brah. Pictures of the Winter Ball!" I slapped his back laughing.

Paka shook his head. "Ok ok....you got me." He put his hands up like he was giving up. I handed him a bottle of grape soda opening one up myself with the bottle opener and handing the opener to him.

I tink Paka and Chantelle was married when he came back from da army. I loss track of Charlene ova da years. "The Rock" still dea. It could tell plenny stories if it could talk. I stopped recently on Kamehameha Highway above the bay. The beach stretched out to the other side of the bay. "The Rock" seemed farther out then I remembered. The waves swirled around the base and yes, there were kids still jumping off. I could hear a "ah yee ah yeee ahhh" tarzan yell as one kid leaped off the ledge. I smiled and shooked my head. Frickin' Paka da buggah neva even wait for the swell.

I remembered being invincible too. A long long time ago.

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. His comedy CD is available online at www.kamakabrown.com

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